A brisk walk to the station on a cool but pleasant spring morning is the perfect means to a fresh mind, the brush to the chalkboard of one's soul. The sun is out. The birds are singing their incomprehensible, though melodious, songs. The streets are still empty. One is left with the feeling that if one's walk is true, and the pace is brisk, a certain path can be followed.
But Mailer's words read the other day come back to me, that even gods may be using us as games in their own mysterious game, or words to that effect.
This certainty I feel on an ordinary morning in suburban Japan may very well be similar to that sensation which the pawn on a chessboard feels before he is moved against his will. Who is to say that I am not merely the plaything of a higher, indifferent being? Already forces are aligning themselves against my progress, I suspect. The air is fresh and welcome in my lungs, and the sound of an approaching train is a signal that I, too, will soon step aboard, working waiting for me to disembark.
There is the uneasy but titillating knowledge that I could postpone work's monotony for a day or two, simply by deciding to miss my stop. It is possible to do. Such mistakes do happen. People fall asleep on the train, or drift away listening to music, or simply decide that is enough is enough. Work can wait. Life will, for once, take precedence.
I will do no such thing, I realize. A disrupted life can lead to only more rips in the silk of normality. The train will be caught, and the work will be done. As it was yesterday. As it will follow tomorrow. Such is the unspoken but inevitable bargain I have already made with the gods charting my progress, like fisherman looking through the water at the catch whose crispy cooking they are already planning in the depth and stink of their bellies' hungry groans. Better to appease the gods than await their wrath.
Perhaps, if I'm careful, and quiet, the shimmer and rumble of the carriage will distract the mapmakers charting my progress. I can distract them for a moment with the minutia of train-doors closing, black laptop bags being lugged onto metal rags, the dreary, droopy faces of Japanese commuters beginning again that which has no end but the final one. While the gods are looking down, bemused, at such futile, human actions, bored puppetmasters killing time at internmission, I can steal away within my thoughts and gain control of a life that remains stubbornly my own, if only in my head, the divine ones be damned.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
ANCIENT ARCHITECTURE
Reading good writing is like being allowed entry into a vast cathedral whose ancient architecture ascends ever upwards, each ledge and window offering an unseen vista that can be glimpsed only by beginning the climb. (And how forbidden is that particular act! Who has the gall to clutch one's hands around the hooks and ledges of the inside of a church? Yet reading is by its very nature a somewhat unnatural. Someone you have never met has decided to unleash their most private thoughts upon the world, inviting you inside of their innermost psyche. To peer and proke and laugh and mock. To exalt and be enveloped, perhaps.) You scale and pause and look below and see how far you've come. Occasionally, if not often, you fall. You rise and try again, grappling.
That's writing at its best, of course. At its worst, it denigrates the best within us, if only because a shoddy thing, by nature, mocks the notion of aspiration itself. In this bold new age that is neither particularly bold nor new, the net is flooded with writing of all sorts, multiplying like some kind of cancerous cell that cannot be stopped. I wonder if the internet itself might implode from the strain of all those letters alongside themselves, each attempting to paint a portrait of a particular mind, seeking.
Seeking what? There lies the question.
If writing just becomes a form of ego, then it can become nothing more obtrusive or invasive than a needlepoint hung on the inside corridor of your grandmother's house, lovingly stitched together over the course of several weekends at the family cottage. Full of emotion and heartfelt sincerity, to be sure, but lacking the edge and innovation that demands a thorough reckoning everytime one sits down at the keyboard to type or read.
More and more I'm seeing writing itself as a sacred act. (Can an agnostic feel the sense of the sacred upon entering a church? I suppose he can, if only because even one struck dumb by the essential mystery of the universe can acknowledge one's own puny impotency when faced with the collected efforts of a thousand craftsman reaching for more.) If craft gives way to communication, then in five, ten years time, will we be nothing more noble than a herd of geese flying alongside each other, intuitively understanding what the other is trying to say, allowing electronic osmosis to take the place of aggresive intent at the altar of linguistic competency?
Too late, I'm sure. Everyone who can be allowed into the internet's holy vector has already arrived, or is quietly pushing the door open. Which is as it should be. Voices unheard quickly become silenced even to themselves. I just hope that the words on the screen continuted to be viewed as the beginning of a long and astounding ascent, rather than a culmination of intent that has commenced before it has truly even begun.
That's writing at its best, of course. At its worst, it denigrates the best within us, if only because a shoddy thing, by nature, mocks the notion of aspiration itself. In this bold new age that is neither particularly bold nor new, the net is flooded with writing of all sorts, multiplying like some kind of cancerous cell that cannot be stopped. I wonder if the internet itself might implode from the strain of all those letters alongside themselves, each attempting to paint a portrait of a particular mind, seeking.
