tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54952088162609891632024-03-13T04:14:13.823-07:00The Beleaguered RationalistOne man's view on a variety of things.R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-26550484447395231492014-08-06T09:55:00.001-07:002014-08-06T09:55:55.316-07:00Support Local Film!Ok, so I've dropped off the face of the earth over the past 12+ months. Starting a business and extricating myself from my former employment has really been distracting, I have to admit.<br />
<br />
In any event, this post will be mercifully short. I just want to get the word out that my friends at <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1805556894" href="https://www.facebook.com/matchbox.pictures.3" saprocessedanchor="true">Matchbox Pictures</a> are at it again. Their third and latest project, CHEAT, is in pre-production and they're offering opportunities for community investment via Indiegogo. If you would be interested in supporting the London film community, I'd highly recommend tossing some dough at this project:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/cheat-a-matchbox-pictures-inc-feature-film#&ui-state=dialog">https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/cheat-a-matchbox-pictures-inc-feature-film#&ui-state=dialog</a><br />
<br />
As a friend of the principals and an investor in a prior project, I am very excited for this one to go into production. Hope that others will also see this as a glorious opportunity to support local arts and business.R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-68354017144673898852013-06-08T06:43:00.000-07:002013-06-08T06:43:48.916-07:00Spring Commute<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Posting a new-ish piece of writing that I've been meaning to edit. Comments welcome!</span><br />
<br />
<div align="center">
</div>
<div align="center">
* * *</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Spring Commute<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Heading down the 401 with the Barbaras and Bonnies and
Brendas before seven in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
sun is still low in the sky, just a suggestion of light climbing the tops of
the trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the women named Barbara
and Bonnie and Brenda drive sensible, North American cars, Regals and Luminas
and LeSabres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their make-up looks
practised and sedate, their suits appropriate and professional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They are beating the traffic, going to the places where they hold
responsible jobs in office administration, finance, human resources</span>, but
there’s something around the eyes or their grip on the steering wheel,
something pursued and worried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s as
if they are dogged, even on the morning commute, run to ground by the Lisas and
Kellys and Jennifers nipping at their heels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I pass Barbara (or maybe Bonnie or Brenda), she clutches the wheel,
eyes steely and straight ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
matter how much faster I go, I get the impression Barbara is miles ahead, ready
and girded to meet her pursuers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Monday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another spring commute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To ease
the boredom, I start to take a body count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Putting aside the parts of corpses, the clumps of hair glued to the
asphalt with guts, s<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ome of the
corpses reduced to woolly sweaters discarded on the road</span>, indefinable
carnage, London to Woodstock looks like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Raccoon,
raccoon, rabbit, raccoon, deer, possum, raccoon, raccoon, raccoon, groundhog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve barely crested the hill,
Woodstock spread out across the saucer of its valley like an apron draped on a
warm lap, when the sky warms like an oven element.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a morning like this, who could maintain a
death toll?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look to the shoulders and
start counting the strips of discarded tires from transports.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1, 2, 3, 4 …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Traffic thins so I contemplate the morning drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Don’t get
me wrong: I feel a kinship for the Barbaras and Bonnies and
Brendas. But as I pass out of Oxford County, I drive into an imaginary
landscape. A gauzy blanket of fog lies atop the sleeping fields of soy
and corn, juvenile plants wriggling their toes in the rich earthy bed.
This is a dream place, or a place I dream. I start to imagine the
Barbaras as the roadkill, the tires of their Regals and Luminas blown out,
scattered on this asphalt ribbon. In this imagined geography, passing,
passing, are we as good as the strewn remains of the dead?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we as good as dead? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I just another casualty of the commute,
another bit of the flotsam, weighed and considered and preyed over by ministering
crows? I am turning this around in my head and driving almost unconscious
amidst occasional swirls of ground fog, for the moment, making good time.</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-29587574644156918512013-02-17T05:41:00.004-08:002013-02-17T05:44:21.309-08:00Back from the dead and disappeared ...After some time, I felt compelled to put something new up. Not sure why, really. Perhaps I've broken free of the grip of self-doubt and excuse-making. Regardless, here's a piece that I wrote some time ago, on a now distant warm August day. Not sure if this is a return, or just a Christmas card from an all-but-forgotten old friend. In any event, I hope others might find something they like. Having just re-read it for the first time in a while, I realize it does suffer from maudlin romanticism, but I still think it may have some good bits.<br />
<br />
This is for Char, who believes in me when I don't believe in myself.<br />
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Enjoy.<br />
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<div align="center">
* * * </div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">End of the vacation<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You kissed me violently and threw your head back with a
laugh, kicking off across the top of the pool like an otter or some
half-glimpsed siren.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat in shallow
water at the foot of your wake, small waves lapping my lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sparrows averted their eyes, before flying away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The breeze came up and filled the sail of
clean sheets on the clothes line, lifting up the day as if we might take to the
high seas, set a course for uncharted waters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You gestured to me from the other side of the pool, inviting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had just read the story of a woman who built her bed above
the tomb of her husband beneath the bedroom floorboards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taken too soon, he’d always promised he’d
never leave her or the home they’d made together, and she took him perhaps too
literally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slept every night next to
him, until she would eventually join him again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was gruesome and romantic, in equal measure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You kept gesturing me to your side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not a strong swimmer, and you knew it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The breeze kicked up tiny breakers between
here and there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the last day of
vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last day of too many
cigarettes and too many beers in our scorched yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt sun-weakened and paper-thin,
parched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You latched me with your
eyes, and the wind blew up a gale in my ears, filling the sheets, and the
pillow cases looked like hot-air balloons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could taste something that was ending as the pool-water formed waves,
crashing on my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through sheets of
spray, I saw you smiling and wondered how I’d look laying on the bottom, all
oxygen pushed out of me, something wrecked and water-logged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In an instant, I made up my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better to be driftwood than flotsam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I threw myself into the pounding surf, flailing
arms and kicking legs, thrashing through the water to where I imagined you’d be
on the other side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing that without
reaching you, I’d forever feel your arms, lifting me up, pulling me from the
pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laying me on the stinging
concrete, your lips pressed to mine, with the sun beating us down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew as I took in mouthfuls of pool water that wherever I
made land, you’d be there, forever beside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the sun would be shining on your cappuccino skin, glinting electric
in the silver of your hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you
would gently lay me in a shady spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
would lie down beside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if I sunk
like a stone from too much of everything, you would make sure that our promises
were kept.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-65341383061331515882012-08-05T08:48:00.002-07:002012-08-05T08:48:16.898-07:00Re-posted storiesOk, so I finally got around to downloading an OCR program, converting the graphic files to text, and re-posted three pieces from my earlier publications. Hopefully, "<a href="http://r-lancerationalist.blogspot.ca/2012/01/qwerty-spring-1996.html" target="_blank">The Things We</a>" (ALL the pages this time), "<a href="http://r-lancerationalist.blogspot.ca/2012/01/qwerty-2-spring-1997.html" target="_blank">I wrote a story about Vienna as my father lay dying</a>" and "<a href="http://r-lancerationalist.blogspot.ca/2011/12/post-4-lost-story-preparation-is.html" target="_blank">the sound of flight</a>" are much more legible. If you haven't read them previously, please enjoy and feel free to comment. If you have read them, you may want to pay another visit.<br />
<br />
Cheers!R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-15103222323362949572012-07-22T10:58:00.005-07:002012-07-22T10:58:53.152-07:00WORK FROM HOME<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Randall sat murderously quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He heard the office door close and Jack
Vanetter returned to his chair on the other side of the desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack tried to look compassionate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave it a good try.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Randy,” he started, and
stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Randall could see him
struggling with the handful of words HR had prepped him with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Randall thought that Jack was really not cut
out for this sort of thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He said “Randy” again, and stopped
once more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Randall thought, ‘this could take
all day at this rate.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He let his mind
wander as Jack looked for what needed to be said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the way in that morning, Randall
got to thinking about Lizzie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
pictured her standing by the door, wearing a serious look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had Sarah’s way of crinkling her
forehead, but also the innate ability to smear breakfast all over her
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The area from her nose to her chin
seemed to be dyed a permanent shade of orange or red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t take her seriousness entirely
seriously, but he did his best to seem sincere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Daddy,” she said, waiting to
continue until she had his full attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Will you be home to watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Idol</i>
with me?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Randall weighed his options:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>an unconditioned yes; a maybe; or the
truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to convince himself that
today would be different, that he’d slip away quietly by 6 pm; that it would
not take him over an hour and a half to make the commute home, all white
knuckles and profanity; that he’d pull into the driveway before the sun had
slipped below the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew she’d
be at the window when he arrived, no matter what, so he said ‘maybe’, he’d do
his best.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even then, at 6 a.m., it felt
dishonest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the way in he passed a small
sign on the side of a hill next to an entry ramp to Highway 8.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the fall and winter it had been clearly
visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Work From Home”, it
exhorted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No details or instructions, or
perhaps the rest of the sign had fallen off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still, Randall thought, it made its point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tall grass of the hillside had crept up,
so that only a bit of the white of the sign was visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he knew its message was still there,
unmistakable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Across from him, Jack’s mouth was
moving, but he was far away or underwater and the words were reaching Randall
muffled and incomprehensible. “Not working out …”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Randall thought that maybe it was Jack who
was drowning, seeing the almost panic in his face. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He made no movement, and he imagined that his
silence was making it harder on Jack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
didn’t matter, he told himself, the particular words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew the gist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d heard rumours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Randall thought about the garden
edging he’d bought on the weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d
need to start installing it this Saturday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He put it on his mental to-do list, also knowing that he could count on
Sarah to remind him of the tasks to be completed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He imagined pounding the individual pieces of
edging into the ground, with steady uncomplicated thwacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Randall pictured the smiling woman on the
box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He figured if the petite blonde on
the box could install this product without breaking a sweat, he’d be up to the
task.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Randall wondered what Lizzie and
Sarah were doing just then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eating mac
‘n cheese?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doing laundry?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Building a princess castle in the living room
with blankets and pillows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wondered
what he was missing, putting the things he’d already missed to one side. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jack’s mouth kept moving, and his
brow furled and unfurled like a flag in the wind. “We need to think about the
organization … package …” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was
serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Randall was again reminded of
Lizzie’s question, and the sign by the road.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thwack, thwack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drove in another piece of edging,
separating garden from lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Placing
things in their separate categories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Work:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thwack, thwack.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Randall thought of the million
things he needed to be doing just then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
started to get up from his chair as Jack continued to explain what the company
was offering him, on the way out the door. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told
himself:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if Jack finishes up quickly
enough, I can beat the traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thwack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thwack.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I might even catch the evening
news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-64804808041431310452012-07-21T05:51:00.001-07:002012-07-21T05:51:08.191-07:00The rites of passing (a new/old poem)A new poem I wrote recently, from a cast-off bit I found kicking around. Funny how something from several years ago can be recycled.<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
* * *</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The rites of passing<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He was a textbook rummy: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>like an old newspaper, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">something blown into a doorway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His skin and clothes desiccated, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">battered to the same hue of dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among the office tower legions, he was a</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">tumbleweed scouring the terrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound of grasshoppers or cicadas</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">in faraway trees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The day exhaled hot breath against</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">your cheek and the wind came up full of sunshine
and grit. No one took notice</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">of death in a corner, its subtlety </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">adrift on the day’s undercurrent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For an instant, all was still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A handful of coins lay at the feet of the
congregated</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">pigeons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Priestly crow conducted a silent mass, head cocked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Looking to the parishioners, catching the eye
of anyone</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">willing to observe passage and make an offering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gust riffled his </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">cloak, and he was off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Taking the moment with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A single black feather</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">marking the occasion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-33138865811418517402012-07-20T08:24:00.003-07:002012-07-20T08:27:17.426-07:00Inside the Mascot<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The inside of the Otter head smelled like old rubber gloves
and puke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I set it on top of my knapsack on the seat
next to me as the Number 21 bus crawled through the ‘burbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mothers walked their children to the nearby
public school, scolding them away from piles of fallen leaves. I looked at
