Saturday, April 20, 2013

In The Crook of Her Arm

(or, An Exploration into the nature of eschatology)

No one saw him leave home. No one saw him on the train where he had reconsidered the wife of the bright yellow day to whom he had just said goodbye. No one saw him leave for Mexico City on the early morning plane. No one saw him land at Mexico City Airport. No one saw him getting on the bus for San Miguel de Allende. Only God saw him.

He had felt for the first time in his eye yesterday's tear, and it was still only yesteday to him as he moved ahead into time, and he wondered how this could be. He knew he was racing so far ahead of himself as to reach the point where a soul could not ever catch up with the body if the body ever stopped moving, towards that new flat land of a Dali, perhaps, a surreal field of shot horses and fallen women. But he had to move, to escape the dreams he had been having, the apartments of horror where there were staring Medusa faces. And and white hotels with burning women standing outside, though the burning women were never consumed.

No one saw him going upstairs up a curving ballustrade to rent his apartment, no one saw him in his room with the wood fireplace for heat, sitting at his typewriter, no one saw him there in San Miguel de Allende, where the grass was dream grass and his clay house an old Grandee's house of pale smoke and history.

Then he saw her, or, rather, she saw him. There, where southwest was another part of the world. There, where the girls were tall and slightly knockneed, a touch of Cherokee, perhaps, certainly Tarascan, local Indian... And like a lonesome woman she came to him, felt his loneliness and they had found each other.

Yet on the train, he had considered himself a still-married man, who had so recently said goodbye to a wife of the bright yellow day, to soon rent a monk's cell, to sigh in a kind of relief at having left it all, to immediately be plunged into a precipice of silence, for there was a vacuum here, and a vacuum is either death or great power.

And soon there was an entaglement with the Cherokee woman. There were sparks among the bougainvillea and the flowers, and fights, and love again. But very quickly, they fused together.
It was then that he decided to write his beautiful novel in two parts.

This began to do.

Then he and the Cherokee woman separated again.

And when he got home there was no one there as he walked past the dog, past the bird, past the blighted tree around which the lilacs had all died, but the phlox and the daisies were out, where his wife appeared to him, now an ochre stranger and her dark-eyed lover a worse shade.

And he knew not what to do, save go insane, and he was not ready for that and he sent for his Cherokee love out of Mexico by way of Montana and California, for that was where she had lived, and she came to him carrying to great wicker baskets and an enormous quilt.

And so they now settled in Toronto and every five days he would see his heartbreakingly beautiful children, take them to theatres and sunny hills and dells and the Cherokee woman would come with them and she would look after them, fuss after them and bring her gifts and read them stories and check out the advertisements for the best children's plays, for she appeared to love him, and so, them.

And it soon became apparent to him that he had made a dreadful mistake, that she was not the one, that he should never have gone off to Mexico to write his beautiful novel in two parts, for he had done nothing more than to fall into a strange bed, though the Cherokee womand did love him, he knew. For they had separated, he'd left her there in Mexico as he ran back home and he had felt a deep loss, there had been a fusion and both of them had felt the tear.

And yet on the road, in his car, on the way to his old teaching spot, he would be seized with longing, regret, pain for want of the wife of his youth, calling her name, going mad behind the wheel of the car he had retrieved as part bargain in the failed marriage, yet it had not been his car but hers, as it had not been his own life but hers.

And he felt, as two rook-like birds along the road seemed to pick at him, his liver, spleen, brains that he was in some Hieronymous Bosch fantasy, the birds were eating him and he was near to exploding.

"You are going crazy, said the Cherokee woman. You need an analyst."

And soon there was the analyst, who merely shook his head and recommended a stronger doctor and the stronger doctor recommened an insane asylum where the grass was again dream grass, there where the mind turned to oceans of pepper and the Cherokee woman was on another side of the world, and all the songs were about the Hotel California.

And while in the Hotel California, he felt entire pieces of himself being ripped away, entire chunks of Laura, her body, her breasts, her vagina, old sepia-toned family portraits of their trips to the Barbados, their bearded elders, their children, all ripped away by an adultery that screamed to God even though it had been all so easy, for it had no conscience, this sex thing, though this experience somehow led to the terrible triangle of God.

And here, he crossed himself.

And presently, they appeared to make a vegetable of him, "this is how we make an asshole", filling him with doubt,guilt and religion and so mutated, he was soon thrust out into the world as a good tailor or taxi driver before he had hardly learned how to cut cloth or read a map.
And all the while, the Cherokee woman had been writing and telephoning him, "Doofus, wake up," but he had already gone into the nearly fatal confusion that is madness, and it had been too late. And the Cherokee woman was forced to go to Idaho City, Idaho, there with the potatoes, his cousins now, out there where West was another side of the world.