Seeking what? There lies the question.
If writing just becomes a form of ego, then it can become nothing more obtrusive or invasive than a needlepoint hung on the inside corridor of your grandmother's house, lovingly stitched together over the course of several weekends at the family cottage. Full of emotion and heartfelt sincerity, to be sure, but lacking the edge and innovation that demands a thorough reckoning everytime one sits down at the keyboard to type or read.
More and more I'm seeing writing itself as a sacred act. (Can an agnostic feel the sense of the sacred upon entering a church? I suppose he can, if only because even one struck dumb by the essential mystery of the universe can acknowledge one's own puny impotency when faced with the collected efforts of a thousand craftsman reaching for more.) If craft gives way to communication, then in five, ten years time, will we be nothing more noble than a herd of geese flying alongside each other, intuitively understanding what the other is trying to say, allowing electronic osmosis to take the place of aggresive intent at the altar of linguistic competency?
Too late, I'm sure. Everyone who can be allowed into the internet's holy vector has already arrived, or is quietly pushing the door open. Which is as it should be. Voices unheard quickly become silenced even to themselves. I just hope that the words on the screen continuted to be viewed as the beginning of a long and astounding ascent, rather than a culmination of intent that has commenced before it has truly even begun.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
RESUMPTIONS
Returning to write a blog entry after months of self-imposed silence has a sort of illicit attraction. I am writing into a void, almost an abyss, that, in all likelihood, has not been peered into for quite some time. By myself, or by others. It is the equivalent of dropping a single penny into a distant well far from home and waiting for the sound of its metallic ping hitting bottom. Better to listen for its frantic whistle as it drops than wait for the final crash.
Reading Norman Mailer's Harlot's Ghost, as I started to do today, for the first time since I was seventeen, perhaps, is like returning to the site of a glorious battle, the details of which have long been forgotten, but the sting and stink of blood remain nonetheless. To finish this book is a kind of war, not because a 1000 page novel of the CIA in the twentieth century is inherently difficult, but because its terrain was last traversed when I was but a teenager, and now I find myself steadily approaching middle-age, and one enters a novel a different person at different points in time.
Recently I saw a clip of Mailer stating that every great novel is inevitably boring at certain intervals, if only because it is filled with uncomfortable truths that we are not yet ready to process. What Mailer's work filled me with as a teen in a small, southern Ontario city was the sense that anything was possible in writing itself -- that a novel could contain worlds within worlds. When I met Mailer a few years later, at the Art Gallery of Ontario, where he had come to give a lecture about Picasso and I had come to see the master and seek advice, I asked him two things -- advice for a young writer, and whether or not he would, indeed, complete a sequel to Harlot's Ghost, because this infinitely long book ends with those dreaded, luxurious words 'To Be Continued'. He told me that he hoped to, yes, write a second volume, which warmed my heart. There would be more of the story.
Now Mailer is gone, so we are left only with Harlot's Ghost, volume one-and-only. I remember little of the story, but reading its first fifty pages, I am once again humbled by the scope of this great writer's great talent. My favourite writer, I've come to realize, for he dwelt within a philosophical realm that examined life's most majestic and nefarious questions within the realm of his own literary ambitions. Every book was a colossal challenge to his own talent. He grappled with those uncertainties that sustain and bewilder us.
In this soundbite age, this click-of-the-mouse, frantic search for more inane knowlege and frivolity, I yearn to return to the sound and pace of words that lead me deeper into myself. I try to read Japanese every day -- that magnificent, humbling language! -- and I want to delve deeper into the kind of writing that Mailer lived his life to create.
I first found Harlot's Ghost on the dusty shelves of the St.Catharines Centennial Library when the book was still new and I was still young. I found it again on the shelves of a library in Yokohama, Japan. The words are the same and Mailer is dead and I am now a man. Diving into the fevered, measured intensity of Mailer's vision, while studying the rudiments of another nation's language, I hope to become who I am once again, whoever that may be.
Reading Norman Mailer's Harlot's Ghost, as I started to do today, for the first time since I was seventeen, perhaps, is like returning to the site of a glorious battle, the details of which have long been forgotten, but the sting and stink of blood remain nonetheless. To finish this book is a kind of war, not because a 1000 page novel of the CIA in the twentieth century is inherently difficult, but because its terrain was last traversed when I was but a teenager, and now I find myself steadily approaching middle-age, and one enters a novel a different person at different points in time.
