Thanks to E.P. Evans

As I entered the apartment it became clear that Evy the Cat had been up to no good. I had failed, it seemed, in providing him with a good role model and I could have blamed myself for his bad behavior but, "No.", I thought, "It's time for him to accept the responsibility for his actions." I wondered what the legal precedents were and upon examination I discovered that there is a long history of animal prosecution in western society.

Fragments from Athenian law books indicate that there was a court set up in the common hearth area of the town to investigate and try inanimate objects and animals if it could be proved that they had, by their behavior, caused the death of a human being. Thus a stone or a log could be convicted and powdered or chipped out of existence if found guilty. Animals were treated with the same regard when it came to their crimes. Their cases were arbitrated, with a representative for both parties and, if found guilty, the animals could receive punishment.

This form of representational law was used, not infrequently, throughout medieval Europe and there are cases recorded wherein a pig, who had caused the death of an infant was executed. From time to time, any number of animals, pests and vermin have been tried and found guilty of malicious acts against people. Bees, horses and snakes have all been indicted for murder, mice for fraud, fox for thievery and in all but the most severe, the punishment was usually excommunication. The most dangerous offenders were publicly hanged, drawn and quartered, sometimes after having been dressed in clothes and forced to wear shoes.

Apparently, if you look hard enough, you can find a precedent for prosecuting just about anything. Can't find the remote? Sue it and if it can't pay, take out its batteries. Did that pebble cause you to roll over on your ankle? Call the police and cite your precedent and then sit back and watch them try to put on the handcuffs.

Hey, don't laugh too hard. This isn't about how stupid medieval peoples were. In 1906 a dog was tried in Delemont, Switzerland and in Canada turtle doves have been indicted. Neither is too far away nor too long ago that charges are out of the question. Just because you can't read, speak, walk on two legs or draw blueprints doesn't mean you aren't guilty. Take the case of the burrowing ants in Brazil. When the Franciscan monks took the case to court and the defense council was unable to persuade the judge, they were told to move to the next field or face excommunication. Unfortunately the records don't show whether the ants capitulated or if they applied for an appeal. We may never know.

Sadly, my case against Evy the Cat was tossed out when the judge discovered he'd been living here rent free for more than eight months. He has squatters rights that supersede my complaint and I'm not allowed to kick him out. When we got home we had a long talk and have patched things up, for now. I did take away his 'mouse on a string' toy for a day, though. I think he's learned his lesson.

Generations

He looked like a stuffed animal or a really old hound dog. Two hairy spiders danced on his forehead and a distracting waddle of skin wagged back and forth under his chin when he talked. His name was Bert and he explained that his name was a shortened version of Albert, which made them all look at each other in confusion. Their names were Braenna and Sierra, Haidyn, Rhiby and Skyanna, and they sat in a semi-circle at Bert's feet while he rambled on and on about being named after some prince, somewhere in England. They took turns doing impersonations of him on the bus ride home and Mrs. Heatherington sighed, knowing that the field trip to the old age home had failed, in some ways, to impress her students. 'Living history', were the words she had used to describe her reasons for wanting to take a classroom full of ten-year-olds to visit their forgotten predecessors. She'd nearly called it a day after Kyler Winde had been found pushing a forlorn and confused woman down the hall in a wheelchair and she shuddered when she considered how he had convinced her to get in the damn thing.

Lisa Heatherington had applied and been accepted to teacher's college after a talk with a friend, who had convinced her that there was no higher calling than the one that infused children with the right ideas and the mettle that would influence future generations. What could be more virtuous than educating our young, more satisfying than watching as they grew into the next generation that could mold and shape the world using the inspiration and determination she could give them. Lisa knew she should have gone to Thailand when she had the chance.

