A Bloodless Dracula

Made a day trip out to Niagara-on-the-Lake to see the Shaw Festival production of Dracula adapted by Liz Lochhead. Much like Hamlet, in this day & age, it is impossible to see Dracula for the first time. And like see various productions of Hamlet one comes to see what they have done with various production values, performances & subtext.

This version features great performances by Allan Louis as Dracula; Marla McLean as Mina; Cherissa Richards as Lucy; and Graeme Somerville as Renfield. Each invested their characters with real emotion & clearly relished some of the juicy text without over-acting. The others were strong though I found the supporting servants, nurses etc relied on campy comic accents giving us laughs in a text that needed all the tension it could get.

I was disappointed in this rather bloodless production in which the over 25 set/scene changes proved most of the action. I realize dramatizing the novel, told in letters & journal entries presents challenges. Lochhead streamlines the story & keeps it moving along but inviting characters so shoehorn in social commentary about the times was distracting & didn’t add, for me, any resonance to the play. The same with the mildly Oscar Wilde humour that was added. I would have rather seen one of the stage versions that popped up in the early 1900’s.

I was not disappointed by the score by John Gzowski. Moody without being used to create emotion. I would have bought the cd if there was one. Costumes (finally a Dracula cape I would actually wear), lighting, the constantly changing sets all worked well. Allan Louis made a most robust Dracula, one who clearly didn’t really need his ‘superantural’ powers to bend women to his will.

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Suicide 1

Suicide has been in the news with a couple of celebrity deaths. Pop stars whose music I know vaguely – now regarded as troubled geniuses – as if their actions were the final proof of their genius.   I guess I’ll never classified as a genius because I choose to live & to live relatively sanely. It seems that in our culture the more one teeters on self-destructive instability, or survives a tragic past more authentic their creativity is regarded.

Before starting drinking suicide was already a part of my thinking – it seems a viable option to the other possibilities the culture I grew up in offered queers. Homosexuals were considered doomed to lives of unfilled emotions, relationships that went nowhere, incarceration or mental ward commitment. At one time prison also seemed a viable option: behind bars with men.

My creative heroes were self-destructive suiciders: Dylan Thomas, Yukio Mishima, Hemingway, Gauguin. Mishima did it is the grandest way too. This would be my romantic ending. So when I started drinking I was following in their footsteps too. My attempts at suicide were all fuelled with booze & done while drunk – as you can tell I failed.

The last one was on a New Year’s eve, my last on the East Coast. My attempts as relationships wither either sex were stonewalled – unlike most drunks I never met a rescuer. I staggered out of party early & back to my apartment, started to fill the bathtub with hot hot water & my favorite bubble bath. Razor blade ready for when the tub was full. While it was filling my roommate arrived home with his girlfriend. I didn’t want an audience so turned the tap off, went bed & passed out. In morning I decided to get out of Cape Breton.

The Moose in the Moon  http://wp.me/p1RtxU-P5

for untold millennium

the moose were happy on the moon

they were free to roam without predators

living on moon moss and small cheesy rocks

they had nothing to fear

except in mating season

when the males had to prove

who had the biggest antlers

after untold millennium

of basking in earth shine

they began to wonder

if there was more to life

the moon began to bore them

it was so small

they had roamed and combed its surface

there was no longer an abundance

of moon moss and cheesy rocks

the battles during breeding

had become limpid half-hearted events

soon there were only four moose left

on the whole of the moon

where once there had been millions

the forlorn moose looked to the earth

when the solar winds blew

the smell of water and pine

wafted to their nostrils

two of them longed for escape

while the other two

felt it was fated they should remain there

these two pairs argued endlessly

plotted revenge to teach the others

the error of its beliefs

they spent hours grunting at each other

glaring over moon rills

stomped so much dust

the sun was clouded over

the sun didn’t like to get moon dust in her eyes

she decided it was time to step in

so with a flare

she carried two of the moose to father earth

he could now take care of these creatures

on earth the two moose were overjoyed

they had new fields to run in

they began to multiply once more

they were safe till distrust came amongst them

when they were attacked by a cunning creature

that appeared as a robin to some

and a smelt to others

in fear they would bellow

to the moose in the moon

to return to where they were safe

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Only Entitlement

samprules2

Started a new set of prompts – I love lists of things – this one will prove to be endlessly productive for another couple of years – 227 Rules For Monks. Who knew the simple life could be so complex. These are from the 30 nissaggiyas. This is where #15 took me Not to make a new carpet without adding a part of the old one.