Jacob, but he wasn’t looking back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was the fall of 10<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jacob Grant was my best friend then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it was the fall of 10<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
grade because that was when Jacob’s Gramms went into the nursing home and Jacob
ended up on our couch for several weeks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You remember things like that in a way that
makes them more definitive than a calendar or pictures of Thanksgiving dinner,
1985.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob was a good kid, at least as far as you could know that
about anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the kind of kid
that your parents liked and asked about when they hadn’t seen him for a while,
hopeful you hadn’t abandoned the friendship in the fickleness of youth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how I remembered him when he showed up
for school that fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only there was
something about him that hadn’t been there before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wore it like a bruise, just visible at the
edge of a sleeve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started to doubt he
was the good kid any more as days went on.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob had taken up swearing like a biker, not just the
routine profanity of adolescence but real crude talk that would get you kicked
out of a shopping mall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same
time, he’d adopted a filthy laugh that he never had before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He started pushing his hair to the side, out
of his eyes, instead of getting it cut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
couldn’t say whether these were habits he acquired over the summer, or
something that was developing in front of my eyes, like a very slow Polaroid
picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sitting across from him on the bus, I noticed that his jeans
were ripped above the knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured
that mom hadn’t seen him before he left the house that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she had, she would’ve marched him back upstairs
to find a pair of pants that didn’t suit a hobo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since he moved in with a hockey bag of his
belongings, mom had gone out of her way to treat him like her own son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made his lunches, cutting the crusts from
his sandwiches the way he liked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
washed his clothes, ensuring that he was as presentable as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At night, she would have loud conversations
with my father – discussions that I was not supposed to hear through the
hastily closed door of their bedroom – so I knew that she felt compelled to
look after him in ways my father couldn’t understand or tolerate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I walked into the living room
one day when Jacob was watching TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom
was standing behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hand hung
in the air just above his head, as if she were about to stroke his hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she realized I was there, she took her
hand back and asked me if I wanted something to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The image lasted with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having seen my current wife take in a
malnourished cat, I now understand that my mother was acting on an instinct
even she couldn’t explain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I sat looking at him across the aisle, Jacob unfolded his
jack-knife and stuck it into the seat cushion next to him, stabbing and
twisting. There was less stuffing in the seat than you’d expect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He worked the blade like he was prying open
clams or trying to work a lock, but not having much success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t look up or catch my eye.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jacob</i>,” I hissed,
and he looked at me finally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He placed a
finger to his lips.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob scrunched up his mouth and nose into a sort of
duck-face with the effort of cutting through the thick vinyl of the bus seat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, it surrendered with a horrible
shredding sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bus pulled over to the curb and stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver turned in his seat and I got a
look at his eyes in the big mirror as he searched for the source of the ripping
sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lowered my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my mind, at his size it would take 13
strides to reach the back of the bus. Maybe 12.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jacob flipped the blade of the knife closed inside his palm and slipped
it into his pocket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nine, ten, eleven. Eleven-and-one-half paces brought him to
a spot directly in front of Jacob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mind leapt to the reckoning:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my parents called to deal with the police and
the transit people, and Jacob saying nothing to help his cause. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me with nothing to say at all, since I couldn’t
make out what would inspire someone to attack a bus seat that way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would come down on me by extension, I was certain,
as things that your friends do always follow you home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guilt by association, they call it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt myself shrivelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver stuck out his hand in front of
Jacob, palm up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jacob just looked at his
hand, following the curve of his meaty arm up to the shoulder, the driver’s
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I looked to the front of the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A 30-something woman held the tiny hand of a
very young child, who stared back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
view of the bus started stretching out, as if the vehicle were elongating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was at the wrong end of a telescope,
getting smaller and further away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
image of the bus driver started to wobble, and then vibrate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could taste breakfast pushing up the back
of my throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My legs made their own
decisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their certainty started to
spread to my basal brain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stood and picked up the Otter head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t carry it and the book bag, not the
10 blocks to school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held it under one
arm for a moment, while I pulled the straps of the backpack over my
shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bus wasn’t moving, but my
knees and stomach were swaying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The coward’s
certainty was waning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Excuse me,” I whispered as I tried to move past the
driver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His bulk filled the aisle, blocking
the long tunnel that led to the front door of the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t seem to hear me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hand still stuck out in Jacob’s
direction, demanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Excuse me,” I
said again, slightly louder, “may I get past?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The driver wheeled and looked at me for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are you with him?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Almost twenty-five years later, I wrestled with this
question when my first wife, Marg, asked me virtually the same thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was over dinner one night, when we were
into it over my mother’s refusal to come live with us after my father passed
suddenly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marg was hurt by some things
my mother had said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Untrue, but hurtful
things that people say when they’re looking for someone to share some of their
pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My then-wife looked at me over the
bowl of potato salad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She said, “I need to know if you’re with me or if you’re
with her?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said that and then she
waited for an answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped cutting
my steak and looked across at her, the fork still in my hand, unable to
answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Incapable of taking a side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The question hung over the marriage for a
couple of years like a wobbling tight-rope walker, before it inevitably lost
its balance and fell over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That day on the bus was the same and I could read the
impatience in the driver’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
waited for an answer a moment or two longer, but no response was coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned his attention back to Jacob,
without moving out of the way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob studied his fingernails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about whether the driver would call
the cops, and whether Amy would ever come to my house again if Jacob got sent
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered whether I could outrun the
driver if I pushed him and made a run for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A million swear words riffled through my head – things I could say to blow
up the moment and distract the driver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing
fit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My calculations did not factor in
what would become of Jacob.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob’s gaze never left his
lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d made his choice, I assumed, or
a choice had been made, in any event, from which there was no retreat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sat down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The books in my knapsack bit into my
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver’s hand remained, stuck
out like a sort of fixture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He said, “son, just give it up already.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, in a slightly gentler tone, he said,
“you’re not fooling anyone.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob looked up then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if emerging from a dream, he saw the
driver and the panic in my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
reached into his pocket, and for an instant I imagined him pulling out the
knife and stabbing the driver, repeatedly, in the hand and then the chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had the look of being adrift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dazed and at sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like someone you might step over on the
street, making crazy sounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone who
might who do anything at that very moment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead, he placed the folded-up
knife in the driver’s palm, which immediately closed on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver said, “that’s right, son.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walked the 11 ½ strides to the front of the
bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over his shoulder, he spoke to
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I believe this is your stop, gentlemen.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver sat down, and the rear doors
popped open as he pushed a lever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I looked at Jacob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn’t moving, but I could see him shaking
off the last of the trance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d need to
be awake – it was about 10 blocks to school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d have to run to make the first-period pep rally.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I said, “c’mon, let’s go.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob found his legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stood at the same time, and I could see he
was wobbling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put out a hand to take
his elbow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought he might brush it
away, but he didn’t.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob said, “I’m ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You go ahead.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I released his arm and let myself down the
back steps of the bus. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob walked to the front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He leaned over to the driver, holding onto
the fare box to steady himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked
along the side of the bus, meeting him at the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to know what he said, but I didn’t
have a voice or the words to ask.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob descended from the bus and started
walking in the direction of the school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
fell in behind him. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I put on the stinking mascot
head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want him to see me crying.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 10.0cm;">
<br /></div>
<h2>
</h2>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-59345839069309993752012-07-20T08:21:00.003-07:002012-07-20T08:21:58.755-07:00Friday morning. Vacation.So, I'm sitting on the patio at the laptop, trying to avoid the glare of the sun and a breeze that periodically kicks up dog hair and cigarette ashes. The house is full of girls in their early 20s, rabidly awaiting bacon and eggs after an evening "on the town" that went too late for civilized bodies. They all look used up and a little guilty. Someone's bra hangs on the clothes line, discarded for a late night/very early morning swim. I keep the music down to a dull throb that I can barely hear over the rustling of wind-blown leaves. <br />
<br />
I'd like to write. God knows. But the demands of this house, this morning, and the dog begging that the frisbee be thrown and returned and thrown and returned, are too much. And the cat's been sitting on the laptop again, so the "g" key refuses to cooperate. My smartphone continues to wink it's single red eye at me, somewhere on the edge of consciousness.<br />
<br />
There must be an idea in here somewhere, I keep trying to convince myself. Some kernel of a story or a few lines of verse that might reflect on the moment. But it's bottled. Corked.<br />
<br />
Still, I can't help but smirk a little. Satisfied or mixed up in the madness, it's too early to tell. I'll just pound away - a little too violently whenever the letter "g" is required - and hope for the best. A happy accident. Something worth reducing to words. Something worthy of sharing.<br />
<br />R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-87123146625507309602012-07-15T10:03:00.000-07:002012-07-15T10:03:16.002-07:00Look who's baaaacccckkk!After 4 months of apparent inactivity (hey, things happen and I've got other stuff to do, alright?), I'm going to try to post some new material this week while I'm on vacation. Stay tuned.R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-53242223284388578062012-03-24T17:43:00.001-07:002012-03-24T17:44:16.055-07:00Catching Up With Judith - revised and re-postedMade some tweaks on a sad Saturday night and re-posted the most recent story I've put up. Looking for any feedback: good, bad or indifferent.R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-9574891670755706272012-03-04T07:39:00.000-08:002012-03-24T17:40:14.014-07:00Another New Piece - Catching Up with Judith<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Catching Up with
Judith<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bobby devoured his chicken wings and spat the bones onto a
paper place mat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could feel the whirr
outside the restaurant windows as the WestJet at the nearest gate prepared to
taxi away, guided by a man with orange torches and wearing a neon yellow vest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bartender made the universal gesture for "Another
drink?", and Bobby nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
stacked and arranged the bones, forming a pentagram, and the word
"HELL".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bartender set two
fingers of scotch in front of him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"How are the wings?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bobby pulled his thumb out of his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span lang="ES-CO" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-CO;">"Tolerable."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked
for a Red Bull. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>When the waiter
brought it, he poured it over the scotch and the ice cubes, looking around to
see if anyone was watching.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Judith would not approve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The taxiing 737 had pulled back from the gate and the tunnel
retracted toward the terminal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if the
fixed were withdrawing from the moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It looked like the man with the torches was walking a well-behaved
dinosaur.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bobby would be on a jet soon, too, he reminded himself,
leaving YYZ and the whole crummy city behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He polished off the last of the wings and set down a radius bone as an
exclamation point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was certain Judith
would not approve of that either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or would she?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bobby sipped his energized whiskey, questioning whether he knew
what Judith would think of his chicken bone epitaph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was the one who took off, headed for the
Left Coast in pursuit of “her conscience”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After that, Bobby could not be too sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From the restaurant, Bobby could see the gate where he’d
board the plane in an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two children
chased each other, leaping occasionally over the outstretched legs of sleeping
strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Passengers were reminded to not
leave bags unattended. No one was reminded to not leave children unattended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one ever warned you to not leave your
girlfriend alone for too long, either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bobby struggled to remember when it was that he lost touch
with Judith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d need to lay off the
Red-Bull-scotches from here out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
the bartender gave him the look again, he placed his hand over the mouth of the
glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at the tarmac, and then
at the sad parade of humanity passing through the terminal on their way to
other places they wanted or needed to be more than here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A flight to Boston was announced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then one to Kingston, Jamaica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was listening for Air Canada, flight 739,
knowing there wouldn’t be a boarding call for half an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, it gave him something to listen to
aside from the steady stream of inoffensive soft rock that the restaurant P.A.
