Canadian Spirit

Languished and famished at summer’s end.  The cool night air wafts through the Venetian blinds, warning of winter, warning of void and loneliness, of dark nights, and dark mornings, of somnambulist states, somnambulist spirit, stirs prayers for strength and reasons to awake.

          September sniveling.  It is the same every year.  Somehow, we muddle through, with hockey and rye whiskey and hopes of spring, because we are Canadian and that’s what we do and we’re proud of it.

Scrambled Eggs

She made coffee and scrambled eggs.  I lurched about in her living room and pondered her objects, her books.  It is becoming ever more clear to me that a person is all about their objects, not so much about their books.  It is clear, also, or becoming clear, that it is not merely about the objects, but the objects in conjunction with their placement in the living space.

          Hence, I’m lurking about in her living space, reviewing her objects and the placement of her objects while she is in her cooking space making coffee and scrambled eggs and humming a song that we danced to last night, or at least I think we danced to it, or it may have been playing in her sex and sleeping space and we have sexed and slept to it rather than danced to it—it all gets muddled sometimes the next day.

          The scrambled eggs seem to have a hint of Worcester added to them, as, while I lurch in her living space, I can detect the odour of the Worcester emanating from her cooking space and it is a good warm scent that arouses a homebody spirit, a remembrance of grandmother’s kitchen and grandfather’s beer and tomato juice :red Eye” concoction which he loved adding Worcester while sipping at it sitting at the kitchen table.

          Because of this, I experience a moment of happiness, a fit of happiness, if you will, something I equate with Kerouac’s instant alleviation of depression in Big Sur, just a sudden impulse of a smile, for no apparent reason, a scent, a noise, an idea, a memory, and suddenly I am attacked by happiness, smiling for no apparent reason, peaceful in the soul, close to God, embraced by Jesus.  Ah, that it would be a permanent condition

The Lithuanian Enigma

There was blood on the pavement this morning, spots and small blotches—likely from a small wound or a bloodied nose. I followed the trail of blood for a time.  There was a consistent rhythm to the trail.  A slow, laborious rhythm of pain and suffering.

          I lost interest in the trail after a few blocks and turned towards the west.

          Later, while listening to the radio, I learn that there was close to one million suicides every year worldwide.  I learn also the Lithuania has the highest suicide rate in the world.  Why Lithuania?  I can’t get my head around it as I have no notion of Lithuanian life.  I know that Lithuania is somewhere in Europe, or at least i think Lithuania is in Europe.  That’s about it.  I have never met a Lithuanian

Whisper

Whisper of the loves once known.   Whisper of the loves not known.  Whisper of the loves forgotten, in silence, in reverence, in peace.  Whisper once and await the mist as it wafts gently across the calm surface.  Whisper and listen.

Solstice

We swam in the bay on Solstice Day, arms splayed chaotic in joy and drunken stupidity.  Somehow, we both knew we were making a memory, smiled, and spit a stream of water into the sky.  A moment fully in love with the notion of being alive.

With Fat and Calloused Mouth

It is the rye that lubricates the reeds within my battered Marine Band.  Lemon Rum merely warms them.  Wine has no effect , leaving the reeds cold, lame, soulless.  The rye makes my mouth feel fat and calloused like the mouth of Sonny Boy Williamson.

          It is the acoustics in the bathroom that echo the wailing and moaning and stomping.  I drink the in the crapper on a Sunday night, pouring my woeful out before the Monday morning machine dance.

          The phlegm gets flowing from all the sucking and blowing.  I get fits of hacking and gurgling.  These spasmodic bouts summon up the spirit of my three pack of Player’s Plain a day Father, yacking and hacking in his work week weary morning ritual.  Because of this, I blow and suck into the battered Marine Band with a fat and calloused rye mouth with a certain holy conjoining with a dead father’s spirit, succumbing, surrendering to a lineage of weary.  It gives the week a sense of balance.  Rituals are crucial in a deteriorating world.