Three

As the air cools and the days grow shorter, my metabolism has slowed and, at first, the changes were subtle. The molting started slowly, and I was stuck, transfixed by horror as layers dropped away until I was covered by raw pink skin. The air circulating around me stung and I couldn't find a comfortable position to lie in. I kept telling you I'd be alright but even now I don't know if that's true.

At 762 miles per hour, at sea level, the compression and deflection of souls would make it seem like I was a comet, throwing detritus into the human atmosphere. Ernst Mach was measuring colliding egos long before anyone broke the sound barrier. Despite the noise I can still hear your complaints. Clean your own house before you try coming into mine. It's human nature to blame someone else for the mistakes you make, but that's not going to get you off the hook.

In the eighteenth century an expression arose because of oarsmen who missed the water and slowed the forward momentum of the boat. Today I'd like to pull it out and dust it off, because, honey, you are missing the water and slowing things down. I know you're not really trying to catch a crab, but that's all you'll have left if you don't keep paddling.

Since Roman times, lovers have broken coins in two, each keeping half as a pledge of fidelity and affection. You'll find her, even though it may take years under the sheets trying to find a perfect match to the jagged edge you carry. And though it may cut into the palm of your hand, remember that you can't spend it, but you can have some fun trying.

Dreams filled with images of the Halifax Gibbet. Six days I stood with my head in the stocks, a couple of yards of cloth draped over my head, and the memory of being kicked in the ass by everyone who passed by. But like the running man before me, I'm quick and light on my feet. He thought that once he crossed Hebble Creek he was free, but not me. I'm going to keep on running.

Saturday, At The River

I didn't notice it until right now, but apparently I've fallen out of sync with the rest of the world. Only by about ten minutes but it's still a cause for concern for me. That would explain why the volume on the t.v. goes up without me touching the remote (until ten minutes later, of course), and why when I answer the phone there's nobody there. Curiouser and curiouser.

The serenity of the drive helped ease me into a trance and I didn't hear her asking me about the watch. I don't usually wear one and so she was curious. When I told her it was ten minutes fast she laughed and said it wouldn't help. I haven't been on time for close to twenty years and I blame God for that. He made me this way, so there. I stopped at the line of poplars and got out. From this perspective they disappear into the distance and I like to think that they go on forever. She was busy spreading the blanket and I took off my sweater so I could roll it into a ball and use it as a pillow. She rested on her knees, watching me get comfortable, and then she asked me to get the basket. I have to laugh at myself. Otherwise she'd be laughing alone.

The sun was so warm that I considered going for a swim, but I knew the water was still too cold. I imagined sinking into the mud on the bottom and never surfacing again. Staring into the sky through a glass ceiling, wanting to come up but caught in the weeds. She would pack up the car and leave wondering where I had gone, angry and alone. With the winter winds the surface would freeze and I'd still be there, hoping like hell someone would notice me.

Is it any wonder when she asks me what I'm thinking I say, "Nothing. What's for lunch?". By tomorrow the grass will need to be cut and then I'm going to clean out the shed. Today is for relaxing.

Oh Well

The spammers win and from now on there is a word verification key you have to fill in to leave a comment. Since the dawn of time there have been parasites among us, and I'm not talking about those little things with hundreds of legs that run around here.

The telephone rings and when I pick it up there is the telltale pause, while the automated dialer on the other end switches to an automated message and I hang up before it starts. If you want me to buy something from you ask me in person. Even then, you'll likely call around dinner time and say something like, "Hi, I'm Lucius from Everlasting crap and I've got your number. Don't hang up 'cos I'll just pester you 'till you die." How complacent we've become when we spend a small fortune on cable, internet access and a telephone, only to be interpreted at any given time by some jackass trying his surefire ploy to flog his junk and we just chalk it up to modern capitalistic morality. Ayn Rand is rolling over in her grave, choking on her own tongue.
Every once in a while I have to admit admiration for another's persistent re-invention. Henry amused me for a day or two, when I first met him. Time to update the schtick, Henry. The relatively new ploy around here is to stand at the end of the highway exit and solicit cars as they wait for a light. I laughed the first day the would be solicitor got mad when no one would open thier car window to him. Still, I have no problem with people asking. Face to face. Get it? Face to face.
Spammers represent to me the lowest form of life. How many times have you had to change your e-mail address because of spam?
And here I am buckling to them again. Apparently the auto-spammers can't read the key so I should be alright for awhile, but I won't say that's that. Some weasel is out there right now figuring out a way to get around that too.

