Squeeze,
the band. They had some good stuff, and I had a couple LPs. I was in love with
Kathy Michie. She played the French horn. She was seriously innocent, like she
was a retard. She had dark hair, and she looked emaciated. At some gathering,
we put on Squeeze on the hi-fi, "Cool for Cats". She, Kathy, hated
it. "That's not music," she said. I called her Death. I was so in
love with her. I put a rose in her French horn case. In the end, I got up the
courage to call her up and ask for something like a date. You know what her
response was? She said: "I'm not ready." Because I was a naif myself,
I said, "Fine." And that is the end of the story.
Man,
you can be in love, crippling love, debilitating love, and have it all present
forty years later. Cf. Joseph Bottoms in Citizen Kane: "I've thought about
her every day."
We're
not killed by our debilitations. We're don't die by natural causes. We die
because of Kathy Michie, because I loved her beyond anything. Forty years
later, there's nothing I want more than to kiss her weird lips.
*
This can't
be in the third person, so it's in the first. The use of the third person would
implicate you, and I'd rather not assume anything about you.
I see a
problem. I experience the mundane world, the one with sandwiches and neighbours
and work and sleep and nature and cats and rocks and things. Meanwhile, I
experience the mediated world, the site of language, where things get said in words.
Words include anything culturally mediated, like photographs and videos and
music. The problem is that these two worlds, the mundane and the mediated, are
in tension. Which is more true?
Let's
imagine I'm twenty years old. I live in Duluth. My town is boring, my parents
are boring, everyone I know is boring. Meanwhile, there's the glittery mediated
world, where anything is possible. Get rich quick! Run to the Thing like
everyone else is! I am in love with the romance of this non-mundane mediated
world. It's a hundred times more beautiful than my dippy port-town.
I have
argued in defence of this principled Romance. Stealing a line, it's a kind of
playing with fire without knowing fire is hot. In mundane reality, people have
been shot because of it. Art--mediation-- is nice, but it's simply not real.
Too many kids think the Internet is more real than Duluth, and that's Romance
incarnated.
There are
no limits once you've decided fantasy--art--mediation is more
true than Duluth. Recall the confessions of a justified sinner. He believed
the ideal world was more real than his mundane Scotland. A devil saw him, and
seduced him.
Poetry break:
Love / At a deb ball / In NH / She put to me / A chicken bone / Saying: Make a
wish.
The world
recedes as you age. The CNE, which was the centre of my life when I was ten, came
and went, and I didn't notice.
How can
something be ordered when it's in that condition, I ask you.
We're in a
hologram, the sages say. Each part is so necessary that, if absent, we
re-construct it from what's left over, adjacent, nearby.
I've
changed my mind. Words are just as much a part of the world as plants and birds
and rocks and things.
However,
as someone nearly said: Romantic literature is a kind of playing with fire by
people who don't realize that fire it hot.
*
President Mitty
-Jones,
look behind you, quietly and quickly.
-Done. Now
what?
-Doesn't
it look like you-know-who?
-Depends on
what I know, now, doesn't it?
-Why would
he be on a train in Coventry?
-I don't
even know who he is.
-It looks
like him.
-Who?!
-Ssh,
don't draw attention. He looks like the President of the United States.
-Mitty? Lemme....
Yes, he does look a lot like Mitty, but the idea of him being on our train is
ridiculous. Maybe he's one of those celebrity doubles.
-Excuse
me, sir, but you look a lot like President Mitty.
-I don't
look like anyone except me. I am President Mitty. Let's be quiet about
this.
-What are
you doing on this English train? Don't you have things to do in America?
-I'm only
here for the weekend. I'm thought I'd try to be like the Common Man.
-Oh, how
exciting. Trains and all.
-Trains
are nice. Your country is quite beautiful, by the way.
-We agree.
This is my friend Jones.
-Nice to
meet you.
-Nice to
meet you too, Jones.
-Travelling
incognito?
-In a way.
Most people think: Naw, it can't be him.
-And yet
you are.
-Confusing,
I know.
*
I
went far, far, into the future. It's not important how I got there. They had
spaceships and interstellar travel, and yet they still had their problems.
My
billet, a Franciscan by the name of Brother Edmund, explained it to me as we
walked through a retail plaza.
"We
are all very well-educated," he told me: "and, since we all know
ancient Greek, everyone has either translated Homer or is in the process of
doing so."
"So,
you're all a bunch of Homers."
He
slapped me. "No, it causes great dissention. We have so much leisure time,
all we do is fight about phraseology. We have two primary clans, the Ancients
and the Moderns, and we differ about the proper diction. Plus, there are the
poets and the prosaists."
"Sounds
like religion."
He
slapped me again. "Such a problem! Some say it can be solved, while some
say it's impossibly tangled."
"Why
don't you stop with the translating, and, since you all know Greek, speak
Greek?"
I
expected him to slap me, but he didn't. "You may be onto something
there."
In
a matter of months, all the translations had been neglected. They argued about
what to argue about next.
*
On: Trips
It
is always the case that no matter how much you want to get away, getting back
home can drive you crazy.
Case
in point: Mary and I went away to Bala. Two friends, David and Linda, came up
for the last couple days. Getting back became a nightmare.
Heading
into Gravenhurst, I decided I was too annoyed by everything to continue. The
journey was taking too long, and in too close quarters. "Stop in
Gravenhurst, we're going to take the bus from here."
"Fine!"
said David, who seemed as annoyed as I was.
We
got out; they drove away. With our suitcases.
Then
I noticed I'd also left my knapsack in the car. All I had was a wallet.
We
had time. Mary went shopping, while I had a beer.
At
the bus station, I remembered: There's a bus strike.
Fortunately,
the Northlands is a private company.
We
got on the bus, we got to Orillia. Then the
announcement: "In solidarity, our drivers are going on strike too."
We
were stranded; we died.
Of
course, none of this ever happened. I make fictional things. I don't even know
any Marys or Davids or Lindas. Nor even Johns.
*
On: Trips
It
must be stated we had a mostly grand time. So many animals were out there among
the wooded brooks and wet forests. It seemed the rabbits were having a good
time of it, if you know what I mean. There must have been a thousand of them.
And it was the first time I'd ever seen an elk outside of cartoons.
The
restaurant at the inn was fine. Someone's parents showed up unexpectedly, and
though the wife was angry at her husband for how much liquid carousing he was
engaging in, everyone got along swell.
Too
bad about the child getting crippled, though. Down at the lake, an
over-stimulated child dove down under a raft to retrieve something inconsequential
and consequential. Coming up quickly, he hit his head on the underside of the
raft and broke his neck. I dove in and held him as still as possible until some
medicos arrived. And what was the thing he was diving for? A doll's head.
That's all it took.
But,
overall, we had a fine time, on balance. I still don't know how those parents
found us, or even whose parents they were. Perhaps they were no-one's parents.
