Good

This is me not having anything good to post and simply posting for the sake of posting just because it is my day and nothing more. Actually, I don't even really want you to read this. I just like seeing it in online because it looks pretty on the website. I wrote it in about three minutes, and probably spent more time on this introduction than on the actual piece. The piece, poorly edited and even poorer quality of writing, grammar and vocabulary has no relevance or meaning to anything anyone should really care about. Furthermore, any negative criticism or helpful suggestions will be kindly disregarded because perfection cannot be improved upon. And that is the entire point of writing.


Cashier: Bonjour--hello. Did you find everything you were looking for?

Client: Yes, I did. Thanks OH so much for asking!

Cashier: No problem! How are you, sir?

Client: I am good! And you, SIR!?

Cashier: Good. Thanks for asking.

Client: Oh, no problem at all. I mean, everyone is good these days, right?

Cashier: I’m sorry?

Client: I’m sure you are. What I mean is, well, good, you know, everyone is good when asked directly on the spot, but you’re obviously not expecting to me answer anything else which may shed any factual light about myself which may lead to an uncomfortable or awkward situation. Right? Well...

Cashier: ...

Client: I mean, when you ask ‘how are you,’ you’re expecting me to say good even though in reality I may be a mess. An alcoholic drug fueled mess. Right? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking you to feel pity for me or anything, I still have money and I can still buy books that look pretty on shiny clean dining room tables, but good, you know, It’s a figure of speech, right? A transition, the foreplay before the rising action, and the fuck, you know, the fucking denouement. A greeting ritual. A blowjob. Basically, it’s all shit, am I right? There is no substance in “good,” (so I guess it isn't really like a blowjob), like, if I were honest, and you truly wanted to know how I am, I would tell you the terrible fucking truth. Like how my marriage is falling apart and how my slow addiction to smoking crack has fucked with my brain and testicles. You know what I’m talking about when I say my testicles?

Cashier: Um, do you have a membership card?

Client: A MEMBERSHIP CARD? IN YOUR FUCKING DREAMS I HAVE A MEMBERSHIP!

Cashier: So your total is...

Client: I’m not paying money to save money, where’s the fucking logic in that? Fucking 5 cents for plastic bags and fucking 5 cents for an anal licking down the street.

Cashier: It would save you 10% off all books.

Client: BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT!

Cashier: Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to calm down. Your total is $55.00

Client: That’s all wrong! The price on the book says 40!

Cashier: That’s the American price. In Canada it costs more.

Client: BUT OUR DOLLAR IS FUCKING EVEN!

Cashier: Yes. Right. But we still import the books from the States and...

Client: Brian... Yeah Brian, that’s what your name tag says right? How are you Brian?

Cashier: I’m good, sir.. I’m..

Client: I KNOW YOU'RE GOOD BECAUSE YOU HAVE A FUCKING VEST WITH A FUCKING NAMETAG. BUT YOU’RE NOT GOOD, BRYAN. NOBODY IS GOOD. Nobody is good because there is no fucking meaning to life! We’re just another fucking breed of animal who fucks and eats and shits and pushes babies out of our fucking... VULVAS! Am I right? We just go around and around and around and around, and we spin through and buy shit to make us happy and then when we buy shit we buy updated shit to make us happier and then when we sit down and finally think of a meaning of it all, we fucking shit our fucking pants, am I right? Everything is so stainless and pretty and perfect and when we’re actually happy we find out that everything is dead and everything is going do die eventually and everyone is alone until we die! RIGHT?!

Cashier: Right.

Client: It’s not that we suffer! NO! We don’t suffer. We’re just too apathetic to suffer. This post-modern shit has fucked with our heads and now we’re too lazy to get off our asses and be honest. How are you, sir? I’M FUCKING PROSTITUTES IN THE ASS! HOW DO YOU THINK I AM?

Cashier: Sir I’m feeling mighty uncomfortable in this current situation..

Client: MIGHTY UNCOMFORTABLE, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU FROM?

Cashier: I’m gonna have to call a manager.

Client: GOOD! Do it. GOOD! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT! I DON’T FUCKING EXIST! I’M JUST FUCKING WRITING ON A FUCKING PIECE OF PAPER OR COMPUTER SCREEN, WHY ARE YOU EVEN WASTING YOUR TIME WITH ME? IT'S ALL JUST A BUNCH OF NONSENSE BEING TYPED DOWN GOING THROUGH SOME GUYS HEAD WHO THINKS LIFE IS GOOD AND LIFE IS GRAND AND MIGHTY FINE. AM I RIGHT? I’M JUST A WOODY ALLEN-ESQUE NEUROTIC CHARACTER STARING INTO THE CAMERA AND SLOWLY DEVOLVING INTO A MELANCHOLIC, RAPID AND OFF-BEAT ENDING, RIGHT?

Manager: May I help you sir?

Client: Ah, fucking suck my dick.

Edited This From My Blog (Thanks Jordano)

This one is called Given The Chance and it's on my blog. This is the edit and I have to thank Jordano for commenting because I really took his comment to heart and believe its much better now.

Given The Chance

I would gladly spot you
in the crowd of people
that has suddenly gathered, appeared
in my distorted basement
with enough room for
two hundred people
sitting in comfortable seats,
each set in rows,
and thirty two others,
standing, watching the screen.
I look for you by
what I remembered you
wore that day (black sweater;red pants).
I can't see you, yet
but knowing that
you're in this room
comforts me:
I have something
to look forward to
after three hundred and thirty
forced conversations
with blurs of people I care nothing about.

Because that's what they are. Blurs.
They are moving mannequins
with British accents.
We'll joke about them later.


Bonus Post: (this is a rawer piece that I've written recently.)

Mouse

Today, I made a joke about
the dead mouse under the stairs
and how it got there.
Sometimes, I realize that I ain't
as nice as people believe me to be.

I tell them that it's because
underneath all of this skin
is a man who has lived through
many disappointments.

They look confused so I explain that
a disappointment is when
the child in you gets hit with a shovel,
then that first shovelful of dirt rains on him
as he gets buried alive.

The Halls Are Filled With The Sound Of Us

There are no speeches anymore:
there is no such thing
as a formal declaration of joy.

Here is the handshake broken
by laughter's hammer,
the procedure ripped--thrown
from the thunderous height
of the Speaker's chair
and the cheering of the public galleries
(they've never thrown roses before).