'Round and 'Round

The mouse goes into the basket. The cat follows. The mouse comes out of the basket, followed by the cat. Ad infinitum.

Tonight, Lucullus shall dine with Lucullus. The pantry is stocked and the ice box is weighted with foul and fish, all fair and freshly filleted. The anticipation creates a sense of urgency, translated into anxiety by my pea-brained knee-jerk sensibilities.

The mouse goes into the basket. The cat follows.

Fifty Eight Dollars and a Shitty Car

We hit the streets with everything we could carry and still forgetting what we needed most. I could hear the sound of pursuit and worried that we couldn't get far enough away. She looked at me, like she was waiting for the words she needed to hear, and I obliged her. "We'll be alright.", I said and she smiled a little, the first smile I'd seen in months.

The hours that blend into a cool afternoon, after years of waiting to die, and seem to resist change are, to me, the most sublime. I stood behind the empty chair wondering if I should sit, but nodded, yes, I would have tea. He hasn't changed a bit and I'd still like to smash his face, but for some reason he thinks we're friends and I'm too much of a coward to tell him otherwise.

We made it San Diego in fourteen hours; a record, I think. She was sick by then and I wasn't doing too well myself, but I told her some good news and she seems to be alright for now. For now. In the morning I'll tell her the truth. That we can't stay.

Isn't just like me, to be this way. Isn't it just like me.

Miles Away

She was no more than nineteen or twenty, tall, maybe six feet, with wide hips and a flat stomach. She had long auburn hair that framed a pretty face and a smile that made working nights a profitable experience. When the Fabulous Bee told her the cigarette machine took our money but didn't give us the cigarettes, she took charge of the situation and brought her hips to bear on the problem. She checked the machine once, twice, and then two or three more times, with no result. I was enjoying the show and the cigarette machine stubbornly held on, while the small crowd in the bar watched; this was a regular confrontation and they had money on their girl. Her feet took over for awhile and she steadily kicked the face of the machine with the flat of her foot about seven times, the last from about five feet away and finally the machine spit out the package. The bar erupted in cheering and the bartender, glorious after battle, threw her arms in the air while I grabbed the cigarettes and the Fabulous Bee laughed so hard I thought she would pee herself.
There have been people living on the plains, on the shoulder of the St Laurence river, for close to two hundred and fifty years. Kamouraska is still a small town but there is history under every rock and along the seaweed encrusted beach, enough to fill the houses for rent every season, but not enough to last into the winter. Just like any tourist destination, however, the local people have a love/hate relationship with the crowds who file into the bakery every morning, or fill the pews of the magnificent Catholic church on Sunday mornings. At this time of year the streets are empty and the wind blowing in off the river has convinced all that this winter will be no different from any that has proceeded it. I imagine that this is a desolate, lonely place to be in February.
I walked the length of town one morning, while the girls slept off a pre-wedding hangover and felt as lonely as I ever have in my life. The tide was in, covering the eel traps and the walk along the beach left me at odds with the ocean once again. I had seen the ocean once briefly, years ago and I thought nothing of it. It wasn't until Beth took me swimming in it did I notice the pull, the sleepy consciousness of the waves and the mystery. I'm beginning to understand why people can't leave it alone.
I know so little about the world, it's hidden pockets of beautiful anger, it's mesmerizing touch. As far as I've traveled, I have so far to go. For now I've wrapped that memory and folded it away; the long drive, the cottage on the beach, the symbolism of the wedding ceremony and the dancing until two in the morning. Unwrapping it later will be like finding a time capsule filled with a shell, a picture of a couple, happy at the beginning, a memory of hotels perched on the hill, empty until spring and the arpeggiated whistle of the wind over the waves.
Kamouraska? I've been there. Once, at the end of the summer, for a wedding. It was beautiful.

October 14

What do Dwight D. Eisenhower, Roger Moore, Cliff Richard and my Mom all have in common?

Happy Birthday!