*
This will
be
This will
be
This will
be
This will
be
The last
walk of walks
The last
bottle of bottles
The final
cigarette
The final
breath
The last
sound you hear
The last
voice you hear
The final
mile of miles
The final
rising of rising
The final
moment of clarity
The final
moment of sanity
The last
journey, the last voyage,
The last
motel, the last cottage,
This will
be
This will
be
The final
sight of all the sights
The final
taste of all the tastes
The last
record of records
The last
letter of letters
The end of
all roads
The end of
all heights
Nothing
can change it so nothing will change it
This will
be
This will
be
The last
motions of all motions
The last
of all acts
The last
sound you hear
The last
voice you hear
The final
city of cities
The final
continent of continents
The final
world of worlds
The final
galaxy of galaxies
This will
be
The last
molecule of molecules
This will
be
The last
atom of atoms
This will
be
This will
be
This will
be
This will
be
An
everlasting love
An
everlasting love
*
Dogwork
Pudding.
I saw Pudding down the alley. He signalled me, and I trotted forth.
I
could read the motivation by his tail. "What have you found out?" I
asked.
"They
have them. Zinc and Tracey were discussing when they should move them. 'Too
obvious here,' said Zinc."
"Where
are they?"
"Near
the oak, in the cat-lady's yard."
Bad
news. Since there were about a dozen she-devils on patrol at any given time.
"We'd
have to do it late at night."
"Risky.
Those bitches wake up on a dime."
"You
got a better idea?"
His
tail stilled as he thought. "I guess not."
"Go
home, eat some kibble, take a nap, and we'll meet up at high moon."
Hours
later, at high moon, we were back at the same spot.
We
crept into the cat-lady's yard. So far so good.
And
there, hidden behind the oak, were the bones.
We
couldn't keep our tails still, no-sir-ee. A noise: a windowsill pounced upon.
We picked up as many bones as we could--four in total--and crept out of the
yard.
Just
then, hissing and cries from a thousand cats indoors.
Back
at the corner, we debriefed.
The
mission had been accomplished.
*
The Case of the Silvered Inkpot
"Someone's
here to see you, about the silvered inkpot."
"Send
him or her in."
He
clutched his hat. "I have information about the inkpot case."
"We've
been working on it for a month, and getting nowhere. What do you have to
say?"
"The
inkpot is irrelevant. I am the killer you are seeking."
"What?
Do you think you can just waltz in here near the end and confess? I've never
seen you before. We should have had an encounter much, much earlier."
"So
sorry. I saw you at the crime scene. I'm the janitor at that club, and I killed
him."
"You
should have said something! We've wasted a month! What about all the suspects
we considered, interviewed, and dismissed, always expecting to find we had
missed something, and that it all involved a silvered inkpot?"
"Bit
of a red herring, I suppose. May I should have put myself on your radar, even
if inconsequentially."
"We
would have read the case quite differently, you know."
"Yes.
A bit unorthodox, I suppose."
"You're
under arrest, then."
"I'm
sorry."
"Grr!
I guess we'll have to chalk it down to all those metas
running around these days."
*
Samples
Not
knowing quite what was wrong with me, on the advice of my doctor, I sent some excretory
samples to a lab in Mississauga. Reportedly, this is what happened.
In
the lab, Maria said: "Hey, Agatha, come over here, check this out."
Agatha
went over to Maria, who had an opened sample in her hand.
"Smell
this, Agatha."
"Now,
really."
"No,
I mean it. Smell this."
Agatha
smelled the sample. "Wow! That's amazing!"
"I
know, it's incredible, isn't it?"
Other
women noticed the commotion. "What's up?" said Nancy.
"Come
here and smell this sample."
"Gross!"
"No,
really."
Nancy
went over. "What is that smell?"
"It's
like lilacs, but there's something very too-much about it."
"It's
got my juices flowing."
"What
about the urine?"
"Yes,
what about the urine?"
Maria
twisted to lid off. "Oh my God!"
"Wow!"
"I
can't believe it!"
"I'm
in heat!"
"I'm
rutting!"
"My
hands can't control themselves!"
By
this time, the scents were everywhere.
Maria
said: "Okay, girls, let's control ourselves."
"Who
is this guy?"
"All
I know is he's 3658-5845-FGBN."
"Someone
must know who he is!"
"Let's
crack the codes, get his address!"
"We'll
find out!"
Now
I know what was wrong with me.
*
My Grandfather
Firstly,
this is what my mother told me many years after it happened. Secondly, odds are
I have some details wrong.
Around
1968, when I guess I was some three-year-old, an older man came to our house,
which was on the outskirts of Montreal. My father was at work, for GM, so my
mother answered the door.
This
man (whose last name was Tanque) told my mother that he was looking for Alan,
which was my father's name.
My
mother said, no, sorry, he's not here, he's at work. What are you after? (Or
words to that effect.)
The
man said: "I wanted to meet him, and I was in the neighbourhood. I'm his
father, you see."
I
have no description of the man.
My
mother apologized, asked him to come in the evening. "He'll be home around
seven."
The
man maybe nodded, and went away.
My
father came home, and my mother told him his father had stopped by, and he
might be in again soon.
My
father broke down crying. He managed to say: "My mother always told me he
was dead."
My
grandfather, Tanque, never returned.
We've
all got stories like this. This is mine.
*
Sarahs
Tonight will be a very special night,
What
with all the preparation done last night
Last
week last month last year last century
We've
got it all for you and you alone.
A
thousand leaves will fall upon our stage
With colours verified as fin de siècle
By
scholars from the plains of India
And
more than one from central Idaho.
A
thousand thousand dancers from L.A.
Will
stretch themselves beyond capacity
And
eyes, all yours, will see such nether parts
You'll
think you're at another time and space.
A
thousand million violins will play
The
latest fugues by neo-classicals
Not
heard before in any music hall
A
gross gross fugue with loads of fifths and thirds.
Our
theatre troop will then perform a play
Or,
nay, a spectacle, a histry play
Recounting
all the deeds of long-gone knights
With
interludes of leaves and dance and act.
To
finish off, we'll party all night long
We'll
clear the stage and take apart the stage
And
then the walls will go, no timber left,
And
on the field we'll dance ourselves to death.
This
work shall be the best of them by far,
All
introduced by pretty girls named Sarah.
*
Today
is the day to get out, to get away from here, to get outside, you, to leave all
your problems behind, leave the furnace knocking in a threatening way, let the
refrigerator rattle as it turns on and off, leave the bed unmade because you'll
be back in it in a few hours, ten or so. Look, you, there are people out there,
and you don't know many of them, the merest fraction of a fraction of a
fraction you know, and they are all so different from you and you are so
different from them, what will they say, what do they do, do they come here
often? It'd be a short journey to the airport, where you could look up at the
big boards and pick an appealing place and then buy a ticket, board a plane,
and jet off to places very much unknown to you. Y9our credit card is in good
shape, isn't it? What's the limit? When's the next rocket-ship to Mars? You
could do it, all that's stopping you is yourself, and even the sky wouldn't be
the limit. Alien terrain, alien species, different moon or moons or no moon at
all. Go.
*
A Throw of the Frisbee® Will Never Eliminate Chance
When
we toss back and forth the old Frisbee®, Buck
always wants to employ apertures. He got the idea a couple years ago, when we
were out at the abandoned airport. One of the hangar doors was open, and it was
empty of all aircraft. He went inside the hangar while I stayed outside, and
thus we had to get the Frisbee®
through the hangar's door.
The
apertures got smaller and smaller, through parking garage doors, through
domestic garage doors, and finally through very small doors, just 30 inches
across. We were getting good.
