Against all odds some of us adhere to a favourite part. I am the strange woman with the deepening walk who carries a two-by-four over one shoulder. You are the large man sitting in the fire; flames all ’round, not feeling the heat.
ANSWERING THE CHILDREN
Q: Where will it end?
A: In the great haul of history.
Mostly there will be history. You must realize this. One foot following another without options. And everywhere there will be graves and because of graves grown people will be gathered together sobbing while children sing and dance nearby. Thus the ages follow one another. This is called the great haul of history.
Q: Where will it end?
A: In bankruptcy.
Understand that you are a registered world with a finite spending capacity. But also that you need not live solely in the required now. In plain English you can step across the sideline, borrow time. This is something we do. Have our eggs in more than one world. In worlds filled with imagination, say, or northern lights, or lucky stars.
Q: Where will it end?
A: We love you.
You can thank your windfall days for that. Now please resume your singing. We don’t want to say too much.
THE GOD OF BANALITY
We have washed the house in morning rain. Bathed the children with words plucked from the lips of poets. Bathed ourselves with the music that inhabits the end of dreams, three descending notes of rapturous birdsong.
We have swept the pathway of ashes, tethered our farm animals to oak trees, chopped wood at sunrise, sprinkled salt and milk across our doorsteps, lit outdoor fires for the morning feast where eggs boiled with pig’s snouts and magical words have been offered and consumed. We have re-told the death anecdotes and the tales of narrative luck that allow us to take heart in this world.
We do these things every morning to ensure the enduring presence of the god in our lives. The god of the everyday—soothing, predictable, common to all—a singing hologram that lives in dust.
PLAY BUTTON
I want to be the play button that sends out laughing songs. Thereby reprising the merry view. Where its folk reign. Sacred champagne. An endless ticker tape parade.
I’ll even project pictures of the world’s dumb work. What we do, the mush of things, the clinking animosities, the wondrous starving in the wondrous world.
If I can stay the old form, thoughtful and sweet from the history store.
If I can be a slot machine for Chekhov. A one-armed bandit winning a jackpot of sight. Though I’ll settle for a sly aside of knowing why. And how and when. A merry-go-round as to words, tra la …
THE SECRET PILLARS OF THE UNIVERSE
All men named Bob* are secret pillars of the universe, as are all women named Janice.* We read about it in National Geographic— “Scientists Unlock the Secret of the Universe.” Graphs, a map, and stunning pictures accompanied the article. We read it with relief. Now that the secret has been revealed we can let go of our worries. There are living people who are responsible for all the physical matter in the universe as well as the entirety of space and time; it doesn’t have to be us holding things together. In fact, it can’t be us since our names are neither Bob nor Janice, but Darcie and Dwayne. All that is required is that we go about our daily business of observing the weather and cooking our oatmeal. That’s it. Big Bangs, Standard Models, Big Crunches, Local Bubbles, Black Holes, Negative Energy, Dark Matter, and the End of the Universe needn’t concern us. We can relax. The Bobs and Janices are hard at work.
* Not their real names.
Only they don’t know it, don’t know that they are secret pillars of the universe and hence are working on our behalf. Their work is un-self-conscious. Blind. Dumb. This is what the scientists discovered: secret pillars don’t realize their importance, their necessity. If they were ever to attain a full understanding of their life’s purpose they would immediately die, go mad, or be replaced. Who or what does the replacing? So far this is unknown, but the fact that they immediately lose their mortal power is the reason the article didn’t use their real names. Naming them would be like taking aim and firing.
Like causing the universe to wobble, maybe even to disappear.
We assume that the pillars are good and selfless people—quiet, intuitive champions of the beautiful, the true and the just. We are told that their work is much like that of Atlas from Greek mythology who was punished by Zeus for picking the wrong side in the Olympian war. There’s a picture of Altas in the article. Naked and blind, he’s bent over from carrying the celestial sphere on his shoulders, an unendurable load to be sure but not, the article explained, as weighty as our whole universe.
Researchers have isolated the two genes responsible for causing a person to become a secret pillar. They are the Bob* Gene and the Janice* Gene. This is what they are called though the names are fictitious and in no way reveal the identity of their carriers. The genes were discovered during routine autopsies of the suddenly dead and scientists are now working on developing a blood test which will determine the gene’s presence in an individual, work that is not without ethical controversy.
* Their real names.
The Bob and the Janice genes become activated either at birth when, unbeknownst to their parents, the name is assigned, or later on if the secret name is used as a diminutive or pet name, or if a person unwittingly changes his or her name either legally or otherwise. This last instance is called a Cosmic Conversion.
There’s an infrared picture of what is thought to be a Cosmic Conversion on the third page of the article. It’s of a “New Bob,” a person aged thirty-two who for some inexplicable reason decided to change his name from Robbo. The special camera, while obscuring his facial features, has caught a shimmering cloud that engulfs the new Bob; it looks like an iridescent soap bubble. Scientists suspect that this soap bubble may be an indication of secret pillardom. “New Bob” in the picture is cradling a pet ferret while behind him lies a trashed Harley Davidson motorcycle and a burning club house. He is a replacement Bob.