There is the Sargent-at-Arms, dismissed
to return with coffee
and a copy of the Republic
(for all the diry jokes).
There are the bells summoning
the assembling House
to speak of the beautiful children
of the Opposition;

and later,
when the lights are dimmed
and the movie put on,
the distribution of candy
among the multicolored sleeping bags.

Do comment! Also, people I have high-fived in Parliament so far:

• The hon. Peter Milliken, Speaker of the House of Commons
• Bill Young, Parliamentary librarian
• The hon. Michael Ignatieff
• The hon. Stéphane Dion
• The hon. Bob Rae
• The Right Honourable Jean Chrétien

Also--how is publication going? How does one get a copy? When and where are we officially doing this? Are we under Creative Commons? All questions to be answered.

The Law Code of Heart Rape

The post you are about to read will change your life forever. This is not Maximilien Bianchi.

This is his sibling. The stronger of two. My name is Bruno-Thomas Bianchi. This will be the last time any of you will see my true name. I am great. And I want all of you to bask in my greatness.

So I have been a follower of the "Heart Rape blog" for quite some time. I have recently observed somewhat of a discontentment with the content of this blog. And your past ruler username "Tabs" made some comments that sapped her authority.

I being a great man saw this as an opportunity. I will explain what I mean. When an object supports an amount of other objects for a long time, unless it is already this way, these objects will settle on the first object in the most fitting place. In other words, they get comfortable which you have all gotten with "Tabs". Now when this object is compromised there is a risk that it will eventually break or be removed. But this leaves these other objects alone and with no support. Unless one wants these objects to plummet to their demise, this object must be replaced with a new, structurally sounder object. That will be me.

However, I do not want you beautiful objects to have to experience what it is like to be lost without a support, without a stable object to depend on. And so I will skip the destruction of the original object and move right onto the replacing. Consider this "Tabs" 's resignation. I will be your new leader. A powerful and just leader. But I am not forgiving. I will establish a law code in this society. And if my people do not follow these laws. They will be punished.

I will now state the 5 laws:

1- My people will refer to me as El Gran Thomás.

2- All future posts must be dedicated to your new leader.

3- There will be no more bickering as to what is an appropriate post.

a) Whatever a citizen feels must be said can and should be said.

b) In response, the people are also allowed to respond with what they feel they must.

4- I do not like the word kumquat. All of you will refer to this fruit as the egg shaped citrus.

5- Nobody shall question the will of El Gran Thomás.

This is all I ask of you. If you follow these five laws, I will permit you to stay in my society. But be warned. Those who break the laws will suffer a fate no man or woman should. That is all. The usurpation of "Tabs" will occur within the month. Be warned.

El Gran loves you.

Attention all Heart Rapists

It has come to my attention - my personal attention - that the original post was worded very strongly and far too assertive for both what the club stands for and myself as a member of the group. For this I apologize. I won't go into details but my mind was not set right that night. I was impulsive, decisive and tyrannical and even Garaway can't pull that shit off with good reason. What should have been suggestions came out as orders and again, that's not what the club stands for.

What we do stand for, though, is writing. And writing to the best of our abilities, and sharing something we want others to hear. That's what The Creative Writing Club was about. A bunch of people gathering together to share something special.

Which is why I still stand by my original post that everything posted here should be something you're proud of. Something you want to share, something you're willing to print out and drag all the way to Westmount Library and read in an almost soundproof room we stole from a group that didn't show up at the last minute, fifteen minutes before closing time.

And the group is about feedback. We're friends. We're writers. We're readers. We're editors. All four are inseperable. Take the time to show some love, because everyone knows not only how painful it is to write and display to an empty room, but also how unhelpful it is. Which for a writer, is probably more scarring than any rape could make.

The Creative Writing Club was about sharing.

The Heart Rape Club should be about the same thing. So let's share.

Weekly Assignment

Optional Weekly Assignment to Begin May 24th:

A video posted online gone horribly askew from its original intention.

Boyhood, Manhood, Fatherhood, Death (Part 4)

Vincent. I tried to remember how and when we had named our first born child, our son. If the baby turned out to be a girl, I remembered my wife had wanted to call her Jane. I didn’t know why. There must have been a reason. There’s always a reason, apparently. I didn’t really like Jane. It sounded old fashioned. We had many options for a boy’s name. My wife made a list. I think she really expected it to be a girl, though. She was so intent on Jane.

It’s funny, when we did have a girl three years later, we called her Jessica.

When the first baby turned out to be a boy it was just a question of choosing in the lot of boy names. Vincent was in the lot. But who had put it there in the first place? It must have been me. It would have been too much of a coincidence if she had thought of it.

Vince was far from my own thoughts in those years. Ever since the last summer we spent together, we became sort of estranged. We lost touch as soon as I moved away, and I stopped thinking about him more or less completely.

I suppose it was my unconscious, then, that brought back that name. Vincent. Maybe we read it out of one of those books full of names, and I found it sounded nice, without realizing why. It was a nice sounding name. Faintly French, maybe. Vince made for a good nickname too, short and direct. My wife liked it, and so when my baby boy was born he was named after my childhood best friend without anyone knowing about it, not even me.

Around lunchtime I grew tired of reading. I couldn’t stop thinking about Vince. He had seemed so sure of himself, so open and friendly at the Starbucks. He had invited me out for beer so spontaneously. He had sounded genuinely happy to see me.

Was I happy to have seen him? Of course I was.

A bit nervous about going out for a beer with him, maybe. But that was normal, wasn’t it? So many things had changed.

I wondered if he remembered everything I remembered. I couldn’t see how not, but then I had not thought of these things in years myself. Maybe it was a question of how you remembered. Maybe my impression was different.

Maybe I had made it worse in my mind.

I left the hospital and spent the afternoon walking around downtown. It was a warm, sunny late spring afternoon. The beautifulquébecoises were out in their short dresses and heels. Everyone seemed happy to be outside in the balmy air after a winter of drinking beer and watching hockey.

After a while I got back to the hotel and did some work on my computer. Around five-thirty I went back out for an early shish taouk dinner in a Lebanese joint. When I returned to the hotel room I called Vince on the cellphone number printed on his business card. He seemed very busy, on the phone. I was still uncomfortable.

