Freely Released

A stab at the arts + anecdotes.

Further Misadventures In Bikeville & Added Canadian Content

   Montreal is the bike theft capital of Canada, and its rate of bike vandalism isn't too shabby, either.  After having one bike stolen, finding a replacement, a used number from the hip Plateau, seemed like a lucky strike.  The owner was flying back to Vancouver the next day.  At the last minute, he decided not to take the bike, and his hurry made it affordable. 

   Despite the price, it had smooth gears.  A soft seat, offering a cruise downhill into downtown.  Comfy, well-worm grips.  And enough non-interfering rust to make it unassuming, a wallflower amongst the urbanity of high traffic bike lanes and athletic hot pants.

  "I wish I had something I liked as much as you like that bike," a friend said.  You'll find it, I thought, thinking of a swerving path near work, one I'd take to in minutes.  It was that minor beatific thing teenagers get with a rush of affection.   

  That ride was a pleasure.  The bike was handling better than I expected, and I weaved in traffic with a quickness I never would've dared at before.  Proudly, I locked it nearby a few stores where I planned to do errands, and removed the seat. 

   Returning, I got ready for a good ride home.  Except.  Something was off.  Ow!  I dismounted to examine.  Someone had poked a hole in the back tire!  I didn't swear.  I didn't look for enemies.  I got on and pedalled very slowly so not to swerve.  It was about twelve kilometres home and I didn't feel like the walk.  But construction, Montreal's neverending folly, jammed the bike lanes.  It was time for a slow pass in rush hour.  Bike after bike went by, cars zooming in the lane.  Meanwhile, I was beginning to feel that I didn't need the name of the offender for prosecution, but I'd like him or her to pay for the surgery needed to restore my butt to its former state. 

    Finally I hit Westmount, the wealthy English borough.  The back tire had begun squeaking.  I cringed, feeling like a second grader who's embarassed of their Granny Bike.  No, no, I thought.  You're almost home.  Ditch the paranoia and pedal.  Then people started trying to figure out where the noise was coming from.  A tall boy went to ring the doorbell at a restored Victorian home, but spun on his heel, maybe fearing an emergency.  I finished that street and walked to my apartment in the Notre-Dame-De-Grace district, affectionately known as No-Damn-Good.

   The next day it was time to experiment with a patch kit.  True, I'd never fixed a bike before, but the tire couldn't get any worse.  A helpful teenager at Canadian Tire gave me the goods: rubber circles, rubber cement.  Outside my apartment, I sat and tried to salve the tire with the glue.  It ran everywhere.  I guess I expected a glue stick, like I'm used to at work: a school.

   Never say die!  I put three patches over the hole, just to be sure, and held them in place with my thumb.  Removal of the digit was a delicate operation, but everything seemed to be holding.  The test would come tomorrow.  The destination: a gas station.  The dream: a round tire.

   Walking the bike down a residential section of Montreal's longest street the next morning, I couldn't help but marvel at the sky: blue and long.  You know how it is: the sky changes shape.  Sometimes it appears deep, to backlight the exaggerated figures of your imagination; sometimes flat, like a pathway to another city on the other side... sometimes it's tall, vigorously stretching to the sun.  It was long this morning, as if holding all of us, on the Island.  It was amazing to be very small, enmeshed in the variety which creates the city's landscape.

   The. Gas. Station.  The Pump!  It cost fifty cents?  I dug into my pocket for change and thumbed it in.  The machine started whirring.  

   "Eh!"  I turned.  A wizened man in a golf cap smiled.  "It's free for bikes there!"  I shook my head, not understanding.  "Across the street!  Free!"

   "Oh," I said, listening to the machine grind, gazing across four lanes.  "Thanks!"  The man put a hand to his brim and turned.  

   After a few seconds of air, the tire didn't seem to be changing shape.  The patch was a dud.  Never say die!  I had more time left, and, after all, I was paying for it, so tried a few more times.  Wait!  The tire was rising!  It wasn't as full as the front, so I kept adding and checking until it seemed as close as it could be.  Victory!  I wheeled the bike away from the pump and prepared to mount, when it stopped dead.  The back was stuck.