Only Entitlement

I have no heritage

only entitlement

that tries to tell me

that to weave a life of meaning

it is okay

to appropriate anything

that catches my eye

especially

if it means nothing to me

it can give meaning to me

I’ll redefine my self

no not redefine

because as it stands now

I have no meaning

no self

outside of a cultural context

of entitlement

which tells me that even though

I am a nobody

it is better that than being

anything else

the music I listen to

the clothes I wear

reflect a world around me

I am merely walking though

other cultures

are like zoo exhibits

art installations

to amuse me

to divert me

from the fact that

I have no heritage

no backstory or ancestral struggles

other than the banal

war for control

money oil sex religion

chains to hold people down

not to free them to become

more than entitlement

scraps of pasts

presents

arbitrarily clumped together

for momentary comfort

who cares about heritage

as long we are comfortable

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Santaphohohobic

For the summer I’m going back to the series of pieces mythologizing my growing up in Cape Breton. Check the Village Stories page http://wp.me/P1RtxU-1fT for links previous pieces in this series.

Santaphohohobic

to this day

I cannot hear the name Santa

without shuddering

the first few times it gets uttered are the worse

a tremble comes from my toes

my teeth chatter

I squeeze my arms tight to my body

to contain myself

it’s as if I’m going to fly to pieces

 

though I get used to hearing his name

I always dread the start of the festive season

and go out of my way to avoid

any reference or images of his likeness

I don’t know when this started

honestly, I had a fairly normal childhood

Christmas was nothing special in our house

I was never dropped off Santa’s knee

when taken to see him at the strip joint

I never woke to find

his white bearded visage

kissing my Mom or Dad

I once did get to undress

one of the elves

 

I was always satisfied with what gifts I got

I was an easy to please child

this Santa-shudder didn’t start

till I moved here to the big city

in our village

there were few likenesses of him

the usual ones of him harnessing a moose

or sneaking a beer out of the fridge

so how it came to be

that the very mention of his name

would cause this reaction in me is puzzling

it led my coworkers to think

I was some sort of xmas hater

when the opposite is the truth

 

I decorated my cubical with a little tree

some garlands

but would resist any likeness of him

it wasn’t if he was the centre of the celebration

but they would take great delight

in putting crystal Santas on my desk

once replacing my mouse with a Santa head

my shrieks were mocked for weeks after that

ho ho ho scream

my demands to be transferred to another section

were greeted with  ho ho ho no no no

those fuck heads

how could I do my job with such disrespect

luckily this only happens once a year

 

next year I won’t be here to put up with it

I’ve already made reservations

to spend that time of  year at a xmas free resort

where one can just float in the sun

drink tall cool drinks by the pool side

be undressed by cabana men

and then return to the escapist reality

that I was escaping from

This is one of the few pieces written in which my narrator has left the Village but is still enmeshed in mythology – in this case the festive myth of Santa. Personally I have no issues with Christmas or Santa or the Elves. As in many of these pieces the allegory is of those things in the world that go from annoying us to blocking our happiness.

Santa has become more a symbol of Christmas than the Jesus. Though both symbols have been commercialized to the point where they are meaningless beyond their commercial potential. So in some ways my hero is reacting to this reduction of a symbol to a logo for consumption as opposed to a symbol of generosity & fellowship.

My hero is like many who have left a small town for the freedom of the big city only to be trapped in a cubical. The childhood bullying has been replaced by the office mocking of his Santaphobia – by people who apparently don’t even question their own belief systems. The fact he doesn’t toe that line is enough for them to single him out. There is also a sense that some myths are considered superior to others.

I knew a guy who hated Christmas to the extent that he would fly to Australia on 23rd or the 24th & thanks to date line & time change arrived there & would skip Christmas Day. He flew back on New Year’s & got two New Year’s eves as a result. But like my narrator he had to return to a cultural reality he might avoid but could never escape.

