A Calm Descends Over the City.

With final exams wrapping up yesterday and nearly 30,000 university students packing up to begin the mass exodus homeward for summer, a strange calm has descended upon the city this morning. Albeit a calm littered with burnt-out couches, splintered desks and sheaves of paper left in the wake of student experience. It seems so recently wide-eyed students descended upon the city in anticipation of fall classes and renewed acquaintances. Eager, with unburnished Ikea Allen keys and a freezer full of home cooking.

And now, the city gets a reprieve as it sheds its skin for a few months prior to an injection of new energy, and new life, again in September.

move out day in the student ghetto

Empty shells in the shadows,
contents outed
haunted by the whispers of shouts,
echoing still.

A year's story written in the scattered trail
of colourful packaging
(new and improved!)
leading to the horse trailer idling outside.

2007.05.01

The Bus.

While I'm often reluctant to share with others much of the creative writing that flows from my fingers on a nearly daily basis, I have on occasion previously included some here. Writing can be an intensely personal process. And its fruit even more so. Yet it is such an integral part of my life, remaining so often shackled in this little box clad in keys.

Maybe sometimes it helps to establish some distance from words you have tried to twist your mind and heart around. In transferring files from my old computer, I rediscovered this short story, penned ten years ago. A lifetime ago.

I had been riding the bus a lot, watching people and wondering what was going through their minds as we traced maps we knew by rote. The smells, sights and sounds were unique, yet always familiar. Watching a microcosm of the world, bus imagery translated itself into a metaphor for life to me -- the adventure of getting on and off this mortal coil and realizing that sometimes you don't have the exact change. But we hold on for the ride.

the bus
Sitting in the bus, my bare legs glue themselves to the blue vinyl bench seat and my feet stick equally to a concoction of bubblegum and spilt soda pop. Office supply manufacturers should market a comparable product: it looks like I am stuck here. Held in place, at least I shouldn't need a seat belt if the bus is to crash.

Outside the window is dark; all I can see are the white, dust like specks that pass by with a rhythmic and hypnotizing regularity. These panes of two-inch glass distance me from the pain of the real world. Hectic. Corrupt. False. Removed. Artificial light within the bus colours everything the hue of parchment. The air is thick. Stagnant. Humid. A man breathes heavily, sweat causing his shirt to cling to his flesh with the force of the air which grasps onto my nostrils. No matter how much I attempt to expel it, there is a never ending supply eager to replace it. His shirt is yellowed, and not just from the light. He coughs. Stale stench is replaced by fresh odours, still growing in their infancy. Maybe they are not so fresh after all. He laughs heartily at the attention suddenly paid to him, exposing two rows of jagged, incomplete, ochre coloured teeth. They match his fingernails.

This laugh has been the only human noise of the entire voyage. The mechanical workings of the bus grind heavily upon my nerves as we jerk to a stop, leaving my pen to rip the page upon which I have been writing. People's tongues lie lifeless, unable to move. They were checked at the door. Silent. Distant. Removed. Their mouths, humid coffins, housing words, unformed. Aborted thoughts. Their eyes are transfixed upon the passing lights: funerary candles whose wicks are soon to expire into wispy grey plumes, easily carried away by the wind.

A woman, dressed as though her luxury car must be in the shop for the day, sits beside the man, unnerved. Upright at the edge of her hard plastic and mass produced seat, she sits – back still arched – looks skyward and rolls her eyes as the man readjusts his dusty jeans. A fly's paradise. His second skin. She straightens her dainty white gloves – creaseless – that fit tightly over her small inelegant pterodactyl hands. Bony. A cubic zirconia-encrusted wristwatch falls from its prestigious perch over the glove. She wears a lie. She lives a lie. A light foundation covers the bruise on her left cheek where her husband beat her. And has beaten her for the better part of forty years. And she still believes she is the winner. The skins people wear.

You sit there, knees perched upon the seat in front of you, a book nestled between them. The knowledge you have between your legs. The power. A man in a dark trench coat and a large hat that allows only a strand of his scraggly, greasy black hair and his beady, opaque eyes to jut out – like headlamps of darkness that pierce the light – peers over your shoulder inconspicuously. He hopes to steal your knowledge. I jot down a warning to you. The book slams shut as you cross your legs. Disappointed, he falls back down into his seat. Crushed. He will never know how the story ends. For him, the story never began.

