This is a set of ‘moving pictures’ taken from our car as we drove through Perth County July 28 on a day trip to Stratford.
Here’s the next post about a set of mp3 compilations that I put together of old music that was, for the most part, new to me. Many are garage band one-hit wonders, others are psychedelic bands whose lps that never made it to the east coast. Some are ‘oddities’ I came across. Obscure for the most part but all fun fun fun. You can find wiki info of most of them.
Street: Street (1968) – includes: What a Strange Town. This is very Jefferson Airplane. Soaring female lead singer, Anya Cohen, a touch of blues, distorted guitars, harmonies & trippy lyrics. When Airplane many labels wanted their own – this band comes close but there is only one Airplane.
Count Five: (San Jose) Psychotic Reaction – includes -My Generation. The song “Psychotic Reaction” is an acknowledged cornerstone of garage rock. I remember loving that single so much at the time with its mind boggling instrumental break. Then nothing – none of their follow ups made the charts & the lp didn’t make to my local record store. Fun energetic music that I love.
Popol Vuh: Affenstude, released in 1970. This German band is regarded as one of the earliest space music works, featuring the then new sounds of the Moog synthesizer together with ethnic percussion. Music ahead of its time for sure. Less robotic than Kraftwerk the band produced several great lps. Space music that on later lps becomes almost spiritual. If you like synthesizer check them out.
Sweetwater: Sweetwater 1968 Los Angeles – includes My Crystal Spider. A jazz-fusion band that was supposed to open Woodstock but they got caught in traffic. With lead signer Nanci Nevins, this was another band that was a Jefferson Airplane rival. The expected trippy lyrics about peace, love & social unrest. A fine lp that won’t disappoint if you track it down.
? & The Mysterians: out of Bay City, 96 Tears (1966) (In The Midnight Hour), Action (1967) – the Latino band’s music consisted of electric organ-driven garage rock and an enigmatic image inspired by the 1957 Japanese science fiction film The Mysterians. The lps are energetic & fun & I love them
Clear Blue Sky: Out Of The Blue (1970) British blues prog-rock in the Deep Purple/Uriah Heep mode with a great Roger Dean cover art. If you like obscurity this fills the bill.
we weren’t caught
in the dusty garage
pulling our pants down
to show to tell to see
where all the fuss was about
it started out so easy
somebody’s little brother
down a summer street
looking for a hose
finding instead laughter
what fun we all had
his small white behind
slipping at the end of angry long arms
back into the darkness
of the afternoon house
we six all saw him
us bubbling under thirteens
scanning the fun
red-faced & giggling
eyeing each other
to see if the sparkle was shared
then someone had the idea
maybe it was me
sometimes I pretend it was
but I’m sure it wasn’t
I was the second to say ‘yeh’
I was the one who knew
where there was a secret space
we called it hide-and-see
with all of us hiding
in one little corner
with all of us seeking
one see-it-all glance
one of the girls said
let’s do it again
we all agreed
it was to be after supper
while the folks smoked
put little brothers to bed
only four showed up
there was barely room for us
thanks to the now parked car
one budding young woman
with three earnest little men
silent in shame
willing to look
but afraid to touch
Capturing the innocence of early sexual awareness was a challenge. Making it too explicit would turn it into child porn. I know many whose early sexual experiences were abuse. Mine weren’t as sweet as this, being fraught with my queer awareness without having words for that awareness.
I did do some of ‘the pants down in the garage’ play but not as depicted here. The naked behind down the street was not unusual either. In summer we played jumping around the garden sprinkler & squirting each other with the hose. Often some clothing would be discarded to the ‘shock’ of parents.
I like the way it conveys sexuality without being either coy or frank but in a matter-of-fact way. I also feel my poet’s fear here, keeping it heterosex focused because in 76 I was certainly more interested in men but hadn’t found a way to write about it that felt safe. This poem is mildly daring but totally safe too.