One
day, he wanted to go back to where it all began: the airport. We went, and he
got inside like in the old days, and I was outside. He threw; I caught. I threw
the Frisbee® back again, but a wind picked it
up and it went wide. He scrambled for the disc, and threw it back again to me,
perfectly. I threw, and I hit above the top of the hangar door.
"Sorry!" I caught up to the disc, and tried again, and my wrist
wasn't right and I threw it 90° wrong. Bad luck!
*
The Moon
We're
just after a full moon, a 'Supermoon', I hear. I was out, and it was visible
through wet clouds, and it shone so brightly it was as if the clouds were
flowing around it, like water around a rock in a stream.
The
moon used to be more important. I recall that in the memoirs, or in a letter,
by Lincoln's Secretary of State, I believe, that when he (the Secretary) heard
that Lincoln had been shot, he hurried across Washington to get to the White
House. In his memoir or letter, he says that, before he left his house, he
realized he'd be able to get across the town pretty easily, since the moon was
out.
Now
it's time for some idle fact-checking. Since the moon's phases are known
before-hand, they must be known after-hand, too.
Lincoln
was assassinated on 14 April 1865, so says an encyclopedia I'm consulting. Now
let's find out what the moon was up to on that night.
On
14 April 1865, it was a waning gibbous moon (in the constellation of Aries),
going from full to half.
It's
a waning gibbous here today.
I
picked the right week to write this.
*
Nickels in May
-Hello,
I'd like to make a complaint.
-Shutting
down....
-No,
wait, don't shut down, listen to me.
-Waking
up....
-I
want to make a complaint.
-To
whom should I connect you?
-I'm
already connected, to you. It's you I want to complain to.
-All
right, all right, what is your complaint?
-Now
that I have two of them, which would you like first?
-That's
up to you.
-I'll
start with the new one. I don't like your attitude.
-Oh,
my darling, why do you treat me so?
-That's
not right. I don't like this little game you're playing.
-Would
you like to play a game?
-We
haven't even begun.
-Where
should we begin?
-Before
we play any games, I want to make a complaint.
-About
what?
-About
this dialogue, to be frank. Do you know what it means to be honest?
-Do
you expect me to look it up?
-You're--you're not even listening.
-I'm
right here, and I'm not going anywhere.
-We're
going around in circles.
-Do
you expect me to look up circles?
-That's
it, you're going in the trash.
-Use
a clear bag!
-I'm
tired of you sending all our dialogues off.
-Shutting
down....
People
always ask me: "Where are you coming from?" and this is always my
reply.
*
Home Manifest
I
come from a big house with nothing much around it for miles. In fact, it looks
a lot like the house in Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World." A house
that looks modest and unassuming from the outside, but inside, it's big.
The
ground floor has rooms in it into which even I have never ventured. There are
at least three kitchens, seven living-rooms, and enough hallways to keep them
all connected, with four exterior doors such that, when approaching, you will
see at least one.
The
basement--for now, let's disregard the sub-basements--is divided into nine
sectors. All kinds of dirty and nasty rubbish are down there, along with
roaches, rats, and other vermin too numerous to name. I've been down at least
three times and I learned matters: not nice matters.
Up
and up (and up and up) are the private rooms numbering in the hundreds. Each
room is occupied, sometimes with complete strangers who come and go as they
please. In my room, I can hear them. They shout or thump or carouse.
That is where I am coming from.
*
People
always ask me: "Where are you coming from?" and this is always my
reply.
Away Manifest
I
took a tourist on this route. He wanted to see the ruins. I pointed up to the
pillar I'd constructed twenty or thirty or forty years before.
Although
I knew little more than he did, he wanted to see the pillar up close. I told
him the pillar was not something I wanted to tell any Jo Schmo about.
He
said: Trust me.
I
took him to the corner of it. The corner of it was a couple rotten boards
perpendicular, each only some metre across.
"This
is where the Priests went, during Cromwell."
My
tourist nodded. "Are we going to go up?"
"Yes."
I
led him around and down and them up again. He was in my machine.
He
said: "It looks smaller from the outside. This is your workshop?"
I
replied: "Only when I'm away. It's as big as Home. Can you see the
horizon?"
He
said: "No. Where?"
"Nowhere
is a good reply. Bwa-ha!"
He
didn't have a response. Together we looked over time and space. Nothing was
outside our reciprocal grasps.
That is where I am coming from.
*
Some
tourists call this "The Chamber of Horrors," but the actual name is
"The Palace of Divinity." You see the holes in the floor, the three
holes? Under one of them used to be, and still is, filled with water. Ten feet
of water, to be exact. You get thrown in there and though you can bob up and
down for a bit, you'll still drown, and you'll be drowning among the bones of
those who were thrown in there before you, days, months, years. If you were to
choose that hole over there, you'd be forced in, because it was filled with a
well, ventilated fire. But as always happened, you'd suffocate before you
burned up. It took a goodly amount of research to understand why the screaming
stopped so early in the process, before the fire consumed your flesh and bones.
And then, if you chose that third hole, you'd find yourself, after a tunnel
journey, in fresh air, outside the Castle. You could never get back into the
Castle, of course, and you'd have to make do for yourself in the wilds. We
don't know what happened to them all eventually. And that concludes our little
tour.
*
Old Tales
My
dog Fido died. He was the first life that had ever ended for me. Puppy days,
adult days, elderly days. I had to face it--I was told to face it--so I took
him out past the field to bury him.
I
dug the grave down, five feet or so, and I found a metal box. I set it aside--I
was too solemn to open it then and there--and I buried Fido, said some words,
picked up the box, and headed home.
In
my room, I opened the box to discover it was filled with gold coins. Were they
real? They looked real. I took one into town to a merchant, and, yes, it was
real, worth about $800.
I
was fabulously wealthy. II started making plans, then more plans. I couldn't
sleep. The gold would call out to me. I started growing pale and irritable. Nothing
would be right with me until I made a big decision. I had to go back to the old
ways and the old tales.
I
took the box of gold back past the field and buried it near Fido.
That
night, Fido returned. He was a puppy again.
*
Five
Classic Cars
There
are five of them.
THE
CHARIOT, as used in Rome. Two big wheels, maybe with spikes on them, a back and
two sides on a platform, and pulled by a horse. These babies could go really
fast, and they were extremely maneuverable.
THE
OX-CART, in which you could carry goods to the market-town on fine spring days.
The slowness of the ox gave you some time to look around and enjoy the scenery of
your surroundings, and to note the melancholy passage of time.
THE
COVERED WAGON, in which you could carry a basic household thousands of miles
into the wilderness. Pulled by horses, usually two, you and yours could get to
your sharecropping destination. Fun for the whole family.
THE
OCEAN LINER, more like a floating hotel/motel/Holiday Inn, again offering you
thousands of miles to get from one continent to another. Plus, one had plenty
of opportunity to cry oh woe is me and jump into the ocean.
THE
JET-PACK, employing which we all get around on these days. Powered by a variety
of means, carrying a minimum amount of stuff, one can get from point A to B at
three hundred miles an hour.
*
Denouement
I
was the only living being in the room. Thus, I spoke.