It was only a few years ago that we were (me in particular) blessed with the arrival of my Mom. Full of vigor and a healthy dose of irreverent humour, she was a constant pain to her parents and a trouble maker from the beginning. (You didn't think I was paying attention to all those stories, did you?) These days she stands at the head of her own family of smart asses and wonders what she did to deserve this. Don't let her fool you, though, she's a hellraiser in her own right. And if she dares to claim otherwise, I'll be back tommorrow with a couple of stories that should set the record straight.

I just want to say thank you for being you. Your strength, your wisdom, your stubborness and your heart have made us all what we are today, and I can't imagine what the world would be like without you. I hope that you have a wonderful birthday.

Everybody wish my Mom a Happy Birthday!

Shovels for Guns

No where is the duality of human nature on such stark display, as on the news sites I check every morning. I check simply to see if the world is still there. I wanted to keep abreast of situations in Pakistan, to see if the rescue operation there has been organized, to mourn the loss of so many lives. I wanted to check to see how many more people were killed in Iraq yesterday, a sickening tally of self destruction. I wanted to see if a decision had been made about what parts of New Orleans will be re-built, to see if they can stand another assault. I wanted to check to see if it had been decided who will play the next James Bond, and what exactly Angelina Jolie is up to, that little home wrecker.

It's a testament to the amazing adaptive skills we posses to find that we can only take so much death and destruction before we have to tune it out and stick our heads into the clouds of sitcom relief, worn out and tired by our own cruelty and helplessness, conversely. We will drop our guns to pick up a shovel to dig out our neighbors and when they are safe and warm we'll shoot them because of religious differences. This is nothing new, but the onslaught of nature's punishment for our ill conceived experiments seems to coincide with our own tendencies for murder and I am reaching a point where the crisis of the day are becoming mundane and repetitive. I look for relief from the strain in Steven Spielberg and the machine called Bruckheimer.

In a discussion yesterday it was concluded that, if I could find the answer to why we are so self-destructive, and I mean internally as well as externally, I could become a rich man selling the cure, but I wonder who would buy it. We thrive on being bad and acting tough just as much as we thrill in our compassionate embrace during times of trouble. The advice given me was to stop trying to know why, stop questioning our taste for blood and murder, stop looking for the reason we are our own worst enemy. The question might have an answer in faith, the catch-all for human failings, but it seems to me that that will just lead to another volley as we try to determine who's God is responsible for creating us with a self destruct button, placed so close to our hearts.

Just Before Dawn on Thursday

Up before the sun. Hummpfff.

The mythical Evangeline was expelled from Acadie in 1755, on her wedding day because she would not forsake her Catholic heritage and spent years trying to find her husband from her new home in Louisiana. The real Evangeline, Evy I call her, is roaming around my apartment trying to find her bearings and wondering who this lumbering giant she has been forced to share living space with is. I am no Gabriel, no lost lover, no Acadian troublemaker. I am spoiling her like mad, however, trying to convince her she has nothing to fear from me.

The cool morning air carries the sounds of sirens through my window and I wonder that anyone is out misbehaving. The days are growing shorter, the nights are long and my sleep is troubled by strings of memory, wound like reminders, around my finger. The others have been quiet, too, tired and on the injured list for roughhousing. Its just as well; today is a day for watching and waiting.

Bring it on

My sense of ironic detachment has been tried in recent times. I find that I'm beginning to lose that manner of stoic disapproval I worked hard for years to create. The 'know nothing, do nothing' shell I've crafted all these years is coming apart at the seams. What's a poor boy to do?
Suddenly I'm full of feeling and empathy. Gone is the condescension and superiority. Now its all about compassion and caring. What the hell is wrong with me?

I hate the fact that I find myself reacting to ads on T.V. in ways the advertising company wanted me to. Those commercials for fido, which incidentally our man Randall did the voice work for, leave me wanting to train dogs to vacuum because it's so cute. I find myself getting choked up when that girl, the one waiting at the airport gate finally sees her man and breaks down into tears. I wonder if that dish washing detergent really can out do the brand I've been buying for years, simply because it was the first one I ever grabbed off the shelf.

