Red House, Winter

The house looked like any other red brick farmhouse except for the ornamental cornice above each window. These were done in the oriental style and seemed exotic to me. It seemed out of place in this village, which was far from exotic and closer to safe, conservative and, to me, boring.
I stood on the sidewalk across the street and measured the view. It was winter, 1924, and the snow piled across the eaves, threatening to smother the oddity with the bland sameness that had so successfully routed adventure in every corner of this place.
I wont repeat the words that the others used to describe the unusual facade, simply because to do so would be to propagate a disease of the strange and spread fear of the unknown.
I marveled at the courage and the fortitude of the mind that built it, admiring the will that stretched and bent the mores of our little inbred society and championed difference and individuality.
I returned the next day with my pad and pencils and quickly sketched the house, the trees that hung over the walkway, threatening collapse because of the laden branches and I did not forget to include the rows of tenements in the back ground, the perfect antithesis to the wonder of invention.
One detail marked this portrait of rural bliss as a wonder, to me, and since that day I have seen the detail that man marks his world with. As they say, "The Devil is in the detail.", and all men are devils.

Here And There

The patterns in the ice refract the lights from the street and create a swirling cascade of colour inside the cab. Through a small hole, clearing on the glass, I can make out the sign for the Bramasole Cafe and we cross Bank street.
Before I left, someone took my hand and asked me if I was okay. I mumbled that I was, not wanting to explain the confusing streaks of sorrow that are beginning to obscure my view. There's nothing anyone can do.
In the picture, the water is the same colour as the sky, separated only by a wide swath of green trees halfway up. She is behind me, with her arms wrapped around my chest, her mouth close to my ear. If I close my eyes I can smell her hair and feel her leaning against me. And if I concentrate I can hear her laughter, abrupt and sweet.
"Here?" the cab driver says.
Here. I am here.
I am there, too. I guess I always will be.

Greatest Hits

"You are looking good, my young friend." he said.
"I'm feeling good, C.G." I answered.
The place was a mess and it was late for company, but some of my visitors don't come in through the door and I haven't figured out how to advertise my waking hours to the world that knows no time.
"What's going on? Is something wrong?" I asked him. I had just pulled myself out of bed, my throat dry and my eyes cluttered, and had stumbled across him going through my cd collection.
"What is this?" he asked me, avoiding my question.
"Uh...that is the greatest hits of Curtis Mayfield."
"The most popular of his recordings?"
"You got it. Do you want to hear something?"
"And I'd like coffee. Do you have coffee?"
"Yeah, no problem."
I put the cd in the tray and shuffled into the kitchen to make some coffee.
I heard him grunt to the opening strains of the beautifully haunting 'The Makings of you'. It's a song that I've always loved.
As Curtis' grainy falsetto filled the room I could see C.G.'s eyes widen. It had the same effect on me the first time I heard it.

"Do you have a 'greatest hits'?" he asked me. I could see his foot tapping to the infectious grooves of 'Move on up'. I smiled to myself.
"No. I don't. I'm not a recording artist."
"I don't mean musically. Literal, always so literal."
"A 'greatest hits'? I don't know. That's an odd question." I told him.
"Bah!. No such thing as an odd question. This is good." he said pointing to the mug of coffee sitting in front of him.
"You hate my coffee. What's going on, C.G.? Why are we sitting here listening to Curtis Mayfield, drinking coffee and exchanging pleasantries at three in the morning? Are you sure you're all right.?"
He said nothing for a minute and I couldn't help but be transported by Mayfield again.

I knew from a very young age that music was what I wanted from life. The expression, the rhythm, the words, the message and something inexplicable in the way it pockets a part of my imagination and removes doubt from my mind has affected me in a profound way since I was a kid. It has carried me all my life. It has been a part of my coping mechanism and helped me define myself.
"Now you know why I play bass." I said to him at the opening strains of 'Freddie's Dead'. He nodded and smiled, his head cocked, following the suggestion and answer in the flow of the bass line.
"And so? Your 'greatest hits'?" he smiled an unusually cocky smile at me.
"I don't know, C.G."
"I understand. "
"Well, I don't. What are you up to?"
"Can you play that first song again?"

"The love of all mankind should reflect some sign of these words I've tried to recite." Curtis sang. "They're close but not quite, almost impossible to do, reciting the makings of you."

"Can you do it?"
"It might be a short list."
I had almost forgotten that he was there, sitting so quietly with his coffee perched on the arm of the chair. It was nearly four o'clock and my eyes were drooping again.
"Nonetheless."
"Okay. I'll do it. Now, can I go back to bed?"
"Do you mind if I stay and listen to Mr. Mayfield?"
"You like it, eh?" I said. For some reason, that made me happy.

The Truth and The Consequences

Jeanette Walker surprised me by jumping out from behind the fence that runs along the McCoy’s yard. That’s what started it all. I let out a squeaky scream and dropped a book about airplanes that I had been carrying. Everybody heard it, so I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t been scared and almost immediately Albert Moody started making fun of me. He was a jerk but everybody thought he was cool because if you didn’t, he’d beat you up.
I honestly can’t say that I know why I did it, but I called him an asshole, and even as the words were coming out of my mouth I knew I was in trouble. Maybe it was Jeanette standing there with a smug and satisfied smile on her face, or maybe it was just that I’d had enough. Whatever the reason, it was out there and now I’d have to deal with it.
“What did you call me?” said Albert.
I sighed inwardly and then looked around to see if anybody was likely to help me out. They weren’t. My friends, loyal and true up until a minute ago, were disappearing one by one into vapour and I felt, not for the last time, the sting of loneliness in the face of adversity. There was really only one way to deal with this.
“I called you an asshole, Moody.” I said, hoping my voice didn’t break. It didn’t and I saw, for a brief second a chance for rescue from my situation because Albert seemed a little confused. I don’t think anyone had ever stood up to him before and he was taken aback. He didn’t let his confusion get the better of him, though, and he only paused for a second before he punched me in the nose.