   The tire had come off the wheel.

   The tire was overinflated.  It wouldn't budge past the brake.  

    I took the patches off, to see if I could shrink the tire and fix its position.  No dice.  Glue had plugged the hole.  Nothing to do but admit defeat and drag the bike down to the shop for a repair.  I tried carrying the back for a few minutes.  Ow.  I decided to push it, back wheel stationary or no.  

   A couple of minutes later, the wheel started to spin.  Hallelujah!  Something had adjusted!  I could hop on and turn around!  To be safe, I stared at the tire.  No-o.  Dragging the tire had broken it.  A new hole.

   I avoid bike shops because of the cost, but the fact is, we've got a decent one not far off.  A man politely held the door.  Inside, another biker was shamefully grinning at his model, an impressive deluxe racer.  "A flat!" a stocky man in shirtsleeves exclaimed.  The biker nodded.  Gosh, he was handsome.  The injury to his bike seemed to have provoked a little neglect; he showed stubble not in line with the crisp presentation of his clothes.  I thought it worked for him, though.  Who could I set him up with? 

   "You!"  The short shirtsleeved man darted towards me.  "Another flat!"  I nodded.  "You see!" he yelled back over the counter.  "I told you there'd be flats today!"

   "There's a hole," I said, pleased to be saved from an explanation.     

    "You'll need it replaced," he spat.  "What'syr name?"

    "Maggie," I said.

    His eyes shot open.  "Maggie?"

    "Is that the wrong name?" I asked.

    He stared at me.  "No!  It's a very good name.  You see, my wife and I were just talking about this outside, before the store opened.  A friend of ours died.  Her name's Maggie."

   "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. 

   "Don't be," said the man.  "No need for her."

   "It was recently?" I asked.

   "Only two weeks ago," he nodded, "and she was forty-seven."

   "That's so young."

   "Yes," he said.  "She was a good friend, you know?"  He touched his chest.  "Close to our family for ten years."  I thought he might tell a brief story, but he stepped back.  "Today, I cannot promise.  A lot of mechanics to do.  Tomorrow's the holiday.  Wednesday."

  He nodded again, smiled, and I left.

  

A Few More...

 

  Well, jeez. That ended up a lot longer than I planned.  Here's a few more Canadian songs for you... including the Grapes of Wrath, Roma!  These are less likely to be known outside the borders.  Hope you enjoy!

Venice is Sinking, The Spirit of the West.  There was a period in Canada where no party took place without this song.  I think that can be proven.  Not the band's video, but the song is in tact and the images are pretty.

Lukey, Great Big Sea.  Newfoundland's unofficial ambassadors, happily arranging folk tunes & writing some good ones of their own.

Courage, The Tragically Hip.  When I was growing up, everyone loved The Hip.  They've never broken stateside but they're icons here.  I can't claim to be a big fan, but this song gets me every time.  A haunting version is featured in Canadian director Atom Egoyan's Oscar-winning The Sweet Hereafter.

Lost Together, Blue Rodeo.  Somewhat unbelievably, a staple at high school dances years ago.  Put it next to Angel by Aerosmith and you'll get an idea of the surreal life we lived (but then, aren't all high school experiences surreal?).

All The Things I Wasn't, The Grapes of Wrath.  Made the heart grow contemplative... another one out of Vancouver.  They changed their name to Ginger & back.  I think, like all the bands above, that they're still putting records out...

posted by: FreelyReleased at 19:43 | link | comments (2) |

You Don't Love Me! - The Canadian Content Law & Romance

Personal Update... 

  'Tis the season for story drafts!  For a while, I'll be trying to scrawl full-length numbers... but am not one of those geniuses who can get a coherent piece down in one shot. 

  It's going to take a little time.  But ti-i-i-ime is on my side.  (Sorry.  End- of- year teacher flakiness). 

  Luckily, a skilled fellow blogger has kindly agreed to look over the rougher versions before I post them here, in sections.

(PS - got a new used bike and a U-lock - thanks, IML!)

 

Love, Lyrics & Legislation: The Canadian Content Law (Americans, Prepare for a Shock!) 