The persistent drone of the bus's motor is hypnotic in its effect, and lulls some to sleep – the pocket watch of time stood still. It is the urban fairytale, the counting of sheep. Sheep herded off to the slaughter. Like someone who never shuts up, I tend to tune it out after a while. A retired man, his face glazed onto the window, looks like he is at the funhouse mirrors at a circus. Twisted. Contorted. He drools from the corner of his mouth, the result of which creeps down the smooth glass like a snail. A second emission threatens to race it. It races at the pace of his mind, slowed and stale, like the heavy smoke which stands guard over him, keeping people away. His hands are gnarled and yellowed from years of cigarette burns. His breath clouds the cool glass. Clouds from his lungs which are, for once, fresh. The white specks rushing past the window pass by even more quickly for him.

Toward the front, a teenaged couple believing themselves to be in love – her head on his shoulder – is so caught up in the moment of their being together that they are oblivious to all else that takes place around them. Nothing, yet everything. Apathy. His hair is cropped close to the skull, but is covered by a tattered and dusty baseball cap, worn backward. It has been carefully and intentionally dirtied, as is the fashion. Each of his earlobes is adorned – bejewelled by silver rings. A tuft of hair – brush bristles, sparsely scattered – sprouts from his chin. It is as patchy as his complexion. Unkempt, his clothes hang loosely, drooping over the edge of the seat. She slouches as far as does he, but her hair – unwashed – hangs longer and in multiple hues. The bus still makes the colours seem to be simply various shades of yellow. Her rings have lost their way: they cling to her nose – clasping their hands together in prayer, hoping for a reprieve from a sneeze. Their eyes are glazed over from the previous night's partying. They do not need sleep; life is young and the day is there to be seized. Nothing will ever catch up to them. They are immortal. This ride will never end; there is an endless supply of transfers to be had.

Seated in the middle are working parents who sit perched, ready to leap off this shuttle which carries them from one life to another. Lives that blend together but remain separate. Long hours that melt into days in what seems to be minutes. Seconds. The experience of the moment means nothing to them; there is dinner to make, a babysitter to relieve and, if there is time, sleep to be had. There is an eternity for that. His tie – conservative – lies askew, the top button of his shirt peeled open to expose the jugular. Between two lives he leaves himself vulnerable, yet his eyes dart around as though he is able to will the bus to travel faster. A modern Moses parting the sea of traffic in which we threaten to drown. Her eyes, blackened, though lacking make-up, hang droopily like wilted flowers. The flowers of her youth. Even her perfume – lilies of the valley – has faded like years of her life. Her figure. Her passion. There is little of her essence remaining. The woman's eyes are stern and seem to threaten all of the other passengers not to pull the cord that will ring the bell of freedom and stop the bus. It would delay the time of her arrival. What will snap first, the cord or her nerves?

At the very back, an elderly couple with many rides' experience sits, peering from beneath their layers of clothes. Dated, the fraying threads need mending like his heart, which is still warm, but pumps less of life's juices through his hunched frame. Now, his mind feeds life to his core. Will. Stubbornness. Love of life. The clothes are a life's long accumulations. It is as though they want all of their possessions with them when they take their last ride. Though their senses have slowed in direct correlation with their movements – movements cursed as being painful by the working parents, and cursed as being full of pain by the elders themselves – they are still the most aware of all passengers. They take in all of the surroundings: every action, every glance – realizing that they have precious few trips left to take. He jots down his observations in a small, tattered, and yellowed book. She reads, though it appears to be the eyes of those who surround her that are the novel of choice. The pages in her lap, wrinkled like her hands, serve as a guise, hiding her true motive. A decoy. A ruse. She whispers into his ear with a loving look that is more matured and more refined than the one she gave when she whispered and giggled to him during the years that they courted: years they sat at the front of the bus. Many years – many experiences – have taken place since. The rapidity of time's passing has left them slowed, but their minds are as sharp as the burning eyes which feed them. Food for thought. They fill their time observing anonymous people – people they may never see again – but who are not really all that distant to them. Through the years, they have met many like those found here. Everybody is someone else's twin. They have been the teens; they have been the parents crying for sleep. Their stop is coming soon. They will have their time for rest.