— Hey, Vince? Vincent. It’s Victor.

— Hey, Victor! I haven’t forgotten about tonight. Hold on a sec.

I heard him talk to someone else on an authoritative tone. His voice sounded distant, he must have put his hand on the receiver.

— Okay! Sorry about that. I’m still at work. So yeah, I can’t wait to catch up with you!

— What was the bar you said we’d meet at?

— Grumpy’s. It’s on Bishops, just above René-Lévesque.

— Okay. Eight o’clock?

— Eight it is.

I heard another voice, further off. Vince covered the receiver again and shot something back at the person on the other end.

— Listen, Victor, I gotta go. See you tonight, okay?

— Okay, see you later.

I had a couple of hours to kill, so I read some more of Céline, just to myself, this time. I managed to get past the part in Africa. I was happy because I preferred the latter part of the novel, when he goes to American, and then back to France to become a doctor.

At seven-thirty I put on a fresh shirt and made my way westward on René-Lévêsques. Vince was already waiting for me at the bar, which was an Irish pub cramped in a basement. Vince was sitting at the bar, but after I had ordered my beer we carried our glasses to a small table at the back so we could talk.

An awkward silence immediately fell over us. Vince was the first to break it.

— So your father’s still at the hospital?

— Yeah. He’s in a coma.

— Oh. I’m so sorry.

— It’s fine. It’s his second this year. Well, it’s not fine, I mean...

— It’s okay...

— Yeah. It’s pretty intense, I just... I don’t know... I don’t think he’s going to make it, you know?

Vince met my gaze with one of complete understanding and compassion. He nodded carefully as he spoke.

— That must be really hard.

— Yeah. Sometimes he doesn’t recognize me anymore.

I almost asked about Andrée, about Melissa. Not yet, I thought.

— It’s tough, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized how tough it would be.

— It’s part of growing up, I suppose.

— Yeah. Growing up. We’ve grown up quite a bit since those days...

— We certainly have.

— Do you remember all those days we spent in the woods?

— Yeah, I do. We had lots of fun back then.

— We did. It’s too bad we lost touch... It’s my fault, really, I should’ve called or something after I left.

— Victor. Don’t go there. It’s fine. We were so young.

— We were just boys.

— Yeah.

We both contemplated our beers and took a few sips before he picked up again.

— And you said you had a son, now, too...

— Yes. And a daughter.

— Are they in Montreal, now?

— No. No, they all stayed in Toronto until the end of the week. I flew down as soon as I knew, about my father. They’re driving down on Saturday.

— I see.

Expecting another silence, I asked the first question that came to mind.

— What about you? Married?

— Yes, in fact, I am. My husband is called Guillaume. We would’ve liked to have kids, but it’s rather complicated, legally and all. It’s our one deception, you could say.

— Disappointment, you mean.

I corrected automatically, I was thinking of what he had just said, of his husband.

— Yes, disappointment. Deception means another thing completely, doesn’t it? I don’t have a chance to practice my English as much as I’d like to. I would be much worse than I am today if I hadn’t spoken with you when I was so young.

— Your English is fine. I wouldn’t want to speak French with you, imagine how little I’ve practiced that in Toronto!

— How do you like it, over there?

— It’s okay. I prefer Montreal, to be honest. I’m there for the job, the kids. After University my life kind of fell into place over there. Ashley, my wife, she comes from Toronto. All her family lives there.

— But your Dad?

— Yeah, he moved back to Montreal. My sister, too, she married a Québecois.

— How come?

— It’s complicated. My parents got divorced when I was in high school. After a couple of years my Dad moved back to Montreal, for his job. My sister and my mom were always fighting in those days, so my sister moved to Montreal at the end of high school. She went to live with my Dad, did her CEGEP and everything. I stayed in Toronto with my Mom...

— And your a journalist, now?

— Yeah. I studied English and journalism at U of T, I met Ashley, got a job. I’m a cultural critic now, for the Toronto Star. Movies and TV, mostly. Sometimes I do book review, or little editorials on culture.

— That sounds interesting.

— And your a big shot lawyer, now?

— Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work for one of the big firms, downtown.

— That’s nice.

— It didn’t start off that way. You remember how it was at my house. It wasn’t easy with my Dad and Andrée. I survived through high school but it took me a long time to finish my CEGEP. I was more interested in other stuff. I worked for a bar, downtown. I took a year off, went abroad. To Europe, Asia.

— You went out to find yourself?

— No. I went out to escape from my family, which I felt I didn’t really belong in.

He took a great gulp from his beer. I was about to whisper an apology, feeling I’d gone too far, but he kept talking.

— Then I came back, I lived in a tiny apartment in the Gay village with four or five other guys. I worked and partied and went to law school and partied less. I fixed up my life. I met Guillaume. My father eventually spoke to me again, after he got separated from Andrée.

We both drank from our beers — long, cold mouthfuls that washed smoothly down my throat.

Later, in the bathroom, after I had pissed my two and a half beers, I washed my hands and threw handfuls of cold water in my face. I felt stupid, mistaken. I didn’t know if my mind was playing tricks on me. I hadn’t drunk much, but I felt completely wasted.

***

It happened in my last summer in Québec. Vince and I were both twelve. I felt heavy at heart, that summer, and guilty. I was the one leaving, after all. It was our last summer together. We meant to enjoy it was much as we could, on account of our separation, of course, and of the difficult school year we’d both had. It had been our first year in high school, and our first time in separate schools. Vince’s father had made him go to a private French school, which cost him a lot of money but was worth it for his education. I went to the big English High School on the South Shore.

One afternoon, after a particularly wet morning spent searching in Vince’s considerable Lego collection, Vince’s father sent us out with Melissa. Andrée was having another headache, he wanted us all out of the house. We complied and went out into the woods.

The clouds had passed and we were happy to be outside again, even if we had to take care of Melissa. We walked aimlessly in the woods for a while, eventually reaching the stream and following its winding course deeper into the dripping forest. The post-shower sun shone through the boughs laden with intensely green leaves, glistening with rain water. The forest looked beautiful and vibrant.