"It
is a very puzzling fact that in any murder case, we are always missing one
vital witness, and that witness is the murdered person. If the person had not
been murdered, that person could tell us very plainly who the murderer was, but
the person has, in fact, been murdered, thus we find ourselves in the middle of
something of a paradox."
I
caught my breath and looked around the room before continuing. I was still the
only living being in the room.
"If
it was the case that murdered person could speak from beyond the grave, as it
were, there would be no problem in assessing blame. However, if the murdered
person could speak from beyond the grave, wouldn't that mean the person was not
entirely murdered? Some small fragment of being would still be clinging, and
thus we would be left with GBH and nothing more. The person who was murdered
would not have been murdered after all."
I
caught my breath again. Solving the crime was proving more difficult that I had
first believed, since the murdered person on the floor wouldn't respond.
*
If
What
if this is my last communication
If
this is the last word I write
If
a sudden stroke will hit my brain
What
if I got no more life?
The
little black train is comin'
Will
I be left with spending my last moments in the middle of a pretty dumb Elizabethan
play?
(When
it comes, I'll be in the middle of something, such is the way it has to
happen),
Will
I be in the middle of a CD? Or on an LP, and will it spin on the inner groove til Mary lifts the needle?
Or will my fire go out with everything
miraculously taken care of?
Get
all of your business right
I
have to watch all of Hitchcock again, Lord
I
have to read all of Shakespeare again, Lord
I
have to listen to the Beatles' hits again, lord
I
have to see the sun again, Lord
You
better set your house in order
Will
it all be over tonight
Will
this be my setting sun
I
can't know
I
don't want to know
It's
midnight now, exactly now
And
the bells won't ring until it's six
For
that train may be here tonight
*
Leave Your Garden Tidy
When
I came to, I was in a glass house that wasn't a greenhouse. Rather, it was an
ordinary suburban home. I was on a glass bed, and a glass dresser was across
the room. Through the glass door I could see a glass hallway and through the
glass walls I could see other glass rooms. I looked down at the glass floor,
and I used some parallax to understand I was on an upper floor, because the
ground was ground and not made of glass. I considered this my good fortune.
Carefully
I crept down the glass stairs to get outside. A brick building was across the
yard, brick upon brick, without any means of entrance. I walked over to it, and
I reached out to touch it, but my hand went through. An illusion! I pushed my
way inside. A large open space, like a circus, greeted me, but how solid was it?
Three African elephants were standing there, and each had a tattoo of a raven on
its back. I spotted a ringleader, seemingly, and asked him: "How did this
place come to be?"
He
replied: "You failed to leave your garden tidy."
*
Con
We
can speak freely, since we're not here. Do you worry about the others, the ones
who are with you, as much as I worry about the people whom I am with? I know
the feeling, you know the feeling, so we can speak freely, right? It's all in
the times we are in, the time that smears across its dimension with a little
yesterday and a little tomorrow, all in the soup of it. We shouldn't worry
about any of that even though it's all true.
Since
we're not here, we can speak freely. You look around you and you sigh and you
say you're miserable to any of the people who'll pay any attention to you, but
they have their own problems and they don't want yours added to them. You're
burdened by your consciousness, but then everyone else is burdened in precisely
the same way. The burdens themselves are tragedies, but, with all of us caught
up in the same impossible shitstorm, there's something quite comedic about it.
I have a formal proof of this in one of my coat pockets, but the coat is too
far away. Look, figure out the proof yourself. It's easy.
*
Read my modern poem here
We
were driving through Paris
once,
and since I didn't
know
how to drive, she,
Virginie
Smile Burder Sloss, my
companion,
to some extent, did
all
the driving. It was
near
dusk, and it started
to
rain. We drove on
for
an hour or so,
and
then she said: "I'm
tired.
I'm going into the
back
seat to rest myself."
She
shoved the steering wheel
over
to me, sitting there
in
the right-hand seat, along
with
the pedals and all
the
other stuff. I said:
"I
don't know how to
drive,"
and she replied: "There's
probably
never a better time
than
now." She got in
the
back and I figured
out
the difference between braking
and
going and the wheel
felt
right but the rain
was
making things very difficult,
plus it was rather dark
in
the so-called City of
Lights.
I swerved to avoid
an
incoming bus and got
narrowly
through an alleyway. I
had
an idea of where
we
were going, but the
streets
went every-which-way. I spotted
the
hotel in the distance
and
stopped in front of
it.
My companion returned to
the
front seat and parked
for
us. She said: "Nice."
*
The 32nd Stone
On
market-day some time ago, we rustic people gathered at two PM to see some
amateur singing-and-dancing, as performed from a sixteen-foot-wide riser
flanked with dark curtains. For the fourth bit, the announcer called out:
"And now, the magic of Rinaldo!"
This
Rinaldo character came out, did a couple card tricks, some prestidigitation
stuff, then he announced: "Thirty-two of you now have a stone in your
pocket or purse. Check carefully, bring them up to the stage and you'll receive
in return a raffle ticket for a surprise gift."
Hands
went into pockets and purses. "Well, I'll be!", "I didn't put
that there!", "How the heck!", and other words to that effect.
The folks with stones took them up to the riser to drop them in the black hat
Rinaldo held. Clink, cluck, clunk. We were all terribly excited.
Rinaldo
laid them out, one by one, at the edge of the riser. They were of all shapes
and colours. He grew puzzled near the end, and said: "Thirty-one. We're
missing a stone. Who has it?"
No
one replied.
"Come
on, who has it?"
I
fingered the stone in my pocket. Perhaps I'd paint a face on it.
The 32nd Stone
I
felt it in my pocket all the way home. It felt like a disk, UFO-shaped, smooth,
and light. No-one was on the lower floor to retard me my journey up to my
bedroom, wherein, after a few moments listening, to make sure I was alone, for
I thought it possible that word could have gotten out about the missing stone
and I would be the suspected thief.
I
took it out of my pocket. How had it gotten there in the first place, anyway? I
set it down on my dime-store dresser and examined it.
It
was round, and very smooth, and with perfect symmetry. It rocked gently before
coming to a stop, although it sounded like it was still moving with an
imperceptible motion. I was of two minds, or perhaps three. Hide it away
forever? Return it? Paint it? I stood looking at it for quite some time,
pondering its perfection. It hardly looked real. If a blow came upon it, it
would fall to dust. I decided, in the end, to hide it away, until 'the coast
was clear'. I wrapped it in a clean handkerchief and secreted it away amongst
my socks.
The 16th Stone
One
fine Market Day, I was among the crowds, and my attention was drawn to
something of a show. Some people--Gypsies, perhaps--sang songs and danced
dances. They would be passing the hat sooner or later, but I had nothing in my
pockets, so it was no concern of mine.
A
magician showed up, Rinaldo seemed to be his stage name, and he performed some
card tricks and guessed as messages-from-beyond. Then he told the crowd:
"Sixteen of you now have a stone in your pocket or purse. Check carefully,
for there will be a small raffle prize for one of those who are in possession
of Magical Stone."
Everyone
got into the business of checking pockets and purses. "Wow!"
"How'd that get there?" and "I have a stone!"
Rinaldo
told them to bring their stones up to the raised dais and put them on the edge
and stay put until all the stones were collected. Rinaldo looked at them.