oozed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Judith would approve, and Bobby marvelled at how his mind
endlessly returned to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wished he
could smell her hair right now, or taste the pancakes she made with fresh
blueberries and small chunks of canned pineapple in them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then, just then, as he imagined the taste of Judith’s
pancakes, he stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d made those
pancakes the day that she left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She set
them in front of Bobby when he arrived at the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She placed those very same pancakes on the
table, like she’d done a dozen times before, and he never knew that this would
be the last time she’d do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No one ever warns you that this time, right now, will be the
last time for anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was thinking of those pancakes that compelled Bobby to buy
the ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It drove him to the airport,
too – despite knowing he’d white-knuckle the take-off and likely crap on the
landing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judith’s pancakes, and the way
that she said nothing as she set them down to be eaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He recalled that she just watched him eat,
and then cleared his plate away, wordlessly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That was just Judith, he told himself at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She put his plate back in the cupboard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just Judith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Southwest flight 1752 to Miami was boarding Premium Class
passengers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The elderly, disabled and
people with children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rows 17 – 28.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally steerage class.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They would call his flight soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He finished his drink and slid the credit
card across the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hoped it
would go through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The airline ticket ate
most of his remaining credit limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
bartender took it without comment, being accustomed to people who eat, drink
and clear out in a hurry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the bartender rang up his bill, Bobby looked back at the
tarmac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d be wheeling a 737 up to
his gate by now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleaning up after the
last passengers and re-loading with booze and overpriced snacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at his wing bones and scooped them
into his napkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He placed the package
on the centre of the plate and his knife & fork at 25 after 5.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Judith would approve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As if that mattered now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man sleeping in the lounge at Gate 15 stirred, and one
of the children tripped over his feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The man pretended to fall asleep again, with a smirk on his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one announced, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">passengers flying with children should ensure that they are properly
stowed in overhead compartments or under the seat during flight</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bobby thought someone should have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The energetic whiskey skipped in his stomach and spread its
warmth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Judith had some explaining to do, Bobby told himself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He needed to find out:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>did she know she was leaving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i> she served him pancakes or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bobby stepped out of the restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was only steps from the departure gate
where they’d be announcing boarding any minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He reminded himself to take it all in – this could be the last time he’d
be in Pearson International Airport preparing to ask Judith when she decided to
leave him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> “Before or after?” he asked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Sadly, whether she approved
or not, he’d be boarding soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bobby would be
catching up with Judith before she knew it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 405.6pt;">
<br /></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-43177927847786494822012-03-04T07:38:00.000-08:002012-03-04T07:44:20.819-08:00New Writing - A Birthday Party for Steinmetz<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A Birthday Party for
Steinmetz<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Steinmetz, Steinmetz!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They cheered and stomped their feet, or at
least that’s how he told it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room
was on tenterhooks, as he described the crowd rushing from the stands and
hoisting him, their hobbled hero, onto their shoulders. Of course, they were
rapt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Steinmetz’ birthday party
after all, I reminded myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The rough cardigan I wore clearly intended on itching me to
death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between the sweater and the cheap
plastic of the seats, I was transported 25 years to Schwartz’s on Saint-Laurent
boulevard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I crammed a handful of cold
cuts from the tray between two slices of heavily-mustarded rye bread and
scooped a small armada of pickles onto the side of the plate to ride shotgun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bartender was watching a golf tournament
from somewhere hot and lush on the TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tiger
Woods missed an 18-foot putt on 15 and slipped another shot back of the lead.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The DJ kept the music to a dull roar, playing some light
contemporary tunes that seemed to seep from one to another seamlessly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I scratched my arm through the sweater and
knew that I’d be tearing up the skin soon.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Uncle Frank was well into his rye and slapping people too
forcefully on the back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steinmetz kept
telling the story of his greatest soccer success, although he said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">football</i> or ‘footie’, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He emphasized how impressive it was to lead
his team to a Division 2 title with a compound fracture of the left foot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The women, always a little taken with how he
wore cravats and bow ties (even when they weren’t really in fashion), hung on
his every word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Irma and my mother smiled
dreamily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steinmetz moved from one triumph to another,
seamlessly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His escapades on the pitch
gave way to the story of how he single-handedly raised hell in the Łódź Ghetto,
before fleeing across the Channel to England in a leaky dory. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Uncle Frank studied his rye silently, eyeing Steinmetz
occasionally, until he finished his story in a flurry of waving arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appeared he could hear no more, and so he
cleared his throat to attract the room’s attention. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not surprisingly, he captured the attention of
virtually no one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Irma turned a scalding
look on him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went back to drinking
silently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But perhaps my greatest moment,” Steinmetz paused, “my
fondest memory, occurred on this very spot.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And with that his head fell, like he was deeply affected by the story as
it washed over him anew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I found even my jaw and tongued slowed as they worked on the
sandwich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother was rapt.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"It was right here,” Steinmetz said, pointing at a spot on
the floor not six feet from where he stood, and then he moved to the very
location.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Right here,” he said, “that I
met Rebecca in the year nineteen hundred and fifty.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the
mention of his dead, sainted wife, you knew it wouldn’t be long before there
wasn’t a dry eye to be found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh,
Rebecca,” he said with a practised warmth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought Uncle Frank rolled his eyes, but I couldn’t be
sure without looking away from the spectacle of Steinmetz weeping, in a quiet
dignified manner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pushed the last of
the kosher dills into my mouth and bowed my head in the only facsimile of
respect that I could think of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was then that the loud scrawl of metal chair legs on
linoleum tore through the place like shrapnel. The bartender turned away from
Phil Mickelson’s tee shot on 15.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Bullshit!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle
Frank shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bartender stepped to
the end of the bar with purpose. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The DJ took notice, too, increasing the volume slightly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For an instant, Steinmetz did not move, although every
craning neck in the hall had snapped ‘round to bring eyes to bear on this
horrid display.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I kept my head down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“That’s bull-shit, Steinmetz, and you know it!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle Frank was on his feet and moving toward
the spot where Steinmetz claimed he’d met Rebecca all those many years
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I call bull shit.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steinmetz turned a pair of understanding eyes on his
denouncer, but barely lifted his brows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This place, this spot, wasn’t built in 1950.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This …” and Uncle Frank made a broad gesture
as if to take in the entire place, “was a cow pasture in 1950!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He made a dismissive gesture in Steinmetz’
direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surprisingly, Steinmetz did
not reply.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"It’s all bullshit,” Uncle Frank derided, growing
bolder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He” (Frank pointed at
Steinmetz, as if he were the accused in the dock) “was an adequate midfielder
at best, and I have reason to doubt that he escaped the Ghetto!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gasp went up from the room like the last
desperate desire of a people, extinguished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All eyes turned back to Steinmetz.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He lowered his eyes again, and for a moment he was just a
sad old man, suddenly smaller and fragile-looking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When his voice first re-started, it was soft
and vulnerable.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It is true, perhaps, that I was not the greatest
footballer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He raised his eyes to meet
his accuser for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But
there can be no dispute” (as his voice grew in depth and strength) “that I did
score the winning goal in the Division 2 title match in 1946!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a harrumph from the men and the
ladies were all nodding in agreement that what he said could not really be
disputed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You may question,” he said, his fire returning, “my escape
from the Jewish guard and the Nazis, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But,” he whacked a fork off of his hip, with an oddly metallic thunk,
“can you explain the German lead in my bones?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think not.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steinmetz looked
satisfied, and I imagined the stands clearing as his supporters stormed the
pitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All eyes turned back to Frank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked like a man about to evaporate back
into the crowd, sensing his defeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, liquor boldness doesn’t melt away that easily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stood his ground, and the fire in him
built anew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I washed the remainder of my
sandwich down with the last mouthful of the rye he’d left on the table, only
now able to take in the final showdown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bartender continued to watch from the end of the bar,
wiping the same spot over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
DJ had increased the pace, too, moving from the faceless songs he’d been
playing most of the afternoon to something more recognizable:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 2cm;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's getting late have you seen my mates?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 2cm;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ma, tell me when the boys get here.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 2cm;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's seven o'clock and I want to rock,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 6pt 2cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Want
to get a belly full of beer.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Uncle Frank stuck out his hand to me, and I passed him his glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He raised it to his mouth, without first
looking, and then slammed it down on the table when he realized it contained no
further courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Elton John’s<em> Saturday Night</em> seemed to get a bit louder, as
Tiger’s drive on 16 went way right and bounced off a spectator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things were going horribly wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt a little warmth in my chest from the
rye, but I was transfixed by the showdown unfolding in the small ballroom of
the Marriott.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle Frank looked like a
man ten years younger as he stepped toward Steinmetz.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You, sir,” he said with venom and deliberation, one gnarled
finger pointing directly at Steinmetz, “are a bag of wind.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to focus on the television to see how
Tiger would rescue himself from this unfortunate turn of events, but the
prickling of the sweater kept bringing me back to the table and the plastic
bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You cannot possibly claim with a
straight face that you met Rebecca on this spot?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you do, you’re a, a …” and even Uncle