 


For the summer I’m going back to the series of pieces mythologizing my growing up in Cape Breton. Check the Village Stories page http://wp.me/P1RtxU-1fT for links previous pieces in this series.

Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2018’s capfireslam.org – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet

Tuesday – September 19 – feature – Art Bar Poetry series – 8 p.m., Free Times Cafe, #20 College At., Toronto – $5.00http://It’s No Accident

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Lazarus Kiss.33

Sis amplexibus Amor alios mututa memini et amoris in mutationes memini.

May you be embraced by a love beyond recall that alters others

and a love within recall that alters you.

kiss

*36 Friday*

When Harris got back from lunch there was a couriered envelope from his dad at his dE.tail desk. Inside was the transcription of the diary.

“Harris

Here are more of the Tobias Stevens diaries.  The full diaries run about a four hundred pages. I’ve had the pertinent sections abstracted for you. If you want the whole thing we have that.

As you’ll see there are few dates for most of the entries. Seems Tobias kept track of events and years but not of months or even days of the week. The transcription service modernized the language for clarity but we have a literal version should we need to consult that.

His brother Thomas had suffered brain damage at a child. When their parents died Tobias took him in.

Dad”

The pertinent sections covered several pages. Along with them were photocopies of the actually pages.

He started reading them on the subway home.

“I awoke early this morning to the sound of horses and shouting around my stables. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my pistols and strode out into the morning fog. There was nearly ten men from the surrounding area in the yard. Jasper McClough and his son Bradley from the farm nearest mine and some men from the village.

Jasper expostulated angrily that they were on a hunt for a vagrant gypsy man. One who had been interfering with the women of the village. Jasper himself had caught this vagrant bedding down his own good wife.

They had pursued him though the fields and are sure he saw this vagrant dash into my barn.

I ordered them off my property. Told them to come back with a constable. I did not deny what evidence Jasper may have had with his own eyes. I would not allow blood to be shed on my property. God would not allow them the privilege of dealing out punishment for adultery.

The men heeded my words and rode off vowing to return to exact their vengeance.

Once I was sure they were gone I went into the barn with my brother Thomas. I called out for this fugitive to show himself, while assuring I meant him no harm.

The man that presented himself was swarthy and dark. Fell to his knees, grabbed my hand and kissed it thanking me for interceding on his behalf. I pulled him to his feet. I was not interested in effusive gratitude.

I questioned him regarding my good neighbours accusations. The gypsy man, whose named was Rowell Byrnes, claimed he had no knowledge of the actions of which he was accused. Despite his dark features he bore an honest face. He appeared to be in his early twenties and in good health.”

Next pertinent portion of the diary –

“Jasper McClough and his son returned as the sun was setting. They appeared less driven by anger yet were insistent that I turn the fiendish gypsy over to them. Regardless if I didn’t believe my trustworthy neighbour he was sure I realized the danger of harbouring such a vile man, that gypsies consorted with Satan. He was positive his own cows had stopped giving milk as result of this consort of the devil.

I listened to this without contradiction but wouldn’t not grant him the satisfaction of agreeing with him or of producing Rowell. Jasper became more irate as it was clear to him I was unreceptive to his demands.

He paced the yard beside me as he made it clear to me that this foreign demon had to be dealt with harshly or the hand of our Creator would fall heavy on us all. Especially anyone who harboured such an abhorrence.

When we neared the orchard two men stormed out and grabbed me. I could see in the near distance several other men binding Rowell. Once bound they dragged him on the ground.

I broke free of my captors. I dashed to my house, grabbed my pistols and fired them in the air. The men released Rowell, jumped on their horses and rode off. I dashed over to Rowell to unloosen the ropes. Other than a cut to his forearm which bleed freely he didn’t appear grievously harmed by their mishandling of him.

He noticed that I was bleeding from a gash in my head. I instructed my bother Thomas as to how to tend to these wounds.”

This is dated the very next day.

“As I sit in the evening air my heart is heavy for this has proved to be a most vexing day. As has oft been my habit I awoke before the first cock crow to enjoy the peace and stillness. To walk my land in this calm light of the rising sun reveals the promise of our Creator to grace those who are faithful to him with plenty.