Bert paused, in mid speech, and looked at the children, sitting on the floor around him, and wondered why he had let his grand-daughter talk him into this. These little pukes didn't give a shit what he was talking about. He didn't even give a shit what he was talking about. He was half-way through a story about his tour of duty, a story that had dragged him around the planet twice, and deposited him in France before he caught the fragment of a bullet in his thigh, a bullet he believed had come from an American rifle, although he could never prove it. He looked at these kids and realized they didn't know where France was or cared that he had been decorated twice for valor, or that on every remembrance Day he was asked to join the parade that celebrated the commitment to the cause, the country and her King. "It was there that I caught the crabs from a lovely prostitute named Lilla. Damn near ruined my military career, that woman."

She couldn't decide who was worse. There was no escaping the coming controversy, once the kids got home and told their parents about the trip, no escaping the sanctions, if not outright dismissal, and no way to escape the laughter as the kids re-counted every word of Bert's story all the way back to the school. Bert had leaned back in his chair and waited as his words sank into the pre-occupied minds of the chattering children in front of him and when it did the howling laughter had started and she witnessed an incredible coming together of generations as the kids finally looked at, and saw, the old man with his withered hands in his lap, grinning from ear to ear at her while the room exploded around them.

Reward

Managing stress is like trying not eat the bag of cookies some careless jack-ass has left on the table in front of you, with the admonition, "There'd better be some cookies left when I get back." The first question that pops into your head would be, "How many is some?"

I suppose we all handle the pressures that can mount in a day a little differently. I like to yell at cars. I don't call it road rage, I call it 'bleeding the valve' It's not even the drivers I'm yelling at. I'm sure they're people just like me, trying to get to work or do the groceries, multitasking as they wait for the light to change. I know a girl who bursts into tears whether she's feeling stressed or deliriously happy. Another friend of mine routinely blames 'stupid people' for causing so much havoc in his life. No names, no faces, just that unrecognizable idiot who mangles every situation and does the wrong thing at the wrong time.

In a long and drunken conversation the other night, the topic of human evolution came up and I wondered out loud which Darwinian mutation might appear on the horizon and then dismissed the two heads theory that popped into my single one. Upon further reflection (Yeah, I'm a nerd, so what?) I have decided to put my money on what I like to call the 'bliss node'.

Imagine it. You're stuck in traffic, your wife has just left you and taken the dog (the only one you really cared about, anyway), some dick backed into the you in the parking lot and the cheque you deposited yesterday, from work, bounced because the company has gone into receivership and you'll miss the mortgage payment. Can you see it? You're in the fast lane, at a standstill, and the car in front of you erupts with a loud burst of hissing steam and the driver pops the hood. The cars are lined up end to end and no one will let you back up to swing into the next lane. You've had two too many coffees and are about to soil the cloth seats of the car and the woman in the mini-van behind you starts to lay on the horn to serenade you with her automotive rendition of Queens 'We will Rock You'.

Suddenly, you feel the cooling caress of dopamine sliding down your spinal column and the sweet feeling of blissful relaxation picks up your sorry ass and you are transported to a grassy field that lies somewhere outside of time and space. You shift in your seat and realize that its a hammock strung between two trees swaying gently in the breeze coming in off the lake. You hear a sound and its the door to a palatial mansion sending out a quietly sedate squeak as a beautiful woman comes out struggling under the weight of the biggest, frostiest mug of beer you have ever seen. As you tentatively sip at the foam another noise makes you turn and you see Jimmy Page, circa '72, tuning a double-necked Gibson guitar just as John Paul Jones leans over the keyboard and starts to play. Someone taps you on the shoulder and says into your ear, "Just sit back and relax, at least until the hot tub's ready."

I'm sure that out there, right now, these mutants are already among us. They handle every stressful situation with aplomb and navigate the treacherous landscape like a Sherpa with a two week supply of food and water. They smile as the bottom drops out on them and if you put your ear up to theirs you will probably be able to make out the strains of 'What Is and What Should Never Be' drifting along the surf of ocean waves. Don't hate them. They represent the future and if they live long enough to procreate they might just evolve into something more than screaming maniacs, a little too close to pulling the trigger or driving up the back end of the Neon stalled in front of them. Doesn't help me, though. A cold beer might. Maybe.