Frank stammered a moment before going all in:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“a LIAR!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bartender was burly, I noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the banquet servers looked like they
could take a punch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I surveyed the room
for exits.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steinmetz looked to the crowd assembled to honour his
achievement of 80 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were
shocked into silence, but the room buzzed with anticipation of Steinmetz’
answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Irma and my mother were torn
between embarrassment and expectation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle
Frank sensed that he stood on a great precipice.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 2cm;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don't give us none of your aggravation,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 2cm;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had it with your discipline.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 2cm;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Saturday night's alright for fighting,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 2cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get a little action in!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steinmetz sagged onto a chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some disciple produced a glass of water and
he drank for a long, still moment.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steinmetz looked straight into Uncle Frank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re right, Francis.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said, and let those syllables hang for a
moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rory McIlroy’s second shot on 16
hung in the air, a tiny speck of white floating across the blue screen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The DJ turned the music down a little; a
couple of young kids who were dancing on the other side of the room stopped to
see why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air in the room got
uncomfortable and prickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ate my last
pickle, in case I’d need the energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
slid further back on my chair, away from Uncle Frank dangling out on the edge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’re right, Francis, and you’re wrong at the same
time.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steinmetz’ eyes took on the
familiar glint they’d had earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This
room did not exist in 1950.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It, indeed,
was a farm.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The banquet hall was again
still, hanging on his every word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
mother looked like an infatuated girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His pauses were subtle and polished, as he continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And at that time, I was still a young man,
looking for his lot in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
travelled from place to place around Montreal for a couple of years after I
landed here, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">refugee</i> as they said
at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was restless, and that
was how I found myself at the gates of a farm just outside the city in the year
1950.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking for work, I told the
farmer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a Scotsman, I
recall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>McDougall or Stewart or
something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew cheap labour when he
saw it, and he almost immediately put me to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He called off his dog, and sent me to the
barn with another fellow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember
him, Seamus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man of maybe 30, with
muscles on his muscles and a bushy, red beard.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He relented long enough for people to take a bite or a
drink, but no one moved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Seamus handed me a pitchfork, assuming I knew how to use
one, and sent me up to the hayloft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was dark and dusty and it smelled of cow … manure,” he said, setting the
scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bartender had returned to the
golf tournament on TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tiger Woods
scowled, but everyone listening to Steinmetz was amused anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, I bucked hay for a few hours, until
around noon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was leaning on the
pitchfork, looking out over the farm, when I heard a shrill whistle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked down, to the ground just outside the
barn, and there she stood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rebecca.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My lot was cast, as certain as I’m here
today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The room sighed, and the music got a little louder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle Frank stood alone, punctured by a
hundred hard looks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a flat tire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“And, so you see, Francis, you are a little bit right and
yet, you are even more wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was right
here,” and he used that perfect pause again to point to the very spot, “that I
met my Rebecca.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And with that,
Steinmetz dabbed at his eye and got up from the chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“God rest her beautiful soul,” he added, and
retreated to the bar at a shuffle befitting a man of his age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was then that the room rose up in a symphony of scraping
chair legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle Frank was encircled as
he stuttered and looked to me for assistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just disappeared into the roiling crowd, heading toward the bar to
watch the final holes of the tournament.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was anywhere but by his side at that moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no guilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The music got louder yet – Elton exhorting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'Cause Saturday night's the night I like /
Saturday night's alright, alright, alright</i> – and the room (my aged mother
among them) lifted Uncle Frank high on their shoulders like a six-foot plank,
and carried him to the exit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young
kids on the far side of the room danced riotously as Frank crowd-surfed right
out of the banquet hall, calling out helplessly to be put down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stood beside Steinmetz as he tentatively sipped at a glass
of scotch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bartender made no attempt
to intercede, instead finding a new spot on the bar to wipe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said, “McIlroy is really putting on a
clinic.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steinmetz took another sip and said, “it’s only the third
round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t count Tiger out yet.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he winked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The crowd, having deposited Uncle Frank in the parking lot,
returned to the hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they lifted
their glasses, I swear that they chanted, “Steinmetz, Steinmetz”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birthday boy raised his glass to them,
and the chant of “Steinmetz, Steinmetz” got louder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked the bartender for a rye and scratched
my arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think Tiger made it close in
the final round of that tournament.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
least, that’s the way I choose to remember it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-56692835941771047542012-03-02T09:41:00.003-08:002012-03-02T09:41:58.510-08:00For No Particular Reason ...Just because I saw a link to the video for <em>How Soon is Now?</em>, and I followed it, and it reminded me how important the Smiths were at one time in my life, and how Morrissey likely had the most impressive persona/appearance of any front man from the 80's (sorry, Robert Smith).<br />
<br />
Hearing these songs still gives me shivers for some reason I really can't explain.<br />
<br />
* <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=naos7it_bl0&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before</a><br />
* <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j5b_V68mQ9k&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">Girlfriend in a Coma</a><br />
* <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMY4W0l4peY&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">Ask</a> <br />
* <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wz5IFl7uCis&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">The Queen is Dead</a><br />
* <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_U5HpeA_WSo&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">How Soon is Now?</a><br />
* <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AlH2oYedfk&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">Panic</a><br />
* <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INgXzChwipY&feature=player_detailpage&list=AVGxdCwVVULXdtlQwIU8kf2rDsBL9AmEBx" target="_blank">There is a Light That Never Goes Out</a><br />
<br />
Simply iconic, in my very humble opinion. If I ever get my hands on a way-back machine, the dial will be set to 1985.<br />
<br />R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-4380541884876520622012-02-29T16:59:00.000-08:002012-02-29T16:59:00.042-08:00Another Episode of Odds & SodsA few things from the dustbin of my brain on Leap/Hump Day...<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Today is <a href="http://www.whsc.on.ca/events/rsi_day.cfm" target="_blank">Repetitive Strain Injury Awareness Day</a> (no, do not attempt to say this 3 times quickly - no good can come of it). It's scheduled for the last day in February. On a leap year like this one, this results in it falling on the least repetitive day on the calendar. Weird.</li>
<li>Hint to the guy I passed on the right coming home from work - "passing the time" is not a good reason to be in the far left lane (i.e., the "passing lane") of the 401. You pretty much have to be passing <em>other vehicles</em> for it to apply. I only wish <a href="http://www.mto.gov.on.ca/english/dandv/driver/handbook/section2.7.2.shtml" target="_blank">the MTO handbook</a> for new drivers was a little more clear on the subject.</li>
<li>Finally concrete evidence to explain why incompetent people are so endlessly frustrating - they simply do not think (or won't admit) that they are incompetent. Says <a href="http://www.therecord.com/living/article/678279--incompetent-people-are-too-incompetent-to-know-they-re-incompetent-study" target="_blank">here</a> that even when offered a reward, they can't predict how poorly they've done at a task with any accuracy. Hmmm... that does explain a few things. <strong>Warning</strong>: if you think you're competent, they might be talking about you, but how would you know?</li>
<li>After listening to a lot of new music, thought I'd plug a few recent releases by artists who are worth checking out:</li>
<ul>
<li><em>John K. Samson</em> - Weakerthans (from Winnipeg, MB) front-man released a solo album on January 24th that is typically terrific. Check out the video for "Longitudinal Centre" <a href="http://bcove.me/eems6q6j" target="_blank">here</a>.</li>
<li><em>Young Galaxy</em> - ok, so it's not that new, but another Canadian act that has put out a ton of very good, catchy music. Check out "Blown Minded" <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=XVgkBWOYsXI" target="_blank">here</a>.</li>
<li> <em>The Big Pink</em> - if you like 80's influenced synth-pop (and you need something to wash Foster the People's "Pumped Up Kicks" out of your frontal lobe), check <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPmkk_W11oM&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">this</a> out.</li>
<li><em>The Wombats</em> - you've likely stopped dancing to Joy Division, but the new Wombats release is pretty decent, too. Here's "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8grF93Qe9Lk&feature=player_profilepage" target="_blank">1996</a>".</li>
<li>Again, it's not brand-spanking new, but <em>Wilco</em>'s most recent albums is awesome. Here's a live version of "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4aalGe6xKk4&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">Whole Love</a>", recorded on the Letterman Show. Yeah - remember when Letterman was relevant? You're old.</li>
<li><em>The Decemberists</em> - I'll admit that I don't think they can ever do anything wrong and that Colin Meloy is a genius, but <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=vdQd6PVmMDo" target="_blank">Down By the Water</a> could be the best thing they've done to date. Instantly catchy. This version was recorded on <em>Austin City Limits</em>.</li>
<li>Like Mumford & Sons? Try <em>Of Monsters and Men</em> - "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=ghb6eDopW8I" target="_blank">Little Talks</a>" is "Little Lion Man" with a brass section and some female vocals reminiscent of early Björk (ca. the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=69R_Uf57R0U" target="_blank"><em>Sugarcubes</em></a>) - you may even hear a similarity with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=hR9LYrCR_4I" target="_blank">the Beautiful South</a>, if your memory is long and your tastes ran that direction in the 80's.</li>
<li>Can't forget the new single from the forthcoming Shins album, due out March 20th. Here's "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=RoLTPcD1S4Q" target="_blank">Simple Song</a>".</li>
</ul>
</ul>
R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-34527031770796435622012-02-29T05:31:00.001-08:002012-02-29T05:31:16.136-08:00Man, Woman, Sofa now posted to the Danforth ReviewFor those who are interested, the short fictional piece (originally titled, "Josephine") has now been published to <a href="http://thedanforthreview.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">the Danforth Review</a> site.<br />
<br />
Happy reading!R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-17342023527976183432012-02-21T18:49:00.000-08:002012-02-21T18:50:31.436-08:00Of the Walking Dead and IndividualityAs I drove home down the 401 tonight, I got to thinking about why <a href="http://www.amctv.com/shows/the-walking-dead" target="_blank">the Walking Dead</a> speaks to me. <br />
<br />
In the typical zombie story, the heroes (usually a small, rag-tag group forced together by circumstances) are vastly outnumbered by hordes of slow, dim-witted, single-minded monsters. It's unlike the typical slasher movie where the viewer is asked to identify with <em>the group</em> (think of the teens in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074285/" target="_blank">Carrie</a> or in any of the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074285/" target="_blank">Hallowe'en</a> or <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074285/" target="_blank">Friday the 13th</a> films, or the victims of "Jigsaw" in the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0387564/" target="_blank">Saw</a> franchise) as it tries to flee, outthink, or simply defeat the individual ghoul, freak or psycho. In the zombie movie, <em>it's the group that we fear</em> while we side with or emulate the individual in his or her desire to escape. The viewer roots for the survivors, perhaps in a narcissistic self-identification with their plight. You want them to persist despite the ridiculous odds, maybe because of the analogy between the survivor's story and our own experience of the workplace, the shopping mall, the grocery line-up or highway traffic. Our own understanding of the dangers of "the mob" appears to shape our tastes. In some subconscious way, do we perhaps see a bit of our (idealized) selves in these average individuals pitted against the savage masses? <br />