Recently I saw a clip of Mailer stating that every great novel is inevitably boring at certain intervals, if only because it is filled with uncomfortable truths that we are not yet ready to process. What Mailer's work filled me with as a teen in a small, southern Ontario city was the sense that anything was possible in writing itself -- that a novel could contain worlds within worlds. When I met Mailer a few years later, at the Art Gallery of Ontario, where he had come to give a lecture about Picasso and I had come to see the master and seek advice, I asked him two things -- advice for a young writer, and whether or not he would, indeed, complete a sequel to Harlot's Ghost, because this infinitely long book ends with those dreaded, luxurious words 'To Be Continued'. He told me that he hoped to, yes, write a second volume, which warmed my heart. There would be more of the story.
Now Mailer is gone, so we are left only with Harlot's Ghost, volume one-and-only. I remember little of the story, but reading its first fifty pages, I am once again humbled by the scope of this great writer's great talent. My favourite writer, I've come to realize, for he dwelt within a philosophical realm that examined life's most majestic and nefarious questions within the realm of his own literary ambitions. Every book was a colossal challenge to his own talent. He grappled with those uncertainties that sustain and bewilder us.
In this soundbite age, this click-of-the-mouse, frantic search for more inane knowlege and frivolity, I yearn to return to the sound and pace of words that lead me deeper into myself. I try to read Japanese every day -- that magnificent, humbling language! -- and I want to delve deeper into the kind of writing that Mailer lived his life to create.
I first found Harlot's Ghost on the dusty shelves of the St.Catharines Centennial Library when the book was still new and I was still young. I found it again on the shelves of a library in Yokohama, Japan. The words are the same and Mailer is dead and I am now a man. Diving into the fevered, measured intensity of Mailer's vision, while studying the rudiments of another nation's language, I hope to become who I am once again, whoever that may be.
Friday, January 01, 2010
RESOLUTIONS
The problem with blogging, as I see it, is that it can soon become this kind of masturbatory exercise in diary-writing, in which everything one says is exposed to the world to see and ponder over just because, well, we can. The technology allows us to. It's easier to write about whatever is bopping around in our brains at the moment than it is to actually sit down and think about something that people might actually want to read, something that has depths, something that alters the way you see and think about the universe.
Which is probably why I haven't been blogging very much in the past few months.
Writing itself is a particularly selfish form of vanity, and perhaps it's even more vain to suggest that one won't write until one has 'deep, deep, deep' thoughts, because then the moment you post something that you think is somewhat dense, it will be read by somebody who will inevitably, probably properly think: "That's what you think is a 'deep thought', Spencer? I prefer daily drivel."
The odd thing is that I quite like snooping in and around other people's blogs when they simply write about their daily lives, as it gives me a glimpse into how others see the world, or at least their world(s).
But I fear that the whole purpose of writing -- namely communicating to others -- can be lost if writing turns into a way to communicate with only onself, and then parade it off for the world to see.
That's a problem I have with Twitter. Many witty thoughts, expressed, um, wittily, but after awhile all of those random quips seldom seem to add up to much of anything at all.
The larger point being, for anyone out there who still occasionally reads this blog: I will try to post a bit more in the coming few weeks and months. I will try to make them somewhat substantial. I will try to make them fairly consistent. I will probably fail in both regards. So be it.
Where I am, it's already 2010. Where most of you are, it's just about to be.
Best wishes for the coming twelve months.
Which is probably why I haven't been blogging very much in the past few months.
Writing itself is a particularly selfish form of vanity, and perhaps it's even more vain to suggest that one won't write until one has 'deep, deep, deep' thoughts, because then the moment you post something that you think is somewhat dense, it will be read by somebody who will inevitably, probably properly think: "That's what you think is a 'deep thought', Spencer? I prefer daily drivel."
The odd thing is that I quite like snooping in and around other people's blogs when they simply write about their daily lives, as it gives me a glimpse into how others see the world, or at least their world(s).
But I fear that the whole purpose of writing -- namely communicating to others -- can be lost if writing turns into a way to communicate with only onself, and then parade it off for the world to see.
That's a problem I have with Twitter. Many witty thoughts, expressed, um, wittily, but after awhile all of those random quips seldom seem to add up to much of anything at all.
The larger point being, for anyone out there who still occasionally reads this blog: I will try to post a bit more in the coming few weeks and months. I will try to make them somewhat substantial. I will try to make them fairly consistent. I will probably fail in both regards. So be it.
Where I am, it's already 2010. Where most of you are, it's just about to be.
Best wishes for the coming twelve months.
SUNRISE
A few days ago, while running early one morning across the bridge near Noborito station that stretches across the Tama River, I noticed a middle-aged lady patiently setting up her camera near the railing, adjusting the lens, fidgeting with the stand, waiting for the sun to rise.