The undergrowth was wet, too, and soon my sneakers and socks were heavy and humid, but I did not mind. Vince walked up front, eyes down on the stream — he was looking for crayfish. I came next, a few meters behind him, wielding a stick around like a sword, cutting off bits of leaves with swift, deft swings that whistled in my ears. Melissa followed me, daydreaming as she trudged along further back, sometimes stepping into the stream by accident. When this happened Vince and would both look back to make sure she was okay. She always was, she just stepped out of the stream without even looking down. Her shoes were all wet and muddy. She didn’t care.

Eventually we reached the swamp. The frogs went mute as we approached, and sprang into the water with spasmodic, gurgling spurts when we got too close. Further off, other frogs were still croaking loudly, the air pulsed with their constant, throaty cries. Vince and I knew the forest well, we decided to walk on to the right, leaving the swamp and stream behind, knowing the way would lead us to a group of pine trees growing close together, and further off to our oak tree.

We followed this route, soon passed the pine trees, and finally made it to our favorite spot. Melissa reached us a few minutes later. She dropped down on the wet moss underneath the oak tree with a sigh. She sat there, rain water no doubt leaking through her pink shorts and into her underwear, leaned back against the ridged trunk, and closed her eyes.

Vince looked down at her, thoughtfully. He was very silent for some time. I was fidgety, at first, walking around, striking the air with my stick, but then seeing Vince staring down intently at Melissa and she, eyes closed, absolutely still against the tree I calmed down and approached them. I was attracted by the strange tension that was creeping between them, slowly, silently. I did not understand.

Vince did not seem angry, and I did not know him to have any kind of violence within him, but at that moment, I was sure he was going to kill his stepsister. He didn’t, of course. He coughed nervously, and then spoke. He was very serious.

— I’ll go first. Then it’s your turn.

He started unzipping his shorts. I didn’t say anything.

— You can watch.

His shorts dropped down to a pile around his ankles. His legs looked very small and crooked in the rich afternoon light, seeping through the canopy of leaves. Her wore loose boxers that bulged and sagged like a parachute at the top of his thighs. He fell down on his knees before Melissa, on the wet ground.

— Mélissa, enlève tes shorts. Et tes bobettes, aussi.

To my surprise, Melissa did exactly as she was told. Her shorts slipped down her thin, white thighs, revealing cotton underwear speckled with pink and green — flowers, probably, or maybe cherries or some other cute, summer fruit. Then she hooked her thumbs around the elastic band of her panties and slipped them down her sneakers.

I couldn’t help but stare — vaguely aware that I shouldn’t — absolutely fascinated. I was surprised by the smoothness that was uncovered. I was so used to seeing only my own naked body. This seemed bland in comparison — a long expanse of virgin skin.

Vincent pulled down his boxers. His penis was already erect. Softly, coaxingly, tenderly, almost, he pressed apart Melissa’s legs with his hands and glued his crotch to hers, resting his arms on ground behind her. He started moving his hips and fucked her while she stared dumbly over his shoulder.

At some point I looked away. I felt like I was intruding, despite the fact that Vince had told me I could look. I tried to concentrate on other things — I fallen leaf, still green, amid all the dead ones on the ground, the sound of a squirrel scuttling through branches further off — but really all I could think of was what was going on behind me. It was awfully silent, just a soft pant from Vince after several minutes. Melissa’s breathing remained calm and steady throughout. Then Vince grunted and, I guessed, came. When I turned back he was wiping Melissa’s crotch and his penis with a maple leaf plucked from nearby sapling.

He pulled his boxers and shorts back on and got up. Melissa remained on the ground, sprawled in the moss. Vince didn’t say anything, he just motioned to me, urging me on. I knew what I had to do: get closer, drop down my underwear, get on the ground, fuck her.

And that’s exactly what I did. It was like going through something I’d always done, a set routine, although the novelty of it should have either terrified or aroused me. I went through all the motions without thinking. If I had thought I would not have been able to go through with it. Instead I just turned myself off, and did what I had to do. There was no pleasure, not really. A bit of curiosity, maybe, some surprise at what it felt like to actually have my penis inside a girl. But all of that came later, when I though it over, when I realized I had actually, finally lost my virginity. I tried to remember, later on, how it had felt, really felt, in detail, but I couldn’t.

I ejaculated, half in her, half amid the leaves and twigs. After that dressed quickly, and left without looking at Melissa or Vince. My eyes were full of tears, on the way back. I felt cheated, manipulated. I was disgusted — with myself, with Vince, with Melissa, even. I got home and locked the door, and watched TV all afternoon, trying to erase my mind of everything.

***

It was late by the time I got out of the bar. The sun had set for good, the only lights glaring down at us were the ones produced by the city. Vince had his car parked on the other side of the street. We said our goodbyes on the sidewalk, amid the smoking youths and the bustling immigrants. We shook hands and then brought our shoulders together, something like a half-hug. We promised to exchange e-mails, to call each other next time we were in the same city. He offered me a lift, which I refused. The fresh air would do me some good, I said. I needed to think things over.

After he left I started walking down to the hospital. I took out my cellphone. I had six missed calls, a voicemail, two text messages asking where I was — all from my sister. I had not noticed my telephone ringing and vibrating in my pocket in the noisy bar. I took the voicemail.

My sister’s tired voice, with a tinge of something like alarm, or despair: Victor? Victor I’ve been trying to call you for the last twenty minutes, where are you? Come back to the hospital as soon as you can, Dad’s had another stroke. Come quick. I don’t think he’s going to make it.

Ignoring the cars, the traffic lights, the rushed pedestrians, the smell of food and gas, the clashing city sounds, I started running in the urban night which glared around me, a kaleidoscope of neons and halogens, streaming cars and heavenly streetlights, straight to my father, whom I imagined already dead, alone on the hospital bed.

Aware again of what was truly important, I ran to my father.

THE END

I'm sorry for the length of all four posts. I am grateful to any of you who read the entire thing. This story is the longest complete piece of fiction I've ever written. It's also the most complex, and in its current state certainly not my best. It is a draft, and therefore, more so than usual, criticism on all four parts is very much appreciated. CAFS

Longing

Like:

A lost puppy
missing--
never found
free from will.

A sidewalk
without cracks--
creased--
crossed
skidding over edge.

A cup of tea for a sweet tooth
though I'm tasteless
& you're gone--
grown--
beyond me.

A lost horizon
carriage misgiven,
first tooth lost
left without
pillowed change.

