It's nice here in the dark. Okay, it isn't completely dark. Outside, the moon, dull behind heavy clouds, casts her grey glow over the slush and snow, and inside, digital numbers glow greenly. The refrigerator hums mechanically and the furnace clicks on and off and the house settles in creaks but otherwise the world, my world, here, is still and dark.
What's that, Bear?
You're right, of course. You're always right. When the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan, I know I can always proverbially count on you.
As an aside, is "I know I can always count on you" a proverb? Doesn't there need to be a lesson in proverbs, some sort of Confucius-esque wisdom? By that definition, "when the shit hits the fan" probably also doesn't qualify. There is no wisdom in shit.
Ah, there goes the furnace.
Oh, hey, Marigold. It's late. What are you doing up? What's that? You couldn't sleep, either? What can possibly be going on in that stuffed-cotton head of yours that keeps you up at night?
Man, you said it, sister. Come here. I want to squeeze the stuffing out of you. You don't mind, do you? I promise to sew it back in later.
Thanks, I really needed that.
Sometimes I wish Humpty and Dumpty weren't just giant heads with feet. I feel like destroying something. Ripping those pathetic little arms and legs off just won't do. No wonder you and Bear always kick their asses. Who the fuck can race with legs like that? Just between you and me, Marigold, I don't know how they keep smiling. Is there some bit of eggy wisdom they possess that they just don't want to share? If you ever get one of them alone, see what you can find out, okay?
You know, it's a good thing we can communicate telepathically because I hurt my throat this afternoon. Screaming at traffic. Rage and fear and frustration erupting out of me in a black metal howl. It caught me a little off-guard, to tell you the truth. It wasn't just the traffic.
Yeah, I know, Bear. It's just hard sometimes. If my insides were stuffing, it'd be easier. We're messy, we humans. Blood and spunk and puke and tears and snot and shit, not to mention all the slippery insides you can't see. You've got it easy, trust me.
What's that, Bear?
Yeah. I will. I promise.
Okay, listen, you two, I can tell by the little hand that it's almost 3 o'clock in the morning, and I really should try to get some sleep. Come on, I'll tuck you in.
There. How's that? Snug as two bugs in a rug. If you see the Polkaroo, tell him I said hi, okay? Good night. Sleep well. We can play again tomorrow.
Nov 2, 2011
Poem
I am going to write a poem.
In this poem, I will vomit up my insides in a spew of blood and bile and froth. Metaphors will choke my throat and I will strangle on similes sour as choler, thick as phlegm.
In this poem, I will wander hallways dead as dreams and kneel and heave my yellow guts at your feet. My muscles will contract and convulse, spitting bitter truth, acrid and strange.
In this poem, I will be opened up, emptied out, left spent and aching and raw. And there will be a hollow place and relief like porcelain, firm and cold and clean.
In this poem, I will vomit up my insides in a spew of blood and bile and froth. Metaphors will choke my throat and I will strangle on similes sour as choler, thick as phlegm.
In this poem, I will wander hallways dead as dreams and kneel and heave my yellow guts at your feet. My muscles will contract and convulse, spitting bitter truth, acrid and strange.
In this poem, I will be opened up, emptied out, left spent and aching and raw. And there will be a hollow place and relief like porcelain, firm and cold and clean.
Oct 13, 2011
A Childish Acceptance of the Study of the Stars
My father would pore over his books, wrapped meticulously, protectively, obsessively, in thick plastic scotch-taped to the insides. Books on astrology, philosophy, psychology, parapsychology, buddhism, zen buddhism, spirituality, religion, astral planes, mythology, enlightenment, UFOs. He fancied himself a scholar, an eminent expert on such matters. His library was extensive; his knowledge unparalleled.
And I believed him, of course, because children believe.
This, he said, pointing to a triangular-shaped figure on one of the many pages of my professionally-read horoscope, means you are destined for great things. You will be a leader, a prophet, a woman among men. And I believed him, as daughters will.
And when the astrology fails, what then?
When I find myself contemplative and alone, furnace humming in the dark, knowing that my potential for greatness is slipping silently away into the night and that one day I will cease to know anything at all and be lost and unremembered like all those other triangular-shaped figures destined for greatness and lost in a jumble of yellowing papers at the bottom of a box, I think back to my father's books and their plastic armour and I believe.
I believe in my body, in hunger and thirst and pain and sleep and sex.
I believe in fear and desire and sorrow and frustration and compassion and achievement and love.
I believe in the ultimate unknowability of things.