I remember being incredibly uneasy a few years ago at a birthday party for someone's grampa when the old guy came into the room, realized his family had organized a party for him and burst into tears. I attributed this unmanly display of emotion to the fact that his own mortality had just been uncovered and he was worried about that nurse he met while stationed in France. But that wasn't it. It wasn't the fear of being chastised by God first hand within the next year or two, it was something which some men seem to have no control over at all. The barriers that hold back the emotional load accumulated over the years just aren't built high enough or strong enough for some of us. I had hopes for myself, as I come from a long line of barrier builders, the ones that never cracked or even showed a hairline fracture all their days on earth. Now I stop and have to suppress a tear when that mom and dad send their kid off to college and give her a cell phone to stay in touch.

Robert Bly once coined a phrase which I have remembered for years. He was talking about those men who have let down their guard and become friends with women. Those guys who actually see the feminine point of view and who feel empathy and work to understand what it's like to be a woman. They walk away from a man's God given right to be emotionally void of anything resembling compassion. He called them 'soft boys'. I have held that phrase high as a warning for years.

Maybe I'm over reacting. Maybe I just have the flu and, like my weakened immune system, I just need a few days to recover. Then I can get back to my crusty old self. I'm never going to reach my goal of being just like my grandfather, the crustiest of old farts who ever lived, if I don't get a grip. I like to imagine myself sitting somewhere on a porch, hopefully abusing my kid's hospitality, complaining about the cold when it's 32 degrees out or yelling at kids who pass by just to see them jump. I will drop plates of food on the floor just because the colour yellow pisses me off and I will refuse to be nice to the grandkids, because dammit, in my day that's what grandfathers did. All I need is a few more years to work through this compassionate phase and I'll be set. Yeah, I'm gonna be the meanest old..........Oh look! Puppies!

I'm O.K., You're O.K.

1.Look good.
2.Be your own boss.
3.Don't get stuck behind a desk.
4.Only take cash.

Anyone who can tell me who advocated these conditions of success gets a sucker.

I came across an interesting story about Martin Van Buren this morning. Van Buren was president between 1836-1840 when he ran a re-election campaign that resulted in his getting turfed from the White House. As part of the usual smear campaign he was branded as aristocratic and out of touch with the people, odd as he began his ambitious career as a pot scrubber in a tavern. Some of the nick-names his opponents gave him were 'King Martin the First' and the 'Red Fox', but it was 'Old Kinderhook' which stuck, referencing the name of the town in New York where he was born. Some of his supporters in New York formed the Democratic O.K. Club to try to stem the tide but had little success and Van Buren was defeated. The expression O.K. was loose, however, and even if his supporters thought he was 'alright and correct' the rest of us soon forgot about Old Kinderhook when we began to use the initials to express our satisfaction with something. O.K.?

Look good. That makes sense to me. Be your own boss also is good sense if you want to become successful on your own terms, out from the shadows, as it were. Getting stuck behind a desk would somewhat hamper anyone who wanted to run the show and only taking cash is something I have promoted for years. Now who can tell me who cited this list. I've got your suckers ready.

Night Time is the Right Time

I've really done it now. Something subversive has attached itself to my sleeping self. I've been lying awake for nights now, unable to perceive any meaning in the pictures before me. I just have to ride it out.

An old stone wall ran straight, no longer tall, but unwavering across the forest floor. It intrigued me to find a dividing line, separating nothing. The sense of a time lost under the new growth heightened the feeling of history. Once something stood here that needed to be kept apart from something else, although the reason for it was gone. It was only two feet high and the loose stone was crumbled below that in places. The two truths, held apart from one another, lives as a warning to me, even now.

In psychic terms, a river is often used to represent the dividing line between levels of perception. The Celts believed that crossing a river represented crossing into an otherworld, separate from day to day reality. Here, the rules that govern the world are suspended and truth is outed in symbolic form. In Japanese myth, Botan ferries souls across Sanzu no Kawa to the Halls of Judgement. In modern psychology crossing the river means entering the world of subconscious thought and is used as a gateway to a hypnotic trance.

The baptism myth, with it's connotations of being drowned in one's own subconscious mind and then being brought back to life, the beginning of the process of individuation, illustrates the need for a person to free themselves from the influence of another and to hear the Voice of the self and to commit to one's destiny.

The division, the separation, the representation of crossing over and the emergence from the water, whole and unified in purpose.

No wonder I can't sleep. Maybe some warm milk will help.