The Flower of Youth

Petunia asked me once if I thought her name was stupid. I answered, honestly, that it was the most fitting name she could have been given. She laughed and said, "I ain't no flower, though." We all bring light into this world, Petunia, I told her. We sat on the curb, watching people walk by and I wondered if she ever got the urge to get up and walk away from here. "No, I guess I'll die here." It wasn't that she had given up or even resigned herself to the misery she lived in, but that she'd been brought up to believe a clear division existed that separated her from the rest of us. "Your different than me, you were made for brighter corners than this one." I told her that I thought that was bullshit and she laughed at me like I was a child asking about Santa Claus or if the moon really was made of cheese. "You're a nice boy, but you don't know shit about the world." "I wasn't born yesterday, Petunia.", I said. I gave her a hug and slipped twenty dollars into her pocket for her to find later and told her I'd see her again, soon. "I'll keep your seat for you.", and I left her there with that heavy overcoat wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders, despite the heat, and her feet splayed out into the road. I walked home and after dinner I pulled down the family photo album and flipped through it until I found the one that showed her, with her arms wrapped around my mother's shoulders and her head back, erupting in a laugh the size of happiness and I wondered when she had discovered that she was sitting on the wrong corner and got up to find her own.

Camping Out

Dear Zemira,

I don't know what I did to deserve this but paddling the lake with Job as my partner is one of the most taxing things I've ever had to do. Just being around that guy is taking your life in your hands. Not only is he shitty paddler but this thing he's got going with God is enough to make me worry about my own safety.

Yesterday, after we set up camp, he lit himself on fire while he was making dinner. I pushed him into the lake and he was o.k., for the most part, but all he talked about for the rest of the night was how his faith was still intact and that he believed God was doing good by him.
"I could have died, but He saved me by providing you with divine inspiration."
"I pushed you into the lake, Job. It wasn't divine, it was necessary. Can we just get some sleep, please."

It wouldn't be so bad if he would just lose his cool now and again. The other guys are starting to mess with him on purpose but he claims they are just acting as the agents of Satan. Of all things. Where does he come up with this stuff?

I sat him down this morning and explained to him that he was just enabling these guys by not trying to get even with them. I even told him that it was me who short-sheeted Abner, but he keeps insisting that the idea came to me from God and that he's happy that he's partnered with me and not Barnabas. You just can't talk to him anymore.

When we finally made it to Mizpeh, after hiking across the hills all afternoon, Job admitted to me that he didn't have any money. Claims he lost it all when Satan tricked him into buying cloth that turned to dust the minute his back was turned, but I suspect that he was dicing with Abishag and that he was too embarrassed to admit it. I had to buy him lunch and he's promised to put in a good word with the Lord on my behalf but I suspect I'll never see that money again.

That's about it for now. So far this weekend has been a bust and if anyone suggests that we invite Job along on the trip to Geshur I'm going to bring my own tent.


Love,
Joshua

On the Trail of Innocence

Reed: A few years ago you got into a bit of trouble because of an article you wrote for a certain prominent paper, that heavily influenced public opinion and some believe resulted in the death of James Warner. Are you still feeling the repercussions of what has been called 'some of the most disreputable reporting, verging on complicity', according to Justice Cooper?

Salzman: First of all, all I did was to interview Warner, which I did under supervision, while he was incarcerated and awaiting trial. What he said during that interview was recorded and is a matter of public record. In reviewing those tapes after Warner was murdered, Justice Cooper cleared me of any involvement and I was never charged with a crime.

Reed: You were the subject of a months long investigation. The article was the primary piece of evidence introduced against you in that inquiry and you were fired from your position a week after that investigation began. How can you maintain that this article, one of the most biased and blatantly suggestive pieces I have ever read, had no impact on the opinion of the general public and, in particular, on Sonny Coubrie, who after reading it, shot Mr. Warner as he was entering the courthouse in police custody?