The bus slows, but nobody gets off. Another chapter is being written. The street light shines a white beam over two children jumping innocently in the puddles by the curb, careful not to drop the shiny fragments of metal that will guide them through, and gain them admittance to, life. Wet halfway up their legs, they have not paid heed to their mothers' pleas to stay away from the miniature oceans of their imaginations. Pools of life from the fountain of youth. Smiles still grace their faces. Innocence. Careful not to drop the coins clutched in their sticky little hands, they have awaited the bus's arrival with eager anticipation and with a look of glee in their eyes. Their voyage – an adventure – has just begun. The yellow glow no longer seems withered and dated as their childish exuberance, impish grins, and shy giggles fill the stagnant air of the bus. To be able to breathe life again in these aged lungs. A ray of sunshine – a more joyful yellow – enters my heart as the deafening silence is broken by youthful vigour and vitality.

They have a long trip to take, and many more to follow. I close my notepad and you place the wrinkled page marker into your book – the last page – and, taking your hand, I guide you slowly to the door. The bell has tolled for us, and, before reaching the final step, I pause, turn, and smile. The children giggle at the weathered and unironed faces heading through the bus's gates and the parents sigh, rolling their eyes at another frozen moment in their lives. He readjusts his tie. I give one final wave to those who have shared nothing, yet who have shared so much.

Whassap?

Fine, Budweiser Frogs references are sooo, 1996. As an aside, did you know those commercials were directed by the same guy who directed the movie, Celtic Pride. Never heard of it? There you go.

But really, it's pretty cool when you find neat things that have been right under your nose all along, but which you didn't even know existed. Particularly at work. Wandering around campus looking for photo shoot locations last week, I came across the University's medical museum, a small tucked-away room filled mostly with things used to teach medical students. Body parts at random. And not in the good way. Much of it wouldn't exactly be housed in the type of museum to which I am accustomed (not being a veteran of the museum of the macabre circuit), but was interesting nonetheless. And just a titch unsettling for a stomach untrained in gross anatomy. Stress on gross.

Apart from plastic models which take the bloody mess out of dissection, there were also various pickled body parts. Real ones. Kosher dill, anyone? Most compelling was the hand -- skin peeled back to expose the intricate detail of the fine web-work of veins, musculature and tendons. I could somehow picture it reaching out from the soil, trying in vain (vein?) to clutch at my throat. Other things I saw in there, I'll spare you the details of. Suffice it to say that my colleague and I both decided we wouldn't be eating liver and onions in the foreseeable future (though -- not thinking -- I peeled back a can of smoked oysters that night and relived much of the experience anyway).

I'd give an arm and a leg to have muscles like this guy. Wait a second. But with skin still attached. Otherwise, it would be just creepy, not to mention messy. Some of this stuff in the museum seemed to be straight out of a horror movie set. But the most revealing thing of the whole experience was that I could really never be a doctor. Sigh.

on writing

My pen, like scalpel,
builds you from bones
to meat to muscle
and then trains those lean sinews
to rise and climb from the page.
Alive.
2005.02.09

Vertically-Challenged Stories.

I found this morsel of academic humour elsewhere in the blogosphere this morning and it made me chuckle, particularly considering how much brevity really can be the key to successful writing. In a twist of contradictions, while I generally consider myself to be a more than competent writer, I can also tend toward being a wordy bastard. As evidenced -- repeatedly -- throughout this blog. Sigh, windbag, crafting my own noose out of additional letters.

Of more import, however, it also reminded me of the 55 word fiction contest, produced out of California for nearly 20 years (I'm not sure if it's still running -- the web site hasn't been updated in a while). The first book they produced is one of my favourite reads of all time. Brief. Each story, 55 words or fewer, brief. Yet wildly entertaining and brimming with talent in appetizer-like proportions. The essence of a story distilled to its essential elements. Concentrated, like the writer, putting pen to paper.

The blogosphere being what it is, I see someone has picked up the torch and begun a blog to compile like minded, (really) short stories, here. The only rules: for it to be considered a story, you must have a setting, a character or characters, conflict and a resolution. Whittle your pencils because, in a breath, 55 words will have escaped into thin air.