<br />
Maybe I'm overthinking it (that happens when you spend copious amounts of time behind the wheel on a road you know too well), but I think this may be the reason I can tolerate or even enjoy the Walking Dead while I can't sit through a typical horror movie.<br />
<br />
Interestingly, another writer has come to similar ideas about the zombie genre's "<a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/rw005g/2010/06/29/what_does_the_zombie_genre_say_about_the_modern_west" target="_blank">hyper cynical, nihilistic sort of individualism</a>" which arises out of fears of a world on the verge of apocalypse where the only person you can count on is yourself. In an age when the state is withdrawing from many of the social protections that we have come to rely on (particularly following the economic downturns of the past few years and the failure of the markets to redistribute wealth in any meaningful way), it is understandable that we might be fascinated with the concept of self-reliance in an increasingly lawless world.<br />
<br />
While I'm not sure about the depth of concern expressed by the piece linked above - which is admittedly rather bleak - the appeal of the zombie genre now makes sense to me personally, at least.<br />
<br />
What do you think?R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-85556803061784361212012-02-11T08:05:00.000-08:002012-02-11T08:05:45.872-08:00Returning from Miami<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few thoughts on returning from a business trip to Miami.</span><br />
<br />
<div align="center">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">* * *</span></div>
<div align="center">
<br /></div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My first time in Miami (and South Florida generally) gave me
the impression of a very wealthy Latin American country – the palm trees and
the layout of the streets and the architecture all had the feel of a location
more tropical and less concerned with rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was almost like a resort (complete with Policia all over the place).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I heard more Spanish spoken than I
did in Cuba or Costa Rica.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The airport was part fashion show, part sad
parade, as places of coming & going usually are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three soldiers in camouflage walked by and I
almost didn`t see them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost beautiful
girls on improbable heals wearing impossibly tight clothing tried to catch
everyone`s attention inconspicuously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Old people snored as their grandchildren ran around the terminal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to focus on the <em>New Yorker</em> article
detailing the abuses of US campaign laws, the undisclosed, unidentified monies
flooding into the two sides of the Republican stand-off through the SuperPACs –
but the coming & the going kept grabbing my attention by the throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The flight was delayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I returned my darting eyes to the <em>New Yorker</em>, less than fascinated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I got to my seat near the back of the plane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The residents of the other two seats in my
row had conveniently stowed all 3 of their bags in the overhead compartment
above our section, leaving no room for mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I politely suggested they put one of their bags under one of the seats
in front of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They feigned an
ignorance of English and resumed an aloofness that made me retreat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put my bag in someone else`s overhead spot,
who in turn complained that they had nowhere to put their bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The row of seats behind mine was empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The male steward offered the opportunity to
move back a row. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did so and had all
three seats to myself to continue reading my magazine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With access to the window, I watched as the plane climbed
through cloud cover, Miami and Key Biscayne (with its lavish homes, yachts, a
golf course) slowly receding and then eclipsed by a blanket of cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Soon Miami was just a distant spot on the ground and I was already somewhere
else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We broke cloud cover with a few shudders, and there lay the
grid of the GTA; pinpoints of orange and white light spread out in all
directions as far as I could see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Flying into the city at night once again reminded me of the glow that
comes from the embers of a campfire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
same orange pulsating light scattered across a black canvas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a warmth to the scenery, as if you could hold your hands up and feel the heat, and it matched the mood of
returning home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p>Within an hour it would start to snow.</o:p></span></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-76977188911794680262012-01-30T19:10:00.000-08:002012-02-11T07:58:23.704-08:00UPDATE: A New Piece of Writing [Artist's Note: Please be gentle]<span style="font-family: inherit;">UPDATE: Shortly after I posted the story "Josephine" on this blog, I also submitted it to the on-line publication, <em><a href="http://thedanforthreview.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Danforth Review</a></em> (under the name "MAN WOMAN SOFA"). I just got word that TDR is going to publish the piece in an upcoming issue. I have therefore taken it down in order to not negatively impact TDR's publication of it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks to those who commented or just took a look!</span><br />
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<br /></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-91116402250300254102012-01-21T10:20:00.001-08:002012-01-21T10:33:12.207-08:00So, we're here and it's now ...Well, 2012 is off to a good start, with a real sense of opportunity and change blowing a hopeful breeze into the dark corners of a Canadian winter existence. Something particularly exciting may be just around the corner, but more on that later if it pans out... <br />
<br />
In any event, after a long hiatus from submitting and getting writing published, I got back on the horse over the last 12 + months, and finally succeeded in having another story published by Scrivener in its Summer 2011 issue. There are still plenty of submissions out there (fingers crossed), but this represents the most recent work I've had published. For those who are interested, however, in the business of writing and getting short fiction and poetry published, I would recommend joining <a href="https://www.facebook.com/#!/PlacesForWriters" target="_blank">Places for Writers</a> on Facebook. They offer a good community of writers to engage with, as well as a constantly refreshed listing of publications and contests looking for submissions representing a wide array of subjects, interests and genres. A must for any aspiring writer on-line!<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><u>Snowing Shovels<o:p></o:p></u></strong></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was snowing, but Gillian would say it was coming down by
the shovel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gillian had lots of sayings
that made me think of something other than what she meant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagined falling shovels and people
running, screaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes at night I
would curl into her, finding her hair on the pillow and sink into it for
protection from her metaphors and similes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hoped it didn’t get any heavier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gillian was knocking off the snow, scraping
the thin crust of frost from the car windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I fed breakfast scraps to the dog. The constant whirr of the dishwasher
powered away at the dishes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew what Gillian would be thinking:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it was a fifteen minute trip to the nursing
home on a good day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hard to tell
whether this was becoming a good day or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I doubted she would see it that way, what with the shovels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment, I was lost out there in the
descending white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He startled me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Speck did nurses, but Bundy, he preferred co-eds.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was cataloguing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was something he did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
explained to me as a means for him to hold onto memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Clifford Olsen murdered children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Willy Pickton did prostitutes from Vancouver’s lower East side.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d not heard this particular list
before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Pickton claimed to be a
half-wit who befriended the friendless.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He savoured that for a moment and smiled at retaining this morsel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I hadn’t experienced the listing before, I might be put
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slurped coffee through his
moustache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lowered the cup and turned
it in slow circles on the formica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Little brown rings emanated from his turning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside from the content, though, this was just
another list.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What would you do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you were a serial killer …”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
lifted a scrap of bacon like a string pulling the little dog into the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She leapt four feet straight up, teeth
snapping on air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dipped the bacon a
little and she jumped again, getting hold of it this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What would I do, I wondered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What or who.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog sat stock
still as I lingered by the frying pan, a finger skimming through the grease,
trawling for hardened hunks of burnt fat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I knew that an answer would be required.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dog curled her lip, a springy tongue rolling one side of her mouth
to the other. A white sheet was lowering outside, sky and landscape becoming
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagined Gillian disappearing
into the massing snow on the driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The trees on the boulevard were losing definition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hoped she’d find her way back into the
house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What I’d do,” I said, stalling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, first I’d have to research all of the
methods of killing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d try to be
creative, I suppose, if that’s a sort of creativity.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was twisting in his chair, losing patience
with my tactic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I figure it might just
be a twist on how it’s been done before, some new variation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps strangulation with a garden
hose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s when it struck me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like a shovel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
formulating, the words coming slower than the idea, like a gentle drift of lazy
flakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not shovels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, not strangulation.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had it now, and I could see that he wanted
to know the how in intricate detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“No, here’s how it would go down.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think I sounded excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The front door opened and Gillian came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She banged the snow from her boots on the
front doormat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog left the frying
pan to investigate as the furnace came on, a whoosh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just me and him and how I would do it if I
were a serial killer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was attentive,
his eyes fixed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“First, I’d have to find a victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps professors of Canadian literature, or
left-handed jugglers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comedians,
lawyers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d work that out, but that’s
not so important, not as important as the how.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was hoping to shock him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could tell that he was ready to be shocked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gillian clomped in from the front hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had a small peak of snow on the hood of her ski jacket, crevasses at
the folds in her sleeves filled with snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was a glacier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At any moment,
she might let loose an avalanche.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The how?” he questioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This wasn’t strictly in keeping with the catalogue he’d been working on,
the tedious task of rearranging everything he knew into categories so he might
hold onto it longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew that I might
be interfering with his therapy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might
blow up a snowstorm that would bury his efforts at organization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it had to be about the how.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’d use some ruse, maybe a personal ad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The promise of money or sex or both.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The words were speeding up now, driven along
on the back of the idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’d meet, me
and the victim, somewhere unremarkable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some time around
dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’d be no sex, no exchange of
any kind really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No DNA, no
fingerprints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, just a knock on the
head.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gillian should have been alarmed,
the sang froid of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked
puzzled, but not yet sickened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
his fault, he started it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps she’d
already figured that out, amidst the slow melt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was her father, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was still hanging on my words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, they’re knocked out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now what?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wondered if some old part of himself was crying out, realizing how
wrong this conversation had gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing
past the exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had an excuse, at
least. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just enjoying myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Then the creative bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The killer’s idiom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took note
of that, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had just come to
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’d transport them to a disused
warehouse where I had a tank of liquid nitrogen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Minus one hundred and fifty degrees Celsius
or thereabouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cold enough to freeze
the warmest heart.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at
Gillian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They’d be dunked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frozen solid.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked like my first victim, as she
glanced at the clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to be back
before lunch, so he could get reacclimatized before feeding time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Cryogenically frozen.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He nodded, not seeming to notice that I’d
become a sadist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“From there it would be easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d take them somewhere way up north and
stick them in the ice and snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep
them cold and out of sight.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
still nodding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gillian edged forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dad,” he looked at her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“We need to get going.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog
slipped past Gillian, nudged the older man’s free hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He began turning the coffee cup in small
concentric circles again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lifted it
and slurped a little more of the coffee, thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t sure if I was going to make the
list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“One thing,” he said, not like he was trying to trip me
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just sorting through the
details.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you hide the bodies in the
ice, how will anyone ever know that they were killed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They could just be disappeared.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he talking about his own peculiar
situation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The not-yet-dead but gone
missing waging a war to remember and be remembered?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to think then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The outside was undifferentiated white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no knowing how far you’d get before
you disappeared into it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or got hit by a
falling shovel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gillian was impatient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A stolid form, melting into my wife again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her agitation at not moving was almost
palpable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lifted a bacon-greased
finger to my mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tasted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gillian’s father looked to his daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A drip fell from the hood to the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked out the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned his coffee cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was losing the plot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, not totally missing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I broke the silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another drip
dropped on the kitchen floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog would
get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’d make sure that I left just
a little showing, maybe a finger, the tip of a foot sticking out, so someone
would find it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some sign where the
bodies were buried.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This somehow
satisfied him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Global warming might do
the rest.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stopped with the
cup-turning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was satisfied with this
twist on the idiom, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The careful
placement of the departed so that they don’t go unremarked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gillian’s father slipped back into his
previous tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Professors of Canadian literature?” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost a smirk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost the person gone missing inside his
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gillian was dripping and, I
thought, fuming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her father worked on
how this fit the catalogue, working out a place for this story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere between places I’ve been with my
family and cars I owned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between
birthday presents and television programs that I enjoyed as a young man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My favourite places to golf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Biggest news items of the last 20 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The names of dogs and cats I had as a
child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought perhaps my murderous
plot might find a place in the archive now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or perhaps it would just give comfort for the next few minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I guess we may never know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The snow was deepening, everything pretty much blanched and
assimilated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d have a hard time
finding anything out there on a day like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gillian gave me a look like I couldn’t miss her meaning this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would go get his coat and his boots and
get him back to the home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then she
would return to me out of the thickening snow and I would not need to be
reminded who she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my heart
wanted to burst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her father turned as he followed Gillian out of the
kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked me up and down,
measuring me or trying to create a moment that could be recalled later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, the almost smirk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He said, “I don’t think you’ll get away with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-56026097437862092732012-01-16T16:31:00.000-08:002012-01-16T16:31:14.598-08:00Scattershot on a Monday eveningJust some thoughts with no particular association and in no particular order.<br />
<br />
1. Automobiles come equipped with headlights AND taillights. People who fail to turn on their lights at dusk seem to forget the latter. Athough you may have daytime running lights that provide some illumination ahead, a black car on a dark road with no taillights is a virtual phantom that you can't see until you're right on top of it. <br />
<br />
So, ... please turn on your lights before dark if you don't want to end up as a hood ornament.<br />
<br />
2. I listen to REM's greatest hits album, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Part-Lies-Heart-Truth-Garbage/dp/B005NS0VNU" target="_blank">Part Lies, Part Heart, Part Truth, Part Garbage, 1982 - 2011</a>, on my long commute home and I can't help being struck by how Michael Stipe's plaintive "I nee-e-ed this" on <em>Country Feedback</em> still feels like a cry for help. When I was recently <em>indisposed</em> (to be as delicate as I can be), the refrain to <a href="http://popsongs.wordpress.com/2007/08/15/green-grow-the-rushes/" target="_blank">Green Grow the Rushes</a> started running through my head. I sat wondering if any music I've listened to since 1995 will ever have the intimate impact that REM, Midnight Oil, the Smiths and U2 (and a handful of other bands) did. <a href="http://www.okkervilriver.com/" target="_blank">Okkervil River</a>? <a href="http://www.arcadefire.com/" target="_blank"> Arcade Fire</a>? The broken poetry of <a href="http://www.artbrut.org.uk/" target="_blank">Art Brut</a>? I wonder if anything, musical or otherwise, can ever be that romantic and immediate again. Middle age. Meh.<br />
<br />
3. Watch when you use the word we, I and you. It can be very telling. The best laid plans of mice and people, especially the ones that require a clear delineation between 'us' and 'them', are so easily undone. Even a pronoun can be a tell.R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-30410257390766539042012-01-14T15:16:00.000-08:002012-01-14T15:16:34.915-08:00The Summer of '98In the summer of 1998, my creative output had waned significantly. One bad relationship had given way to another which was by then on its last, wobbling legs. I was staring down the barrel of my 30th birthday, with little to show for my life but 2 degrees and a job that was taking me nowhere. By the end of the early autumn of that year, I would make some significant decisions: I dumped the girl; I moved out of the townhouse we were sharing; and I decided that I'd become a lawyer. By the new year, I was getting ready to move into my own place, had scored reasonably well on my LSATs, and was waiting for the outcome of my application to the law school at the University of Western Ontario (where I'd done my undergrad degree). In the words of a story I once read (liberally paraphrased here - I believe it's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amy_Hempel" target="_blank">Amy Hempel</a>, but I've perused her <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Collected-Stories-Amy-Hempel/dp/0743289463" target="_blank">Collected Stories</a>, and can't locate it), I'd pulled out the junk drawer of my life and turned it upside down on the floor.<br />
<br />
While none of these details are directly relevant to this publication, I think there is a sense of being on the cusp of something that also comes through in this poem. It was published in connection with the Forest City Poetry Contest, in <em>Afterthoughts: Today's Best Poetry </em>(which ceased publication in 2000), published by Harmonia Press right here in London, Ontario. Until I re-read it , I wasn't so sure about this poem - now, I think I kind of like it.<br />
<br />
<div class="WordSection1">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 6pt 0cm 0pt;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">The Slowing Fall<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 21.55pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">So many ants without love as trees shed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1.8pt 32.4pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">and terminal house flies by windows reflect<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">their dying<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1.8pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">in 1000 eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 10.8pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">The word slipped out – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 3.6pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">this time of browning greenery,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 3.6pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">trees going fiery, thinning <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 3.6pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">as the days;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1.8pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">of all the times<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">for one slow-burning<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">phrase to find<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1.8pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">withered lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 10.8pt 32.4pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">I said it quietly, imitating Autumn, uncertain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1.8pt 43.2pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">of words dying mid-air, and you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">returned it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">with geese<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">stabbing south.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-59049672633261960902012-01-14T13:32:00.000-08:002012-08-05T08:28:01.452-07:00QWERTY #2 - Spring 1997This story was written after I had completed my M.A. thesis (and during a time when I was battling the inescapable conclusion that I no longer had anything new or interesting to say). It was published in the spring 1997 issue of <a href="http://www.lib.unb.ca/Texts/QWERTY/about.php" target="_blank">QWERTY</a>. <br />
<br />
<strong><em>i wrote a story about vienna while my father lay dying</em></strong><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sit composing a fiction about
Vienna and about falling in love with someone other than my fiancée, when the
phone rings; I look at the clock – 7:13 p.m. My mother's on the other end.
”Dad's in hospital. He’s okay, just some chest pains" She tries to sound
calm, talking like she’s rubbing my back. Instead, that false calm sounds like
dead-silence before an alarm. I'm thinking of buildings a disturbing shade of
gold, the colour beneath five centuries of soot, and the imperfect beauty of
the woman who might have loved me. Mom suggests it's his heart, considering the
man's age; hearts forever breaking down as they do. My mother implies he'll be
in hospital a while, as they mend what’s broken. I think I hear coronary,
infarction, angina. I swear my mother said those words, then promised to call
back if there was any change. Mom, sounding calm as low tide, sends love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Something breaks inside so I
build verbal buttresses around frail muscle. In my head a castle falls down. I
write a story, not about the Blue-Danube, postcard Vienna; St. Stephensplatz
crowded with pigeons like mawkish old men; Klimt faces in every Kaffeehaus, but
about the other Vienna: the cold-hearted place with its harsh cigarettes and
forty-shilling coffee, walled against foreign features. This contrary,
miraculous Vienna, an oddly shaped beauty moving me by one ginger elbow through
the <span lang="DE-AT" style="mso-ansi-language: DE-AT;">Christkindlmarkt</span>.
Past stalls of ornaments, <span lang="DE-AT" style="mso-ansi-language: DE-AT;">Glühwein</span>,
Maroni … <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the story the woman loves me.
You can make people love you in stories. I wait for the phone to ring, thinking
my father will die before I finish. His heart is broken. My mother's hopeless
reassurance becomes long-distance silence. Midnight: I assume my father is
deeply cold or under a knife. I stop writing a story about Vienna as my father
lay dying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have a problem telling the
truth, so I tell stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The call actually comes at 3
p.m.: I start the story later. I like Vienna more than I say, and love the
woman less. Her feelings for me are pursued by question marks. My heart,
therefore, is not so bad. Neither is my father’s, not nearly so bad as I
pretend. He passes tests of the heart with flying colours. My mother sounds
calm because she is calm; she says nothing about hearts — I compose words to
justify writing about a woman who probably never loved me. If I told you that I
retreated into fictions because my father had chest pains from eating
pepperoni, you wouldn't have come this far. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In retrospect, everything’s fine.