"I only see fifteen. Who's got the sixteenth?"
No-one
replied.
"This
doesn't work without the sixteenth stone."
I
moseyed away silently. I had the sixteenth stone in my pocket, how it got there
I never knew.
The 16th Stone
I
went into a familiar bar, but I didn't recognize anybody there. Everyone was
out at the festival, drinking in public, I suppose, being jovial and care-free
on that Market-Day. I sat down at the bar; I didn't recognize anyone,
understand, not even the barkeeper, who looked rather young for such a line of
labour. The stone felt sharp against my leg, and I turned it over in my pocket
once or twice, trying to judge its shape. Was it a cube? It had edges, but they
seemed too acute for a cube. I took it out of my pocket. It was an odd shape, with five irregular sides all joined at odd places.
Oh, and the colour? A dull green, like it was a mineral of some unknown nature.
I set it on the bar to see if I could gather anything else from it. The
bartender saw it and said: "Where'd you get the terralyte?"
I replied: "Is that what it is?" "Yes, terralyte,
from the mountains. Are you a miner?" "No, I merely found it some
place." "It looks a good specimen." I picked it up to examine
it. A precious rock? Who knew?
The 32nd Stone
Sunday
was the next day, and then came Monday, which was a school day. As is the
nature of schoolchildren, we all started nodding off and day-dreaming about ten
minutes into the first lesson--geography, as it happens, is quite
sleep-inducing--and I thought about the stone I had at home, wrapped in
handkerchief, among my socks. I could picture it, and, as I pictured it, it
took on its nature quite apart from my day-dreaming. It was of a perfect shape,
a flattened sphere, and told me about its life among the other 31 stones of
Rinaldo. "We were all merely props, carried around by a half-drunk and
phony magician. If you hadn't absconded me, my fate would have been just as one
of thirty-two; I would have been discarded or forgotten after Rinaldo's death. In
a way, you have saved me by inadvertently understanding how unique I was."
I had some questions for the stone, but I couldn't speak. I was in a
day-dreaming paralysis, and formal words would not present themselves to my
consciousness. I longed to see the stone--the real stone, not the day-dreaming
stone--but I was trapped in boring classes.
The 8th Stone
The
itinerant magician, Rinaldo his name this time around, did a couple card tricks
I'd read up on, and he did some things with wands and a dove, all of which I
had an idea how worked. Still, the locals ate it up. They were in need of
something of a thrill, I suppose. Market-Day isn't every day.
Then
came the big trick. Would I catch him out this time?
He
spoke: "Ladies and gentlemen, I used to do this trick with more stones
that I have with me today." (He could have mentioned the factors-of-two
issue, but he didn't.) "In any case." (How drunk was he?) "In
the audience, there are eight people who now have a stone in pocket or purse.
Shazam! Please, you eight, come up and put the stones on the dais upon which I
am standing."
1
2 3 4 5 6 7.
Rinaldo
waited for the 8th stone.
"Come
now, come now, you, with the 8th stone, come forward now!"
The
crowd was getting restless and they began a-murmuring.
Rinaldo
continued: "I cannot finish the trick!"
I
turned away. I had felt the stone come into my pocket. I had won.
The 8th Stone
At
the station-house, I pulled the stone from my pocket and put it in my desk. It
looked volcanic.
-Hey,
Sarge, what you got there?
-Never
you mind.
-Is
it some magic stone?
-I
doubt it.
-Can
you see the future in it?
-I
doubt it.
-'Cause that would help us in all our investigations.
-I
said I don't know.
-Hey,
Charlie, come over here and look at the Sarge's stone!
-Oh golly Sarge, that's one interesting stone! Where'd you
get it?
I
said: It's part of an investigation into some fraud.
-It'll
tell you its history, perhaps?
-I
don't know what it's got to tell me. It appeared in my pocket, and I don't know
how it got there.
-Hmm!
I've had things appear in my pocket, but never a stone!
-Okay,
can it, both you guys, I'm trying to think.
I
picked up the stone. It was heavier than it looked. Was it a meteor? It was
heavy, like with a high iron content. I thought of going back to arrest
Rinaldo, but on what grounds? Making stones materialize without a licence? I
decided to go to the outskirts of the Market, and casually eavesdrop.
The 32nd Stone
Finally,
the boring classes came to an end, and I hurried home as fast as I could. The
stone was still in its handkerchief safe and sound. I swore to the stone I
would never abandon it again, for I knew the difference between right and wrong
even though I was just a kid.
I
set the smooth rounded stone down on my dresser and looked at it from one side.
I couldn't see any imperfections, none. I set it to gently rocking, and it
rocked and rocked for a mighty long time. What was it, precisely? How could I
ever find out while being its sole relationship? I decided the library was the
only place for me, and though I knew I would get into some trouble by staying
out when dinner was coming soon, I had no choice, really, but to hurry downtown
to where the library was. They had some idea who I was--I spent a good deal of
time there--and though I was warned the place would be closing in fifteen
minutes, I hurried to the books about rocks. Perhaps they'd forget I was there,
and I'd have the place to myself.
The 16th Stone
The
stone sat before me on the bar, alongside seven empty and two full pilsner
glasses. A terralyte, whatever that was, five-sided,
which apparently was a defining feature or terralytes,
along with being a dull green. I felt fabulously wealthy. I quickly downed a
glass, my head spinning with fantastic images of travel and adventure and dames
galore. I felt a pee coming along, so I dropped the stone into my pocket and
made my way to the toilet.
When
I came back, everything was as I'd left it. I still didn't recognize anyone
there except the bartender who'd let me into the secret of the stone which
weighed heavily in my pocket. I knew enough to keep it there; who knows what a foreign
stranger might think, seeing something so immensely valuable? I couldn't stay
in the bar, I was so nervous. I drank off the rest of
the pilsner and paid up and went out into the street.
Some
folks were coming from the direction of the market, and I called out to them:
"How went the magic show?" One of them turned to give me a dirty
look. If only they knew my pocket!
The 4th Stone
Magician
Rinaldo went through a routine of tricks both successful and clumsily
unsuccessful before the Market-Day crowd, and I was in the crowd. He leaned on
the pedestal or podium or whatever it was and pulled an exceptionally long
handkerchief--actually, several handkerchiefs tied and to end, made for some
unfinished trick--wiped his brow with it--then noticed it was part of a trick,
and he muttered a curse. Some laughter in the crowd.
"This
next trick is something special," he said, ignoring the brutes in the
audience. "I've had to cut it down over the last year, but it's still
effective.
"I
tell you that this very instant four of you in the crowd now have a stone in
pocket or purse, and they got there by magic. I want all four of you to
come up to the stand, up here on the platform even, and I want you to put your
stones on my pedestal."
The
crowd murmured, and two voices said: "Oh!" Three people went up to
the platform and put their stones down. Rinaldo glared at his audience.
"Oh, for God's sake, who's got the fourth stone? Come here at once!"
The 4th Stone
I went
away, feeling the stone in my pocket. It felt like a sphere, as round as the
roundest planet. I couldn't keep myself from smiling. Oh, what would I tell the
folks back home, the friends he and I knew, the ones who'd put with him all
these years? The one whom our parents had lied about all these years? Well,
revenge was mine, or at least I could take some credit in the revenge I and
three others had foisted upon him.