And then, in a parallel universe of strange books like Solaris, there appeared a third woman who somehow promised to repair all, to answer his every wish, including the need to go home again.
And this third woman had something of the man in her and she seized him by the woman inside and gave him a harrowing and a shaking, though he yet came inside her mouth and so enslaved her.

And presently, he met another woman. He was impoverished now, because he had gone off the scale, one woman after another and not women to marry; he was on a rollercoaster, a series of rollercoasters on which beside him had sat differeint women, the last of which had robbed him of everything he had, all fifty thousand of it.

And this woman saw that he was poor while she took him into her mouth and tasted him and did not like it, did not like him, did not like to see his ears down there between which was death on two legs and the song in his head may well have been Queen. And she left him to marry a dealer in real estate and lived happily ever after.

While he again became a teacher.

Teacher? Adulterer. What is left after a man reaches the stench of the tomb? Down among the criminal elements, down among the losers, alcoholics, thieves. The garden of Eden is the marriage bed and the fiery angel will punish.

And he took up with a lounge dancer whose mouth had had again violated, causing her too to leave in disgust, but not before he say his own dirty pants hanging on the wall, which he soon picked up, dressing himself in the messy trousers.

And as he put on his drousers, he realized that the typewriter had been gathering dust and grime for a long time now and he realized that it was at this time that he had to complete his novel in two parts.

And barely before had completed his novel, he was again hired by the local university to teach, for he needed an income, and it was here that he met the She, even before he finished his novel in two parts.

She was as beautiful as a star, as fine as a mother's body, a star of 1930's films, the IT Girl, Clara Bow, blonde as Greta Garbo, sexy as a girl standing against a wall in the sun, her head back, inviting a lover.

She would not let him get too close. She would only respond to him part way and he had to content himsel with sleeping in the crook of her arm. He was harboring a love. In the crook of her arm.

But in the crook of her arm had been a pinprick, a deep one.

It was the cocaine she loved first, and then him.

And she tried to make him come along, and he spat it out and was soon off to another trip to Mexico.

Where he would write his beautiful novel in two parts.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

 For the first time in years, I have had no answer at all from my friend the local editor-in-chief of the local newspaper.
Maybe she thinks I have finally fallen out of my tree.
This is what I sent her: 
Hi Debora Kelly, Ma'am.
Just doodling a bit here...But it could be edited into a guest column. But watch out.  :)
, March 09, 2013

My computer is wonky. I have become schizoid...And so Am I :)

My old computer is wonky.
I am wonky.
He/she/it/ is wonky.
My semi-girlfiend wants to bandy words with me, even if she can't find the words to bandy.
Ain't been the same since that hospital addiction to Vicodin, and I'm sure she hasn't shaken it yet. Generic heroin?
"When dat horse kick, you you do the hucklebuck."
(From old Chubby Checker):
Wiggle like a stick wobble like a duck
That's what you do when you do the Hucklebuck.
Now she just wanders from room to room, looking for wine.
None of us have any money. Addictive relationship. Could have been defined as a dope ring, but lately, we're just a couple of dopes.
Joe Cocker on the FM station:
"You can leave your hat on
You can leave your hat on
You can leave you hat on."
Friend come to visit, "Ivan, you've become quite a whoremaster since I saw you last."
Little does he know that I haven't had any action since last year.
It's all pose. Miss Viv and I are well over sixty, and wonky, like our computer. He wants to leave his hat on too.
"Wiggle like a stick wobble like a duck
That's what you do when you do the Hucklebuck."
I am in front of the mirror, doing the hucklebuck (I been in hospital too...cross addicted).
Miss Viv is trying to feed her 18--year-old cat. Nothing doing. Cat can't eat without being fooled with a coating of cat treat.
We agree it's time for last rites, administered by "Elvis Priestly", who when not conducting service, will give you a pretty good Elvis imitation.
Father Priestley comes to bless the cat.
The cat seems to have recovered today,
but we are still doing the hucklebuck. Durn cross addiction.
There was a time when I was married, with young children, I would wander around the cottage dazed. This was no way to live, with responsibilities and children.
Had to take a job. Try to hide the fact that daddy is a freak, a writer.
People are saying "See that farmhouse, with the smoke rising from the brick chimney? Looks peaceful, idyllic there.
But a madman lives inside."
So I took a writing job.
Wrote about my dog, Ulysses, "When My Ulysses comes home, woof-woof, wag-wag." Gonna shoot the sonafabich.
This gives me an Ontario Weekly Newspaper Guild award and I get my fifteen minutes.
 It was fun being famous, at least in York Region, here in Central Ontario.
But fifteen minutes soon over, wife gets disgusted, "Out, damn spot. Yes, you!"
Loose dog in the boonies. More like the old movie, Fritz the Cat.
 Jesus, you meet characters who make you say, "You do weird shit, man."
You end up with Miz Viv.
Wandering from room to room, wonky, like your old computer,doing the hucklebuck.
A teacher whom I once deeme a bad teacher, told me once, "All talent and no judgment."
I can't trade on my craziness forever."
We're all getting long in the tooth, and what was once cute, has become pathetic.
Miz Viv seems to have straightened out her medication.
I gotta get myself straightened out.
After breakfast every day
She throws the want ads right my way
And never fails to say
Get a job