Salzman: It was an interview with a man who was a suspect in the murder of an eleven year old girl. All I did was to record what Warner said and publish his account of the events that lead to his arrest. I don't know how you can consider that 'suggestive'.

Reed: Mr. Salzman, you asked him if he felt he should be executed and then intimated that justice might be better served if someone put a bullet in him to save the general public a few dollars. You don't think that that's suggestive?

Salzman: Do you even know anything about James Warner? James Warner was a cold blooded murderer. I simply asked if he felt any remorse and asked him what he felt he deserved. What Mr. Coubrie did, he did under his own volition, and I can't be held responsible for the actions of and obviously unstable and violent man.

Reed: Were the meetings you had with Sonny Coubrie connected to his decision to shoot Warner? Did you, as was suggested by investigators, supply the obviously distraught Sonny Coubrie, the uncle of the girl, any information about the time and location of the transfer?

Salzman: That is simply untrue. My meeting with Sonny Coubrie was nothing more than an attempt, on my part, to represent the other side of this tragedy. I interviewed him on one occasion, one occasion only, and asked him to verify some of the details that Warner had given about the night that girl went missing.

Reed: Details that, until that point were disputed and would have been vigorously defended by Mr. Warner's council, had he survived to be tried.

Salzman: This is all a matter of public record. I was cleared of any wrongdoing.

Reed: As was Warner, when after his death he was exonerated by evidence that made it clear he was no where near the girl on the night in question.

Salzman: That hadn't been established at the time of Warner's death. Look, there is no doubt that James Warner was a very bad man. What happened to him could have just as easily been an accounting for the life he had lead up until that point.

Reed: Are you suggesting that he should have been executed anyway? That, despite being innocent of the charges, he still deserved to be shot on his way to trial?

Salzman: I did not say that.

Reed: Recently, the Supreme Court commented on the lack of impartiality in the press, while commenting on the decision that sent Mr. Coubrie to prison for the rest of his life. It would seem, despite Justice Cooper's decision in your case, that you are being held accountable, in part, for what transpired that day. How do you feel about that? Do you think the press has forfeited its credibility by pandering to public opinion? Is it true that you recently signed a book deal and will make millions detailing the ruin of three innocent lives?

Salzman: No comment. I want to ask you a question. Who's going to read this? Who is pandering to the public now? And who's innocent anymore, anyway?

Miles High

I sat there, at the picnic table, a cob of corn halfway to my mouth, and it occurred to me that I didn't know what day it was. Wednesday? Tuesday? Did it matter? I looked at her, across form me and decided that, no, it didn't matter.

Still, the question asked itself, as I was walking along that rocky beach in my bare feet, trying to avoid the half buried knots of driftwood, and I turned to look up at the cliffs and noticed a house perched on the edge. I could see right into the living room and could make out a figure sitting, facing the ocean, looking back at me. I waved but she chose not to wave back. Tuesday?

She got up and came into the kitchen where I was mixing myself a drink. I could smell the salt water on her skin as she passed me, and when she closed the door behind her I shook my head and laughed. Sometimes I worry myself to distraction and this time it was for nothing. I took my drink and sat down in the nest of pillows she had made for herself and I looked at the horizon. The clouds looked miles high and in them, I could see the first flashes of lightning. As the sky darkened and the flashes grew stronger I caught a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision and turned to see what it was.

It was Wednesday because I had the distinct feeling that the week was half over. She was asleep in the passenger seat with her feet out the window. It occurred to me then that we hadn't spoken a word to each other in months. She's either distracted or asleep and I looked at her and tried to decide if I should wake her up. It's not important, though. Not important enough to interrupt the dreams, or to break into her reveries. When she wants to say something, she'll say it. Until then I'll just keep driving, each day turning into a night and each night fading into another day. It doesn't matter what day it is and honestly, I don't need to know.