And sometimes, misguidedly, I believe that I am a leader, a prophet, a woman among men.
And I believed him, of course, because children believe.
This, he said, pointing to a triangular-shaped figure on one of the many pages of my professionally-read horoscope, means you are destined for great things. You will be a leader, a prophet, a woman among men. And I believed him, as daughters will.
And when the astrology fails, what then?
When I find myself contemplative and alone, furnace humming in the dark, knowing that my potential for greatness is slipping silently away into the night and that one day I will cease to know anything at all and be lost and unremembered like all those other triangular-shaped figures destined for greatness and lost in a jumble of yellowing papers at the bottom of a box, I think back to my father's books and their plastic armour and I believe.
I believe in my body, in hunger and thirst and pain and sleep and sex.
I believe in fear and desire and sorrow and frustration and compassion and achievement and love.
I believe in the ultimate unknowability of things.
And sometimes, misguidedly, I believe that I am a leader, a prophet, a woman among men.
Sep 18, 2011
Warm Nights in Strange Cities: Italy
I survived two nine-hour flights, traffic in Rome, 37 degrees, blisters between my toes, blisters in my heels, water "pressure," 4 a.m. bouts of wakefulness, my shitty camera, a union strike, cobblestones, too-firm mattresses, headaches, aching feet, an aching back, stiff calves, diarrhea, tourists, towels whipped into sandpaper by the warm Venetian wind, mosquito bites, intense sneezing fits and an alternating runny/stuffy nose, rose peddlers, no milk, the erection of scaffolding immediately outside my hotel window, and no rock and roll, anywhere (except for Queen on repeat that one time).
In return for the minor inconveniences that travel invariably brings, I was rewarded with Roman drinking fountains; cobblestones; the motherfucking Colosseum, man; gelato; the Roman Forum (you wanna see ridiculous? shazam); the Ecstasy of St. Teresa; the bones of 4000 dead friars, artfully arranged; the "glory" of the Circus Maximus; statues of lions; plates of meat; Michelangelo's melting face in the Sistine Chapel; the babble and murmur of the Trevi Fountain; dancing Mickey Mouse and splat guys and blue-green lights in the sky; frottage on the bus; discovering Bernini; a cat sanctuary; gelato; a gondola ride under the full moon with my adventurer-love; Peggy Guggenheim's grave, and the grave of all her dogs; vino rosso della casa every day; the rolling marble floors and golden ceilings of St. Mark's Basilica; traghetto crossings; the stone prison cells under the Doge's palace; granite limone; the graves of dead bambinos; glass boobs in Murano and candy-coloured houses in Burano; Roxy's; soaking my weary feet in the jade-green waters of the Grand Canal by moonlight; my first opera; the ticket seller with Tourette's syndrome at the Correr Museum; gelato; the tomb of Galileo (that rascally heretic); Caravaggio's David and Goliath for the second time in my life (how lucky am I?); unexpectedly stumbling across Dante's house; the oversized head and hands of Michelangelo's David; olive groves and cypress trees and umbrella pines and vineyards; the zebra-striped cathedral in Siena, torture museums in San Gimignano, and tourists holding up the tower in Pisa; gelato; Italian children; scooters; bicycles; keyholes; a stroll by the Tiber and dinner in Trastevere; and, finally, always, in any situation, prego.
My own bed, when I finally fell into it, was like clouds, and the contented purring of my cat while she lay wrapped around my head on the pillow was almost as great as more than 2000 years of art and history. The world is an incredible place, from the spectacle and tragedy of Rome to the decaying grandeur of the Grand Canal to the rolling Tuscan hillsides to the simple pleasure of one's own showerhead. Ciao, Italia, and, per favore, don't ever forget to riot on.
