This is an excerpt from an ebook called Calendar Girls.  As you can surmise there is a little story with each one. Somewhat biographical. (Actually it’s all bio. Meaning I believe my lies.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January was named after a girl I knew in high school. Our high school was all boys except for 2 young ladies who came over from the local girls’ school to take some classes with us. One girl was a lovely long haired blonde. Jan was the other girl. She had a rather sad face that seemed to light up when she saw you and smiled. And when she smiled the whole room lit up. And she talked to me. I was… conquered. But very shy. I did not ask her out . When the school year was out I asked a friend of mine if he knew where Jan lived. (The same friend that rimes with anaconda and argyle.) He gave me her address. And so all summer at least two or three times a week I walked by her house hoping she would see me and come out. (I was too shy to knock on her door. I wanted her to think that I was just in the neighbourhood.) Sometimes her neighbours would give me a suspicious look. But I didn’t care. I was there for January. It wasn’t until the end of the summer that I learned that the house I passed all summer wasn’t hers. She didn’t live anywhere in that neighbourhood…

Postscript: I’m still friends with the guy whose name rimes with… And Jan and I later became friends for a time at college, although never boyfriend-girlfriend. Her nephew and my son later played soccer together on the same team. January became one of those ‘what if…’ women in my life.

My Hair Is On Fire

July 21, 2012

My Hair Is On Fire

My hair is on fire. Smoking has all kinds of unaccustomed results. It was genetics. Not cigarettes. My hair was orange. And in the daylight, the sun and I looked like mad twins.

You’re too angry. I turned around. Maybe its cancer. In my belly. But nothing is as good as. You promised. God has a blue print. It was pinned to the dinner table. I was offered a glass of wine. And a piece of his stomach. Which made me vomit.

In the vale. My grandfather’s voice would sail. On Sunday mornings. The sweetness of his words. Were like a curse to the world that had rushed out. To watch. The crucifixion. On the hill.

My fingers are crooked. My hair is white. My children are beautiful. My wife has put her arm around my shoulder. Things will be alright. But I can’t look up. I’m still pissed.

A blind man’s cane

July 21, 2012

Writing started to become easier for me when I dropped all my ambitions. Ambition or the need to be famous/well known is battery acid for your talents. Its like preparing to go to a demonstration for some just cause and worrying about what you should wear.

I’m still pissed. And I don’t know why. There are lots of things that I hate. (Like reality shows, show business in general, the automobile, the list goes on) But its more than that. I’m disappointed. (Sound like a spoiled brat)

…………………………………………….

Acts of Levitation

Boats on the lake. Walking the tightrope. Across the horizon.

Rubens women. In two pieces. Shaking their big tits. Winking at me.

Long drive. 2 lanes of asphalt. The flats on the way to the sea. Better slow down. Just ahead of us. Pools of water. A raccoon. Drowned.

The Queen is on every quarter. Winking at me.

The British wore red coats. The French were dressed in blue. Guantanomo. Omar Khadr. Killed an enemy soldier. Ten years for not wearing a uniform.

Gone to the racetrack. Pick my losers. Fillies. Winking at me.

In the cold ground. Justice has a simple rule. Saints and tyrants. Shrews and Secretaries of State. The real king is the worm.

Sunday. At the beach. Performing various forms of levitation. I was vertical. The beautiful girls showed me a new trick. They looked right through me. Some days I think I’d have been better off. Staying in bed. A blind man’s cane. Winking at me.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I was watching men working on a new house. They had skills. I thought of my grandfather. A farmer. He knew how to grow things. And he was a blacksmith. He knew about machinery. Animals. And my grandmother. She knew what you could eat in the fields. What berries. What mushrooms. She knew how to preserve. My grandparents only went to grade 4 or 5. But they could read. And write. And they knew all about the land.

What if there was some catastrophe. That threw us back into the 1800s. Most of us could not survive. We are fragile.

Do you know the difference between a chicken and a rooster?

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mystery of Eliot Lake

There’s something hidden. In the rose bush. I’m not sure if it is. Alive.

There’s something hidden. In her thoughts. That she is trying to drag out through. Her psychiatrist. He’s a part-time lion tamer. He can make things disappear. In his hands.