But its Friday, isn't it.

Between The Pillars

Gone are the days when Evy was content to sit and watch the universe unfold before his awestruck and innocent eyes. Now he just wants out. I can't say I blame him. I get a little stir crazy myself after a few too many hours at the keyboard and just need to go out and stir up some shit.

When your body tells you sleep is out of the question the best idea is to get up and hit the streets. The tortured faces of the night people serve to remind me why most of us like to be at home nestled safely in our beds while the city crawls around on all fours trying to find its dignity. Like a cheap whore, the city recoils from too much inspection and when the light seeps into the sky from the east it sends, scurrying, the vampiric denizens, dragging their supper behind, but it was long before dawn and they sought me out.

My father once told me not to be afraid of the things in the dark, that they only appear to be something else. He couldn't have been more wrong, not about the fear but about the shape fear takes when the sun goes down. I don't worry about my car or the balance in my bank account in the darkest hours before dawn, I worry about the state of my soul and the balance between the good I've done and the evil I've committed between the pillars of daylight, in the wide swath of night. I don't believe God can see in the dark any better than I can and that gives me some comfort.

When I got in, Evy was quietly sleeping on the couch. I let him lie, hoping to preserve that sliver of innocence he still has at the root of his soul. I do believe its worth preserving.

Tuesday's Child

Tuesday morning was a bright spot in Carlos Normandy's week. He got up at seven and put the kettle on and then ate a bowl of cereal beneath the picture of Helen Mercer that hung above the table in the kitchen. It was an odd place to hang a picture but he liked to be close to her and the living room was too crowded.
He put his bowl in the sink when he had finished and, at the door, he blew Helen a kiss and left. The morning sun was getting stronger but the wind that so often came down out of the mountains at this time of year was cold and he wished he had put on his parka.
He walked the two miles into town. He could have driven but he was sure the gas would run out sooner or later and he was in no hurry anyway.
The fields were quiet and there were no birds or groundhogs, no crickets or frogs to disturb the idyllic setting. His eyes followed the stone wall that separated Haley's fields from Sonny Wistrom's straight back from the road to the massive oak tree that was reputed to have touched off the three day war they had in 1976. Carlos doubted that the tree was at the root of the argument and thought it more likely that it was Sonny's drinking and shooting up the hay wagon that had pissed off Haley so much.
The tree looked bleak now; it would be another month before the warmer weather would bring the leaves. It didn't snow much as it used to anymore and people had wondered what that meant, for a time, but Carlos was happy to do without it.

As he walked along he thought about the Tuesday morning, two years ago, he had driven into town and found the place deserted. It had been a very strange morning. Helen's cafe, where he usually had his once a week treat of her blueberry pancakes with two cups of coffee, was empty. There were signs that someone had been there, a coffee cup filled to the brim, bacon burning to ash on the grill and an overturned plate of scrambled eggs beside the counter, but no signs that anyone was there anymore. He went to Mac's, after that, to pick up a paper but he couldn't find anyone to give the quarter to, so he set it on the counter and sat outside while he read it, cover to cover. Nothing moved anywhere and for another two hours he looked into the bakery, the hardware store and finally worked up the courage to push open the front door of his friend Mark's house. It was empty too.
He worked his way up and down the aisles of the supermarket, the real reason for his Tuesday morning trips and left the money on the conveyor belt, hoping someone would find it, but packed them into bags by himself and loaded them into the truck.
When he got home he sat down to call his daughter who lived in Topeka and then tried his son in California and after that he tried random numbers but found that no one, in the whole wide world, was at home. The television still worked but when the programming ended the stations went blank, one by one, and never did resume their regularly scheduled broadcasts. Everyone, it seemed, was gone.