A couple examples of mine:

to have nine lives (55 words)

"The jaguar pounced, seemingly taking feline flight as I hit the speed bump and the bottle. The engine purred its throaty growl as the fender gnashed at the tarmac. The cat spun on its haunches, its tires pawing and eyes glowering toward the supple cries emitting from what I had thought was a speed bump."
2003.08.05

an everlasting hunger (55 words)

"Maria circled her arm under his neck, running her fingers through his hair. She loved him, longed for him and awaited his tender kiss. She had never seen him this way and thought wistfully of the past and their love's growth throughout the years.

And she lowered the lid and her veil with a tear."
2002.08.25

Morbid, perhaps. But only briefly.

You Can't Break That Which Isn't Yours.

Time, like a bright bolt of lightning flashes;
violent, like volleys of thunderous crashes
flashing but once so brilliantly
and vanishing just as quickly,
leaving distant memories locked in caches.
1996.02.20

Wanna box?

Yes, it seems clichéd to say that time passes quickly, particularly as we age, but I cannot argue with its veracity. It was one year ago today that the then-picture of my life was disassembled into tiny puzzle pieces strewn about the shag carpeting. An image, incomplete. But a year later of working diligently from the corners and I, remarkably, have a clearer picture of what's ahead. And newfound strength. The winds that blow through one's life can sometimes be remarkably august.

I owe great thanks to many people for lending me their strength when I needed it. Words will never be enough, but thank you.

I realized just how oblivious I had been while re-reading the texts of my life: my writings. Written words guide me through much, are often what keep me going, and what inspire me. It doesn't always matter what kind of writing – in fact, diversity is often key – but words are one of the elixirs that soothe my soul. I can feel emotion flow through my fingertips and into the pen. Or the keys.

Which is why it was particularly difficult to read something I wrote more than a year before the end and realize just how oblivious I was.

Sheets lie uncreased
as we stand before them
in our civilian clothes,
each breath getting shallower
as the past is exhaled
through the screen.

We stand, not speaking
of the inevitable
we are too strong to
accept for future breaths,
hoping some memory of
what was
remains to
fog the glass.
2004.04.26

I am astounded that the possibility exists to have emotion seep from your fingertips and still not have it flow north to your consciousness. Left brain and right brain having their own civil war. Others: "Each time you lie to me, you glue another piece of shell to me. My smile hides teeth" (2004.04.27) and "As we look to write our denouement, I'm amazed to think that no-one will remember the brilliance of our beginning, or perhaps the pages in between – only the end...the ink runs on pages past, leaving but a blur of the last years, curiously dark..." (2005.08.29).

We change, we discover strength and we grow. Just not necessarily together. And in this case, anyway, it seems that was a good thing.

Some appropriately titled music for the occasion:

Wolf Parade, Grounds for Divorce (Apologies for the Queen Mary)
Regina Spektor, Ode to Divorce (Soviet Kitsch)
Liz Phair, Divorce Song (Girlysound Demos Version)
The Hidden Cameras, Ban Marriage (The Smell of Our Own)
Regina Spektor, Apres Moi (Begin to Hope)

And for Dom: the devouring of a male Praying Mantis. By a female Praying Mantis. Fitting.

Day One, Morning.

5:01: Start time. We're off and we're wet. 17 degrees and it turns out that the car doesn't have a multi-changer for the CDs. Gas in London is 91.9. Don't need any; haven't gone anywhere yet.
What's Playing: Bright Eyes, Digital Ash in a Digital Urn

5:16: Not messing with what I know works, make it to the highway. Go figure, there are trucks on the 401. And they're snarling at me. I'm tired and don't want to hear it. But this will seem to be a theme for the day.

Blades slice through
the rain,
water colours on the
windshield
painting smudged memory
down the road behind,
a blank
canvas ahead.

2006.08.29

6:01: 101.3 kms in the first hour. Things are humming along, albeit dark. The rain, though, mercifully subsided after the first forty minutes or so. Gee, thanks. Even the trucks have abated for a bit.

6:08: Ambassador Bridge! There goes Canada, here comes the U.S. Michigan: state number one for the day. Gee, let's guess what they odds are that a scruffian traveling solo to Alabama -- where he knows nobody -- will get stopped at the border. 5 to 1? 10 to 1? 100 to 1? Let's go with almost guaranteed. Twenty minutes later, freed from the clutches of the orange form stuck to my windshield and from the raised eyebrows emanating from several rather large, and surprisingly thick-accented U.S. Customs Agents. Just doing their jobs, I know. At least there was no snapping of latex gloves onto overly eager fingers. And now, the sigh of relief. I'm free to go do whatever it is I'm going to do in Alabama and points in between. The odds of getting searched when I return to Canada? Particularly if I have nothing to declare?