In my pants down show & tell play I was more interested in what the boys had to show. I don’t know if I felt shame but more the fear of being caught. It was fun being naughty but the fear lead to guilt. It wasn’t until decades later that I found out this sort of adolescent ‘sex’ play was normal. I’m grateful for not being caught which would have turned this into some sort of parental outrage trauma as opposed to a sweet recollection of an event that didn’t damage my sexual journey of discovery with lectures & shame for being a child.
Welcome To The F Files
Picture Perfect 78
Dan filled Peter in on recent developments with the show as they drove into Toronto.
“This Meade sounds like a real character.”
“Oh yeah. But he didn’t really have much new to offer, which suits everyone fine. I mean they want to spin things out by stretching what little hard information we have.”
“Speaking of hard information, sir.” Peter’s hand dropped to Dan’s thigh.
“Keep your eye on the road & both hands on the wheel.” Dan was tempted to move Peter’s but didn’t. “So no real developments since we did that video call earlier this week.”
“We move along to the Cape. Unless some new leads come our way over the next couple of days then we’ll stick to our basecamp.”
Once in his house Dan felt himself began to relax. “It’s great not to have to worry facing that crew for a couple of days.” He looked around. “ I spent the afternoon shooting some of those talking head bridges as I walked around Stellerton. You know I’ve never thought about how they do those things. I always figured there were done in chronological order. It feels strange not to have Cameron following me with his camera. ”
“I’m sure it does, sir.” Dan said as he pulled his tee-shirt off. “If he was, I wouldn’t be able to do this would I, sir.”
“Peter, if he were here you would be doing it even faster.” He took Peter by the waist of his jeans & pulled him tight. “No c2c is as good as the real thing.”
Dan undid his own jeans, turned Peter around & shoved his jeans down to his knees. Peter leaned forward & braced himself again the kitchen counter.
Dan’s erection teased along Peter’s ass crack & then he pushed the head of it up into Peter, then slowly pulled it out.
“Don’t stop, sir. Please.”
Holding his jeans up with one hand Dan slapped Peter’s ass with the other.
Saturday was an exhausting day as Dan went from an hour at the Depot, a visit to the Carafe & to a two hour Lifend demonstration at the FairVista. Linda, to his relief, was personally supervising a wedding shoot in the ritzy Bridal Path part of city. After the demo he met with a representative from Dell and Strong to get an update on the changes in the James Corporation structure. His prime concern was that Linda would have no legal sway over the Depot. It made him long to be back in Toronto dealing with the business he was comfortable with not with Baxter’s moods & broken-hearted parents looking for answers.
He was driving back when he got a text marked urgent from Baxter.
“Tune in to the launch of QTel tonight at 8.”
QTel? What the fuck was Baxter up to now? When he parked in his garage he sat in the car & did a quick search for QTel Launch.
QTel was Quintex’s newly created pay channel. It was to be devoted to various investigative crime & supernatural phenomena reality documentaries. He saw that his show was now called The Maritime Mystery. So that’s what they do at the production end of things. There were at least two other Quintex original series coming soon plus repeats of all their shows. The package would include similar shows from Australia, Great Britain, India & even China. Many of which, the release promised, had never been shown in North America.
Now he understood why Baxter was pushing them to stay focused despite the obstacles they’d faced so far. There was no time for Baxter to waste to recover from his injuries, even less for him to grieve the death of Roberto. No wonder Baxter resented Dan taking these pauses to attend his ‘real’ life.
In the house he was distorted by the quiet. He was actually alone. No Peter. No Sanjay. No pressure to research anything, or be anywhere. He went up to his bedroom & the bed was still unmade. Even though there was no hotel staff ticking it in, no fresh towels folded tidily in the bathroom he didn’t feel quite at home.
He down to his study & turned his computer on for first time since he’d returned. The only site he’d neglected while away was the V-Files. There’d been no opportunity for him create new material for his site there. As he scrolled through the newest additions, even clicking on a couple that mildly peaked his interest he wasn’t into it. The hits on his posts had declined since over the past month as well. No new posts meant no new hits. But he was still getting ‘like’ & there was money in his tip jar with requests to post more.