She was getting ready to take its picture, obviously. Every day the sun rose in the exact same spot, lookingly mostly the same, dull and orange and then red and full. I don't see her there every day. I've only seen her once, come to think of it. There was something about that sun that she wanted. On that day. And that day only. Perhaps it was a sudden whim, that wish of hers. She got up early, and drank her coffee, and suddenly decided that she wanted to see the sun rise over the Tama River, and take its picture, and see what sense she could make from such a simple act.
That's what I'm thinking.
It made me feel hopeful. The sun rising on a cold, frosty, late December morning. Something so simple and extraordinary about it. Most people were sleeping, lost in dreams, tucked between sheets. She was there, bundled up, on that bridge, taking notice of the most ordinary thing in the world. Preserving it, even. Some day, years from now, when middle age gave way to the ghastly dubbed 'golden years', she would look through an album and point at that picture and even though she might not be able to remember exactly when it was taken, or even why, within that frame the sun would still rising, constantly, moving upward, getting ready to shine.
She was getting ready to take its picture, obviously. Every day the sun rose in the exact same spot, lookingly mostly the same, dull and orange and then red and full. I don't see her there every day. I've only seen her once, come to think of it. There was something about that sun that she wanted. On that day. And that day only. Perhaps it was a sudden whim, that wish of hers. She got up early, and drank her coffee, and suddenly decided that she wanted to see the sun rise over the Tama River, and take its picture, and see what sense she could make from such a simple act.
That's what I'm thinking.
It made me feel hopeful. The sun rising on a cold, frosty, late December morning. Something so simple and extraordinary about it. Most people were sleeping, lost in dreams, tucked between sheets. She was there, bundled up, on that bridge, taking notice of the most ordinary thing in the world. Preserving it, even. Some day, years from now, when middle age gave way to the ghastly dubbed 'golden years', she would look through an album and point at that picture and even though she might not be able to remember exactly when it was taken, or even why, within that frame the sun would still rising, constantly, moving upward, getting ready to shine.
Monday, September 14, 2009
COLEMAN'S CORNER (FICTION) II
Before he had even had a chance to wipe away the sleep-drool that steadily leaked its way down his nose and onto his chin, Jeffrey Dunn woke up one July morning thinking of those words, his Papa's words, the stink of life telling you who was who and what was what. Even before his eyes opened or his mouth opened. His pecker still a little bit hard with pee waiting to exit, please, pronto. Papa's voice had crawled inside of his head and pulled him straight out of sleep and into the faint daylight peeking through the blinds. Poking him awake. When he finally opened his eyes that voice seemed to fade away almost all at once, like the radio in the car always did when they passed under Gerry Cheevers Bridge on the way to St.Catharines. He waited a second for Papa's words to come back, they didn't, and besides, it didn't matter all that much. Papa was just downstairs, probably eating his Cheerios and his drinking his pretty gross raspberry juice and getting ready to go cut the grass and rake the gravel over at the ball diamond. Wasn't today the last day of the tournament between all those companies who did stuff that Jeffrey couldn't quite understand, but were important for some reason he could never figure out? So if he wanted to hear Papa's voice for real, well, it was right on there in the kitchen inside of the old man's throat. Jeffrey liked the voice of Papa that came out when he went to sleep better than the voice of Papa's that waited in his mouth, the voice that had dodge all those Cheerios and all that raspberry juice that came crashing down his pipes every morning, snow or shine. The thing was, Jeffrey always knew what Papa's voice had to say when it came and piped up when Jeffrey was asleep. Always stuff he'd said before, either that day or the day before. He never knew what stuff, angry or happy, kind or cruel, Papa would say in real life.
Jeffrey sat up and scratched his crotch and padded his way into the bathroom to take that long-awaited pee, mostly because he had to piss so hard it hurt, bu also because he suddenly realized that he was always curious about what Papa to had to say about, well, whatever, anything, and the sooner the pee was done, the sooner he could get dressed and get downstairs and hear what there was to be heard. Half of the time, or more than that, what Papa had to say didn't make sense to Jeffrey, and half the time, or more than that, it hurt, Papa's words did, but Jeffrey's friend Kendall at school didn't have a father at all, so words that sometimes hurt must be better than no words at all, ever. Besides, it wasn't a Band-Aid-being-ripped-off-all-in-one-go kind of hurt. More like a purple-nurple kind of deal. Hurt so good you kind of liked it, though Jeffrey wasn't about to admit to liking a purple-nurple, at least not out loud. Nipple tugs weren't supposed to be a good time.
By the time he'd taken his leak and had his shower and rushed down the stairs while still wiggling his way into the Spider-Man shirt and the blue-jean shorts that they'd bought down at Robinson's last winter for only five bucks a pair, fished deep out of one of them metal bins in the corner of the kids' clothes section, the bins that looked like cages for fish, or prisons for lobsters, what with all the bars running up the sides, but instead were actually used to hold the clothes that nobody seemed to want all that much, Papa was almost done his cereal. Drinking the milk right from the bowl. Flipping through the Sports section of last night's St.Catharines Standard, which they had delivered just before dinner each night by Kenny Crawford, a short fat kid with bright red hair and a bright red face. Bopping his leg under the table, keeping beat to music that Jeffrey couldn't hear, Papa was.