7:01: Up to 201.4 kms

7:53: Back on the highway after circling around and wandering aimlessly like a lost school child (albeit in possession of a 2,000 pound car) in Detroit. Those ramps that branch off in three directions are just dang tricky. Especially when you don't read the signs right to begin with. Figures that this is the one city on the voyage I've been to the most. And an inauspicious start. Where's that paper bag again?
What's Playing: REM, Reconstruction of the Fables

8:01: Up to 232.3 kms

8:20: Billboard advertising 'Alcatraz, the Gentlemen's Club'? This is the first of what I discover to be a trend throughout the journey: billboards for strip clubs, fireworks and God. Everywhere. And not always in that particular order.

8:23: Another beef jerky outlet, this one given the stomach-tantalizing moniker of 'Beef Jerky Unlimited'. Alas, it does not open until 9am. Sigh. But I don't want to wait. Hmm, dried pork products. Drool. Traffic ends up slowing for a bit as everyone is drawn like moths to the shiny lights. They're fire trucks, people. We all have them in our towns. A tiny Honda Civic decided to tangle with an 18-wheeler. Well, there was a tangle. The transport, however, was just sitting there, blowing on its fingernails, a ho-hum look on its face. Major plastic surgery for the Civic.

8:36: O-Bye-O! I barely knew you. The Buckeye State. Not to be confused with Hawkeye.

8:56: First voluntary stop of the day. Feeling patriotic, so the call of duty is at a Tim's in Ohio, just outside Toledo. I had forgotten about how many American establishments have midget-sized urinals. Seriously, a foot off the floor. Short or not, the pot of coffee had to go somewhere. First gas fill-up, too: $2.549/gallon for a total of $14.43. Oh yeah, it's still wet, grey and crappy too. Up to 18 degrees though. Much easier job getting back on the highway this time. Yay me.
9:01: Up to 314.7 kms
What's Playing: REM, Life's Rich Pageant

9:46: An all-you-can-eat buffet. Of Kentucky Fried Chicken. When are we going to get that kind of greasy goodness in Canada?

10:01: Up to 424.1 kms
What's Playing: Mixed live album (Cat Power, Bright Eyes, Linkin Park f/ Jay-Z)

10:43: Midget urinal breakshouldn't two. Oh wait, probably shouldn't have phrased it like that. But you know what I mean. You're smart like that. A pleasant Ohio rest stop with an hour to go to Cincinnatti.

10:51: While still cloudy, I can see the first hint of sun, albeit only a sliver. It has only taken six hours.

11:01: Up to 534.6 kms

Evidence that we are finally approaching the south. Even the water tower -- this one in Florence, Ohio -- says "Y'all".

11:09: Lovely Dayton, Ohio. A little hillier and greener than what we've been seeing, though Michigan and Ohio have bdidn'tbeen pretty blah. The weather didn't help. It just made the dirt wet. First jump in the temperature of the day, though; up to 24.
What's Playing: Liz Phair, s/t

11:31: Quite the Church. They like they're churches down here. And their enormous sculptures of people climbing out of the earth.
What's Playing: Fugees, The Score

11:51: Cincinnatti



11:58: Kentucky! Welcome to the bluegrass state. KY. No, not the jelly.

Stream of Consciousness, Two.

the full moon

Waves of cloud, rippled

like a Shar-pei, curled

like a bay around a moon, full

like a golden hole

bored into the darkness

of twilight.

For a moment,

the waves shine

in browns and whites

and light vanishes in ink,

signalling words' end

in the wisp of a sigh.

2006.08.09

Stream of Consciousness, One

pathetic fallacy

The pungent smell of rain hangs heavy
in one nostril
like loneliness, ebbing
in cautiousness;

The other senses heat breaking,
stems erect in defiance
with gloved fists, raised
to a new day dawning.

Skin, nervous in anticipation
of that climactic moment, looming
with the relief of thunder
and new beginnings;

Shoulders, unladen,
sculpt wings.

2006.06.28