Carlos had wondered about what might have happened to all those people for a long time but with nothing to account for the mass disappearance he eventually just went back to doing what needed doing. He planted his crops that spring but when it came time to harvest them, later on in the year, he realized that there was no one to sell it to because there was no one to eat it. After that he just grew what he could eat, himself. The supermarket had plenty of canned and dried goods to last him, for now, but the fresh foods had long since rotted to pulp.

It was then that he had begun to collect the pictures of his friends and relatives and to hang them in the house until there wasn't room for one more. He talked to them occasionally but mostly he just looked at them, trying to remember the sound of their voices.

Tuesday was still his day to go into town. It wasn't the fun it used to be but other than the quiet in the world, things were as normal as could be expected, given the circumstances.

Spring Has Sprung, Already

I dug out that damned fold up chair, dusted it off and then missed the show. I must be getting old or something because I looked out the window and thought, "Well, the weathers not great and I'm kind of tired and there's a new Law and Order on and..."

Henceforth, I promise not to miss a festival for the rest of the summer. Don't bother calling me about the next big one at the Palladium/Corel/Scotia/IBM/Yahoo Centre. I gave up shelling out hundreds of dollars to see overblown and arthritis ridden artists years ago. Cheap seats in the lower part of the atmosphere, $11 beer and traffic jams that take longer to clear than the concerts last have robbed me of any desire to see them. If I can sit on the grass with two hundred friends and walk home, I'll be there. Except for this past weekend. I apologize for that. Law and Order was good, though.

I made a terrible mistake a couple of summers ago when I accepted some Gold Circle passes from a friend. I sat in the V.I.P. section, ten feet from our own personal porta-potty drinking beer out of a glass and mooned over the fence at everyone in the field having so much more fun than I was having. I had to wear a dumb looking card around my neck and show it to everybody anytime I got up to get a re-fill. Never again. Sure I could actually see the band but what was missing was the spontaneity and, truthfully, the disorder. I looked at my cage-mates and, not surprisingly, they were sitting, behaving themselves and paying attention to the show. They had tarps to protect them from the sun and real chairs to sit in but they may as well have been sitting in the basement at home watching the whole thing on t.v. Phhht!.

This summer's festival season has begun. My chair, a little ratty from use, is beside the door. The season finales are wrapping up and I'm ready to go. I just hope it doesn't rain too much. The dampness makes my joints ache. I can't believe I just said that.

How long would it take to drive to Montana?

The desk I work at sits in the middle of an open concept office. The chattering I once found so distracting is now mostly ignored. The clock sometimes moves but mostly it sits defying me, indicating that I haven't done enough for my daily bread. My morning wish is that I'm distracted enough by the job at hand to be surprised when my co-workers get up for lunch.

I've taken to coming home for lunch but that just means that I leave for work twice in one day.

9:00. "G'morning." "Goomorning." "Norming." "Nogorming."

11:15. "Did you watch the game?" Yes, I watched the game, which means that I saw every play you've just described to me. Yeah, they lost. Yeah, I still believe they'll take the cup. Really? You don't say.

2:30. That one's father is making a stink about having to go outside to smoke at the old age home. That one's kid is sick, again. She has sympathetic hypochondria. "If she uses that tone of voice with me once more..." Apparently there has been wanton paper shredding and the boss is going to find out who.

3:15. I purposely make the coffee really strong. My own little social experiment. I spend the next hour saying only, "Wowee." and "Aw, nuts."

4:30. Everyone runs out of supplies around this time. "Just going to the stockroom." "Has anyone seen my stapler?" They don't fool me.

4:45. I go to the bathroom. The one beside the back door.

Numb Guy

I was twenty two when I decided to become a super hero. The hard part was trying to decide whether or not to wear a costume. I decided to go without simply because if you want to slink around in the dark in this city its probably better to do it without the tights. It also got rid of the necessity for a schtick and I really couldn't think of one anyway. The only other major problem was that I didn't have any powers. At first I wasn't too concerned but after awhile there wasn't a night that went by that I didn't wish I had super strength or a super brain or something. I've never been in great shape and I'm kind of dumb so I had to get by on my uncanny ability to improvise.