A lost flame
church candle extinguished
but still smoking--
floating.

A bumblebee in Autumn
gone--
grown--
beyond me.

A first toke
smoked--
park bench under stars.
Left hungry
mouth parched--
pasty,
and clayed
but still smoking--
floating.

Boyhood, Manhood, Fatherhood, Death (Part 3)

***

We were eleven, and it was summer. It had not rained in weeks. The air in the forest was heavy and stifling, and as we walked my forehead became glazed with sweat. Soon beads of water were pouring down my neck, staining my shirt. I could feel the budding hairs under my arms prickling. The dry branches and leaves crackled as we made our way deeper into the desolate woods.

Soon we reached the large oak tree. We sat down on either side of its gnarled truck, our breathing heavy. I heard Vince struggling out of his T-shirt and saw his bare, sun-browned arm reach up and hang it on a branch.

— You should take your T-shirt off too.

— The flies’ll get you.

— There aren’t any flies here. We’re too far from the stream.

My T-shirt hung uncomfortably on my shoulders in the heat. I was tempted for a moment to take it off. But then, just because he had taken his off first, because he recommended I do the same, I did not move.

We sat there quietly for a while. All I could think of was the unbearable heat, sticky sweat erupting on different parts of my body. I was about to propose we head back home for a popsicle, but Vince spoke first. He had been thinking.

— Do you ever touch yourself.

I knew exactly what he meant from the serious, deep voice he had used.

— What do you mean?

— You know. Not touch yourself. I mean, do you ever... play with it?

I almost said: Play with what? But I checked myself. I didn’t want to sound stupid.

— Sometimes.

I was shocked that he would bring this up, but also desperately curious. I continued.

— At night...

He receded back into a thoughtful silence. After a moment, his serious voice broke the hot forest buzzing again.

— Have you ever... spermed?

— You mean ejaculate?

I remembered the term from a forty-five minute session on sexuality we’d had at school. They had talked about periods and condoms and given us deodorant sticks.

— Yeah.

I said it assuredly, but I wasn’t entirely certain I had.

— You?

He was following his own train of thought, oblivious to my own questions.

— Can you do it now?

I was confused for a moment. I wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted me to do.

— I can do it at the same time.

I still didn’t answer.

— I won’t look.

— Okay.

I waited to hear the whispers of shifting fabric from the other side of the tree before unbuttoning by own shorts. I pushed my boxers down awkwardly until my penis poked out of the fly. I rested my back firmly against the tree-trunk, feeling the hard ridges push through my T-shirt. I closed my eyes and immediately the picture of a blond woman with huge, drooping breasts, flashed in my mind. She was lying on a red sports car. It was a picture one our friends at school had printed off the internet and showed all the other boys in a corner of the schoolyard during recess the week before. We had all gawked and whistled in appreciation.

I concentrated on the mental image and I felt a tickling in my groin that slowly crept up to the tip of my penis. I moved the blond woman in my mind. She took different poses, turned around and showed me her butt. Soon she was crawling toward me, her breasts dangling down. I touched them, they were soft and offered a slight firmness. They reminded me of large water balloons.

When I opened my eyes I noticed with satisfaction that my penis had elongated and risen slightly. I couldn’t hear anything from behind me. I closed my eyes again and the blonde was there again.

She started licking my penis, very slowly.

My right hand edged itself closer to my crotch.

Her tongue was pink and glistening against the silky paleness of my penis.

My fingers wrapped themselves against my hard penis.

She took it all in her mouth and starting bobbing her head up and down.

I clenched my penis harder and rubbed my fingers up and down along the shaft.

I thought of the enormous breasts again and opened my eyes. I could hear the same rubbing sound I was making coming from the other side of the tree, now. It felt odd and exciting. It was thrilling, to know we were doing this together, at the same time, while we were in two entirely different solitudes.

Up and down up and down up and down up and down.

The tip of my penis became dry and very red.

Then came the liquid heat. It was born in the pit of my gut, just a pinprick of sensation. It grew into a steady wave that crashed into my groin, shivering down my thighs. My anus tightened and my hole body jerked forward off the trunk as a spoonful of sperm shot out onto my shorts.

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the tree. Vince called out from behind the tree again.

— Are you done?

— Yeah.

I pulled up my underwear and shorts and got up again. I plucked a leaf from the forest floor and used it to wipe the sperm off my shorts. There remained a dark stain, right on my crotch. It looked like I had peed in my pants.

Vince must have noticed the wet patch on my shorts, but he didn’t say anything. We walked back toward the edge of the forest in silence. By the time we made it to my house the stain had dried, as if it had never been there.

***

I spent the evening reading aloud in the hospital room. I got pretty far into Céline, until Princhard’s speech about war and the common people and death, of course, which looms over the first section of the novel. The terrible fear of death. At the end of the chapter the narrator describes the houses outside, neatly detached before night falls and takes them, muddles everything. I found the passage very beautiful.

Bardamu also says that he saw Princhard for the last time that evening, before he “disappeared,” that it was better that way. I found it quite a lie, to speak of death as a disappearance. Céline knew that, of course. He was right in saying it would be better to just disappear, though. To vanish into the night. Maybe it was better for my father to die suddenly, like this, than to suffer for long years. Maybe disappearance was the right word, after all. You just fall through a hole, out of the world, and never come back. One moment you’re there; then, you’re not.

Fatigue had set it. I closed the book and returned to my hotel. I fell into a sudden, dreamless sleep, and woke up the next morning with the impression I had closed my eyes only for a moment, except golden daylight was flowing into my hotel room, so I had clearly slept all night. I felt rested, in control.

My sister wasn’t at the hospital. I went back down to the lobby to check my cell phone. I had a missed call from the night before. It was my wife. I called her back on her cell phone and I said I was sorry I hadn’t called her the day before. I told her about how I had spent the night at the hospital and crashed after that.

— I met a guy I used to know when I was a kid, too.

— Ryan?

— No, not Ryan. Older than that. We were best friends when I lived here. In Montreal.

— Oh, that must have been quite a surprise.

— Yeah. We spotted each other at Starbucks.

— That’s nice. I’m surprised you recognized each other!

— He hasn’t really changed. I guess I haven’t really changed either, he recognized me first. He’s a lawyer now.

— What’s his name?