Later, as I plodded home, my nose stuffed with tissue to stop any more blood from staining the front of my shirt, I wondered what made people like Albert Moody so mean. I assumed it was because his parents were mean to him.
The Moody house was famously off limits for anyone not associated with the family. There were two German Shepherds that reinforced that, chained to the bumper of a rusted out pick-up truck in their front yard. In those days if a dog bit you it was your fault, not the dog’s.
My friends and I would give a wide berth to the property, walking a block out of the way to get to Main Street and the arcade.
The arcade was the place to be and it was full of pinball machines not video games. I know some of you will find that hard to believe but pinball was all we had, back then. When Space Invaders was unleashed on the world I thought I’d seen just about everything. I remember walking about five miles down the railway tracks to Kanata just to play Space Invaders.
It wasn’t the pinball machines that made the arcade cool, it was just where we hung out, at least until one of the Moody’s came along. Then we’d have to leave. They were tough and mean and there was always more of them at home.
It seemed like the supply of Moody’s never ran out but I think there were five boys ranging in age, at that time, from twelve to nineteen. It was no wonder that at forty Mrs. Moody looked like she was seventy. There was no Mr. Moody. We assumed that he had been killed in a heist or something. In those days most people lived in misery rather than divorce so it was unthinkable that he'd just walked out one day.

That Albert Moody had punched me in the nose was not very news worthy. Albert Moody was always punching someone in the nose. It was that right after he punched me in the nose that something snapped in me. I don’t really remember what happened. I just know that while the pain of being punched in the nose, and it hurts believe me, was coursing through me I started swinging and caught Albert napping. He’d never had to worry about someone punching him back before and here I was coming at him flailing my arms like a wild man. He just stood there until I clipped the side of his head and he went down in a heap.
No one moved for a minute. My friends, my disappearing friends, suddenly stopped disappearing and became solid again. Jeanette Walker’s mouth was hanging open as she stared at Albert lying on the ground. The birds flying high above stalled in mid-air and twisted their heads to see what was going on and the wind stopped blowing to see what the fuss was. Time stood still and five people were trapped, unable to move, speak or even think. The impossible had happened. Someone had knocked out Albert Moody and that someone was me. The world stood still.
As nonchalantly as I could, I stooped and picked up my book. It was about airplanes, something I couldn’t get enough of at the time. I brushed it off and adjusted my jacket. Then I looked at Albert Moody, lying on the ground, trying to re-gain his senses and I said, “Yeah, You’re an asshole.” And then I walked off.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I believed that at any moment the door of my room would be kicked open and I’d be hauled out of bed by the Moody clan and strung up from the nearest tree. I really believed it. But it didn’t happen. In fact nothing happened.
The next day at school Albert Moody went about his business of harassing people just for the fun of it. If a girl didn’t cry at recess and a boy didn’t get sent to the nurse with a bloody nose then it was a bad day for Albert. He didn’t look at me or even acknowledge my existence. Nothing happened. There was no reprisal from any of the Moody’s that day or any day after that.
Now I know it was because it never happened, at least as far as Albert Moody was concerned. If you could find him today and ask him about it he’d deny that there was even a fight. He would deny ever knowing me.
The world is what we make it, after all, and Albert Moody wasn’t about to let one wild punch change anything. The truth of anything can be tested by examining the consequences. Who knows? Maybe it never really happened at all.

The Dead And The Dying

High above the world, restrained and insolent, courage lacks the force of intent, seemingly emasculated by the vacuum of space, withered by the distance that separates our souls and keeps alive the truth of our insulation. The plaintive calls that leak across the expanse of space and time in a trickling stream of desire seem weak and ineffective; too quiet for anyone to hear. And all the while, curiosity sings an endless refrain in the back of the skull, teasing a reaction from the grumbling, dissatisfied captor of our dualistic spirit. It's a no-win situation.
The radio hummed in the background but I didn't pay it any attention. The snow on the windshield made it hard to see where the road ended and the wide world began. I absently took out a cigarette but before I could light it she interrupted my thoughts to say, "Please don't smoke in here."
Okay. I didn't want one anyway. It's something I do to keep my hands moving. To keep my mind numb and my body quiet.
I stared across the empty fields and thought about the long winter ahead. I wondered about the ceaseless revolution of seasons that turns innocent thoughts into sinister intent. I read into every gust of wind an accusation and criticism. I'm afraid of those nights when the mottled sky darkens too soon and the stiff appetite of my imagination ingests the sorrow held frozen in the furrows waiting for spring.
"You're quiet, tonight." she said to me.
I understand her concern for me. I haven't made it easy for anyone. And I lie about it all the time. I can see in her face the frustration of her growing distraction. I wish I could erase it and see her fresh and full of the thoughtless happiness that was once there. But all I can do is sit here in this car, driving across these barren fields, going somewhere, I don't know where, to do something I can't put my finger on, and stare out the window instead of looking at her, the only person I really want to see.
Restrained and insolent, my dreams lack the force of intent.