As I combed the city streets looking for good deeds to do I often came across a lost soul who needed help. If a guy was getting tossed by a couple of muggers I'd walk up and ask them what time it was and if they shouldn't be at home with their mammas. That would divert their attention long enough for their victim to get away but usually resulted in me getting dragged behind a car for awhile. Once I prevented an attack on a poor young girl walking home from somewhere. A car had stopped for directions and the perp had nearly succeeded in convincing the naive thing to get in and take him home. I stepped in front of the car and did the only thing I could at the time. I peed my pants, standing right there in the headlights and sure enough it scared the would be attacker into leaving. Luckily I'd been drinking all night long and I had no trouble with the stage fright, if you know what I mean.

Being a super hero isn't easy these days. I just celebrated my thirty-sixth birthday and I'm not as spry as I used to be. Two nights ago I had a bit of a seizure while I was trying to prevent a break-in over on Currie St. I spotted this guy drive up to a really nice house on the corner and knew right away that things didn't look right. I didn't have time to come up with a plan or anything so I just rushed him. This guy had nerve, though, and he barricaded himself in the house he was trying to rob. After hurting my shoulder trying to break down the door I went around to the back to jimmy a window but I got stuck on the fence and then began to feel a little funny. Oddly this worked out in my favour because my yelling woke the owners of the house and they called the cops. As they were helping me down off the fence and trying to find my pants, which must have fallen off in the heat of the moment, I noticed the perp standing in the crowd that had gathered to watch. I tried to alert the police but by then the pain in my head was too intense to talk. I couldn't believe how smooth that guy was. Just standing right there in plain sight. I'm needed more than ever.

My little episode turned out to be nothing. In fact its not the first time its happened. I pretty much have a standing reservation here, at the hospital. I know all the nurses by their names and look out for them while I can. They appreciate the effort. They tell me I might be around for a little longer this time because they can't figure out why my left arm is numb.
I was thinking I might have finally found my schtick. How many super heroes have that kind of secret weapon? I got Donald to punch me in the arm for an hour solid and I never felt a thing. Think about it. A super hero that can't be hurt. I'm even thinking about trying to find a cool costume.

Commute

"The world will become the places we've all been." The light was red when I pulled up and I was thinking about that line, wondering how something so simple could feel so profound. I watched as the cars trying to turn nestled into their spots, murmuring in idle and waiting patiently for their chance. The sun was shining its promise but the morning air was cool. I put the window down just as the song ended and a girl caught my eye as she passed in front of the car. There was no doubt that she was beautiful. I looked over at the guy in the truck but his attention was focused on her. The woman across the street, waiting to cross, weighted down with a brief case and a coffee, was fixated.
The girl walked slowly; the sway of her hips, the only movement. The bike courier put a hand to her hair, suddenly conscious of what the wind was doing to it. The guy in the truck smiled in a serene but wistful way. The noise of the city was muted here on this corner, cocooned in the moment, but only for a moment.
And then she was gone, down the street, and the light turned green, the next song started and someone honked their horn to break the impasse. The morning turned normal and we all crept into the intersection fresh from a dream, and a little groggy at the beginning of the day.

I Grotto Go

I don't know how Hugh Hefner does it. I wore my silk pajamas to bed last night and dreamt of the days when my grotto used to filled with nubile young girls. I also slid out of bed twice and slept the rest of the night with the cat dragging me around the apartment. Forgive my appearance, this morning.

Of course, wearing silk these days, is tantamount to clubbing seals after animal rights activists stepped up their campaign to save the mulberry silkworm. The process of dipping the cocoons into boiling water before the little bastards can chew their way out and ruin the continuous thread is what has them up in arms. A recent raid on a Japanese silkworm farm resulted in the deaths of seventeen workers but 1500 silkworm pupae were saved and set free.
Everyday I live with the knowledge that my jammies brought about the deaths of thousands of miniscule worms. I can't even look at my seal head slippers anymore.