   Until then, I'll probably just toss things I love into the blogosphere... like this: a duet between two Canadian singers, Feist and Bob Wiseman.  It was actually Bob I was searching for, letting my fingers do the walking all over YouTube.  I found him.  These days, it's not surprising - Canadian musicians crop up everywhere.

   But two decades ago, the Canadian government instituted the Canadian Content Law for radio stations.  To Americans, this will probably sound bizarre: the federal government decreed that at least 40% of music played on the radio must be performed by Canadian artists.  (We were used to hearing almost exclusively American stuff).

   The on-air Canadian music scene flailed at the beginning, with amateur-sounding song after song surrounding the few better-known mass-market acts (think Bryan Adams).  But production values improved with commitment, and more and more talented Canadians stepped up.  Sarah McLachlan appeared during this era, along with The Barenaked Ladies. There was an unpolished determination to these acts.  Without a standard, multi-platinum model to follow, gritty creativity often came to the fore.

    Suddenly The Great White North was swarming with groups: Our Lady Peace, Sloan and The Crash Test Dummies were marquee names (from Toronto, Nova Scotia and Manitoba, respectively).  At the same time, The Tragically Hip were still snaking across the country in tour after tour, and Rush - the band that will never, never die - collected popular accolades.

  A fairy tale ending, provoked by an unconventional legislative move?

  Not quite.

  When it became cool to like Canadian bands, it became cooler to provide progressively slicker commercial fodder to fans.  Love or hate Shania Twain - she's as far away as you can get from the origins of the modern Canadian rock scene.  And what about Celine?  (Though early French songs called Le Blues De Businessman or Ziggy, Un Homme Qui N'est-ce pas Comme les Autres are pretty entertaining for titles alone).

  Had Canadian music severed its grimy roots?

  Some might try, but writer-performers like Bob Wiseman keep tradition alive.  Bob will probably never crack the big time, but singers like Feist, who have, are smart and open enough to recognize their lesser-known inspirations (for the heavy metal version, check out Voivod, a Montreal group who went on to influence a generation of acts - just not a generation of DJs).

  In this spirit, here's You Don't Love Me, a great Bob Wiseman number.  Below that is a list of 5 Canadian songs worth your time.

  A bientot!  (See you soon!)

 

 

GREAT CANADIAN SONGS

1.  Lovers in a Dangerous Time, Bruce Cockburn / Barenaked Ladies.  One of The Ladies' sober efforts; before they turned to cleverness.  Graceful, wistful, sad and romantic.

2.  Clumsy, Our Lady Peace.  Jeremy Taggart is one of the best rock drummers in the world (he was asked to play with Van Halen at 14!).  Listen to him push this one from what could be melodramatic concern to a heartfelt refusal to be turned away.  (For the record, I think Jeremy's best recorded performance is The Story of 100 Aisles, but I can't find it on YouTube).

 

 

3.  Miss Chatelaine, kd lang.  This song is romantic fun and the lady certainly has a blast in this version (look for the bubbles.  Good lord!).  And the clearest voice this side of the 49th parallel.

 

 

 

4.  Fumbling Towards Ecstacy, Sarah McLachlan.  This song, from Sarah's breakthrough album of the same name, is like a jump straight into the air.  She married her drummer; you can see why, when you hear her voice and his rhythm work in the last chorus.

 

 

 

5. She's So Young, The Pursuit of Happiness.  A golden oldie from the opening days of the Canadian Content Law.  I still love it.  Smart as a whip, self-effacing and melodic as all get out.

posted by: FreelyReleased at 22:42 | link | comments (11) |

Open Letter to a Bike Thief

Dear Bike Thief,

  I am trying to figure out why my bike is gone from the downtown stand where I locked it, right before the movie.  Today.  June 22, 2008.

  Two years ago I was having a friendly conversation with a student.  Someone I liked easily, trusting my personal feelings to guide me in conversation with him, though he'd been repeatedly suspended for fighting. 