— ...

— Hello?

— I’m there. His name is Vincent.

— Oh.

She laughed quietly into the phone. A warm, sparkling laugh.

— How come you never told me about him?

— I don’t know.

— ...

— How are the kids?

— Okay, I guess. They miss you, but they’re kind of nervous about the hospital and everything.

— That’s normal I guess.

— I warned them it probably wouldn’t be like last time.

— It isn’t. It won’t be.

— We’ll drive down Saturday. We’ll be there in the evening.

— Okay.

— Are we going to stay at Sarah’s place?

— I don’t know yet. I have to talk to her about it. I’m at the hotel right now. I’m not sure it would be the best thing for the kids. Yeah, it’s probably better if we stay over at Sarah’s. The kids can play around, and we can both help out. And we’ll have the car, we won’t be too much in the way.

— Okay, I’ll see you Saturday.

— I’ll call you tomorrow.

— I love you.

— I love you too.

After that I called my sister. She had passed by the hospital earlier this morning. She would visit with her husband and children in the evening, she said. I hung up. I had forgotten to tell her I was going out with Vince that evening.

Planning on her calling her later, I went back up to my father’s room to read more of Céline to him. I hoped the same nurse would come in again. She would see that I was consistent, at least, even if reading to my father did not do anything. A nurse came by, eventually, but it wasn’t the same one.

C'est difficile de te demander de ne pas me quitter puisque tu n'as jamais ete pres de moi.

For years, you've contained me
and after watching countless shows
About empowerment,
I've grown to know the routine.

This is me trying to be brave.

While you did some work in our backyard,
I packed my things and wrote you a letter.
I don't feel the need to call the police.
This is between you and I.

This is me trying to be brave.

I stand in the doorway, ready
to leave our home,
When you come back inside.
You know I've changed and
You resort to words this time.
"Baby, please don't go.
Don't leave me."

This is me trying to be brave.

This is me trying to be brave.
This is me picking up my case.
This is me walking away.
This is me on my own.

This is me.

Bonus Post:
Self-Deprication

There's a split at the tip of my tongue
That divides my lips evenly
And tears my nose in half.
My eyes pierce each other, confused
Like an animal's reflection.
(Finally, I'll get some approval.)
Half-face to half-face, I stand.
It's only now that I realize
That I can't shake hands with myself.

Early years.

It’s not like I was an unwanted baby.
My mother had waited ten years for a child. After six miscarriages and several false alarms later, she thought it was over. Then I decided to show up on an echo.
At birth, I was declared clinically dead for about twenty-three seconds until a nurse realized that my umbilical chord was wrapped around my neck. As soon as my airway was cleared, I let out a shriek so earth shattering that the doctors all covered their ears.
Even in the womb I had been carefully planning my early, memorable exit from this world.
Suicide attempt number 1, foiled by an apprentice nurse in pink scrubs after her first week.

My mother did not let go of me until I was old enough to run away from her. I could only get so far though, until I would trip and scrape my knees. The tears would bring me straight back into her arms. My father would carry me on his shoulders and bring me to the park. He would baby-proof the whole house, putting that soft mushy stuff on the corners of all of the coffee tables. God forbid that something would happen to daddy’s little girl.
I’m sure I wasn’t exposed to a single germ before I started hanging out with other kids.
Oh god, the other kids.

I should have been homeschooled. The feeling of belonging to this world wears off really quickly once you hit kindergarten. Especially when the boy sitting next to you in class spills his glue on you on purpose while chewing up all of your favourite pencils. I didn’t want to go out to the playground at recess because everyone seemed to have prince charming except me. When we would line up two by two to go back to class, I’d be the one standing next to the smelly boy who eats worms and sand for lunch.
Suicide attempt number 2, foiled by a lunchroom monitor. I did not accidentally slip on my spilled milk. I’m not that daft.

Things did not look up for me in high school. I was the girl who’s mother was the French teacher that everyone hated. I bet you anything that she took that job to keep an eye on me. High school was my chance to disappear off the radar though. I had friends, let’s not go there, but its not like I belonged there in any way.
Suicide attempt number 3, foiled in gym class. If only Sally Kemble knew how to smash a volleyball like a decent person.

Really though, I have no idea why I am such a miserable excuse for a human being. I sit at this desk nine hours a day, my career is decent and I make enough money to make any twenty something jealous. Why do I feel so out of place? So useless and unimportant? I think it could possibly be due to the fact that my best conversations are had around a water cooler, that my husband left me for the chick who works the Tim Horton’s drive through and I still can’t fit into skinny jeans.
Now all I can do is hope that death by multiple paper cuts will look good on my tombstone.

Steel

It glints from my eyes and strengthens my spine
You can’t break me or shake me or put me in line
As icy as your glare is it has no effect
We can’t change the past so I have no regrets
The cold doesn’t move me; the chill won’t reach my bones
You're wrong if you think I stand alone
So keep throwing punches, I’ll keep sidestepping your blows
Eventually you’ll get the message and go

On the Flipside

Dear Soul-mate,

I have not met you yet.

I do not know how many years this letter has travelled to reach your hands. I do not know how old I am, right now, as you read this, but I do know you are worth the wait.

I do not know how we met. If a mutual friend introduced us or if we just so happened to get off at the same terminus, or borrowed the same book by accident thanks to a computer error we would later chalk up to fate. But I do know I am thankful for it.

I do not know where we had our first kiss. I do not know if I asked for your permission. I do not know if you are taller than me. I do not know the smoothness of your lips, the brush of your tongue. I do not know if you held me first, if I smoothed out your jawline with my fingers, if you moaned at all. I do not know your kiss. But I do know you are my favourite treat.

I do not know your hands. I do not know how quickly they slip into mine, if they are burnt from childhood accidents, if they are always cold even in the summer, if they rest on my knee during loud and rowdy dinner parties. I do not know how it feels to have them exploring my body, or reaching for me at night, or holding onto me in moments of weakness. But I do know that when I think you are asleep, I kiss your knuckles. I must.