My sweet morning communion was disturbed by the sounds of struggle from the barn. I feared that townsmen had returned once more to seek vengeance upon the unfortunate Rowell who was now in my protection.

I opened the barn door and there in that chaste morning light I saw Rowell upon Thomas my brother. Their nakedness was affront enough but they were engaged in an that act has stained my mind. The very mention of this detestable vice is shocking to human nature and shakes the soul of even great sinners.

I shouted for them to cease yet they remained enraptured by this vice they heeded me not. I could not bring myself to step closer. I reached for a buggy whip and brought it down with all the force God had graced me with on the backs of these men.

They parted in great haste and surprise. Each looking upon the other as if seeing the other for the first time. As if they had not be engaged in an act of abomination.

My outrage was such that I could no longer speak. They dressed hastily.

I felt great shame at my defence of this gypsy man who had proved himself to be as evil as my neighbours had claimed him to be. Although I knew that You are the great judge I could not abide to have these men on my property.

Rowell came to me to beg further mercy. A mercy I was incapable of showing him. I stuck him with all my force knocking him to the floor. I demanded that he remove himself from my sight before I had him taken to the village to be punished for his skulking perditious activities.

With Thomas’s help we bound him. There was no way I could continence such a perditious villain to live. I should not have interfered with the actions of my neighbours.

I conveyed the abomination to the church. The bell was rang for the elders. I told them what had transpired. My neighbour Jasper McClough testified to what he had witnessed. Judgement was swift and the heretic apostate was to be burned within the hour.

He stood. Blood coming from his mouth. He snatched a piece of paper from the pulpit and wrote upon it. He handed the bloodied paper to me. As I read it, he spoke the words “Sis amplexibus Amor alios mututa memini et amoris in mutationes memini.” [once I recorded these words I burned the paper he had written them upon.]

He trembled fiercely which I took as a sign of his contrition. He muttered a hope that this enchantment would treat me more kindly that it had treated him. I sneered at his gypsy foolishness. I told him such enchantments have no power in God’s world.

The men conveyed him to the town square where a pyre had been constructed. I was grateful that it did not fall upon me to strangle the man. Once the village smith had done the job the flames were lit.

As the fire roared around him Rowell’s eyes suddenly opened. He shrieked out in great pain. I could not watch any longer. The aroma of pungent spice enveloped us till his screams ended. His last words were to beg for forgiveness for casting away his blessing of love.

I was peaceful until I went to the orchard. Thomas had hung himself. May his soul be tormented in flame for the shame he brought upon himself.”

Next pertinent portion comes from a later volume of the diaries. Some of diaries are dated, many are not but this seems to be a few years later.

“Today I am to marry Mary Fields. I feel deep shame that she is with my child for if she were not I fear we would not marry. I do not recall the occasion of bedding her. If we had not been discovered by her mother and brother I would have denied it. The fact remains we were in the same bed together when morning broke.

When it was discovered she was with child I did the honourable thing by her and her good family.”

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Fanny

My first & only Fanny lp for many years was Charity Ball which Picked up from a reminders pile at either Woolworths or Zellers in Sydney. An all girl rock band! The guys I hung with were amused then dismissive, as was the rock press at time. These were cute girls, who played their own instruments, wrote their own music but were never as good as the men. For one thing they were always ‘girls’ not women. They weren’t the Supremes.

Like the all female big bands of the 40’s & 50’s they were considered a novelty as opposed to a real musical identity. Sure Janis Joplin was a power house, Grace Slick was amazing but they also struggled to get male rock press acceptance. Fanny was a good solid bar band type of group. The music moves from hard rock, folk-rock, a bit of country & a dash of jazz. In an mp3 collection I have their 1st, Charity Ball, Fanny Hill, Mothers Pride. They never achieved success partially because they refused to be prepackaged as sluts that sing or as women run by male producers. They finally stopped because the record company felt they lacked commercial appeal. Has the industry changed that much? Kesha’s recent struggles indicates that it probably hasn’t.