   We had English class together.  I don't call students "my kids," though I have no issue with that.  It's just that I never think of anyone, much less a teenaged boy, as mine.  But I'm also not fool enough to pretend to cold blood and fearlessness.  We have class together because of circumstance, and I'm trying to figure out my place just as surely as a student is making their way towards theirs. It was in this spirit, I thought, that we were having a chat.  A lazy afternoon.  Last period, just before vacation.  The kind where work, if any was going to be done, has broken off. 

  "I can't wait 'til summer, Miss, I can't fucking tell you.  Then I can go back to my job."  He smiled.  He had white teeth and filled his desk with spread arms and legs.

  That made me happy.  I was afraid he might end up shiftless and disappointed for two stagnant months.  "What's your job?"

  "Stealing bikes and selling them," he said with a shrug.

  "Hmm."  I levelled my gaze and attempted to make my voice even.  This has taken practice.  Curiousity is the antidote to pretense, cruelty and aggression.  But when dismay creeps in, it helps to buy a second or two with a neutral, pragmatic question.  "Where do you do this?"
 
  He pointed out the window, focusing his gaze on an unseen point.  For a moment, he appeared wistful.  But he was too sure of himself to be caught in an impression, doubting it would materialize again.  He knew it would.  "Down there, in the avenues."

  "I see," I said, following his line of sight.  "How long have you been doing this?"

  "A couple of years," he said.  "Me and a few other guys."

  "Did you steal mine?"
 
  His eyes widened.  "What d'you mean, Miss?"

  "Well," I said, "I used to live down there, and my bike was stolen a couple of years ago."

  He took a sharp breath in through his nose.  "What colour was it?"
 
  "Black."

  His face, twisted with anxiety, broke into a free grin.  Happiness.  "No, no, Miss.  I can guarantee that we didn't touch your bike."

  "How's that?" 

   "We would never steal a black bike.  We paint them black, once we steal them, so they can't be traced.  It. Was. Not. Us."  He leaned back.

   I don't remember the end of this conversation, though I'm sure I murmured something about the dangers of a criminal record.  That he was too good for petty crime, or any kind of crime for that matter, and that with his intelligence there was bound to be a job for him.  That he was a more respectful person than that.  And he knew it.  When I felt overwhelmed by another person's life, these were the types of things I said.  I believed them but knew they weren't much.

  In the same class, there was a lean boy with a low mohawk.  It was as fuzzy as his eyes were clear and his nose stark and straight.  He had a charismatic, meditative gravity.   Sometimes, if I had a prep period, he'd drop by.  Booted out of class.  Since he wasn't allowed to be in the halls it seemed fair to let him in.

  "You don't know what I was like, last year," he told me one day.  "Really bad."  I had been marking papers and laid down my pen heavily, as if to say, All right.  Let's hear it, but I don't expect to be shocked. 

  "What do you mean?"

  "There was this sub, and he was an asshole," the boy said, sinking into a chair.  "I'm sorry, but he was.  He hated us.  You could tell.  He was yelling like a moron."

  Juvenile rebellion against a substitute teacher, I thought, relieved.  I can handle this. 

  "Sooo," he continued, shaking his head and smiling mildly, "I made a paper airplane, lit the tip on fire, and threw it at him."

  "That doesn't sound like the you we know and love," I said, feeling stranded.

  He laughed.  "You don't know, Miss."

  That was a wonderful bike and a gift besides.  It freed me when I felt overtaken by exhausted, sludgy limbs.  It allowed me to absorb sunlight unobstructed.  Okay, this is not strictly true.  But it felt like that. 

   Bike Thief, I don't pretend to understand you.  As soon as it was that it wasn't just my usual absent-mindedness and I hadn't just left it chained to a rack across the street, I was empty.  Not enraged.  Not betrayed.  Not eager to prosecute.  What I feel now is only the ridiculousness of intelligent young people doing backward acts that, for horrid reasons, a terror of a life, they are certain are rational.

  Like the first time you're submerged in dark outdoor water and realize you aren't to be saved, but are being watched, by a parent, older cousin or uncle.  They have reasons for what they do, which, at that moment, are unkind. 