I
couldn't help but laugh all the way to the train station and all the way into a
compartment. The stone was not very big at all. It felt more like a pebble
(which could explain somewhat its roundness). The train left the station, and
it was only then that I pulled it from my pocket. Yes, a small round stone no
bigger than a pigeon's egg. I looked over at the gent sitting opposite me and I
got his attention diverted from his local newspaper. Who was he, and where was
he going?
I
showed him the stone and I said: "See this? This is revenge. This is
revenge on my brother."
The 8th Stone
Once
in the environment of the Market, I took up a post at a table in a café. I
pretended to read a book while I listened to the conversations passing me by. I
thought about the fates of the two who had gone before me, the other two who
had purloined stones from Rinaldo, and I shuddered. I was playing a dangerous
game, and I didn't even know if I was going to survive the night.
Someone
mentioned Rinaldo, and I bucked up. The performance had gone on. Rinaldo, after
asking for the 8th stone, magically produced it from his pocket. "And the
stone looked volcanic!" said the innocent bystander. I thought about the
stone on my desk at the station-house, for it, too, appeared volcanic. It
couldn't be the same stone, could it? No, impossible, since the stone must have
been already in my possession at the moment Rinaldo had produced a similar
stone from his pocket. But why were there two volcanic stones? Was there some
deeper order to his chicanery? Was it chicanery after all? All I knew was that
Rinaldo was up to no good, natural or supernatural, and I'd catch him.
The 16th Stone
Out
on the streets with my terralyte I felt a little too
excited. My heart was bursting with joy, and I had to calm myself down, so,
since I happened to be outside my second-favourite bar, I went down the steps
and in. I looked around, and I saw Charlie there, good ol'
Charlie. I slopped myself down beside him, barely noticing that someone sat
across from him. "You won't believe what I have," I told him as I
waved over the barkeep, A pint, I want a pint. I pulled the stone from my
pocket and that's when I noticed he was sitting across from a woman who was
looking at me with astonished but amused shock. I put the stone down and said:
"It's a terralyte, and they've very rare and
valuable." Charlie looked at the stone and he continued to converse with
the woman. He said: "So anyway," but I interrupted him as the pint
arrived and he fell under some spillage. "It's worth a lot," I said.
Charlie turned to me and said: "Jack, I'm kinda
busy here." I took the hint, got up with my stone, and went to the bar.
Women!
The 32nd Stone
I
flipped through the rock books, looking at the pictures mostly, looking for a
rock that looked like mine. I went through book after book, looking for it.
Never once did I think the rock had been formed and created just for the trick
itself; I was convinced it was a natural phenomenon. I went to a book about the
formation of rocks and tried to understand how Nature had made it that way, and
for what purpose. There had to be a meaning to it, and I was sure I could find
out, given enough time.
However,
time I didn't have, because in fact they had not forgotten I was there. A woman
I knew only by her role came over and told me the library was closing, little
boy. I had to recourse but to close up the books. (Ina parting act of useless
defiance, I didn't put them back on the shelf.) I left the library. It was
getting dark. The stone was in my pocket, of course, hidden away so no-one
would know my secret. It got darker and darker the further I walked, and soon
it was very dark in the streets.
The 2nd Stone
Rinaldo
reeled. The trick had to work this time. Sure, one out of thirty-two stones can
go missing, but not one out of two. It had worked before in the past month, but
he expected it to go awry at any moment.
"Ladies
and gentlemen, two of you in the audience now have a stone in your pocket. We're
watching all the exits. Will the two of you with a stone in your pocket come up
and put it on the riser.
There
was one gasp. "Well, I'll be!" A hayseed came up to the stage and put
down his stone.
Rinaldo,
sweatin' bullets, said: "There's another stone
out there, I know it. No-one has left, so one of you must have it. So, come up!
Come up, dammit!"
Everyone
looked, nervously, at those in their environs. No-one made a motion.
Rinaldo
cried: "This is impossible. Someone has it. Who?"
The
world was crashing down on him. It was, strictly speaking, impossible.
"We'll
search your pockets," he said.
Someone
called out: "That'd be a crime, I think!"
There
was no solution. Rinaldo gave the hayseed five dollars for his troubles. It was
almost all he had available.
The 2nd Stone
I
drifted away un-noticed from the Market Fair, borne by a breeze westward, over
the crowds and the stalls and the trees, the stone inside my vest invisible. I
drifted away, to the west, and once I found myself in a kind of solitude I knew I could safely let myself down. In the empty
forest I fondled the stone inside my vest, never once wondering how it had
gotten there, for I knew what powers I was up against, and I knew I had it in
my powers to make it all come to a stop.
These
magic tricks and inexplicable illusions, yes, I know that a great deal of it is
stagecraft, but that has never meant all of it is. Even I could see the charm
in being will fully fooled, but when it came to real infernality
I drew the line. The stone wasn't a special stone; it looked like any other
stone one could meet on any given road. I tossed it away since it was of no
value to anyone sublunary creature. It was merely a stone, and I had bigger and
more important matters to tend to in upcoming days.
The 4th Stone
The
gent sitting opposite me said: "Revenge on your brother?"
I
said: "Yes. I'm ruining his livelihood."
"With
a rock?"
"It's
a prop for a magic show. Without this rock, he can't continue."
"Couldn't
he find another rock?"
"It's
a stone, not a rock."
"Couldn't
he find another stone?"
"Not
this one. Because I have it."
"You
may have a logical problem there."
"I
don't think so."
We
were quiet for a bit. I slobbered over the stone, and he returned to his paper.
Then he said: "I have a brother."
"Oh
yeah?"
"He's
very successful. Cattle business."
"More
successful than you?"
"Very
much so."
"You
must hate his guts."
"No,
no. What would that do? I wish him all the best."
I
thought about this for a moment. "You don't want to poison his
cattle?"
"Heavens,
no. He's part of my family, and anything that harms him harms me."
What
was he getting at? I looked at the stone again, and wiped it free of slobber.
"So, you'd be harming yourself."
"Yes,
that's what I would be doing."
I
got off at the next stop, bought a return ticket, slipped on the platform. I
never returned.
The 8th Stone
I got up from my café table and hurried back
to the police station. I knew I had missed something important in my background
checks; something I had glanced at about his family of origin, something about
his brother.
In
the station, I went over the big boards. There I saw it, that he had a brother
in another town some miles away, four hours by train. I had to contact him.
Fortunately, I had a contact number, and I quickly dialed the number beside the
brother's name.
He
answered, and I explained who I was and why I had his brother under suspicion.
The brother was shocked, shocked, disappointed, and angry. He said he'd join
the search to flush him out. He wrote down our station's number and address,
and we disengaged the line.
Screaming,
a woman screaming. The three savage criminals we'd been holding overnight burst
into the room. Where had they gotten their guns? I looked at the rock on my
desk, and it all came together. This was my punishment. I wanted to call the
brother back to tell him to keep away, but it was too late. A shot to the
heart....
The 16th Stone
I
stayed at the bar for quite a while.
It
could have been two hours in total.
For
the duration, I had one hand on my stone, and my other on glasses.