I do not know how we were married; if I went down on a knee, if you asked me with tears in your eyes. I do not know if it was a ‘Yes!’ or a smile and the answer wordlessly understood. I do not know our wedding budget, if it was in a church or city hall, the length of our wedding cake. I do not know Our Song. I do not know who witnessed our cheesy celebration. I do not know if it was cheesy at all. But I do know I must have sobbed like a baby.

babies

I do not know if we have children. I do not know if we have been blessed with a sustainable housing income, if we have moved to a suburb. I do not know if we have a son, or a daughter, or both, or neither. I do not know if they are in good health, if I have taught them how to bike-ride, or read, or write their name for the first time. But I do know I would go to the ends of the Earth for our family.

I do not know your essence. I do not know your scent on lukewarm bedsheets. I do not know your heart rate in the early morning, I do not know the shade your skin flushes under my touch. But I do know you fit perfectly in my hands, every time.

My dear soul-mate; alas I do not think I have met you yet.
But I want to.
And I cannot wait to fall in love with you.

Yearning

She yearns for something of significance

Instead the darkness evades

A hole dug thoroughly

filled with creeping maggots,

ready to claim the living flesh.

Eye sockets bulge,

comprehension dawning within the iris

A void has taken place within the chest,

Spanning the entire distance of the corpse

She years for meaning within life

Instead she cries herself to sleep every night

afraid that when death comes,

no one will remember

and laughter will ring out

Her tears drown her

as a shotgun creates a hole

inside her head

She yearns for acceptance

from people she will never meet

and for things that will never transpire

Fame, which will never be seen

is hidden away

far from prying eyes

and mirthless shades of non- acceptance

She yearns for understanding

As her heart speaks through her mouth

No one would listen

They all change the subject,

they look away

She yearns for their acceptance,

instead she receives silence

So she ripped out her tongue instead.

Soup

"Soup" is a word
inappropriate, vulgar, unfit
to be fettered, say the chains
I hold up to the
gods of unexemplary poetries
before I set about
carving arguments into mountainsides
with lazers and buzzsaws.

So when I find it
compressed between metaphors
like an unlikely diamond
I toss it aside
like I did my father's axe
when I began.

Vaguely irreverent. Sorry I couldn't come up with anything else; training to be a guide is tough work.

Taking a Dump in Public

It was a half-moon kind of day, when the sun shines but it doesn’t, and the neon radiation glows through commercial establishments to give way to material expenditure. It was a ritzy kind of upper-class Sears with fancy chandeliers made of blood diamonds which twisted and misshaped rays of light. I sat on a comfy chair while my parents shopped for their hi-def something-or-other. The comfy-chair was enveloping my ass whole, as I silently let out low hums, vibrations of my putrid insolence. My passing of gas squeezed through the cushiony material of the comfy chair almost as if the air did not leave the crevice between my ass crack and two cheeks. Very slight vibrations, at most. Playing it casually. But then the smell arose and my initial hypothesis proved to be false. It reeked like tomato soup and left-over, microwaved fishsticks. In other words, not a good situation.

I don’t shit in public.

This was the problem. This code of conduct stuck with me ever since my grade three class when toilet paper was out. I was in the stall for the remainder of the day, before they sent out the janitors to search for me, worrying I had been kidnapped.

I run into the bathroom, the long, snarky fluorescent lights buzzing in laughter. Flickering. I walk into a stall and the graffiti boasts a survey as to which large-titted woman is the hottest; Lucy Pinder, Pam Anderson or Jessica Simpson.
Quietly, I place strips of toilet paper neatly onto the toilet seat and flatten it, two long vertical strands and one horizontal at the end to act as a barrier between my ass and the grimy seat. I sit. The openness kills me. The creases in the to the closing of the beige metal door edges... the open air and open feet underneath the stall... what if some kid decides to roll underneath and surprise me with punch in the balls?

I concentrate. And force myself.

Then, the door to the guys bathroom opens. A man with heavy-boot foot steps walks in, opening the stall next to mine and taking a seat on the seat next to mine, tearing down his pants and letting it rip. The stinks in the room between the two of us begin to meld into a cornucopia of rotten squash. I begin to lose track of which smell is mine and which is his. I do not finish the job, wipe, pull up my pants, and am the fuck out of there.

Next up was church. My parents followed their early sunday capitalist parade with some praying to the big man upstairs. This gave me a chance, I knew the bathroom at the church was a single stall with a lock on the door. I run in, past the pews, past the left-over incense filling my lungs and shaking my bowels to a bloody pulp. I squeeze my ass cheeks tight, but I can almost feel the shit crowning, trying to squeeze its way through down my intestines and masquerade as the not-so pleasant feeling of a fart.

I run into the bathroom. A crucified Jesus adornment is hanging on the wall across the toilet seat. Holy shit.

I rip down my pants, ready to sit, even avoiding placing toilet paper and then I see the most vile thing I have ever see in my life. The toilet seat had a blot of blood on it, surrounded by yellowy-whitish puss. Someone must have had a prime pimple on their ass which the toilet seat inadvertently squeezed for them. The remains remained, like ground beef in a grinder.

I swallow the puke in my mouth and let fate take its toll.

Boyhood, Manhood, Fatherhood, Death (Part 2)

***

We lived in the suburbs of Montreal for ten years — a clean, spacious suburban house on a clean, spacious suburban street, which resonated with the wails of French speaking children. As Anglophones, we were outsiders in this strange province where poutine was queen, where you had to be answered in French everywhere by law, and from which we were almost sent packing by the séparatistes in 1995.

We moved back to Toronto in ‘98, when I was twelve. The year of the Great Ice Storm. That year our street was scratched and potholed by the mechanical shovels that chipped away at the two inch-thick ice to free the macadam underneath, inevitably damaging it in the process. Those two weeks without school were pure bliss. Both my family and Vincent’s had chosen to stay. Stranded, without electricity, we huddled around battery radios for news and made hot chocolate on the fondue burner. At night I had to sleep with my sister for warmth. My mom tucked us in with three extra wool blankets — to make sure, I had thought, we would not die of hypothermia.

During the day I would put on my winter coat and pants, and go pick up Vincent at his place. Our street bordered a small national park, and we spent much of our time there both in the winter and the summer. We had never seen the woods look like this before. The branches, encased in thick, translucent ice, were bent over into wide, hanging arches that refracted the winter light into a gradation of cold blues and white. The effect was dazzling — like a giant crystal cathedral. What struck me most during our walks in the woods in those days was the sound. The forest was hushed, except for the clanging fall of shards of ice that crashed through the canopy of frigid branches, like dropping chandeliers, echoing in the mild air as they shattered on the forest floor.