He heard the front door open.
“Horney I’m home.”
It was Peter.
Dan shut down his computer & went to greet Peter with a hug & long kiss.
“Oh sir, I could get used to this.” Peter said leaning into Dan. “What’s on the menu tonight.”
“It’ll be the Tasty Tai.” Dan said. “It should here by the time we’ve showered off the the day. Can’t have you smelling like an espresso all night.”
As Peter was drying Dan’s feet the doorbell rang.
“Good timing, sir.”
“Perfect in fact. I have a little surprise for you. I’ll get the food, you get dishes & we’ll meet in front of the TV.”
As they piled food on their plates Dan remembered how this had all started with him in front of the TV & being stunned to see that childhood picture of himself & Timmy Dunlop several months ago. Months that felt like years. He tuned into the channel at 7:55. There was a digital clock countdown under rippling colour graphic that said ‘QTel Canada’s newest TV channel will be unveiled in 4:55, 4:54 – minutes.
You can also watch us on line at Qtel.TevTec.TV.’
At exactly 8 the screen went to a deep blue then Jeremy Moxham appeared. He was walking though a busy television studio. Various cameras swivelling to follow him so that he appeared in images shot from cellphones, surveillance cameras, hand-held, night-vision & even a heat-sensor camera.
“Good evening Canada. Welcome to my latest adventure. QTel a channel devoted to challenging, entertaining, no-holds barred crime investigations, as well as the latest developments in psychic research. Things that I have always been interested in even when I was on the ice.”
There was a brief montage of Jeremy scoring goals, swinging a bat, doing a dive, two-man luge & playing golf.
“He didn’t have time for curling?” Peter said.
“Tonight I’m going to give you a taste of what we have in store for you from around the world & some of our original Canadian productions.”
There was montage of show titles starting with Canada Cold, Maritime Mysteries.”
“Hey that’s you!” Peter said.
“At least it’s my good side.” The brief clip had Dan adjusting his electronic loupe to study a photograph.
Then titles of at least another dozen different show some of which Dan easily understood – Outback Oddities, Creepy Castles, Interpol Exposed.
“How did they miss Scooby-Do?” Peter laughed. “Or Ghostbusters.”
The screen faded to a voice pattern display.
“Hello. This is Daniel James. I am the other boy in the photograph of Timothy Dunlop. Please contact me …” The display faded to the picture of of him & Timmy.
Dan was startled to hear his voice.
The big garden job this past month was clearing the weeds & grass that had invaded one of the garden beds. By weeds I mean things like violet, lily of the valley, ferns, crab grass & euonymus. Some of which are considered, by many, weeds but they are sure & steady infiltrators that can push out other plants. They all spread with underground root systems which are virtually impossible to dig up completely.
The euonymus was the last to go. It had climbed the fence & had gone from ground cover, to vine, to insidious eyesore. I remember it was a freebie decades ago, a shoot that took quickly. The green & yellow leaves are pretty & the area of the garden I put it in was in need of colour. I let grow unimpeded for decades.
Late this spring I cut back the lily of the valley & violets & the various root systems of both were so intertwined I thought it was time to let go of the euonymus. It was impossible to plant in the area without dealing with the roots. Like the pandemic house purge, in which I let go of stuff: books, scrap paper, lumber, screws, clothes – that were all perfectly good but no longer served a purpose. So it was to do a garden purge too.
The house purge resulted in empty spaces that I probably won’t fill. The garden purge doesn’t quite do the same thing as nature will constantly sprout things in empty spaces. The euonymus will be back – the will to live is unstoppable. It, & the violets, ferns & lilies of the valley will pop up were I least expect them to appear. In future I may be less tolerant.