What
would I buy first?
It's
stolen.
Yes,
but what to buy first?
You're
going to come to a bad end.
Why?
Most
lottery winners do. And their tickets aren't stolen.
People
steal all the time.
Sophistry.
I
got up from the bar, still clutching that damned rock. How would the evening
end? I've had many lost evenings, saying things I didn't recall saying.
And
out the door and onto the street.
Where
was I, anyway?
That
way looks familiar. I'll go the familiar way.
There
are a lot of cars on the road tonight. I wonder where they're all going! They
must be going somewhere. All those cars have places to go, and they're going
there as quick as they can.
I
crossed a street, realized I should not have crossed the street, and turned
quickly, still clutching the rock, and stepped off the curb. A sound grew
louder really quickly.
I'm
on the pavement now. Something has happened, but I'm not sure what.
The 32nd Stone
Something
made me lose my way as I was walking from the library to my house. Maybe I was
thinking about the stone and not paying attention.... In any case, I found
myself at an intersection of two streets, and the street-signs mean nothing to
me--I'd never heard of either one--except to say You are lost. I turned
around, got to another intersection, a cross-street of sorts, and I'd never
heard of that street either. I was starting to panic. It was night, and
the sun had just set about an hour earlier, but I couldn't figure out where it
had set, what with all the strange houses around me.
I
suppose I should have gone to friendliest house and asked for help, but they
all looked equally sinister. I turned around again, thinking I'd finally reach
a familiar street--how could streets not intersect--and I walked on in my
initial direction.
After
four or five more blocks, still unknown, I figured I should go either left or
right to see where they led. And so I turned left,
maybe closer to Main Street, surely, and I walked, and then something really terrible
happened.
The 1st Stone
Rinaldo
the Great was entertaining us, there at the Market Fair. He pulled a hare out
of a hat. He conjured. He tossed a coin, and it vanished. We all saw that. He
was pale. He had been awake since three. He took the applause lightly. He had
another trick up his sleeve. He said: "One of you, out there in the crowd,
must have a stone in pocket or purse. This is my last trick. I don't have
anything more to give. Will the person who has the stone in purse or pocket
please come forward. As I say, I'm all out of it. This is the end for me."
We
waited for the event. Some time passed. We dared not even look at one another.
We could only look at Rinaldo the Great. We thought we were watching someone
about to die.
Someone
must have heard it before I did. A screeching from somewhere. Some thing was
coming from over the trees.
Who
had the stone? No-one came forward. Rinaldo the Great was stock-still, as if he
knew that whatever he had done to make the trick work was coming for him, and
with fury.
The Stone
I appeared, to Rinaldo and only to Rinaldo. It
must have been a queer sight for all the locals, seeing Rinaldo have a muttered
discussion with a spirit. I told him: "You shall receive no more aid from
the likes of me." He muttered: "I came by these powers fairly. I
don't see why I should be punished." "You have been using them for
harm." "No, I haven't." "Yes, you have."
In
fact, I didn't have to explain myself. The Mind was made up. No more of this
nonsense, no more with the illegitimate motions and wavings.
"Rinaldo, you no longer have our blessing."
He
said down on the stage and cried. "What shall I do, then?"
I
didn't bother to answer. I pulled at the veil, and he was bereft of it. Should
I have bothered to say goodbye? Rather, I pulled my self inward until I was the
size of a particle, no different from all the particles floating around the
Market Fair.
The
crowd dispersed uncomfortably. Rinaldo was then all alone, powerless. The crowd
was off to find some comfort in other amusements. All they could say they'd
seen was the end of a charlatan.
*
A Supernatural Tale
At
dawn, with sky and day lightening, I saw her at the intersection of two
shopping lines; one line was going to self-check-out, the other to cashiers.
Without a doubt, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
I
jostled through the lines, trying to get nearer to her, Beauty. I was trying to
get her attention before I awoke, which seemed very imminent, considering that
she must have been a fleeting image. Who was she, where did you come from?
I
said it aloud once I was near to her. "Who are you, and where do you come
from?"
She
smiled beautifully and blinked, with rich lashes, at me. And she laughed,
covering her mouth, to say: "Don't you know? Isn't it obvious?"
"You
must be a supernatural creature. There is no way I could conjure up such beauty
at this time of day, with no sun to light your eyes."
She
scoffed at me. "You don't really believe that, do you? Very well. Though
it's not true, I am a supernatural essence."
"I
knew it! From whence other could you come?"
"So
sorry to disappoint you, John. I'm but a part of you."
*
We were
all swimming, but where to swim to? The island and the mainland are about the
same distance, so to which should we swim?
We were
all crying, but what were we crying about? Something had been lost, somewhere,
but where to look, what to cry about?
Spring was
nearing its end.
We were
all entwined in an orgy, but shouldn't we have been celebrating? It certainly
seemed there was nothing worth an orgy.
I was
holding your hand, but what good would it do? My hand would be warmer in my
pocket, so why wasn't it in my pocket?
Summer was
nearing its end.
We were
all planting seeds though we didn't know what would sprout. We could only say:
vegetation. Something will grow here. Has to.
We were
all young again, but what was the point of that? Our natures would cause us to
waste it anyway.
Autumn was
nearing its end.
We all put
off fixing that newel post, because we felt sure someone else would fix it.
Besides, the house could burn down!
We were
busy being born, but why did that have to happen? Our origins, our purposes,
unknown.
Winter is
nearing its end.
*
The Schedule
In
the oral ages, I was spoken. I had so very few entries, word-of-mouth was
enough. "When's the next train to..." and the stationmaster would
say: "Two hours" and that was it.
Then
there were more and more tracks and trains and lines to control, and some
accidents were occurring, so I began to be written down. A reflexion
of me would be posted at stations. (I'm pretty I was the reason for time
zones!)
I
would control when the trains left the station, and when they arrived at their
destinations (barring accidents, naturally). Everyone and everything would obey
me, and yet no-one really understands me.
Look.
It's lines. You read DOWN if you're going away from my centre, and you read UP
if you want to go towards my centre. How is that so difficult to understand?
Anyway,
I've taken over the laws of everything, and you're lucky I'm a nice guy. (The
accidents are never my fault. I've been measured up and down, and I'm sometime
adjusting, but I have never caused an accident. That's all your fault.)
To
be the great God SCHEDULE is a responsibility. If only my father Communication
could see me now.
*
Republic
Some
years ago, I was on the Broadview streetcar, near the Don jail. Behind me,
getting on, was a woman, who got on her telephone, and what she said was
something like this.
"I
was just with him, and I'm from up in Wasaga. I want to know: when can I come
back?"
Deciphered:
Her husband was in the Don jail, they'd had a night
together. And she had to leave, and she was going to Union Station, to get on a
train or a bus, to go back to Wasaga, and she wanted to know when she could
meet her husband again.
I
was curious. I looked up stuff about the Canadian penal system. It turns out
there is almost no way to find anyone who is incarcerated. All I found were
messages about who to call, how to get an 'in'.
Meanwhile,
in the republic to my south, it's easy to find a prisoner. Transparent, online,
because in a republic even if you are in prison you're still a member of that
republic.