The male pop world has frequently been challenged with how to respond to strong female performers & in this mp3 collection I’ve included Flora Purim: Everyday Everynight – a Latino powerhouse, creative, daring & grounded in jazz, pop & Latin she is a complete package but lacked the sexual appeal of Shakira. Here also the Pretenders: Viva El Amor!; Chrissie Hines is a force of nature who has survived in the rock world by trading on her tough girl rep. Finally Fiona Apple: Extraordinary Machine – another amazing voice, intensely creative, brilliant as a teenager, thwarted by an industry that wanted only a certain look & product from her – the Laura Nyro syndrome. This lp struggled in a dispute with the record company over its commercial appeal. The same sort of need for commercial appeal that plagues so many female rockers.

The Sun Serpent

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Mike wanted to say more than thanks but didn’t have the words for what it was he felt. He wasn’t thanking Robert for handing him the towel but for much more. Much much more. With the sudden end of his relationship with Jack it had been almost a shock to meet up with someone else. Especially a someone who was so tender and affectionate towards him.

‘Here let me.’ Robert took the towel and began to dry Mike’s back. ‘Not too hard am I? I mean rubbing.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Just relax a little.’

Mike  let his shoulders drop as Robert rubbed him with the towel.

‘Where did you develop this strange and delightful ability.’

‘Oh ho that’s a story for another time.’ Robert kissed him on the biceps.

Mike pushed him away playfully. ‘Oh no we can’t start that again.’

‘We can’t?’

Robert tumbled Mike onto the bed and lay on top of him. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘I don’t think. Remember. You told me earlier not to think so much and now I’m not thinking at all. At all.’

‘Yeah, well, let’s see you keep that thought in mind.’

They both laughed.

Robert sat at the side of the bed. Mike ran his hand over Robert’s back, felt the ribbon of scars that ran along either side of his spine. Tribal markings Robert had explained. Markings that gave Mike no images, no flashes. In fact he saw nothing when he touched Robert. A blessing in itself. Not to be plagued by visions.

‘You looking for another way in?’

‘No no. Was it painful?’

‘I was quite young when the first incision was made. The chosen. I was called to be the Son of the Sun Serpent.’

Mike let his hand drop away. The son of the sun. Made living up to his vision seem paltry.

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Tuesday – September 19 – feature – Art Bar Poetry series – 8 p.m., Free Times Cafe, #20 College At., Toronto – $5.00http://It’s No Accident

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Restored to Sanity

Restored to sanity – a phrase from AA’s step 2 – is one that many people in recovery trip over. Sure we irrational, self-centred in the extreme – but insane? Illogical perhaps & unreliable sure. I think part of the current ‘conflict’ with the word ‘sanity’ is that we live in a world in which what is acceptable behaviour is inconsistent – if you are rich enough, white enough you can get away with many things others get shot for.

 

I’ve come to see that sanity is more as a way of control than of establishing mental competency. If one is docile, obedient, subservient they are clearly sane. If one shows little too much personality, creativity, expresses distain for contemporary standards they are trouble makers, if they persist they are crazy & need to be locked up, or at least chemically controlled & usually shunned, disregarded & discounted. So in recovery when we speak of sanity it is easy to get confused. In my life it has manifested as less self-destructive behaviour as opposed to socially acceptable thinking. Conformity doesn’t = sanity.

Some react to the word ‘restored’ which seems to imply that they were sane at some point – how can you be restored to something you never had in the first place? This another of those linguistic tricks that allows cultural norms to dictate what sanity is – it’s always good for a laugh though. Yet does it matter if one is remade or restored? Being willing to let our destructive, self-serving thinking change is a step to serenity, serenity = sanity.

Some of my resistance to the ‘sanity’ was seeing it as banality. Not that I was wild in the street but I certainly saw (& still see) things differently from those around me – maybe being queer was a part of that differing vision. After all, at one time homosexuality was considered not only criminal, but a serious mental issue that required shock-treatment or worse to cure.