In purging my writing archives I found many old poems, short stories whose roots are still resurfacing in my writing today. Those old hurts, old attitudes, old frustrations have grown, taken on new shapes. In the process of inputting some of those pieces I saw where I had changed for the ‘better’, where I had moved on, where I had let idolized teenage romantic fantasies continue unimpeded for decades.
My Back Yard
I dig in my back yard
not a farmer tilling soil
to replenish the food supply
or even a fancy gardener
putting the exact right plant
into the perfect alkaline soil
for maximum growth
shove in whatever
selective only as to color
I know a bit about shade plants
verses those that require full sun
but sometimes even then
I don’t care
let the plant do what it can
I’ve given it all the help I can
found a spot
keep weeds at bay for a few weeks
maybe a foot deep
you want that in metric
I’m not that deep
never deeper than a foot
I come across
roots of trees
sometimes bits of shale
once pieces of blue willow china
I dig I plant
I water when necessary
but count on the sky
to provide rain
for his plant children
I stop to marvel at how deep they dig
at construction sites
centuries of strata revealed
there is no bottom
when it gets covered over
tar the shameful flesh of the dirt
concrete the private parts
to keep them safe
from further plundering lunging
I dig I plant
I enjoy washing the dirt off my hands
clean my finger nails
I feel connected
I even feel connected
on the 20th floor
it doesn’t matter
the force of this earth
reaches to me
I feel safe surrounded in touch
yet when I am in a forest
I feel alien unwelcome
if I dig here
what can I plant
I dig I plant
I love hollyhocks & am always happy to see them in bloom. During World Wars I & II families were to replace flower gardens with Victory Gardens of vegetables. Hollyhock was the only flower allowed. They were vigorous self-seeders, hardy &, most importantly, attracted pollinators. The range of colours is astonishing – I’ve seen them nearly pitch black, deep purple & even a parchment brown. These shots are all of the hollyhock garden at the Danforth end of the East Lynn Park in Toronto.
The next five pop music posts will cover a set of mp3 compilations that I put together of old music that was, for the most part, new to me. Many are garage band, one-hit wonders, others are psychedelic bands whose lps that never made it to the east coast. Several are ‘oddities’ I came across. Obscure for the most part but all fun fun fun. You can find wiki info of most of them.
13th Floor Elevators (Austin, Texas): Psychedelic Sounds of (mostly live) (1966) includes You Really Got Me; Easter Everywhere (1967) – includes Postures (Leave Your Body Behind). This band claims the first use of the word “psychedelic” in reference to the music so I had to have them, right? Goofy love songs, anti-war rants with heavy reverb, wha-wha, distorted vocals & slithery guitar work. Perfection.
Fireballet: Bald Mountain (1975) – we can thank Emerson, Lake & Palmer for the flourishing of 70’s Symphonic Prog. This British band, produced by Ian McDonald (King Crimson), is a mild version of ELP, The bass sound is a bit ‘thin’ but they work hard, churning out pretentious fun including their 20 minute take on Night of Bald Mountain.
Archie Bell & The Drells (Huston Texas): Tighten Up (1968) includes Midnight Hour, Knock on Wood. This is the retro odd-one-out. Sweet, soulful, funky & refreshing. Like so many groups of the time, regardless of genre, they did covers of the new standards i.e. Midnight Hour.
Another legendary band is Fifty Foot Hose (San Francisco): Cauldron (1968) plus Rare tracks. They are remarkable for featuring a variety of homemade synths. This is truly trippy music with speaker-dancing engineering, echo, mystic lyrics, fine singing & spacey instrumental passages. It reminded me of how I thought how music should sound when you’re stoned.