Vincent and I were already pushing into puberty by the time I moved away, but in essence I have always seen our friendship as rather boyish. It was infused with the constance, the innocence, the dumb bravado and true valor of male friendship, untainted by the complications that come with growing up — hormones, girls, booze, and drugs. We were too close for our own good. If we had continued to grow up together it would have inevitably turned sour.

I met Vincent in kindergarten. I don’t remember how, exactly. We lived on the same street, we shared the same bus stop, we attended the same bilingual elementary school, which he could attend because his mother — who didn’t live with him and his father anymore — was American. The habit of seeing each other constantly brought us closer. Habit turned to necessity, then into a budding commitment. By the end of the school-year we shared the same girlfriend, a freckly girl called Samantha, whom we quickly forgot when summer came.

Vincent and I shared the first letters of our first names. This discovery cemented our friendship. It was an unbreakable bond — we were brothers. The double V became our trademark of sorts. We started to use it everywhere. The trick was to cross the letters very close to the base, so that it would not look like a W. We pencilled this symbol on the first pages of our Choose Your Own Adventure books, we engraved it in tree bark, scratched it on rocks, stamped in on the soles of our feet with a permanent marker, like a tattoo. The marker turned out to be not so permanent, so we grew more bold and drew it on each other’s arms, just above the short sleeve mark so no one would notice. I drew the crisscrossing lines on Vincent’s arm with a quick, sure hand, and watched the ink bleed in the spiderweb of miniature ridges on his skin.

When we were not in the woods — where we spent most of our time together, catching tadpoles in the stream, making plans for a tree house, pretending we were indians, druids, conquistadors, or anything else that could creep in the woods stealthily and kill things — we played hockey or soccer in the street with the other children from the neighborhood. Rainy days were spent indoors, building forts with sofa cushions and watching Walt Disney movies, and later James Bonds (my father had the whole collection on cassette) and other action flicks.

At least once a week during the summer we had sleepovers, usually at my place. This meant three-hour long Super Nintendo tournaments, paused every ten minutes to grab handfuls of popcorn, ketchup chips, and gummy bears, all washed down with Mountain Dew. At 11 o’clock my mom would shout at us to hit the sack. We would close the TV and slip into our sleeping bags, the loud bangs from the game still reverberating in our brains. Then we would talk and joke around for hours, kicking each other in the dark whenever there was a silence to make sure the other was still awake.

Vincent had a complicated family life. His American mother had moved out when he was still a baby. He had never met her. Once he showed me a photograph of her which his father had given to him. Vincent kept it hidden in the air duct opening under his bed. It showed a younger, smiling version of his father, and a tall brunette with electric blue eyes, which her son had inherited.

Vincent’s father had remarried to a very shy woman called Andrée, prone to searing migraines that left her moaning in bed for entire afternoons. If we were at Vince’s when Andrée was ill, we had to play video games on mute and talk in whispers.

Andrée had a daughter, Melissa, from a previous marriage of her own. Melissa was a couple of years younger than us, and she was retarded. That’s how we referred to her problem, anyway. The acceptable term was “mentally handicapped.” Something was always askew with Melissa. Sometimes her socks didn’t match, sometimes she had yellowed, crusty peanut butter smeared on her chin, sometimes she forgot to pull her pants back up after having gone to the bathroom. Most of the time she looked like she had not washed in days, stringy blond hair falling in greasy locks across her face.

Vince was always kind with his stepsister, and helped his father and Andrée take care of her as much as he could, but I knew deep down he did not like her. Her glazed eyes had this strange, lost stare which always swept in our direction whenever we were talking about something secret or important. Sometimes she would creep up on us when we were watching TV or playing a game, she would scream very loud or jump up suddenly from behind the sofa, scaring us shitless, and then she would walk away abstractedly, as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes, Vince’s dad asked us to play with Melissa, to get her out of the house. We would bring her into the woods with us. While we pretended to hunt down wild boars or hid from orcs and goblins, Melissa would hum quietly, picking up flowers and leaves and tightening them into small bouquets in her fist. Then she would throw the bouquets up in the air, poised like a ballerina, until the organic debris showered down on her, tangling in her hair.

***

I stayed in my bath for two hours, motionless. I emerged shivering and goose bumped, and was met by the image of my dying father in the bathroom mirror. My skin had wrinkled and become translucent, the veins underneath apparent, bulging and blue. My eyes had sunk into stained sockets. I looked old and shrunken, a tiny standing corpse.

I went straight to bed and lay in it for several hours. I did not sleep well. Dreams, memories, and the present mingled as I tossed and turned for hours. Finally I was wide awake on my back and I knew it was useless to try any longer. I got out of bed, refreshed myself in the shower, and made my way back to the hospital.

I managed to talk with the doctor, who explained that my father’s condition was stable, but not very good. The blood clot that had caused the stroke had been neutralized, but he was still in a coma and there was no way of knowing how much damage had been done to his brain, nor when he would have another stroke.

He said it as if it was a certainty that he would have another one.

My sister came back around dinner time, with a bag of Chinese food. We ate it in the hallway, catching up and talking about Dad. I did not tell her about Vincent. After my sister left I went back into my father’s room and started reading to him. I remembered seeing in a movie that you were supposed to read books to comatose patients. I had brought Journey to the End of Night, by Céline. Rather depressing, but I was not one for lighter reads, and it was well-paced and sonorous. My father was a rebel at heart, I was sure he would enjoy.

After about half an hour, a nurse came into the room and I stopped reading. She played around with the tubes and wires around my Dad, and jotted down some readings from a machine on her pad. She smiled at me and I saw her glance down at the closed book in my lap. My thumb still stuck in between the pages where I had stopped. I felt the urge to talk to her all of a sudden.

— Do lots of people do that?

— Do what?

— Read to comatose patients?

— Not really. You see that in books in movies, but I don’t often see people actually doing it.

— Does do it do anything?

— What?

— Does it help? With the coma, I mean. Or with anything?

— I don’t know.

She paused, and then, suddenly, became very thoughtful.

— I guess maybe it helps the people reading more than the patient. It gives them something to say.

She muttered something inaudible, an excuse, maybe, and walked away rapidly.