We believe he’s Dwayne’s nephew, though we have been advised not to pursue this notion because if his true identity were revealed then that would be the end of the “New Bob,” the end of a pillar of the universe. We wouldn’t want to be responsible, would we?
A purely personal conjecture on the part of me, Darcie Sloan,* is that if I, for example, were to possess the Janice gene it would mean that I too, am a secret pillar of the universe. And so might you be, and you, and you. Though scientists advise it’s unwise to go snooping after our true selves as their autopsy tables prove. It is better, they tell us, to be content with the micro-universe we know, the one that came into being at our births. Appreciate the spectacular light show that includes all forms of matter and energy and the physical laws and constraints that govern them, they tell us, and leave the heavy work of holding up the universe to the unknowing Bobs and the Janices— and to them.
* Not my real name.
EQUIPMENT FOR THE ENDURANCE OF LOVE
Glee. The choice of a resident choir is important. Gleefullness is influenced by atmosphere, and since appearance is the most important component of atmosphere, it is crucial that your choir be pleasing to the eye as well as to the ear. A capella choirs make the best home choirs and may be made up of angels, birds, or human beings. The choir should be portable and able to perform four-part harmonies, or more, on demand!
Mnemotechny. Again it is the meticulous Germans who explain that the house where a love affair is under siege should be adorned with copper engravings, pointillist paintings and granite carvings of your ancestors. The secret of enduring love, they tell us, is to display these items about your rooms and move them often, but gently. A certain high-class school of thought in France disagrees, dispensing with procedure all together. Their method of constructing mnemotechny is to prohibit deliberateness, insisting that results can best be achieved with the random and often violent pairing of inharmonious elements—the Buddha
enshrined in a Barbie castle would be an obvious example. The French method, it should be pointed out, is a professional one, and unless expertly executed may result in the merely droll.
WHAT WE NEED
A handler. A hand up. A hand-hold. A Han(d)sel and Gretel. A handstand. Handlebars. Handball. A handbook. Handwriting. A handicap. A handgun. A hand grenade. Handcuffs. Hands wringing. A handle on it. A hand out. A handmaiden. A handyman. A hand job. A handbag. A hand mirror. A handout.
A good hand. A hand over a fist. A hand over a hand. A handsome thank you.
A hearty handshake. A handful of good luck. The sound of one hand clapping.
A handspring. Another handspring …
PULSE*
The timeline is shrinking. We are entering the risk zone. Consumers are in the dump, victims of financial advisors, psychopaths, corrupt CEOs, their own greed. We wonder: should we stay in the dump or should we go? Cut our losses or take a wait and see approach? Spend what’s left on Christmas or cut back, hunker down? It’s a rich mystery. It’s feared the crisis could get much worse. Surplus has been scaled back by billions. What does this mean? Falling prices in a broad range of categories have created a nightmare scenario that worries the top cop. He’s pledged to end disorder. We’re not in the best place on earth any more. This much is clear. This much has been repeatedly stated. The homeless are no longer docile or whacked out but angry. Their numbers have swollen to include former haves. Now everyone’s in danger of slipping into the red. It’s feared the bloodbath’s about to begin. We are in deeply negative territory. We are plunging hard and fast into meltdown. It is feared we are headed beyond what is known.
* Compiled from newspaper headlines, late 2008.
THE MENTOR
There isn’t a hole he hasn’t stood in with measuring tape and clipboard surveying the contours for metaphor and flesh. The holes in our perception and understanding of things; the holes in the blankets we cover ourselves with, hiding out from each other and from life; the holes which are questions, areas of worry and pain and love that we try to find answers to.
For years I peered over the edges of these holes as he worked below, handing him shovels and ropes as required, straining to see the precise measurements he was taking, the notations he made on the clipboard strung around his neck like a postmodern cross. But somehow I was never there when the magic—the pyrotechnic words—appeared. And then I wandered off and discovered that instead of the holes it was the waters that interested me more. Ebb, flow, currents, ferry boat rides …
This business of creating with words is about not telling lies. You begin and you speak directly. You don’t hide behind your words. You get equal billing with them. You’re a matched set. It’s a combination, but it’s not locked. You say what you have to say and you move on. You leave the words, and what they have created. You steer your slow boat beyond them.
TO THE AUTHOR
I was reading your book about the world’s natural intricacies, and how landscape consists of the multiple overlapping of forms that exist in a given space in a moment of time.
I thought: So that’s what it is! And put the book down and gazed out the window.
The light was yellow and grey; it was mid-afternoon, late fall. There was smoke from burning leaves, a film of cloud, a smudged-looking sun.