Finally on this compilation is Eric Burdon declares “War” (Long Beach) (1970) includes Tobacco Road, Spill The Wine. Eric Burdon re-invented himself several times, always with fascinating sonic results. This time with War for a couple of great albums full of experimental, almost prog-rock work but always with a blues, r’n’b underpinning. This lp gave him, Spill The Wine, one of his few top ten songs after he disbanded the Animals. Smooth, funky fun. The follow up, Black Man’s Burdon – which I have in another compilation is less funky but still great.
flash cuts of red
a silver bird
a black curve
at vision’s edge
hedges preflight bets
against a perfect landing
a black curve
of the slowly formed oval
figures into connections
practices the new motion
the cutting motion
of ends realized
with sun & steel
the silver birds
to dissect their eyes
to find what they see
beyond my sight
I know they see more
they feed from other hands
I will not rest
till I’ve emptied
their hollow bones
of soaring fluids
I must know more
than the aching birth of flight
I must feel more
than the caress of turbulence
I must have their sight
a feathered rhapsody
in a shimmer celebration
of a perfect landing
on an endless spiral
of consecrated breath
as long as possible
to form a lined cloud
the silver birds
they soar & shimmer
beyond all edges
black round flickers
their eyes intact
they see black curves
they fly spirals
the black curves are death
a vision I leave to them
till my own bones
are so hollow
all that remains
is the silver
from behind the cloud
a silver bird
wings on straw bones
a floating airfoil song
a crescendo of invention
in a shuddered moment
a moment of escape
a curve of celebration
for this perfect landing
fresh curves of black
This poem reflects my adoration of Yukio Mishima. His life, writing & death were inspirations to me. Over the years I have read nearly everything of his translated into English, as well as biographies & critical studies of his work. Through the piece are mentions of his works – Sun & Steel is his book about samurai culture & ritual. He saw suicide as an artist expression. He was also queer.
The opening & closing are like Japanese water colours with a few simple brushstrokes creating a vivid image in blank space. The in-between verses are like chrysanthemum – multi-petaled with repeated words, images, analogies that reflect, then vary as they move like a kaleidoscope to form then reform new pictures.
Words were carefully picked for sonics & meaning & poetic vibrancy. ‘feathered rhapsody’ ‘crescendo of invention’ are Dylan Thomas candy. I had some brightly coloured Java Temple finches at one time so I’m sure they were inspiration for all the bird imagery. I must have seen a documentary on bird feathers & bones & that relates to their ability to fly but it is possible I made that stuff up too.
hey learn to fly by being pushed out of the nest – it’s either spread your wings or die trying, discover their perfect landing or become part of the black curves. Poems have to pushed out the nest to fly into the lives people that the poet often never meets. We writers never know where our words will land once we set them free. The vision one has of oneself as a poet, as person, also has to leave a nest, though unlike birds we have more options to try as we learn to negotiate life & often never find that perfect landing.
Welcome To The F Files
Picture Perfect 77
“What do you think happened to those children?” Dan asked.
“Dan, that’s a hard question to answer. At the time there was an expectation that they would show up again.” Meade said. “Or that we’d find their bodies on different beaches. I know what predators do to children but somehow I don’t think this is what happened here. It was too … clean. After a year, when there was nothing, I knew we’d never see any of them again. Alive.”
“Here you are Mr. Meade.” Delores handed him the green file folder. He took a newspaper clipping from it and handed it to Dan.
“Priests Charged” was the headline. Under it was a photograph of three priests.
“That’s Father McKillop!” Dan said. He skimmed the article. Then checked the date. “This is from last year. He’s still alive.”
“Yes.” Meade said. “Pleading not guilty, I might add. Goes to trial in the new year. This was why he was ‘moved’ to new parish.”
“Embezzlement isn’t such a big thing.” Jennifer said.
“You were hoping for something more …. salacious?” Meade laughed. “I’m sure embezzlement covers a multitude of sins.”
“Such as where did the money go?” Dan said.
“Right, though maybe it was his personal organ fund.” Meade laughed loudly. “He was known to be fond of ladies. Had at least two mistresses while he was still here on the east coast.”
“Says here he needed the money to pay off gambling debts.” Dan put the article on the table. “Would you know, off hand, if he’s related Staff Sergeant McKillop.” Dan asked.
“I could find out easily.” Meade said. “Cousins for sure.”