“Restored to sanity … ” – I’m not holding my breath – but at least my lack of it is no longer in your face 🙂

In The Workshop 

I loved to spend time in my Dad’s workshop

in a little shack behind our house

when my bothers went to war

I got to help him

as he repaired the snowmobile

a job that he seemed to do every day

or when he made

little kitchen objects for my mother

 

his moose-bone-handled tools

were lined up in neat rows of hooks

over the work bench

he would say “spanner seven”

and I would get it for him

his thick fingers held even the heaviest tool

as if it were the most delicate instrument

while he twisted spark plugs

or carved small scenes of robins

into the bowls of pie plates

humming happily

as he concentrated on his work

 

I would creep into the shed

when he wasn’t there

to sit in the humble stillness

I would brush wood chips

into small piles with my fingers

fondle the handles of his tools

they would feel inviting in my hands

as if holding them

would allow me to do what he could do

 

sometimes he had me sing

what we were learning in choir practice

he would put his tools down

listen with his eyes closed

his hands on his belly

his fingers moving

as they conducted me from verse to verse

when my mother would call us to eat

I was disappointed

getting more of this moment

than pie could ever give me

 

the smell of his sweat

mixed with snowmobile oil and grease

as he showed me how to clean spark plugs

became one of the powerful erotic

aromas of my youth

it was into this shack

I would sneak with the boys

whom I had learned to undress

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September: TBA

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Change Nothing Changes

samprules2

Started a new set of prompts – I love lists of things – this one will prove to be endlessly productive for another couple of years – 227 Rules For Monks. Who knew the simple life could be so complex. These are from the 30 nissaggiyas. This is where 14. Not to purchase another floor carpet as long as the former is not six years old yet. took me.

Change Nothing Changes

if nothing changes

nothing changes

safe is secure

but it isn’t always productive

constructing a life

that is safe and secure

denies the power of insecurity

the energy of being unguarded

things work fine

leave them be

why replace what is still working

even for a newer faster model

what will I do with the time I save

find more ways of being

safe and secure

of not taking any creative chances

why change the scenery

what’s the point of a new shoes

when all the old ones

are perfectly fine

why moan about the lack of growth

when growth means being open to change

it’s as if

only the dramatic change

is worth seeking out

as if growth only comes from

the greatest pointless risk

that surviving danger

is the only catalyst for moving forward

though why move forward

when things are as good as they need to be

boredom contentment

complacency

the new hair cut

the step away from all black

to blue and yellow

the opportunity to replace

what works fine

is to be open

to what may work the same

yet move things forward

you want change

let go of the comfortable

that defines one

step into uncertainly

with the certainty things will change

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Brave New World 

For the summer I’m going back to the series of pieces mythologizing my growing up in Cape Breton. Check the Village Stories page http://wp.me/P1RtxU-1fT for links previous pieces in this series.

Brave New World 

the village elders

summoned all the villagers to come to

a meeting a the city hall

it was a compulsory meeting

no excuse would be accepted

 

the meeting chamber in city hall

wasn’t large enough to hold us all

there was no place

for the beds of the infirm

were all forced into the narrow corridors

leading to the speaker’s dais

those who didn’t find the chamber

were scorned

 

it was time for the village to let go

of more if its old ways

to come into the future

in fact the elders felt it was time

for us to go beyond the future

to make a bold step

into what couldn’t be imagined

there was some laughter

some outrage

some still fuming over the use of light at night

they weren’t willing to sit still

for such moose shines from our elders

the past was still good enough for them

why should we be forced to beyond the present

the elders smiled peacefully

while one of them read the edict

those who felt scorned

would have to get over it

those who had pie enough

would have to share it

those who disliked lighted strip bars

would be blinded

 

the list went on and on

after each inch into the future

there would be some applause

sometimes people would jump up

swearing and shouting

about how unfair this all was

and make their way out of the chamber

clambering over the beds of the infirm

pushing babies out of the way

in general acting like assholes

there was nothing that could be done

to hold down the price of moose meat

no way to replace

the depleted stocks of the sea

we were faced with harsh times

these hard measures were what was called for

 

there would be no more green

one less colour to worry about

would save time and money

there would be no more death

and no more birth

things would have to come to

a full stop so we could take full stock

so we could catch our breath

before this plunge into the future

a step that would take us beyond time

into a shuddering unimaginable level of existence

 

we would have to stop being human forms

be transformed into light or sound

the choice was an individual one

we were assigned numbers

as each number was called

one of us would step forward

to meeting the new millennium

Going back to some of these pieces is visiting a history I’ve forgotten – there is that sense of deja vu and sometimes a bit of amazement at where these pieces traveled. Some were incomplete, more like notes to be refined. This is one of those mystery pieces.