"Morning Papa," Jeffrey said.
"Is for you," Papa said.
Jeffrey had just settled into his own bowl of Fruit Loops and apple juice, not raspberry, ugh, never raspberry, apple all the way, and Papa was already getting that look he got whenever it was about time to head off to work. Rubbing his left cheek with his left hand and lightly rapping the kitchen table with his right fist, like he was waiting for somebody to open up a little door from underneath. Soon he would be gone, vamoose, and Jeffrey wouldn't get to talk to him until later tonight, six or seven o'clock, maybe later, maybe earlier, who knew, and he knew he ought to say something fast because Papa didn't like to talk all that much in the mornings on a work day, and here he was, already off to work, practically. Jeffrey spooned up some Froot Loops, two red, one green, one almost black, which was weird, now that he thought about it, and probably not normal, and he tried to think of a question he didn't know the answer to that would force Papa to stop and pause and think for a bit. He did this almost every morning, Jeffrey did, and often he couldn't come up with anything, but today he thought of a good one.
"Why's my name 'Jeffrey'?" he asked.
Papa lightly placed the paper on the table, as if he was setting a placemat for dinner, which Jeffrey had seen him do exactly once, which was why he remembered it so clearly. Placemats were not a common sight in this house, and Jeffrey had not even known what it was, that green, square felt rectangle, but that had been a special time, soon after Mum had left for good, and his Uncle Darrell, her brother, who he had never met before, had come for dinner, and Papa had said that placemats showed class at a time like this. Now he was treating the paper the same way, but Jeffrey couldn't see how this time, or that question, was all that special.
"Why's your name 'Jeffrey'?" Papa asked.
"Yeah," Jeffrey said. "I don't know why. Lot of names out there you could of picked."
Papa looked at the paper, not at his son.
"Because you don't want a name like 'Herman' growing up in this town," he said.
Jeffrey thought about that while he ate the last of the Fruit Loops, even the black one, the one he probably shouldn't have been eating, but he'd never heard of anybody dying from eating an odd Fruit Loop. Puking maybe, but not dying. Papa wasn't moving, which meant he was thinking, too. Time for more questions, Jeffrey thought.
"But your name's 'Herman'," Jeffrey said. "You did alright with that name in this town."
Papa smiled, and Jeffrey could see his yellow teeth, even the metal fillings way in the back, but there was nothing funny about that smile. A smile without any humour was a scary thing, Jeffrey realized.
"Herman's a name for a guy who drives a zamboni and cuts grass," Papa said, and stood up. He hitched up the belt of his jeans, and ran a hand through his thinning hair and looked down Jeffrey.
"I don't get it," Jeffrey said. "You do drive a zamboni and cut grass."
"You want to do that stuff?" Papa asked. "You want to make money that way?"
Jeffrey stirred his spoon in the last of his milk, making little tiny circles and bubbles that bobbed nowhere much at all.
"Not really," he said.
"Then that's why I called you Jeffrey," Papa said. "So you can have a name that ain't going to sound perfect on the side of a zamboni."
Then Papa did something that Jeffrey had never seen anybody do outside of a movie.
He winked.
"Key's where it always is," Papa said.
He picked up his paper and headed out of the kitchen and out of the house before Jeffrey could say anything more. Not that he knew what he would say. Winks were supposed to be full of fun, just like a smile, but that wink was something else altogether.
Jeffrey sat at the kitchen table, heard the front door shut, and the shoes on the gravel, and the car pulling away, and the house and the day to come were once again his and his alone. Made him feel almost grown-up, it did. Or at least like a teenager. Also made him feel alone. Didn't hurt none, though. Not that much, anyways. Almost like a gobstopper stuck square in the throat for a second or two before it scooted free and went smooth down the proper pipe.
Besides, he was used to that lonely feeling, especially after he asked Papa especially hard questions. Kind of, in an odd little way, expected that feeling. The lonely one. Used to it so much, he wasn't sure what he would do if it wasn't there no more. Maybe good questions with strange answers made everyody feel lonely. He wasn't sure. Had never asked anybody that, because that would be a real weird question to ask, wouldn't it. He couldn't figure out how to ask most folks the kind of questions that he most wanted to ask. Maybe grown-ups knew how to do it. Jeffrey didn't. Loneliness like this, the kind that sat in your stomach like freshly chewed Doritos, was kind of sweet, he realized. It made him feel sick and satisfied at one and the same time. Like a tall, cold class of Country-Time Lemonade that he didn't want to finish.