“So you covered the disappearance cases at the time?” Dan asked.
“Only one of them. We reported on two of the others. But no connections between were made. When nothing really developed it stopped being newsworthy.” Meade shook his head. “When I moved here several years ago I decided to do a purge of my old personal files & came across the one for the Forestier’s.”
“And the others?” Jennifer asked.
“I pulled the Forestier & put it to one side. Found the others & did the same & saw the pattern. All were in different counties so even then I didn’t see connections. Running the Sentinel didn’t leave me time to make connections. When I retired I had time to ruminate.”
Jennifer flipped through the other clippings, notes & photographs in Meade’s folder. “Did you uncover anything since you contacted Unsolved Cold?”
Dan reached over & took a colour photo from the papers. It was a panoramic shot of a banquet with several round tables, each with groups people around them smiling at the camera. He pulled out his electronic loupe to study the faces.
“That’s my Dad!” He said. “That’s Father McKillop at another of the tables.”
“Good eye.” Meade said. “That was …”
“The Atlantic News awards in 1984. March, right? Mom was pissed she couldn’t go because I had a cold. Why was the good father there?”
“It was a fairly open guest list.” Meade said. “I think our press celebrity that year was Pierre Burton. All the winners got signed copies of The Promised Land. His latest book.”
“Fuck! This is the Chamberlains. I recognize them from their photos at the Circus museum. Oh wow! Is that a real snake around her shoulders.”
“Yes.” Meade said. “She was a woman of interesting interests.”
“There’s Mrs. O’Connor, too. She’s one of servers!”
Dan turned on his tablet & pulled up the file of interview photos to compare it with one of the younger Mrs. O’Connor. “Yes. Definitely her.”
“What does that tell us?” Jennifer asked. “It was a fairly public event.”
“My inquiries told me the O’Connor woman was one of McKillop’s uh … conquests.”
“Mrs. Chamberlain, too?” Jennifer asked. “No I don’t feel that here.”
“Yes. Yes. I’m sure.” Meade fell silent.
Delores stepped to his side.
“I’m afraid it’s time for Mr. Meade to rest. He usually doesn’t have so many visitors.” She shook his shoulder gently. “Time for your afternoon siesta Mr. Meade.”
“Yes. Yes. Thank you Delores.” He stood unsteady. “I hope I’ve been helpful. You can have the files. I have to keep purging my past. There’s more in there than we discussed.”
Delores began to lead him away.
“Please get in touch if you want to ask any questions.” He shrugged Delores’ hand from his shoulder. “Perhaps, if I may, would you mind walking me back to my room Mr. James?”
“Certainly.” Dan stood.
Cameron moved to follow them.
“No cameras beyond the the visiting area.” Delores said.
“Oh.” Cameron looked to Dan.
Dan’s eyes blinked as they left the brightly lit visiting area & went into a dimly lit hallway. Even the smell of the building changed as they walked. The fresh pine of the other room was replaced by a stuffy medicinal dustiness.
“There’s a flight of stairs around the corner.” Meade said. “My unit is on the first floor so I take the stairs whenever I can. Helps keep me in shape.”
The corridor on the first floor was brighter. The smell of disinfectant was stronger.
“Here we are.” Meade pushed the buttons on the electronic lock & the door swung open.
The room was cluttered with a couple of file cabinets, a desk littered with folders, a recent model computer & a bed.
“Utilitarian but home.” Meade said. “Sit for a moment.”
“You sure Dolores will allow it?” Dan sat on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah. Look did you know about the conflict between your Dad & McKillop?”
“McKillop? No. Dad was none to fond of the Catholic school boards for blocking him from doing their class photos. But he never mentioned anyone in particular.”
“That someone was McKillop. He & your Dad were … I can’t call them friends but they were more than acquaintances too. Not quite business partners either but …”
“What?” Dan was trying to make some connection between his Dad & the priest.
“Members of the same club.”
“No some camera club.”