I opened the window and leaned on the sill, the better to notice the overlapping forms of the landscape. The air felt cool. Soggy poplar leaves were plastered to the hood of the Toyota; the stand of black bamboo beside the driveway shone from the recent rain. Further off lay a strip of wet asphalt, and beyond that, the sea between firs.
Suddenly the sun broke through, bronzing everything. A moment of time was never so beautiful! This is when, without warning, I experienced surrender. I hadn’t planned on that, to move from cataloguing forms—as you suggest in your book—to abandoning time and desire. Your book hadn’t prepared me for that.
TO BE CONTINUED
Last night we returned to the beach to see the massed gulls. So many were circling the sky overhead as we walked that we were certain we’d find them perched on the rocks as before. There was a strong wind and the sun had broken through the heavily overcast sky so that the underbellies of the gulls were illuminated, flashing white as they rode the wind. But the beach was empty of birds. The herring must have moved farther down the inlet. The strong wind, cold on our faces, pushed at the sea with such force that whitecaps had formed. The light on the small surf, on the overhanging arbutus trees lining the beach, and on the larger firs and cedars beyond them was green and yellow. The scene was hectic, exciting, with the cawing birds overhead. We climbed the rocks and stood looking out, the dog beside us. The wind blew our hair back and the dog’s fur was blown flat against her body; she angled her nose and sniffed the windy air. When we returned to the path along the shore we saw uneven lines of grey and brown herring roe spread along the beach. They were woven amongst the seaweed, and together they glistened in the yellow and green light like a living veil.
There are times when the experience of living in this world is rapturous. And there are times when it curls us crying in our beds. Between these extremes we tell one another what we know …
BURNING HER BRIDGES
Marge was my friend from school. She was married to Mr. Sullivan. They had a big farmhouse with a lot of property, three kids, and his parents living with them. Marge had to do all the work, the cooking, the cleaning, and waiting on the old couple. Finally, she couldn’t take it any more. This was in 1959. Walked out of the house one day with nothing but the coat on her back and came here. Said she was sick and tired of being treated like dirt. And she wouldn’t go back, not even when her husband came begging, or her kids came crying. Then she met Fred, and that caused a scandal because he was married and had a good job with the railway. Pretty soon Fred left his wife and he and Marge got an apartment in town. But the company Fred worked for didn’t like this so they transferred him three hundred miles away. I told her: You go off with Fred and that’ll be the last you’ll see of your kids. But she went, burning her bridges. And that’s where they lived for ten years as man and wife, though they were never legally married.
Marge and Fred presented themselves well, wearing the best clothes. They always dressed up when they went out, even if it was to the grocery store. We visited them once a year though it was a long way to drive. They had a little trailer they’d done up cute. We’d visit in the afternoon then stay in a motel. It made a nice two-day trip. Then Fred died. Had a heart attack one Thursday afternoon on his way to the bank. Dropped dead in the street. And Marge had no one. It was my brother who arranged the funeral. I can still see Marge in her expensive suit and hat draping herself over the coffin and howling: Fred, Fred.
After the funeral Marge had nowhere to go so she came here again. Mother was with me then, eighty-six years old and failing. We were two widows sharing the double bed. Marge took the empty back bedroom. It had the best view in the house—of the garden and the cherry tree in spring.
She had no money that we knew of but she had her beautiful clothes. That’s what she spent most of her time doing, washing and ironing her clothes. On a weekday morning she’d turn up for breakfast wearing a Harris tweed suit and chiffon blouse. In the afternoon she’d change into a dress and pearls for a meal of fried meat and potatoes. With Mother and me in house dresses. But no one said anything, didn’t ask how long she planned to stay. We let her be the way she was. She was company for us, someone different. We just kept feeding her and washing her sheets once a week and that was that. Pretty soon it was like Marge had become one of the family; everyone stopping by to see Mother and me would now be seeing Marge as well. She lived with us for two years.
Then one day she packed her bags, called a taxi, and left without so much as a good-bye or a thank you. Years later I read her obituary. It didn’t even mention she had kids.
MONUMENT
I revisited my childhood home, the one by the beach,
the one that figures in all my dreams, the one I always boasted was the same as ever, that it hadn’t been painted or torn down or altered in any way, that it looked from the road as it had done all those years ago. Even though it was shabby now with peeling paint, and the long front lawn was weedy, and the cement border on the driveway was crumbling, and the flower beds were empty, and the small rose garden had gone. I could still conjure up the proud feeling I had had about living there with my parents.
For years after they’d sold the house I would drive past and point it out to friends: See, it’s still there—like a monument, intact; not lost, not vanished. This fact gave me comfort—and proof that my life wasn’t lost or vanishing, either.
Then I became curious to see the inside of the house and whether it also remained unchanged. So after all those years I drove down the broken asphalt driveway. And there was the covered patio where I’d played jacks and tossed my lacrosse ball. And here was the same door handle with the metal worn thin, and the door itself which was a slab of painted wood.
Down the Road to Eternity Page 19