  Above the surface with fresh air in your lungs, when you have escaped your naive understandings of darkness, you will be inundated by the mesh of truths which leads someone to leave you in a terror.

  I don't know how to end this letter, as I've never known how to end similar conversations.  I'd like my bike back.  But don't expect it.  And I hope you didn't despise me when you realized it was easy to rob a life of bikes and movies taken for granted, because there was no other way for a thoughtful mind to justify the act.

  Yours,

Former Bike Owner

posted by: FreelyReleased at 01:30 | link | comments (4) |

ATONEMENT

I keep reading Atonement and thinking, I had no idea books could do that.  How does he do that? 

  Here is a section.  You read it & you have it in you.

   In the years to come he would think back to this time, when he walked along the footpath that made a shortcut through a corner of the oak woods and joined the main drive where it curved toward the lake and house.  He was not late, and yet he found it difficult to slow his pace.  Many immediate and other less proximal pleasures mingled in the richness of these minutes: the fading, reddish dusk, and the warm still air saturated with the scents of dried grasses and baked earth, his limbs loosened by the day's work in the gardens, his skin smooth from his bath, the feel of his shirt and of this, his only suit.  The anticipation and dread he felt at seeing her was also a kind of sensual pleasure, and surrounding it, like an embrace, was a general elation - it might hurt, it was horribly inconvenient, no good might come of it, but he had found out for himself what it was to be in love, and it thrilled him.  Other tributaries swelled his happiness; he still derived satisfaction from his first - the best in his year he was told.  And now there was confirmation from Jack Tallis of his continuing support.  A fresh adventure ahead, not an exile at all, he was suddenly certain.  It was right and good that he should study medicine.  He could not have explained his optimism - he was happy and therefore bound to succeed. 

    One word contained everything he felt, and explained why he was to dwell on this moment later.  Freedom.  In his life as in his limbs.

  - Ian McEwan, 2001

  * I liked the movie a lot.  The soundtrack is dark and sure of itself.  Ian McEwan was an Executive Producer, which probably helped.  Keira Knightley's a little dull, but the women playing Briony at different ages are letter-perfect.  The landscape is at times gloriously overwhelming - the Second World War beach scene alone is worth the price of admission.  But, as always, the book is about a million times better.  That's a statistical analysis.

 

posted by: FreelyReleased at 03:17 | link | comments (2) |

Three Days Before Christmas, 1998

   Her hallway is long and the ceiling is high, with two crooks in its path.  Idle spaces where illumination sits, steady, seem alive.  Though the shafts of dark are pleasant, they're shaming, as if to remind me I'm hiding.

   I can see her hair ringing her face.  She's in the kitchen, alone.  If she were in front of me, I'd see her moving shoulders, her arms reaching and straining, preparing dinner, as her voice bounced from idea to idea.  The back of her head.  The shape of her legs.  In the silence of my mind, her face is still, fresh.

   A metal utensil interrupts, banging on a glass pan.  If I remain here, that image is all there will be.  Friendly and blank.  Maybe I should remain here?

  Why do you ask questions that have no answer?  I wonder.  You think they count.  What would count is if you went in to set the table.

   "Oh, you've decided to help?"  She throws a grin over her shoulder and returns to the pan, spooning out deep brown potatoes.  I bite my lip and nod.  "I was wondering how long you were going to last in the hall.  Completely spaced out."

   "I went to Mars," I said.

   "How was it?"  She lets out a laugh, her standard piercing glee, handing me plates.  

    "Red," I say, placing them.  "Everyone thinks that's a myth, that you don't see it that way once you land.  But standing there, it's redder than the sand on Prince Edward Island."

   "Great," she says lightly.  Already she has a way of demonstrating that some things I say are as pleasant and pointless as driftwood.

    She's a good cook.  Four months ago, when we met on stone steps outside the class, she relayed this fact.  Without modesty.  Something any partner of hers should know.  We were returning to university after time off.  My break was a year.  Hers was eight.  The professor told us there was too much reading to mow through alone.  You'd need a partner.  We'd selected each other with a shrug and handshake.