Fashion can be fickle, however. When the Japanese cut off our silk supply by bombing Pearl Harbour we were forced to come up with our own substitutes and polyester was born. For a while it was considered a reasonable exchange by freedom lovers everywhere, as evidenced by the wash and wear leisure suit, but the government was appalled at how they looked on t.v. and a plan was hatched to re-take the silk factories. We were back in the silk and none too soon.

Since then the debate has raged unabated. I refused to be drawn into the fray until one morning about ten years ago when I stepped outside to pick up the paper and was doused in paint by a rough looking crowd that was chanting, "Pupae Killer." I retreated to the safety of the grotto to consider the alternatives but just couldn't stomach the idea of Rayon jammies. That was when I formed The Coalition Against The Coalition For The Freedom Of Little Worms Everywhere. I want to make something clear, however. The T.C.A.T.C.F.T.F.O.L.W.E. has nothing against the gelatinous pupae of the mulberry silkworm. We just hate those smarmy little bastards who run around splashing paint on peoples pajamas.

I'm afraid, though, that considering my nocturnal meanderings and the drained and unused grotto, along with the advancing age of the nubile young girls, I just don't have any use for silk jammies anymore and I'm tendering my resignation to the T.C.A.T.C.F.T.F.O.L.W.E. this morning. An era has ended and a new one must begin. Its cotton p.j.s for me now. Until the Coalition For The Advancement Of Cotton Consciousness finds me, that is.

On the Reef

The sky was one of those unreal shades of blue. It looked like a water colour, blurry and highlighted and the wisps of cloud tricked my eye into reversing its perspective and I imagined I was looking at a beach with waves endlessly seething over the tops of the trees. This was the park I'd been warned away from. "Too many bums.", said the man behind the counter at the train station. I had four hours to kill before the passenger train left for Ottawa and I didn't want to stray too far away. I put my bag into one the lockers that ran the length of the terminal and walked across High Street despite the ticket seller's warning. I guess he didn't consider me a bum and maybe I wasn't, in the truest sense of the word. I worked where I could and saved what I could, knowing that one day it would run out and I'd have to go home.
The town, at the time, was a curious mix of old and new. Parts of it were as dilapidated as a building can get before they'll condemn it but parts of it were under construction. There was work here but I was tired and the summer was coming to an end. I'd had a good run but the last two weeks had chewed through more money than I could justify.
"Some people will hide on the other side of the tracks and pick it up as it leaves town. Some go as far as Montreal." The man at the ticket counter had told me this while I made a show of my desperate finances.
"Oh yeah?", but I found the money and with apologies to Kerouac and whoever else might care I just couldn't see myself humping along side a freight train trying to throw a fifty pound pack onto a car and pulling myself up after it. The thought of getting caught somewhere along the line and getting turfed off didn't thrill me, either. This country is huge and I had no intention of walking the length of it. I could find work in Ottawa and the money would come with it.
This is where I have to tell you about a personal little philosophy of mine. It might help you understand why I never got on that train and why I haven't been home since.
I uses to think that the world was full of two types of people. That the future roared towards us all threatening either extinction or survival, depending on who you are. Some of us are built to ride the waves, surfing over the expanses that envelope people, commodities, technologies, civilizations, government and war, while others like to swim through the tide and feel the pull of all those things as they kick their legs, fighting for their lives, thrilled by, and afraid of, the undertow. I was thinking about that, looking up at the sky, in the park beside the train station, when a girl asked me for a cigarette. She was masked and incomplete but I heard the sound of the ocean in her voice and I asked myself whether I wanted to swim or if I wanted to surf. She lay down beside me on the grass, that day, and I haven't moved a muscle since. Tell me, what does that sound like to you? I guess I really can't tell, anymore. I guess I just don't care.