Jeffrey sat up and scratched his crotch and padded his way into the bathroom to take that long-awaited pee, mostly because he had to piss so hard it hurt, bu also because he suddenly realized that he was always curious about what Papa to had to say about, well, whatever, anything, and the sooner the pee was done, the sooner he could get dressed and get downstairs and hear what there was to be heard. Half of the time, or more than that, what Papa had to say didn't make sense to Jeffrey, and half the time, or more than that, it hurt, Papa's words did, but Jeffrey's friend Kendall at school didn't have a father at all, so words that sometimes hurt must be better than no words at all, ever. Besides, it wasn't a Band-Aid-being-ripped-off-all-in-one-go kind of hurt. More like a purple-nurple kind of deal. Hurt so good you kind of liked it, though Jeffrey wasn't about to admit to liking a purple-nurple, at least not out loud. Nipple tugs weren't supposed to be a good time.
By the time he'd taken his leak and had his shower and rushed down the stairs while still wiggling his way into the Spider-Man shirt and the blue-jean shorts that they'd bought down at Robinson's last winter for only five bucks a pair, fished deep out of one of them metal bins in the corner of the kids' clothes section, the bins that looked like cages for fish, or prisons for lobsters, what with all the bars running up the sides, but instead were actually used to hold the clothes that nobody seemed to want all that much, Papa was almost done his cereal. Drinking the milk right from the bowl. Flipping through the Sports section of last night's St.Catharines Standard, which they had delivered just before dinner each night by Kenny Crawford, a short fat kid with bright red hair and a bright red face. Bopping his leg under the table, keeping beat to music that Jeffrey couldn't hear, Papa was.
"Morning Papa," Jeffrey said.
"Is for you," Papa said.
Jeffrey had just settled into his own bowl of Fruit Loops and apple juice, not raspberry, ugh, never raspberry, apple all the way, and Papa was already getting that look he got whenever it was about time to head off to work. Rubbing his left cheek with his left hand and lightly rapping the kitchen table with his right fist, like he was waiting for somebody to open up a little door from underneath. Soon he would be gone, vamoose, and Jeffrey wouldn't get to talk to him until later tonight, six or seven o'clock, maybe later, maybe earlier, who knew, and he knew he ought to say something fast because Papa didn't like to talk all that much in the mornings on a work day, and here he was, already off to work, practically. Jeffrey spooned up some Froot Loops, two red, one green, one almost black, which was weird, now that he thought about it, and probably not normal, and he tried to think of a question he didn't know the answer to that would force Papa to stop and pause and think for a bit. He did this almost every morning, Jeffrey did, and often he couldn't come up with anything, but today he thought of a good one.
"Why's my name 'Jeffrey'?" he asked.
Papa lightly placed the paper on the table, as if he was setting a placemat for dinner, which Jeffrey had seen him do exactly once, which was why he remembered it so clearly. Placemats were not a common sight in this house, and Jeffrey had not even known what it was, that green, square felt rectangle, but that had been a special time, soon after Mum had left for good, and his Uncle Darrell, her brother, who he had never met before, had come for dinner, and Papa had said that placemats showed class at a time like this. Now he was treating the paper the same way, but Jeffrey couldn't see how this time, or that question, was all that special.
"Why's your name 'Jeffrey'?" Papa asked.
"Yeah," Jeffrey said. "I don't know why. Lot of names out there you could of picked."
Papa looked at the paper, not at his son.
"Because you don't want a name like 'Herman' growing up in this town," he said.
Jeffrey thought about that while he ate the last of the Fruit Loops, even the black one, the one he probably shouldn't have been eating, but he'd never heard of anybody dying from eating an odd Fruit Loop. Puking maybe, but not dying. Papa wasn't moving, which meant he was thinking, too. Time for more questions, Jeffrey thought.
"But your name's 'Herman'," Jeffrey said. "You did alright with that name in this town."
Papa smiled, and Jeffrey could see his yellow teeth, even the metal fillings way in the back, but there was nothing funny about that smile. A smile without any humour was a scary thing, Jeffrey realized.
"Herman's a name for a guy who drives a zamboni and cuts grass," Papa said, and stood up. He hitched up the belt of his jeans, and ran a hand through his thinning hair and looked down Jeffrey.
"I don't get it," Jeffrey said. "You do drive a zamboni and cut grass."
"You want to do that stuff?" Papa asked. "You want to make money that way?"
Jeffrey stirred his spoon in the last of his milk, making little tiny circles and bubbles that bobbed nowhere much at all.
"Not really," he said.
"Then that's why I called you Jeffrey," Papa said. "So you can have a name that ain't going to sound perfect on the side of a zamboni."