In return for the minor inconveniences that travel invariably brings, I was rewarded with Roman drinking fountains; cobblestones; the motherfucking Colosseum, man; gelato; the Roman Forum (you wanna see ridiculous? shazam); the Ecstasy of St. Teresa; the bones of 4000 dead friars, artfully arranged; the "glory" of the Circus Maximus; statues of lions; plates of meat; Michelangelo's melting face in the Sistine Chapel; the babble and murmur of the Trevi Fountain; dancing Mickey Mouse and splat guys and blue-green lights in the sky; frottage on the bus; discovering Bernini; a cat sanctuary; gelato; a gondola ride under the full moon with my adventurer-love; Peggy Guggenheim's grave, and the grave of all her dogs; vino rosso della casa every day; the rolling marble floors and golden ceilings of St. Mark's Basilica; traghetto crossings; the stone prison cells under the Doge's palace; granite limone; the graves of dead bambinos; glass boobs in Murano and candy-coloured houses in Burano; Roxy's; soaking my weary feet in the jade-green waters of the Grand Canal by moonlight; my first opera; the ticket seller with Tourette's syndrome at the Correr Museum; gelato; the tomb of Galileo (that rascally heretic); Caravaggio's David and Goliath for the second time in my life (how lucky am I?); unexpectedly stumbling across Dante's house; the oversized head and hands of Michelangelo's David; olive groves and cypress trees and umbrella pines and vineyards; the zebra-striped cathedral in Siena, torture museums in San Gimignano, and tourists holding up the tower in Pisa; gelato; Italian children; scooters; bicycles; keyholes; a stroll by the Tiber and dinner in Trastevere; and, finally, always, in any situation, prego.
My own bed, when I finally fell into it, was like clouds, and the contented purring of my cat while she lay wrapped around my head on the pillow was almost as great as more than 2000 years of art and history. The world is an incredible place, from the spectacle and tragedy of Rome to the decaying grandeur of the Grand Canal to the rolling Tuscan hillsides to the simple pleasure of one's own showerhead. Ciao, Italia, and, per favore, don't ever forget to riot on.
Jul 28, 2011
3 a.m. comedown
I see you in watercolour, pale pink and yellow and ivory, dark hair damp against your forehead, your head tipped back against the chairtop, a burning cigarette held absently in laquered fingertips.
The slow, deep drag, skin stretched and hollow, sucking, sighing.
There is beauty in this pain, this sickness, this weight, but the photograph I take fails to capture the image and so I see you in watercolour and wish that I could paint.
The slow, deep drag, skin stretched and hollow, sucking, sighing.
There is beauty in this pain, this sickness, this weight, but the photograph I take fails to capture the image and so I see you in watercolour and wish that I could paint.
Jun 28, 2011
Warm Nights in Strange Cities: Cuba 2011
We are drunk, all of us, on cuba libres. (Free Cuba, I'll think later.)
The waves slip and suck in the darkness as we strip, leaving our clothes together in a pile on the sand so that we can find them later. I leave my bra and panties on, unwilling, even in the darkness, to share so much with these friends, these strangers.
We run across the sand, naked, laughing, to the water, and the waves welcome us home.
***
Rows of diesel-stained concrete and candy-coloured houses. Dark-skinned women with long legs and short skirts stand tirelessly in high heels by the side of the road, waiting. Old men stand in doorways and dogs roam the streets, alone or in small packs. With my platinum hair and pale skin, I am an exotic creature. Or a freakish aberration. Despite the glances, I am unafraid here.
The city crumbles. Old Fords and Chevrolets cough acrid black smoke. The image of Che Guevara is everywhere. A hero, a madman. Castro is crazy, our driver tells us. Is there talk of another revolution? we ask, and he nods. Yes.
Por favor, we say. Gracias. And always the answer: de nada. It's nothing.
We give the resort guard the beer from our fridge. Hola, we say. Cerveza? And he takes it with a smile. Gracias amigo, he says, popping the tab, and we reply, de nada. It's nothing.
May 19, 2011
Her Ignominious Death (a work in progress)
I look in the mirror, sometimes, and see her there, and my throat constricts and I can’t breathe for missing her. My throat aches and my heart aches and my stomach aches and I wonder how I can possibly still be here, alone.
At night, sometimes, I look across the room at the empty twin bed, the pillows like giant marshmallows, fluffy and white and inviting, and the pale satin bedspread shining dully in the darkness, and I can almost hear her breathing. She always fell asleep before me. Habitually troubled by insomnia, I would lie awake at night and listen to her breathe, match my breaths to hers until I finally fell asleep. My sister, my oldest lullaby.
Margaret took her first breath seventeen minutes before me in a hospital room in London, Ontario. Bloody and red-faced, she screamed to the world her anguish at our separation, and when I emerged, small and slippery, after her, I joined her in her howl, cacophony in stereo. Two days later, our parents, Bill and Barbara Mudd, took their identical writhing pink bundles home to Old South.
Old South is an established neighbourhood near the city’s core, consisting of mature trees and cracked sidewalks and Korean-run variety stores. Houses are restored and stately or old and in need of repair, with peeling porch paint and overgrown barberry bushes. Ours is one of the latter, a small brown brick bungalow set back from the road. Dandelions thrive on the lawn, and the concrete steps are crumbling, but I hardly notice anymore. You can learn to live with pretty much anything.