There are echoes of Kafka & Huxley in this one. The compulsory meeting that presents ideas as opposed to actual actions. How are the villagers to move on to the future? I enjoy the opposing views – those who want to remain in the concrete of what they know verses those who want change. This sense that the future holds some sort of golden age of better lives.

The blinding of those who object to the use of light is one of those classic compromises – be careful of what you wish for because that wish may fulfilled in a way you’ll regret. I also keep working on the mythos of the the Village – the sacred nature of strip bars. Then solutions that make no sense – banning the colour green – I was thinking of Woody Allen’s Bananas when the dictator issues his set of demands & rules.

By the end the piece has become a science fiction utopia of bodiless entities stepping from what to what?

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Lazarus Kiss.32

Sis amplexibus Amor alios mututa memini et amoris in mutationes memini.

May you be embraced by a love beyond recall that alters others

and a love within recall that alters you.

kiss

Lazarus Kiss.32

Even if it wasn’t the disc injury that made him leave the pro fight circuit but he wasn’t going to let anyone, especially Linda, know that he wasn’t interested in all the crap that went on out of the ring. The boozing, pain meds, drugs to get it up for hookers because none of them could keep any relationship going. He was bored by the need to bag and brag.

When he hurt his back he was glad to use that as an excuse to fade away. To not come back to that end of the game. They wanted him back. Even Linda wanted him to continue. She didn’t have clue what went on when they were on the road. That wasn’t giving up, that it was a strategic withdrawal before he killed another brute to keep them from hurting him. Never told her about the guy the died.

“You’re expecting someone. That’s it, isn’t. You want me out of here because some piece of ass is about to arrive.” Linda sat on the couch. “Well, I’m going to sit here till I see who it is. To see if it has tits or a dick. Or they’ll have both. Fuck why didn’t I think of that sooner. That’d explain why I never smell a guy on you, You’re into trannies.”

“Jesus Linda.” Alex longed to go to bed. “I’ve spent the last six hours dealing the the East Churchville soft ball league. All I want to do is go to bed. To sleep.”

“Tell it to the umpire.” Linda smirked. “You’ve never been too tired to get it up.”

She walked over to him and kissed him. Ran her hands over his body. “You smell like work. You know how much that smell turns me on. Sweaty man. Look I’m sorry for being such a …. bitch.” She began to cry. “I really love you, you know. I don’t want us to be over. I don’t.”

“Ya could’a fooled me.” Alex tried to push her away. Her perfume brought back the times they’d fallen into bed laughing and grabbing excitedly at each other.

“Well, you never did have much insight into the female mind, did you. I guess that’s part of what I liked about you. You were such a chauvinist. Strong. I like that. A strong man who knows what he wants.” She kept kissing his face. Her hands caressing his cock and balls through his jeans.

“Doesn’t take much insight to understand packed boxes and an empty dresser.” He pulled her hands away from him. “Gone is gone. It was time. Admit it. Other than sex there isn’t fuckin’ much holding us together, is there.”

Linda backed away.

“It’s not that I don’t dig ya Linda. But ….”

“But you’d rather get off while beating the shit out of some ultimate fighter faggot?”
“No. That was … well …. it’s something I don’t get m’self. But …”

“Is that ‘but’ spelt with one ‘t’ or two.”

“Even if ya knew what you’re talking about ya reckon anyone would listen to you? You sound like the crazy bitter dumped broad you are.”

“You mean you don’t care that people will know you’re a cocksucking faggot?”

“No more than you’ll care that people’ll be surprised ya were such a dumb ass bitch bimbo as to live with me for the last four years and not know! Now take your crap and get out of here before I call the police and turn ya in for break and enter.”

He went to the door and opened it.

She turned on the landing. “If I go I’m not coming back. Not even sneaking back like this, understand that.”

“Yeah.” He resisted an urge to hug her one last time.

“Is that all you’ve got to say. One grunted monosyllable.”

“Be happy.” He shut the door and leaned against it.

“Be happy!”

“Fuck you.” He could hear her kick the door. He wondered if that panty smear could be cleaned off the monitor screen. Who did he know who might know? Harris. Right Harris worked on computers all day. A guy with a gut like that had to be eating and splashing crap on his monitor all the time.