Her brother. Was my best friend. He disappeared one summer. At the family cottage. He went out fishing. And never returned. Someone said his name was Thomson. His mother swore he never existed.

I hold her head in my hands. There’s nothing I can do. She’s says she doesn’t care nor ever did. I removed her bra. I can’t remember she said. What he looked like. Smoking a cigarette.

There’s something hidden. In the lake. I’m not sure. What it is.

Are we the centre of the universe? I thought that this went out with Galileo. But then quantum mechanics came along. And the observer. On a molecular level, the observer changes reality by observing. Now we have a series of new prophets who suggest that we create reality. Through imagination. Reality to them is the Matrix. (see movie. I mean it. See the movie.)

If we can change reality by observing then…. (And this is where they get odd.) we can create reality by a force of mind, by our consciousness. Look at the power we could have as a group. (Think Knights of Columbus) This is also where things get political. What if Republicans control the group? What about the Chinese? What about the papacy?

Of course we are not the only conscious beings. Squirrels could also create reality. If there were enough of them. Remember, outside of cars, they have no natural enemies in the city. Can you imagine reality created by squirrels. Wouldn’t that be nuts? (I think I’ve already been affected.)

And what if there are other forms of life to whom we haven’t been introduced? Aliens.  And what if they are smart? And what if they won’t give us a vote?

Song on a Hot Day

Sweat on the windows. The dog is on the cement floor. His tongue rolled out like a red carpet. Flies in my ear. Telling me stories. Cold beer in my hand. Is this how we face the end of days.

Too hot for thought. Too hot for love. Too hot to think about you.

Blind man. Writing his life story. Inside his mind. The cat in the brown grass. The robins in the sprinkler. Sun inside sky. Yellow inside blue. Everything is innocent. What does innocent mean.

Too hot to dance. Too hot to move. Too hot to sing about you

I’ll cut out my heart. Sung by the Platters. Sometimes I feel like an alarm clock. I measure what never moves. I heard what you said. Jesus is coming back for a second shot. So where is he. And what’s his excuse this time.

Too hot for thought. Too hot for love. Too hot to think about you

For a decent girl

July 15, 2012

Lovers On Stage

Maybe you were the lone assassin. Maybe it wasn’t Oswald at all. Maybe Greta Garbo had something to say. Maybe Jerry Lewis really was funny. The sphinx holds her secrets. All I ever wanted was you.

I’ve stared at the footage. The twin towers. Like a birthday cake. For a two year old. Everyone was taking pictures that day. In their head. I remember the smoke jumping out of the cake. Swinging her tits. Like death.

Every song on the radio. Preaching. Get rid of him. He can’t be going anywhere. Proper. For a decent girl. Go down on me. I broke out laughing. The two of us. On fire. While the world is watching.

Love in the 60s

I memorized the Bible. At night. In my bed. The pages were marked at the corners. Some were stained. From tears. And every page said. You love for all the wrong reasons.

I burnt the roses. That I’d thrown on our mattress. With a book of matches. Which was hauled away in the garbage. I took off my hat. And said. How can all my reasons be wrong. And what about the law of averages.

Years flew by. Autumn was a pleasant enough memory. I’m starting to lose my keys. I’m starting to forget where I parked the Chev. And sometimes in moments. Of perfect sobriety. I recall that I don’t own a car.

Why did we fall in love. In the 60s. Was never asked. There were 3 bottles on the floor. You were dressed up like Joan Baez. I was up tied up in laughter. You said we could get married. In Las Vegas. I cashed my unemployment cheque. And we lived happily ever after.

“I’m jealous!”

July 13, 2012

“I’m jealous!” She was pale. And a few pounds overweight. And walking towards me. Talking out loud. Into her cell phone.

She was black. A teenager. Very emotional. One hand on her hip. “She thinks she can talk to me like that. Girl, you know what I said.” And walked passed me.

She was sitting outside Starbucks. “You’re a drunk. I had nothing to do with it.” She was sitting alone.

These are examples of the invasion of public places by the private sphere. Its as if everyone is wearing pajamas to work. In these examples all were females. But its men as well. Although generally men are more guarded. Or they have nothing to say. Or they’re listening.

CIA. FBI. KGB. Wake up. You don’t have to spy on people. They’ll tell you.

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