Saturday, December 20, 2014

Window to Juarez

At the age of 76, Joe Brod decided he wanted his life back. Lately he had been having dreams of the future, but it seemed to Joe, that there was no more future, perhaps only an imaginary, crabwise inching into the past. And perhaps the future was really the past. Joe Brod, wakes and prepares breakfast in his condo kitchenette in exurban Newmarket, Ontario. It's early in the morning, but Brod couldn't sleep, partly because he's obsessed with the seemingly mildly retarded beauty he had once made love to, now in hospital with advanced alzheimers. He had visited her, but all she wanted, in her seemingly demented state was fifty dollars for the bootlegger, "fer to get whiskey,"which was hardly possible, as she was in her hospital bed with a catheter and an oxygen inhaler. She was tethered. He had left depressed, feeling once again, that every woman he had tourched seemed to go to hell. Is it because I like the crazy ones? Is it because Im crazy? Hm. What does it matter? The mad seem to live forever. Like you, Joe? You are seventy-six,and after years of whoring,writing and drinking,you are still kind of a kid. That phrase out of the Twenties, "Oh you kid" That damn epoch speaks a lot of pathos, tin roof blues, and oh you kid. He knows Newmarket because Main Street is so much the boulevard of broken dreams, as in the posters,closed storefronts and suddenly burgeoning bars. A Mexican cantina is trying to bring it back to life. People doing the Hat Dance, bums pretending to be high rollers, what with the cheap tequila and inexpensive food. He remembers his Spanish from Mexico, and for a while, just for a while, he makes his crab crawl backwards into time. If he can now not return to Mexico, Mexico is coming to him in exurban Newmarket. Briefly, he has his life back, the senoritas, the American divorcees.The warmth of her. Sweet blow by the hot springs. In the moring, it is over. Back to the hospital, to visit his Kallikak girlfriend, the strange portal back to his past. But did he have to give her an evil bite? Strange chimaeric nature.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

It's the bees' knees, oldsters!

Seniors are more than welcome here at Just Brunch restaurant. Special senior days Wednesday and Thursday. Two dollars will get you a hot drink and a muffin or tart (inclusive). Depending on attendance, entertainment will be provided by Ivan (Described by Reg.Coun. John Tayor as "Mr. Arts")-- and Penelope on the piano. Owner Rory might play the spoons! :) It's the bees' knees, oldsters. Wednesdays and Thursdays. To Charleston, to Charleston! LOL

Saturday, November 01, 2014

Poring over old images of a vanished town

After poring over old pictures of my home town in the windows of some boarded-over Main Street stores, I walk -all the way along the old drag, up the hill across Davis drive, to arrive at the old cemetery there. Boot Hill appears a city all to itself, a Newmarket old (and younger with recent arrivals), but they are dead nevertheless, their gravestones and mauseleums sometimes still flashing famous name, like Banting. I get a slight shiver, thinking of old novels, old plays, like Thornton Wilders "Our Town." The moving finger that affects us all, the wise old townies, the fools and knaves, the old Irish navvies who's worked in the now vanished pencil factory and tannery, the fourth-generation of UEL Tories from America who would lookdown on them.No lunks, drunks or punks! I think of my author friend, E.A. Monroe, from Norman, Oklahoma who writes about flashbacks to a vanished childhood... Perhaps like Emily, allowed to levitate from her grave talking to mother, sister and father out of her youth, but they can hear her not. The moving finger, the Egypian tombs, pictographs. Ibises. What will we need for the afterlife? Perhaps it's the Halloween just passed, or the Mexican Day of The Dead whose parades I'd often frequented in the San Miguel sun. Enough to spook you.