Then Papa did something that Jeffrey had never seen anybody do outside of a movie.
He winked.
"Key's where it always is," Papa said.
He picked up his paper and headed out of the kitchen and out of the house before Jeffrey could say anything more. Not that he knew what he would say. Winks were supposed to be full of fun, just like a smile, but that wink was something else altogether.
Jeffrey sat at the kitchen table, heard the front door shut, and the shoes on the gravel, and the car pulling away, and the house and the day to come were once again his and his alone. Made him feel almost grown-up, it did. Or at least like a teenager. Also made him feel alone. Didn't hurt none, though. Not that much, anyways. Almost like a gobstopper stuck square in the throat for a second or two before it scooted free and went smooth down the proper pipe.
Besides, he was used to that lonely feeling, especially after he asked Papa especially hard questions. Kind of, in an odd little way, expected that feeling. The lonely one. Used to it so much, he wasn't sure what he would do if it wasn't there no more. Maybe good questions with strange answers made everyody feel lonely. He wasn't sure. Had never asked anybody that, because that would be a real weird question to ask, wouldn't it. He couldn't figure out how to ask most folks the kind of questions that he most wanted to ask. Maybe grown-ups knew how to do it. Jeffrey didn't. Loneliness like this, the kind that sat in your stomach like freshly chewed Doritos, was kind of sweet, he realized. It made him feel sick and satisfied at one and the same time. Like a tall, cold class of Country-Time Lemonade that he didn't want to finish.
Monday, September 07, 2009
COLEMAN'S CORNER
(Note: The following is part of a piece of fiction I've been working on here and there, the opening section of a longer work that I'll excerpt now and then when the mood strikes. It will ramble and meander, delving deeply into the little stuff of characters' lives, and overall it may seem like it doesn't have much of a point to it, but that's kind of my point.)
Jeffrey Dunn's father, Herman Dunn, drove the zamboni at Pete Peter's Centennial Arena Monday to Saturday during the winter, cleaning the ice between shifts of the pee-wee and midget and Junior B hockey games, and in the summer he cut the field over at Hawksley's baseball diamond three times a week, making sure that the grass wasn't too high way out there in the outfield. Hated hockey, hated baseball, Herman Dunn did. Jeffrey knew this for a fact because Papa always came home in the winter rubbing his hands, red from the cold, and in the summer he always came home rubbing his neck, red from the heat, looking even redder compared to the all-white Niagara Parks and Rec shirt he had to wear every day, and he'd never watch hockey on TV or listen to baseball on the radio, even if the Leafs or the Jays were in a pretty good playoff hunt. Sometimes he'd sigh and look over at Jeffrey lazing around on the couch and say: "You keep on doing that. That's why they all call it 'work' and not 'fucking around with your friends and then lazing around on the couch', I guess."
Jeffrey never could figure out what that was supposed to mean, but angry or sad, happy or tired, he liked the sound of Papa's voice all the same, no matter what he was grumbling or grinning about. Like the ice you jangled around in a glass just before the Coke was poured in, Papa's voice was. Sweet beneath the clanking, or something like that. Jeffrey also could never get why, if Papa hated sports so much, the two of them could sit there in the cold of the arena under those tiny old heaters hanging from the ceiling that never seemed to heat much of anything, and watch the game go whatever which way it wanted to go, and Papa always seemed to know exactly what was going to happen with each player on both teams on every shift. Like he wasn't watching the game for the first time like everybody else sitting beside him and freezing around him, but instead was seeing it all again after he'd already watched the highlights on SportsDesk on TSN the night before.
"Watch seventeen, the Hurtzel kid," he'd say. "He's gonna make like he's gonna pass, but he don't pass the puck in the third period, almost never, not when they're down two, three goals." And Hurtzel wouldn't pass the puck, he'd try to score, even from a weird angle way out past the blue line, out where nobody good ever shot the puck unless they were trying to ice it and kill time for a line shift.
Or they'd be sitting on the faded green bleachers out under the yellow sun on a bright August afternoon watching ladies' softball, Papa chugging a Molson down in big gulps as it stayed safe and cosy tucked inside of those foam coasters, kind of like it was hidden, because you really weren't supposed to drink at the ball park, it being public, and especially with Papa being a public employee, which probably make it worse, and Jeffrey would be drinking a 7-Up, never a Sprite, though he liked both, only 7-Up he liked better, he didn't know why, sipping it slowly to make the drink last unlike Papa, who would drink three or four beers but would only buy Jeffrey one pop, and Papa could tell you which pitcher would throw like a girl and which was halfway decent for a chick, considering it was, you know, softball, and not the real thing. He could tell you which batter most likely had celluite creeping down her thighs due to the awkward way she stood beside the plate, or who couldn't make it from first to second in time because her boobs were too big for running. "Can't run with boobs like that," he'd say. "Not my rule. Nature's." One day while watching another boring ladies' softball game Jeffrey just flat out asked him how he seemed to know so much.
