Sunday, March 11, 2012
It's a San Miguel Sunday morning in central Ontario.
Smell of woodsmoke, lonely bells, and someone outside chopping at something in the yard. Chopping wood, having a spit at hands and back to working on the block. A sound of a McCulloch chain saw. And then silence.
You can smell the smoke, but it is not pungent like the brush and mesquite in Mexico.. It is hemlock and pine (Ontario cactus and Chaparral?)
But it might as well be San Miguel this smoky morning, ageless Mexican hill town, my town in Canada old too with telltale Indian trails and still-standing hemlock trading trees, where once Chippewas had come along the Holland river in canoes, some still wet, from the rapids, stripping down, slapping their breechclouts against the old maple that had served as the trading post for Indians on their way to the big mart in Toronto.
There is somehow a sense of of lost continuity. Your continuity. Divorced, and living on the edge of the Canadian shield. The soul trying to catch up with the body, Christ untouchable because He is in- between dimensions. Cagier this time, but still trans-dimensional, oxymoronic somehow, like the Devil in Dostoevsky, who was a time traveller too. And had offered his excuses. "When God struck down all the rebellious angels, I at first applauded.
"But now I'm shabby and bourgeois."
Christ never shabby or bourgeois.
Sunday morning in Ontario.
I hear bells, but no. It is a jarring sound. There is a fire drill in my apartment building. Everybody lines up.
Sleep still in their eyes.
There are no fire drills in San Miguel.
Only occasional Sunday morning gunshots.