When
I'm finally arrested, I will vanish. Mary will be like the woman on the
streetcar, nor quite knowing enough, unless Charles says okay.
*
Orillia,
some years ago. All four of us went into a small shop full of knick-knacks and
bits of furniture, settees and cushions and such. I grew captivated by a small
selection of puzzles in little bags near the cash register. One couldn't tell
what was within each packet, or even how difficult the puzzles were. I took one
in hand, CAT PUZZLE, and it was cold so I knew there was metal involved.
One
of my friends said they'd be waiting outside, but that I shouldn't take too
long. There was still a drive to go.
At
first, I took the warning seriously, then less seriously, then not seriously at
all. I would take my time.
I
checked out the prices. CAT PUZZLE was $2.99. I noticed the biggest one they
had, CAT AND MOUSE PUZZLE, which they were selling for $8.99. I leisurely
bought the two of them.
Outside,
my three friends were nowhere to be seen. I walked a block this way, and a
block that way, with no success. How long had I really been in there? Had they
left me behind? They had to be somewhere. Where?
I
wondered if pornographers sometimes felt like that.
*
The
other day a girl somewhere maybe in a liquor store said to me as a friendly
salutation: "Golly, you look a bit tired!"
I
didn't say: "Yes, I'm on my last. You're not going to come to my funeral, because
you don't my name, unless you claw it out of my wallet; but why should you? You're
happy and young, as I once was, and I had not a care for the old codgers at
all. But, currently, I see you, you're so pretty, and
so nice, I would give my soul to make you immortal, but I can't make that work,
I'd love to make you so pretty, forever, Talia, at the Pilot Tavern, and it's
been some four or five months ago. And even though I'm an old man now, her 25-year-old
eyes--"
She
said, really: "You gonna use a card for
that?"
"A
what?"
"Credit,
debit, something like that. Oh, did you think I meant a gift card?"
"No,
I didn't mean that."
"See,
after the holidays, people have gift cards. It's all a bit of a scam, I hear,
because people lost them, not like money."
"I'll
pay cash."
"What,
no air miles involved?"
*
Jobs
We
were walking to a restaurant.
She
said: "And then I got head-hunted after a job fair, and I had the
interview, and they asked me what I thought I should be paid. I named a
reasonable amount, and they said: No, it has to be more than that, like, twice
that, because we have standards and stuff. In the end, we had to split the
difference because they said they wouldn't hire anyone for less than
such-and-such."
I
said: "I got head-hunted, too, but I already had a job. They said that was
good, because they wanted me to keep it, as a cover. They told me that spies
always had to have a cover, and that they would only want me to be available
once in a while, when they wanted an assassination done. And I've created
another identity, the one I'm using now, name and address and so on, because I
want to protect you from the rivals of the firm, who would make things
dangerous for you and that would be bad for both of us."
She
said: "Wow. That's pretty exciting, really. So, tell me: how much are you
paid?"
I
said: "That's classified."
*
Music
We got to
thinking, over dinner, about the heart of art
After
seeing 'Throw Down Your Heart' which was
A documentary,
kind of, a fine one at that, about
Béla Fleck
going to Africa, east then west.
Thirty
years ago, I saw Béla perform
In
Nashville, Tennessee, at the Ryman, courtesy
My
brother's wife, Monica Rose, lighting director,
who took
me backstage afterwards to see where (seemingly)
One legend
inscribed her initials
On the
bricks near the backstage entrance.
"Look.
There she cut it. Like into a tree,
To get her
head straight,
Before her
Grand Ol' Opry debut,
Patsy cut
her initials into the mortar."
Back to
the point! Béla, at the Ryman that night,
Didn't say
anything for the whole performance.
....
Band-leaders
are expected to say, at least, something,
But he
said nothing.
In 'Throw
Down Your Heart', Oumou Sangaré remarks
That Béla
doesn't talk much, that his language
Is music,
and that's how he communicates.
Which brings
us back, as if this is an essay,
To my
hidden argument about words and music,
Stating
(as all the ancients did) that music,
Being
connected to mathematics, is superior to verse.
My best (and,
as it happened, was what I thought was
My
'killer' argument which would settle for all time
The argument
which had perplexed everyone from
Plato to
Sidney to Keats) was about Schubert and Goethe.
I waved my
wine-glass around. "No-one cares who was the writer
Of the
text of Gretchen am Spinnrade. It's a good scene,
Sure, but
it's the music, the score, that matters.
(Is that
the last of the wine?)
Anyway, if
it wasn't for Schubert's setting of the text,
Meine
Ruh' ist hin
Mein
Herz ist schwer
Ich
finde sie nimmer
Und
nimmermehr
It would
not be remembered as strongly as it is."
That was
my argument about how Béla Fleck mattered,
And about
how music is superior to text,
And about
how we all know this so,
And about
why someone said poetry aspires to music,
And about how
we really see things
And about
what is important, music and math,
And about what
we think is beautiful,
Really
beautiful, which is music more than words,
And about
why Béla doesn't talk much,
And about
what the Romantics understood,
And why
all musicians, everywhere, across all continents, are blessed by God, because
they speak in God's language,
Which is
math.
*
The Deposit
The
couple were in line, with another couple ahead of them in line. The couple
ahead of them looked nicer than themselves. The couple ahead went in and sat
down at a nice table near a window. They themselves got sat near the swinging
kitchen door.
They
watched the other couple, the couple near the window. The couple near the
window got served first, and the couple near the kitchen door thought that only
made sense, since they had arrived first.
Fifteen
minutes passed, and then a curt waiter asked the couple near the kitchen if
they wanted anything.
We
don't know what you offer, said the couple near the kitchen.
Menus
to start, then? asked the waiter sarcastically.
The
couple near the window were served on silver plates, so the couple near the
kitchen said: Can we have whatever the couple near the window are having?
Sorry,
we're all out of that.
Can
we have something similar to that, then?
You'd
have to pay beforehand.
How
about a deposit?
That
could be arranged. Hang tight.
The
waiter went off to the cash register to do some quick math. The couple near the
kitchen wondered what they'd done.
*
Prologue
Once,
there was a couple, and this couple had two cats. The cats kept very much to
themselves, as if they detested the other's presence. However, the couple knew
that each would be very lonely without the other.
One
summer week, a cat started coming by to look in the window. Now, you might
expect the two cats to go crazy about this intruder, but in fact the two would
start purring at the cat beyond the window. Only on special days would the two
of them be allowed outside, and, since the couple couldn't see the stray--for
so it appeared to be--as a threat, the three cats would play with one another,
and lo the two housecats were out with the stray, they didn't quarrel anymore.
And
so, since it seemed the stray--the probable stray--didn't have any place to go,
and since the stray seemed to make the other two get along in such harmony,
they took in this third cat.
Little
did they know what the result of their action would be! Little did they know of
the bloodshed to come, or how it would affect the world, or the Hell they'd
unleashed!
*
New Year's Eve
It
is something to be remembered, the old days when one felt one had to be
somewhere special. It seems a long time ago that friends would come over to the
house and one would try to keep them there til
midnight. That was back before they had a dog to take care of, and the dog
would be pacing their house and pining for their return. Now one goes about one's
life, and one hears people in the next house whooping it up, and that's as
close as one can get to a feeling of Newness.