"About what?" Papa said.
"About baseball," Jeffrey said. "About hockey. "
Papa turned away from the game and looked down at his son. He wasn't a thoughtful man, Jeffrey thought, because he sometimes forgot about birthdays or Christmas cards, but he thought about stuff a lot. He could even tell when Papa was thinking real hard by the way his eyes got all glassy, like he was trying to focus on something real far off. He'd wipe his nose and scratch his stubble and stifle a Molson beer burp before it could sneak its way out, which meant he was most definitely serious. Usually the burps just flowed like music from a tape deck.
"You see enough shit," Papa said, "and sooner or later you can just smell what stinks and what don't. Simple as that."
Jeffrey Dunn's father, Herman Dunn, drove the zamboni at Pete Peter's Centennial Arena Monday to Saturday during the winter, cleaning the ice between shifts of the pee-wee and midget and Junior B hockey games, and in the summer he cut the field over at Hawksley's baseball diamond three times a week, making sure that the grass wasn't too high way out there in the outfield. Hated hockey, hated baseball, Herman Dunn did. Jeffrey knew this for a fact because Papa always came home in the winter rubbing his hands, red from the cold, and in the summer he always came home rubbing his neck, red from the heat, looking even redder compared to the all-white Niagara Parks and Rec shirt he had to wear every day, and he'd never watch hockey on TV or listen to baseball on the radio, even if the Leafs or the Jays were in a pretty good playoff hunt. Sometimes he'd sigh and look over at Jeffrey lazing around on the couch and say: "You keep on doing that. That's why they all call it 'work' and not 'fucking around with your friends and then lazing around on the couch', I guess."
Jeffrey never could figure out what that was supposed to mean, but angry or sad, happy or tired, he liked the sound of Papa's voice all the same, no matter what he was grumbling or grinning about. Like the ice you jangled around in a glass just before the Coke was poured in, Papa's voice was. Sweet beneath the clanking, or something like that. Jeffrey also could never get why, if Papa hated sports so much, the two of them could sit there in the cold of the arena under those tiny old heaters hanging from the ceiling that never seemed to heat much of anything, and watch the game go whatever which way it wanted to go, and Papa always seemed to know exactly what was going to happen with each player on both teams on every shift. Like he wasn't watching the game for the first time like everybody else sitting beside him and freezing around him, but instead was seeing it all again after he'd already watched the highlights on SportsDesk on TSN the night before.
"Watch seventeen, the Hurtzel kid," he'd say. "He's gonna make like he's gonna pass, but he don't pass the puck in the third period, almost never, not when they're down two, three goals." And Hurtzel wouldn't pass the puck, he'd try to score, even from a weird angle way out past the blue line, out where nobody good ever shot the puck unless they were trying to ice it and kill time for a line shift.
Or they'd be sitting on the faded green bleachers out under the yellow sun on a bright August afternoon watching ladies' softball, Papa chugging a Molson down in big gulps as it stayed safe and cosy tucked inside of those foam coasters, kind of like it was hidden, because you really weren't supposed to drink at the ball park, it being public, and especially with Papa being a public employee, which probably make it worse, and Jeffrey would be drinking a 7-Up, never a Sprite, though he liked both, only 7-Up he liked better, he didn't know why, sipping it slowly to make the drink last unlike Papa, who would drink three or four beers but would only buy Jeffrey one pop, and Papa could tell you which pitcher would throw like a girl and which was halfway decent for a chick, considering it was, you know, softball, and not the real thing. He could tell you which batter most likely had celluite creeping down her thighs due to the awkward way she stood beside the plate, or who couldn't make it from first to second in time because her boobs were too big for running. "Can't run with boobs like that," he'd say. "Not my rule. Nature's." One day while watching another boring ladies' softball game Jeffrey just flat out asked him how he seemed to know so much.
"About what?" Papa said.
"About baseball," Jeffrey said. "About hockey. "
Papa turned away from the game and looked down at his son. He wasn't a thoughtful man, Jeffrey thought, because he sometimes forgot about birthdays or Christmas cards, but he thought about stuff a lot. He could even tell when Papa was thinking real hard by the way his eyes got all glassy, like he was trying to focus on something real far off. He'd wipe his nose and scratch his stubble and stifle a Molson beer burp before it could sneak its way out, which meant he was most definitely serious. Usually the burps just flowed like music from a tape deck.
"You see enough shit," Papa said, "and sooner or later you can just smell what stinks and what don't. Simple as that."
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