   Over the first meal, I'd found out she was dyslexic.  She had her own editing business.  It was usual contradictions like that, blown to smithereens, that made me think it was rational to view life differently.  As a new space.  A clean field.  

  After the meal she prepares hot chocolate from a recipe.  Special, she indicates, for Christmas.  "I've got my film ready to shoot," she says, handing me a mug.  "It's got no characters.  Just images."  She holds her hands up, looking through cupped fingers.

  "Is anyone going to want to watch that?" I ask.  

   She gives me a look.  "It's to think about.  It's an art film."

   "Art of what?"

   She rolls her eyes.  "I'd like to put your legs in it."

   "My legs?"

   She nods.  "I need to shoot a scene that looks like a doctor's office, but we'll only see the legs."

   A crowd pleaser, I think, but bite it back.  I owe her.  "Sure."

   Every few minutes, I try to sort it out.  Should I hug her, to wish her a Merry Christmas?  I would hug anyone else in the same situation.  What situation?  Dinner.  I would.  Briefly.  I didn't get her a gift.  I wanted to.  No.  I wanted to make one, sinking my clumsy hands into work for her.  

   It wouldn't come off as friendly, though.  It would be obvious.  From someone thoroughly inexperienced, it couldn't appear any other way.

   It's getting late.  The metro's going to close.  She walks ahead, to get my jacket.  I follow and figure, really, what can it hurt?  

   "Merry Christmas," I say, and reach down.  She stretches up, wraps her arms around my shoulders, and kisses my mouth.  With that, the darkness of the room surrounds us.  Then the light is undeterred, unmarred by the shadows of furniture and hooks.  The opposition of noise and quiet fades; my head is singing, and the silence is complete, sheltered by the thudding in my chest.

    She loosens her pull.  "I'm glad you made the first move."

posted by: FreelyReleased at 01:53 | link | comments (5) |

Sock Hop

   This morning I couldn't find a clean sock without a hole.  The morning of an exam.  Half-awake, I prayed that under the bed would hold a secret cache of full-bodied socks.  Not one!  

  At school, it begins.  When it's quiet, there's this internal rustling sound during exams.  Pages flapping in your head.  Impressive students write, looking tired but determined.  This is after writing for 9 days in class.  Don't ask - the Ministry of Education works in very mysterious ways.

   Afterward, my heel's bleeding a little.  I wash it and am thankful my pant leg is long enough to cover everything up.  Even if you've got a hole, you can walk up and down aisles, suggesting with a look that answers are always possible if they are just snatched at.  Probably my face actually gives of something like this: please, just please keep writing.  I guess nobility's grafted on later in one's teaching career.

  At a downtown bookshop I look for some poetry for a student who writes with kindness and a steely intellect.  Nothing like verse in hand to dispel the notion that you are walking around with holes in your socks.  In this outfit.  I'm wearing tweed pants, suggesting I'm not the type to be writing poetry while working an unsatisfying job to support the art.  Instead, I must be doing something professional.  Or at least Respectable.  Right?

   Outside, two swivel chairs present themselves.  I sit down to organize my bag.

   "Excuse me."  A man with grizzle on his chin is smiling down.  "Do you mind if I ask you where you got your shoes?  Was it that Italian store down the street?"

   I grin, partly embarrassed and partly proud.  "They're from Payless."  Why pay more, you know?

   "Wow," says the man.  "I think my sister has the exact same kind.  Would you mind showing me how high they go?"

   I shake my head, and lift the pant leg a little.  The man looks directly at the hole and smiles.  "Thank you," he says.  "Those are the very ones."

posted by: FreelyReleased at 02:52 | link | comments (4) |

It's Just That

1995
 
  It's March, and the old leaves are drifting out, broken, from the disappearing snow.  We're walking in tandem until I fall back, unsure of the footing.  It's hard to explain; I'm there, then not, equally sick and well, one foot on the ground and one, seemingly, in the air.

    The sky is grey, an overhanging pencil smudge.  The sidewalk's an eraser dirtied by fingerprints.  Maybe it's all like that: the simplicity of the ephemeral, a flash of our small universe, here and gone before it can be allotted space in the brain.  