Sha na na na - sha na na na na
But my computer is busted. I am busted.
Good time Charlie's got the blues.
(I have been told that all my novels are on three levels. 1). A man's job dissatisfaction.
                                                                               2). His madness.
                                                                               3). A real source of evil.
,,,Could I have added the author's drinking)?

Sunday, April 14, 2013

I don't think it's alzheimers--oh say it on!--senility--but I seem to be repeating myself in these pages.
Anyway, here we go again: 
It has become almost cliché  among sentient people to agree to agree with old T.S Eliot, with the startling realization that what you have been thinking for years has already been well explored by somebody else. But better.
"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." 
Afer fifty years of writing, performing, caurousing, whoring, I am something like a mole with a very tender nose. Seems nobody ever told me to go around! But one is mole-like, and it seems that there are certainly burrowing tendencies, probably the result of the last world war, where you had to dig, dig, dig, or be exploded.
When I wrote my European wartime novel, The Black Icon, I was blissfully unaware that the writing of that book was just the first step of a journey, easily, of ten thousand miles, with no real goal in sight, save that of one book, then another, then another probably to show how good I thought I was.
But I found over the years, possibly agreeing with old Willie Maughan, that there was only one book in me, and the second, third and fourth was just burrowing around.
After fifty years, I think I have come to he end of my tunnel. Like a Kafkaesque character drawn by my once-pen pal, Willie Elder in Mad Magazine, "YOU'VE DUG YOUR LAST HOLE, MOLE!
Seems today, I am right back where I first began with writing what my creative writing prof  had said was  one brilliant flash in the pan, THE BLACK ICON.
Jesus. Hundreds of thousands of wasted words, the babysitting with your toddler son tugging  at the paper in your typewriter, the years of surely masochistic starvation where you had quit  a perfectly good paying job the humiliation over what was probably deliberate failure just to experience what that was like.
The answer surely lies in humour, where
TV ole boy Jethro says to the rich artist, "You're supposed to suffer if you're an artist.
"Well, you're sure going to suffer when you find out some drunk backhoe operator loaded a ton of sand into your kidney-shaped swiming pool."
I've had the houses and I've had the pools, but there was this almost adolescent artist thing. "Have I, have I, have I made the grade?"
Too young to know I had made it, made it very early, and now like the nervous amateur thespian who only had two lines to say, "Hark! Cannon! I have ended up,at the end of my rope, like that nervous actor,  blurting out, "What the fuck was that?"
Goldurn it.
After fifty years, I am back where I started.
And to work again at that "dead art", as Ezra Pound said?
Look out. Once again I am going to rewrite, for the tenth time, my failed second novel, THE HAT PEOPLE.



Monday, April 01, 2013

Ever vigilant Regional Chariman Bill Fisch 
was forced to call in the Navy for a minesweeper to patrol Fairy Lake for periscope wakes.
"Glasnost or no glasnost, those Russkies are up  to no good," he said through his gas mask, while scouring the millpond with his binoculars for torpedo wakes.
First to respond was Rodney M. Fairy, after whose family the lake was named. He suggested an immediate launching of a Flower Class corvette to depth charge   those submariners down there... "and their godawful fashion statements. "Outrageus bear hats with stars on them! "It's those  fur shapkas the commanders wear. How P.C.!
"And the brutality of those clumsy  podvodnaya lotka    boots."
Newmarket citizens have been issued binoculars and gas masks and remakes  of the movie,
 "The Russians Are Coming, The Russians are Coming."
"That will teach them, said Rodney. "They will be blown ashore!