Except the story. The story is a disaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-14490359563920088722012-01-14T13:14:00.000-08:002012-08-05T08:26:22.770-07:00QWERTY - Spring 1996This story is actually the title piece from my Master's Thesis, which I finished in the spring of 1995. It was selected for publication in the inaugural issue of <a href="http://www.lib.unb.ca/Texts/QWERTY/about.php" target="_blank">QWERTY</a>, which was published at the University of New Brunswick (where I did my M.A.). The editors were my friends and peers during the 2 years I completed my degree, and at least one of them (<a href="http://www.darrylwhetter.ca/" target="_blank">Darryl Whetter</a>) has gone on to publish a book or two (<a href="http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/The-Push-the-Pull-Darryl-Whetter/9780864925077-item.html" target="_blank">The Push & the Pull</a>, <a href="http://www.palimpsestpress.ca/origins-p-331.html" target="_blank">Origins</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Sharp-Tooth-Fur-Darryl-Whetter/dp/0864923538" target="_blank">A Sharp Tooth in the Fur</a>). Just looking at the story now, and the issue of QWERTY in which it was published, I'm transported back to a very special, formative time. It may be the golden light of nostalgia, but it still engenders very fond memories.<br />
<br />
<strong><u>The Things We</u></strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a photo on my desk of my
father in a suit hidden by a long black gown. Graduation day. My father has a
piece of paper saying that he could be a social worker. Instead, my father
unloads trucks, heavy with crates and boxes and pails and canisters, and
labours for the union, for his fellow worker, making sure that agreements are
kept, that the letter of the law is followed. My father works too hard at
everything and now he is tired. But we shall not want. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For a moment I am back home. I
imagine my mother saying, “Ron, did you hear anything today about the
contract?” Her voice lingers through the house and I hear my father’s weight
leave the easy-chair by the window; his feet and worn- out knees move him to
the hall closet, where he pulls out a riffling of photocopied
collective-agreement pages from his union satchel. I’m sitting looking at the
photo of my father, proud and hopeful in his black gown; short, light-brown
hair tugged by a breeze tousling the surface of the St. Lawrence, visible in
the background. I can see all of it at once; the day in the photo holding me
and my mother, too, and the college building set back from the road and the
short grass, all tended by that gust and the sun, a grainy black-and—white
glow; that day and this — my father moving slowly (I notice it is always slower
whenever I am back home for a visit) to the kitchen where Mom is finishing the
shepherd’s pie. My father and his documents, treading the linoleum, explaining
the slowness of processes, cursing occasionally the inefficiency of
bureaucrats. There is constancy in this imagined scene. A comfort in knowing
that when I turn my back Life slows down but goes on. I can be secure at a
distance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My father stilled by the frame is
proud of his paper, the certificate rolled tight in his fist, but where am l? –
outside, somewhere, on the grass, in my mother’s arms? The invisible wind plays
forever with that now absent hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*
* *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am slogging through endless
reams of paper. Scholarly articles, essays, seminars. Scanlan has noted<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Berger's reading of Benjamin <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Derrida <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>phallocentrism<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>closure. Someone pipes more work onto my desk from somewhere above in
the bowels of the machinery, so I roll up my sleeves and empty my head of
fictions and set to processing another slew of information, repackaging and
shipping it along. Barthes has remarked<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>metonymy<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scanlan. The engine,
fuelled by coffee after coffee, injected with nicotine, chugs on into night,
duty-bound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the morning I will have to
turn my back on the reams; I will rise, shower, eat and go to work at the
grocery store, 9 to 5. Eight hours of turning my mind off completely, trying to
perfect the art of dough. This weekend I have the night-crew shift, as well, so
I'll be returning to the store at 11 p.m. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sleep in on Sunday and complete a paper and a
seminar in time for Monday morning. Next week: more of the same. By summer it
will be two jobs, the grocery store and the hot, dusty factory making vinyl
windows. It helps pay for school and school will pay for itself, I hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The things we must do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Simultaneously, my research
supervisor requires a rigorous perusal of his references by Wednesday; his
bibliography must be unimpeachable, complete, beyond question, not a comma out
of place nor a single slip in proper MLA format. I bow my head to four a.m., in
this the hour of our... <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but where is the
fucking carrot? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bow my head to the
pages spread flat and spinning beneath my eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up at eight a.m. How long ...? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The things we must. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thanksgiving: at home again and
Mom is in peak form, not having had anyone to retell her stories to for a
couple of months. Dad has heard them all and it shows in another old episode.
He parks in front of a nature show or toys with the hide-a-word puzzle in the
'Funnies’. Or he walks the dog. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly
when he wants to be somewhere else he walks the dog, sometimes three times a
day and I sit and listen to my mother. I can't help but listen. Either I like
the stories or I like the ritual. What's the difference? I am receiving the
familial catechism, like interrogating the old Bible, but with answers, details.
Shadows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She begins her telling with the
time Uncle Fergus' tom cat, the one with the huge head, ate all the kittens in
her father's barn. One at a time they went missing from Fluffy's nest until her
father caught the unfortunate tom at it. “Dad loved animals. He was really
upset about those kittens.” He caught the big-headed bastard and swung him by
the hind legs up against the end of the barn. Then my grandfather, Daniel
Grant, took the carcass down to Fergus', walked up the driveway with the cat in
tow, passed Fergus and flung it on the manure heap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It was Uncle Fergus' prize cat,
but dad just tossed it on the manure pile. Fergus was some ugly." I love
this story and the grandfather, who predeceased my birth, and whom I am said to
resemble in more than looks, who so loved the kittens. But there are other
stories from life on the concession, a deck of cards that my mother cuts and
shuffles and plays out, a litany] am familiar with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Then there was old Stan Stadnik,
on the next farm, and that lot of his." And so begin her tales of the
Stadniks who lived more by their thievery than by farming. Neighbours dogs
poisoned, cattle and machines and tools that went missing in the night, through
mysteriously broken sections of fence: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
calling cards of old Stan and his brood. “No one ever caught them, but
everybody knew who’d done it.” There are lots of these stories, but mostly
there is the time young Joe Stadnik (probably twenty at the time and sturdy as
a Massey-Ferguson) tried to have his way by the light of a new sun with mom in
the milking barn. “He kept walking closer, close enough I could smell him. I
just held onto that old butcher knife and kept walking backwards. I don’t know
what I'd've done if he'd gotten any closer ..." It's as clear as imagined
pain. His snowy boots making puddles on the floor, the sun smudging through the
few filthy panes and my mother, maybe sixteen, cursing shakily in imitation of
the men’s voices on the porches where they sat in the evening shooting the
bull.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just that knife in her hand and
him in menacing proximity, and finally somebody coming out of the house and him
hightailing it out the far end of the building before he could commit the one
word, rape, or end up bleeding among the cows' hooves and the shitty straw. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Usually the stories take a turn
then, to the comical, like she reads my breathing and wants to offer me some
fresh air. There was the wedding — "Malcolm McAllister and the bus
driver's daughter from the fifth? Or was it Ian, the one who always had a runny
nose? Anyway" — when the men let the goat into the house during the
reception and it ran all over the place, pissing on the father of the bride,
and the men outside, all spic'n'span in their Sunday go-to-meetin' clothes, happy
on corn liquor, dropping their cigarettes and their pipes and slapping their
thighs and laughing tears and wetting themselves. My grandfather, of course,
among them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, he could be a devil, Dad
could. Deaf in one ear, but you didn't dare whisper anything halfway nasty but
he'd be on ya. Christ. Ears like a hunting dog, right up to the end." The
end, it smells to me of hospitals, the hospital in Kingston, though I've never
been there, where they poked and prodded, did every experimental treatment on him
they could. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cancer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were just learning about cobalt and chemo
in those days, but my grandfather let them try it all out on his withering body.
For the future, for others. Or just for a few more days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Still, they couldn’t stop him
smoking. The nurses had a fit. His feet wouldn't hit the floor before he had a
cigarette in his mouth. Even in the hospital. ” In the hospital where he was
rap- idly dying until he demanded to be taken home, to the farm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The stories go on, easy and
gentle and seemingly without end. My mother collects them to her like a euchre
hand, careful of the order in which she plays them, holding some trump. I sip
coffee from a black mug, steam insisting its way onto the lenses of my glasses.
Mom pours the last of her tea from a tiny brown pot and whitens the cup with
milk. Dad always asks her if she'd like some tea with her milk, but I let it
pass this time, smirking to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Funny. I’ll never forget
the day that Uncle Fergus died.” I love this story. More even than the cat swung
up against the barn, or the tales of ‘Tiny Tim’, a distant crazy cousin of
ours, and his suit that smelled of mothballs and the time he approached my
father at some family occasion, most likely a funeral, saying "Ronald, I
have a matter to discuss with you," and everyone turning whiter than the
corpse, because he was going to go off on his spiel about 'the land,’ the
imagined family estate he and his mother had somehow been conned out of. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those are all classics, but this one’s my
favourite. Mom cradles her tea in both hands. "Fergus was some
hard-headed. Typical Scotsman. I remember that night. Dad came home from
Fergus' place and told us that Fergus' bull had got loose again." I see a
bovine silhouette hulking up out of a pasture, blue-black beneath the moon,
munching grass, eerily quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Dad told him to leave it,
go look for it in the morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Damn
thing’s no good for anything anyway' Dad said. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad thought pretty lowly of Fergus'
animals." Not the least of which was the cannibalistic cat. For that matter,
he probably didn't think all that highly of Fergus, blood or no blood. “But Fergus
was determined to go looking, so dad came home and we thought no more of it.
Fergus was pig-headed, but he knew his way around.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sips from her cup, feeding the story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"The bull, Fergus' bull was
well—known for being a nasty beast. It stamped a dog to death once in the barn.
Toby a little spotted terrier. Dad offered to put the bull out of his misery
with a two-by-four, but Fergus wouldn’t hear of it, said the bull was too
valuable for breeding. Probably the only thing more stubborn than Fergus was
that damn bull. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergus went looking and we went to bed, and
dad went over in the morning to see if he’d got it back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, he went up to the front of the house and
knocked on the door. No answer. So he went to the kitchen and the door was
unlocked and the kitchen light was on. He thought that was pretty strange.
There’d been a couple of thefts over the last week on the next concession, the
lot right behind our house, so dad got kinda worried and picked up Fergus' gun
from behind the stove. He went out to the barn first and the cows were stomping
and grunting and they hadn't been milked or fed. He said there was something in
their eyes. No sign of the bull, though, or Fergus. Not thirty feet from the
barn, just around the corner, he found him in the field, face up with his chest
crushed." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suddenly I am standing in the
field, looking down, looking into …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suddenly I know the look in the
eyes of the agitated cattle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The bull must have charged him,
smashed his ribs, collapsed both lungs. He died instantly." Died,
instantly and alone in the dark, finding, in that last moment as the shadow
closed on him and wrapped him between its horns, feeling its hugeness move
against and through him, the missing bull. All because it couldn’t wait til
morning. ”They found his boots twenty feet away." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story stops here. I want to know what
happened to the bull, but I don’t ask. That's the unwritten rule of the sermon.
You never ask what’s held back or look at your opponent's cards. You put a
period at the end of the story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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* * <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One night when I was home I
volunteered to wash the dishes. My mother sat at the kitchen table, talking
away her tea; dad was out with Skip, hoping to tire him in time for bed. It was
Skip’s third journey of the day down the path behind the house. Mom was barely
tolerating it: my father, his silence, his insistence on spending time with the
dog. ”He doesn’t have his ass in the door two minutes and he has to take the
dog out.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was the week after my father’s
buddy from work went into the hospital for double by-pass surgery He was three
years younger and twenty-five pounds lighter than my father. I know dad cannot
sit down, between the dog and helping with the housework and working on some
grievance. He will not relax. Mom is almost frightened over the edge of tea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don't worry. Mom" Those are
just words that sit between us. A useless knick-knack to drop on the table. She
worries. My father worries her. Dad came in five minutes later, as I was
folding the dish towel over a cupboard door. He unharnessed the dog who wagged
himself over to my knee, sort of sidewinding, as if led by the tail. Mom looked
at me, asked dad what he was doing. Before he could answer I suggested he was
going down to the basement with me to play darts, an offer so rare that he
would not dare refuse. Mom was younger at the sink as she rinsed her tea cup
out, and I felt like maybe I was giving us all a little more time, time that we
could use to slow down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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* *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually I close up the books,
reluctantly stack the photocopies that must all be read, silence my pen. No
more tonight. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've been slowing down,
having to reread every sentence. Scanlan… Scanlan… Scanlan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time to rest. For some reason the room is
noisy with voices, with shuffling papers and feet. Hazy eyes move around the
room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A group of men are playing euchre
at a table in a distant corner of my mind. I shake my head. My father, tousled
and somewhere between twenty-seven and fifty, deals another hand. My
grandfather lights another cigarette and uncle Fergus fans smoke out of his
eyes. They are talking about the government and about farming, and they are
drinking rye and coke, and I am imagining the whole thing when they spot me and
my grandfather pulls out the chair opposite my father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They need a fourth to play partners. I am
half-asleep, dying for a few hours in bed, but l stumble over; dream over to
where they are sitting. And there is the unmistakable sound of papers blown in
the wind, articles, contracts, documents of all kinds, and a smell like dry
grass and hand-rolled tobacco. I have to sit with them, just a couple of hands.