   She strides into the middle of the dark, empty morning street.  "Well, we're in love," she says. 

     Then she does something I've never seen before, or since: she extends her arms, as if they feel grace enough to grasp at the wind, and spins.  A lightness in her body shifts, propelled from her turning legs up her past her waist to her fingertips, where something valuable and secret is released.

   Something I am meant not to know, but as her friend, am meant to witness. 
 
   "We're going to get married in a couple of years," she says, not looking behind to see where I've stopped walking.  "He'll be ready then.  I'm not ready now either, really." 
  
    I love you, I think.  A sensible thing.  Who wouldn't love someone who spun with joy?

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

  * * * Okay, this is my favourite love song of all time.  After much deliberation - oh yes, it runs deep, this silly blog - I had to add this!  It's The Luckiest by Ben Folds, from Rockin' The Suburbs.  If you haven't heard it - enjoy!

posted by: FreelyReleased at 04:07 | link | comments (7) |

1997: Slow On the Uptake, Exhibit A

    Sherbrooke Street's summer sun burns its way through the nearby cafes.  She appears in a shadow.  There's a shared light shock, running into a high school classmate we hadn't seen in four years and didn't know lived here, in Montreal, where we'd escaped.

   Ducking under a striped canvas roof, we order sophisticated iced something-or-others and gossip.

   "God, I ran into Paul," she says.  "You know what he wanted to do?  Come up with a list of everyone who's gay from our hometown." 

   She pauses, putting a finger in a golden ringlet of hair.  "I mean, what was I supposed to do?  Put myself on the list?"

   "Me too," I say, shrugging.  "Exactly."  Perhaps by the evaporating power of the heat, this remark is instantly erased from my brain.  We head to the sidewalk and make plans to meet in a week or so. 

   After turning away from her fresh smile, I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling absolutely free and an overwhelming jolt in my bones, without knowing why.

   Twenty minutes later, at an intersection, in front of a car, it hits me. 

    Since when am I gay?

    Oh, right.  Since forever.

    Since when had I planned on being gay?

    Oh yeah: since never.

    Hence blurry vision, leading to accidents.  Okay, I don't have one.  I just walk strangely in response to the odd turn of events.

   Remarkably, I survive the intersection, and head to the rented basement room called home.  Scattered over the bedcovers: The Three Dollar Bill (the local paper's gay column), Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City, More Tales of the City and Further Tales of the City.

    Hmm.  It does look suspicious.

   

posted by: FreelyReleased at 23:27 | link | comments (3) |

Beauty Downtown, Circa 2002

  Old man, I just came out of the rain.  You've got to start with me already?   Every week you've got to ask me if I've learned to read?

  Still, I like those dignified trenches, rambling around a pug nose, cross-hatching their way to fleshy white ears.  Your mouth breaks open wide, since you're sure of yourself, and why shouldn't you be?  Only a few years of AIDS after a long, married life, working as a church organist. 

   Quiet, boys.

   Okay, ha ha.  Organist.  Don't worry, everyone gets it.

   Now you've got a new religion?  You're a Raelian?  Aliens made us?  Yeah, I can see that.  No, I can (I hope).  I'm not just trying to be a good volunteer.  Who knows what's above our overwarm, fuzzy atmosphere?  Don't let anyone give you shit.

   Sorry sorry sorry.  I forgot: no one gives you shit.

   I like that red baseball cap and your chain, and the square glasses that make your eyes stand out.  Your arms, strained, sinewy, after years of accompaniment to the lord. 

  I bet your mind is something inside: wind blowing through those spiritual exchanges, love transformed, the bluster of a caustic temperament earned.

  You're right: I should learn to read, one of these days.   Maybe I will.  If I can stay dry long enough.  If you give me peace.   See you next week.

* It's really rainy here in Montreal.  Here's a lovely song for a rainy day, from the Be Good Tanyas!

 

posted by: FreelyReleased at 19:58 | link | comments (5) |

My Favorite Things

  Here's the man and extraordinary kickass band.  Happy weekend!

PS  See post below...

posted by: FreelyReleased at 20:50 | link | comments (5) |