I live with my mother and father in the house I grew up in, in the room I shared with Margaret. Twin beds separated by a nightstand, one lamp, one dresser for us to share. On the dresser, matching pink jewelry boxes, the music box kind with the tiny dancing ballerina inside. Mine contains the gold cross necklace I received on our confirmation; Margaret wore her necklace to her grave. Above the beds, matching Jesuses die for our sins, and dirty lace curtains let the moonlight in.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.
Thy will be done.
At night, when I lie awake listening for the breath-lullaby that is no longer there, I wonder how such an ignominious death could be God’s will, and I hope that Margaret is up there, happy amongst the marshmallow clouds.
**
We walked the two blocks to school together every morning. Margaret and me, the Mudd sisters. Matching brown jackets, matching black boots. We rarely spoke. We lived identical lives; what was there to discuss? Alone together in a corner of the schoolyard until the bell rang, Margaret would look wistfully at the games of four-square and hopscotch while I picked at my hangnails.
Once inside, we were separated into different classrooms. Luckily, we were neither brilliant nor stupid. Solid Cs for the Mudd girls, and that suited us just fine. Better not to stand out any more than we already did. We were never late, and we never raised our hands in class. It was better to be ignored than to be called out.
Dirty Mudd sisters.
Why don’t you take a bath, Mudds?
And when Margaret would protest,
Shut up, Mudd, with such contempt that I would pull at her, plead with her, please Margaret please let’s go. Please.
There were no birthday party invitations, no sleepovers, no weekends at the cottage in Grand Bend. If we were one, some kind mother may have noticed, might have urged her daughter to invite that lonely Mudd girl over to play, but we were two, and therefore forgotten.
**
At night, sometimes, I look across the room at the empty twin bed, the pillows like giant marshmallows, fluffy and white and inviting, and the pale satin bedspread shining dully in the darkness, and I can almost hear her breathing. She always fell asleep before me. Habitually troubled by insomnia, I would lie awake at night and listen to her breathe, match my breaths to hers until I finally fell asleep. My sister, my oldest lullaby.
Margaret took her first breath seventeen minutes before me in a hospital room in London, Ontario. Bloody and red-faced, she screamed to the world her anguish at our separation, and when I emerged, small and slippery, after her, I joined her in her howl, cacophony in stereo. Two days later, our parents, Bill and Barbara Mudd, took their identical writhing pink bundles home to Old South.
Old South is an established neighbourhood near the city’s core, consisting of mature trees and cracked sidewalks and Korean-run variety stores. Houses are restored and stately or old and in need of repair, with peeling porch paint and overgrown barberry bushes. Ours is one of the latter, a small brown brick bungalow set back from the road. Dandelions thrive on the lawn, and the concrete steps are crumbling, but I hardly notice anymore. You can learn to live with pretty much anything.
I live with my mother and father in the house I grew up in, in the room I shared with Margaret. Twin beds separated by a nightstand, one lamp, one dresser for us to share. On the dresser, matching pink jewelry boxes, the music box kind with the tiny dancing ballerina inside. Mine contains the gold cross necklace I received on our confirmation; Margaret wore her necklace to her grave. Above the beds, matching Jesuses die for our sins, and dirty lace curtains let the moonlight in.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.
Thy will be done.
At night, when I lie awake listening for the breath-lullaby that is no longer there, I wonder how such an ignominious death could be God’s will, and I hope that Margaret is up there, happy amongst the marshmallow clouds.
**
We walked the two blocks to school together every morning. Margaret and me, the Mudd sisters. Matching brown jackets, matching black boots. We rarely spoke. We lived identical lives; what was there to discuss? Alone together in a corner of the schoolyard until the bell rang, Margaret would look wistfully at the games of four-square and hopscotch while I picked at my hangnails.
Once inside, we were separated into different classrooms. Luckily, we were neither brilliant nor stupid. Solid Cs for the Mudd girls, and that suited us just fine. Better not to stand out any more than we already did. We were never late, and we never raised our hands in class. It was better to be ignored than to be called out.
Dirty Mudd sisters.
Why don’t you take a bath, Mudds?
And when Margaret would protest,
Shut up, Mudd, with such contempt that I would pull at her, plead with her, please Margaret please let’s go. Please.
There were no birthday party invitations, no sleepovers, no weekends at the cottage in Grand Bend. If we were one, some kind mother may have noticed, might have urged her daughter to invite that lonely Mudd girl over to play, but we were two, and therefore forgotten.
**
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