They need a fourth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pick up my cards, eye them up
and try to make contact with my father's gaze, over the lip of his glass. But I
see only that hair, hear his feet or maybe my sleepy feet more and more slowly
pacing. The cards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without looking at
the faces around the table I know I`ve been dealt a lousy hand. My head touches
the pillow and we play on into the night. The things we do<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-2196152520180478952012-01-14T05:20:00.000-08:002012-01-14T13:25:40.894-08:00A belated return to my publishing history ...In the winter of 1993-94, I had another piece of prose poetry published in <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=6726676175" target="_blank">Scrivener</a>, a quarterly published at McGill University. Titled, "green thread", this (along with "guilt") is one of my favorite pieces of writing. Sadly, that was 18 years ago ...<br />
Here it is:<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-no-proof: no;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">green thread<br /><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-no-proof: no;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">my buttons are falling off, clattering, rattling here
and there hollow on the linoleum.<br /><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: no;">i am of the belief that these falling buttons, <span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">like the hairs that show up in my hand when i</span>
<span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">rub my head, are a sign. everything is a
sign:</span> no effect without a cause; a place for <span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">everything and everything in its place. (breed</span> one part righteous
Scottish Protestantism with one part Highland insanity; add German <span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">and English to taste, and a taste for liquor -- a</span>
place for everything.)<br /><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">i sew my buttons back
on, when i can find them, with green thread so that they'll grow on the
garments i wear, so that they'll grow on me, giving me fasteners for the things
that are misplaced, slip through my fingers, for the moments that got away
leaving no scars where</span> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">they penetrated; here i could hook on a childhood (a
satchel of elusive memories), there i'd place a missing trinket, my glasses,
keys, wallet; i'd get them all back, gather them up like the displaced buttons
and fasten them to my body with needle and thread, and time would never hurt me
again.</span></span></span></span>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5495208816260989163.post-24583125108474687802011-12-31T13:53:00.000-08:002012-08-05T08:41:33.183-07:00Post #4 - The Lost Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Preparation is everything. Ask any Scout (boy or girl), they'll tell you. Before you decide to put up all of your old writing (and promise to do so), you need to locate it. Because sometimes you switch computers or you throw out all of your old floppy disks (once you buy a newer computer that doesn't use floppy disks), and before you know it things have gone missing.</div>
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Which is not to say that anything lost cannot be recovered. Just with a lot more effort than you'd like, that's for damn sure. Anyway, long story short: I had a piece of short fiction published in the Spring 1993 edition of <em>Poetry WLU</em> (from the folks at Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario - it appears the publication no longer exists, but they do continue the tradition as <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=27866207716" target="_blank">a student group</a>). It never migrated onto my current memory stick, so I had to: </div>
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Scan the 3-page story on the computer in the basement, which is attached to the copier/printer/scanner.</div>
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Email the scanned .pdf to myself so I could manipulate it on my laptop.</div>
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Use MS Paint to copy into a .jpg file, resize and post to the blog.</div>
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Always transfer your data to new media when you change format. That's what I'm trying to say. </div>
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And be prepared.</div>
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The sound of flight</h3>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">i'm talking to a friend at my locker after school;
he mentions a drifter, a stumpy man with a sugar sack full of his things, just
passing through town. The image is clear to me, of a man ready for the road,
crossing the goldenrod field. This time he would be approaching. this time he
wouldn't be my father and he wouldn't be leaving and i wouldn't be crying. i
picture a single bird on a mustard—coloured sky, careening toward this spot,
coming to land where i'd be standing; i'd be standing in the field near the
crab-apple tree looking for garter snakes or just beating hell out of milkweed
pods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'what you doin’ out here?' he’d ask, putting me off.
i'd imagined the question placed more gently on his tongue. his gaze would
travel the length of my body, like a window shopper's.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">i'd have answers, clever comebacks, but, not willing
to waste a single one, i’d reply 'nothin.’ his eyes would fall to the scuffed
toes of his shoes peeking from a curtain of frayed pant cuff. 'where are ya from?
i'd catch him off guard. ’ain't ya got a home?’: if i had him here i’d want an
answer to that question. it'd be a clue, a key to other stories. i'd watch his
cautious eye, not unlike other eyes above a twitchy mouth that let out some
weak lies about having to go away, for everybody’s good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the mouth would squirm, he'd be embarrassed.
maybe i'd feel bad, maybe i'd try to make up a story for the drifter in the
silence. he wouldn’t look like an out-of-work cowboy, or a farmer who fell on
bad times. no, his kind of dirty look would be hard to place. i'd watch those
careful eyes of his feel their way along the unfamiliar horizon like a pair of
shaky hands; dad’s brother, uncle Frank hands after he dried out. mom says
Frank got the DTs bad when he didn't drink. those eyes would still be making
slow progress when i’d recognize him for what he was: a full-time drifter, a
man who took to the road not to get somewhere, but to get away from where he
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a man who had to keep moving, a
yo-yo on a very long string. he might come back, but he never stays put.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">he wouldn’t be able to answer my questions (i
wouldn’t cry this time — he’d just be a stranger, a drifter -- but i'd know
what to expect next); he’d have to heft his sack again and turn to walk away.
'see ya round, kid.’ people are like that when they don’t have the right
answers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">so now i really am standing in the goldenrod field
with my weed-smacking stick when i think up this scenario, one i've played out
before, like some sort of revenge, always with the same ending. this field is
going to be townhouses some day. they’ll face my house when they're built – i
live across the road in the house with the yellow aluminum siding and the brick
that don’t quite match. i live in that very house with my mom, just the two of
us since dad left with the good silver and my college money. have to get out,
he said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">i cross the street and walk up the lawn. from the
front step, the houses on our side of the street seem lonely facing the empty
field that runs half a mile back before the bush starts. they seem to be
looking across that field, looking after someone that left or waiting patiently
for someone to return. i walk into the house and pause in the front hall: mom’s
in the basement – i hear her voice singing off-key ("Darling, it's
incredible / that someone so unforgettable / thinks that i’m unforgettable, /
too."), amidst the banging of nails into wood. band, band,
"unfor-" bang, bang — she's building the bird feeders and mailboxes
that pull in a little extra money. she’s drinking beer from a can and hammering
together the odds and ends of lumber we find on building sites so i can have
gym shoes and the occasional movie. i don’t know why people buy her lop-sided
feeders (pity, maybe), but they do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>some
of the more generous households sport three or four. the hammering stops for a
moment: clang — the hammer hits the floor. 'ssshhhit!' her hiss steams up
between the floorboards. she picks it up, pounds twice, three times with little
force and then a long silence — no singing, just the hammer limp in her hand,
and a sobbing i can only imagine because she has always tried to keep it
private. it’s sometimes too much for her — forty hours ringing in groceries at
Calbeck's, twenty more a week in the basement with hammer and saw. cooking and
cleaning, too, when she’s up to it. i help out, but not enough. i can never be
enough, and dad not here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">there's a pan of congealing eggs left on the stove
for me. i fumble around in the dark cupboards -- it' s nearing sundown, shadows
skulking into the corners of everything, but i don’t turn on a light -- i
manage to find one freckled banana. in my other hand i take a glass of koolaid
with some of mom’s vodka in it and quietly climb the stairs to my room, passing
the basement door without breathing. in my room I place the banana and the
glass on the dresser and search under my bed for my drawing book. here it is, a
stub pencil from the miniature golf course stuck between the middle pages. it’s
just a mildew green notebook that i never wrote in. i down the spiked koolaid
and eat around the mushy parts of the banana. dinner finished, i climb out the
window onto the porch roof with my book and pencil. this is where i draw.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">i say draw; i mean try to. i just do it because i
like it and i don't think so much when' i'm doing it. the sun is sinking fast,
sliding out of sight behind the tree line. i'll have to draw by moonlight with
a little help from the streetlights. i decide to draw the gull i saw above the
field today; it caught my eye, a white 'V' circling on a shiny, new-looking
afternoon sky, a gird going nowhere and not landing. it’s hard to get it right
with a lead pencil on lined paper. the hardest part is the sound. The gull was
not the only thing on that sky. to get it right i need the sound of a plane
flying at the same time. the sputter of the plane didn't fit with the gull’s
gliding, but it was there. i have to draw the sound. i don't know how. i don't
know who to ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">mom won’t know. i’m sitting here with the street
slowly drowning in the night, the streetlights like fireflies on the watery
surface, and i imagine the drifter would know. mom says he drew, but he's not
here. i could talk to the drifter; he might tell me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">i conjure him up again, just as he’d be turning away
from me. i'd call to him, make him stop. 'uh, excuse me.' he’d turn, eyes still
trying to look away. if he’d look at me i'd know those eyes, i'd know the
places he’d seen, the trains, the people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">i'd know the answer to my question; i'd know who he
was and where he came from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'what?' his tone is abrupt, a tone i know from a
harsh goodbye. ('i gotta get out. it’s for the best.') his eyes would approach
mine, cautious, coming at me on a strange circular path; his eyes would meet
mine for a second. a second too long. I know those eyes and where they came
from now, what they left behind. (the drifter runs away from things, not
towards them.) i'd like to ask him how he feels about the people he abandoned, ask
if being alone on the road makes up for the lives left hanging. the eyes have
it. they show the clattering whirr of a small twin-engine Cessna out for an
afternoon flight; a jaunt over the countryside, headed no place in particular.
i'd like to ask the wandering hero how he' d draw the sound of a plane, but he
only hears his own footsteps going away, he only sees the directionless spiral of
a gull, spiralling inside his eyes, around a blurring centre. he wouldn't draw
a sound. he’d draw the gull on a cold, empty sky. he’d be my father. he’d never
answer, never come home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">i learn the key is to draw things as you know them.
my father wouldn't draw a sound, he’d leave the ugly mechanical noise out of
the gull's lonely dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">for that reason, and because i have his eyes, i put
the plane's grating hum in a bottom corner, write it into the picture. even on
a sky scarred with blue lines, the gull's twisting looks aimless. never
landing; a wobbling circling. the pounding of my mother’s hammer is the pulse
of this house; i can hear it from the porch roof like feeling the blood rushing
through my own ears. she is building more bird feeders, shelters, trying to
create a centre. the mute bird on the page circles away, a broken gyroscope on
the night’ s string. circling, circling away in a lying silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>R Lance Ceaserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00335453256682829780noreply@blogger.com0