Yeah. Get Harris in this place, on home ground. He pictured himself slamming Harris to the bed and with his knees pinning Harris’s shoulders down his cock could plunge into Harris’s eager mouth. Yeah that’s the ticket.

*34*

When Harris heard the muffled scream he stopped. The park was quiet except for the sounds of near by traffic. Then he heard it again. The sounds of a struggle, of a person trying to escape and to be heard at the same time.

It was coming from the shadows behind a small shed marked ‘Employees Only.’ He stayed on the well lit path. “Are you okay?” He called out.

The scuffle stopped. If it was a drug thing he didn’t want to get involved but with the Stalker alerts he didn’t want to walk away from someone being attacked. He backed closer to the park lighting.

“I’m calling 911.” He took his cell out and pressed in the numbers.

A figure darted out from the shadow and into the park away from Harris. A woman staggered out and into the light.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Clutching her torn blouse she sprawled sobbing on a nearby bench.

Harris gave the 911 operator the necessary information and was told police would be there shortly. Before he could turn to the woman a police car pulled up at the parkette entrance. He saw that another one had pulled up to the opposite side of the parkette.

A figure darted out from bushes at that end and two policeman grappled with it. After a brief struggle the figure was pushed into the backseat of the cruiser.

Two officers from the cars that had pulled up at his end of the park were talking to the woman. A third constable came over to him.

Before he got to Harris a reporter was there. The speed at which the TV crew arrived amazed Harris. Were they in the backseat of the police cruiser? A reporter was talking to him before the police could intervene.

“Did you get a good look at the Stalker? What did he look like?” The reporter angled a microphone at him.

“All I did was call 911.” Harris shrugged and stepped back from the lunging camera.

“Did you see the stalker? What did he look like? Weren’t you sacred for your own safety.” The questions were so fast Harris didn’t know which one to answer first. Another police car arrived.

Detective Alverez stepped between him and the news crew, which had been joined by another station’s crew.

“The witness has nothing to say to the press at this time.” She nodded to two policemen who herded the press away.

“We’re trying to report this story.” One of the reporters shouted.

“Our victim has a right to privacy.” Alverez replied as she steered Harris away from them and into the parkette. “Another brush with fate. You remember it this time, Mr. Stevens?”

“Not much to remember. I was on my way home and heard a struggle from behind that shed over there. I called 911. Your men showed up. Caught him. How is …”

“She’ll be fine. You didn’t actually see what happened.”

“No. A cry for help, I think. It all happened so fast I’m not sure. Saw him run across the park and right into the arms of the police. Then the camera crews arrived.”

“Yeah. They have been hot on this. Nothing legally we can do about them. Hope you won’t mind being on the news. Detective Chiba will take your statement.”

She went over to the victim.

*35*

In the elevator up to his condo Harris realized that over the past couple of weeks he had become much more accustomed to police interrogation than he ever expected to be. His life had been fairly level till … till his Dad told him about the curse.

This time he didn’t have much to tell the police. He hadn’t seen anything beyond the figure running away and the woman who staggered out from behind the storage shed. That wasn’t the sort of information that helped a case, say, if the man they caught claimed he was just leaving the park, and not the one Harris had seen darting away.

His cell rang as he went into his apartment.

“Hey Dog.”

“What’s up Trev. You dug up another of my old girlfriends.”

“Still sore about that? Nah, we’re just seeing you on the news. You’ve gone from heart breaker to lifesaver.”

“Sure looks that way.” He filled Trevor in on what had happened while he tugged off his shoes and the rest of his clothes. Why did it always feel good to get naked.

“My auntie wants to talk with you. She says she’s discovered out more about your curse.”

Harris didn’t want to care anymore. All the emotional and physical battering the curse had caused him was tiring. It seemed if they weren’t falling over him they were beating the hell out of him.

“Tomorrow night. I’m bushed from rescuing a damsel in distress, you know.”

“Harris to the rescue. I hear you. That’ll be soon enough.”

“You can tell her I know exactly what the curse says. My Dad found out in an old diary.”

“Great. Talk soon.”

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This work is licensed under a

Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.