Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Ever since my Fatalistic baby left me, I got nothing to snuff but my cold
Would you take a used story from this man?
I've always had trouble with balloons as symbols.
When in love, the balloon is a beautiful symbol, of the moon being a balloon, of things going swimmingly, of you being David Niven in evening wear and she in a silk taffeta gown, the two of you in a brisk foxtrot.
Kinda gay, what?
Don't worry, it gets dark.
At least darker.
My Celia seemed to descend into my life out of a dark balloon. Seemingly, out of an old Broadway poster, like Paper Moon.
Straight into my life, into dark, smoky honky-tonk.
Nashville sound, and steel guitar. Face it, there's a bit of cowboy in every man, and we all like to sort of strut our stuff. Even if we happened to be college teachers. Besides, it's the simple music arising from the very origins of emotion. Cave art, sort of. Appalachians were Neadert(h)als? Well, I certainly was in those mindless days of country music and trying to forget.
We danced into a Hank Williams night, dancing to the Waltz of the Wind. The song is haunting, surreal, and that was pretty well our relationship. Haunting and Surreal.
We would go out a lot, but for some reason, she always had to leave before the night was out.
Like a mermaid, like Cindarella, like a clone controlled by some god. Her god.
High on C&W, I would ask, "Why is your pretty ass always running away from me?
"Jumping away from you, the way you are."
And as I stand at the bat-wing doors, she seems to narow her huge round eyes, highlighted by the mascara, saying says over her shoulder now, "I know you better than you know yourself."
Control freak. Maybe somebody might be controlling her.
And was he getting a charge out of controlling me as well?
Was she just bait?
There are people, cults like that in the Greek islands. There was a brilliant novel wrutteb about such a god game, The Magus.
My Celia might as well have been Julie out of that spooky book by John Fowles, but she seemed more English, somehow more medieval. Maybe that was the attraction. The old-fashioned retro shoes. The long taffeta dress.
Ah, Fata Morgana. Morgan Le Fey. Witchie-Poo. Strange Cindarella. The IT girl, Clara Bow, photogenic as Britney, but darker. Certainly some sort of IT girl from a more recent novel. Musical chairs, musical people, jealousy, angst, fire.
I finally enticed her, or rather, led her reluctantly into my apartment.
She was not eager to go and I had to use all the ways of a cad, including expressing my terrible loneliness. This somehow always works for cads. Also bounders.
She seemed brittle, bitter. Everything about me was somehow not right, and everything I did or said was somehow not up to her standard. Plain, it suddenly dawned on me, that she had regular access to sex, while I obviously did not. She was using power. Her sword of power. There had to be somebody else. Or two or three somebody elses.
"You like my gown so much? Why don't you wear it?"
Huh? She maybe lived with a transvestite?
Ah, the Night Full of Rain Syndrome. Antique male, liberated woman. Or maybe sort of a Nancy as the gay guys used to call them. Old term, Fag Head.
But we somehow made love that night.
It was damn pleasant, sure, but througn an alcoholic haze and I barely remembered it.
The following morning, she was gone.
I groped around for her...just the empty side. She had left a drawing on the Parson's table. A big red balloon.
And me on the shoosh end, hanging on for dear life. She had a good hand.
And then, more days and weeks of chasing her, and she again running. "Not running, jumping away from you, the way you are!"
"The way I am what?"
But she'd be gone.
Balloons. Le balon rouge. Or maybe Moulin Rouge.
I went on with my life.
I met somebody else, still another empath, I think.
"She was going to kill you. But you somehow broke the spell, you little warlock ," said my latest dutchess. "And you escaped. It was your intelligence that protected you.
..."No don't.I'll lie down with you, but I won' f*ck you."
Oh god. Another clairvoyant. I seem to atttract them like flies.
But I so wanted to be in Regina.
Stuck in Ontario with a virago.
Awful luck. Maybe I should have been a priest. But lady, there is this cannon
This non-relationship isn't going to work either, i decided.
Maybe I should have stayed on track with the Celia woman. Yes. That was it. Had to find her, again, be Bulldog Drummond. Had to live through it all whereever it would lead. Even if it meant hell again. The hell I'd gone through before I even met Celia.
Had to find my Celia, my Morgan Fey.
I had began tracking her. Again like Bulldog Drummond, using my investigative reporter skills.. . Tracked her down.
Bathurst and Eglinton Avenue, Toronto. Oh-oh. Mafia Miltie country.
I saw her face inside a black BMW. There was a swarthy guy driving. Tweed jacket with leather elbow pads. Prof manque'. I found out later the professor was a Don. Living with a Don. She was pretty enough. Clara Bow look- alike. The best cars, the best women, the Italians would say about this Gambini guy. Well, name the incubus and you might have power over it, I was saying to myself. Gambini.
Beware of Italians bearing gifts!
I caught her with he don and actually took a swing at him. Strangely, Don Gambini dropped like a stone. Thought these guy were so macho.
The next night the phone call. "You'got a problem, Ivan. If you don'lt fix the problem, I will." Must have been high on something. A few minutes later, the ring of the phone. "You got a problem, Ivan. If you don't fix the problem, I will."
"I will, Ivan."
Well, don't mobsters act fast. Right away.
Seems that bikers were dispatched.
I woke up in the morning. There was smoke in the apartment, then the whoosh of propellants. There was the red balloon feeling again.
I leaped from the second-storey aparment, landing in the rosebushes down in the garden, almost like St. St. Anthony in the Dali painting. St. Anthony with the hairy legs, my hairy legs in my shorts, waving I suppoes, my cross at the naked tempation in the sky. Exceppt that I was now, some kind of Kafka figure, a moth, a hairy moth and Celia was holding the candle high. The rising balloon feeling. I seemed to be risingto follow. Now I know why moths are suicidal.
Behind me, my apartment exploded.
Almost knocked me down.
The last image I remember was of a rising balloon against a full moon face.
Like a poster for an old Broadway play. I think it was Paper Moon.