“My God! You mean the Kodak Fun Club?”
“Exactly. I’d forgot what it was called. They took photos of an artistic nature.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen some of them. Girly pics. You were a member of the club too?”
“I had a newspaper to run & well, I had access to enough of that sort of smut anyway. Anyway the club voted McKillop out after he’d been a member for a couple of month.”
“Having a priest in the room sort of dampened their innocent pleasures.” Dan gave a little laugh.
“No, he wanted their photographic experiments to go a little further. McKillop was …”
“He liked to be punished for being a bad, bad priest!”
“How do you know this if you weren’t a member of the club?”
“My sources must remain confidential. You understand that.”
“You knew Peggy Brooks?”
Meade stared intently at him for a minute. “Never heard of her.”
A follower asked what did we do a Loyalist for five days – as if there so little to writing one only needed a day or less to get the fundamentals. The structure was the same each year – morning lecture about an aspect of plotting, world building – & discussion of those aspects. Newbies were most curious about getting published & how sell a million copies of their book.
The more experienced where most interested in polishing their writing & the workshop critiques in the afternoon were where the real learning happened. It was after the first session of this that if someone as going to drop out they would drop. Some signed without fully realizing the amount of time reading & commenting on one another’s work would take. I know the first year I expected to have time to write new chapters for my current project – ha! I barely had time to blog – lol.
I was one of the few in the class that actually stayed on campus – the others lived in the area, had friends who live din the area, or preferred the full comforts of a nearby motel. I roughed in one of residence units. I brought breakfasts, snacks, & suppers for the stay. Without a car eating off campus wasn’t going to happen & what fast food there was closed at 4. I wasn’t rushing to hit Tim’s before they closed just to get a bagel.
Over the years I attended I brought chapters from my various nanowrimo novels Lazarus Kiss, Coal Dusters & Picture Perfect. Feed back was productive & when I got to doing edits of those novels I incorporated many of the suggestions. Asking for feedback on sections that appeared at say, the 100 page mark, in a novel did present the challenge of context – some fellow work-shoppers realized what wasn’t explained was probably already explained – other floundered not being able to make that leap. I did include a very brief recap one year.
The biggest thing I learned was that, to me, the writing is more important that publishing – one attender was dismayed they had to sacrifice their dream project after good a start because they couldn’t find a market for it – clearly the dream was the market not the project. Others discovered that once published they spent so much time on promo that they had no time write anything new.
I hope the follower who asked what we did isn’t disappointed to find out there were no blood offerings to the moon.
The Reparation Room
he acted as if I owed him something
for the way he was treated as a child
by someone I didn’t know
in a city I’ve never been in
because I was old white guy
I was the one to blame
I was the one who had to dig down
to make it up to him
money wasn’t going to cut it
he wanted to see me hurt
as much as he had been hurt
there was no way to defuse this anger
to step back from the situation
no way was I capable of making him feel whole
was the trade off
the memory of his pain
in return for the memory
of the pain he might inflict upon me
how many times
would he have to seek this opportunity
how many times would he have to strike out
before he realized causing pain
never removes the pain one feels
making me hurt as much as he hurts
won’t change his hurt
might numb him to it for a moment
then he’ll have to live with what he’s done
what he feels compelled to keep on doing
making me hurt as much as he hurts
won’t change his hurt
might numb him to it for a moment
then he’ll have to live with what he’s done
what he feels compelled to keep on doing
hitting out spitting out taking it out
till it would finally consume him
I don’t know how to lead him out of this cage
can’t tell him he’s a slave
to a problem I didn’t cause
I refuse to be held responsible for it
yet cannot deny his right
to seek some sort of reparation
for his past
I’m not the one to apologize
not the one to pull out my wallet to pay him off
I have to witness his struggle
know that I can’t undo
what has been done
try not to add to it in any way
but it seems no matter what I do
I add to it
just being present brings it all back to him
not being present
seems to him like I’m hiding out of guilt
neither of us can leave the room