“Remember that thing you wrote about summer skies and the moon bearing witness?”
“It was worded more elegantly than that as I recall.”
“Well I don’t think I’ll be seeing any more summer skies.”
“What of your husband?”
“He’s wanted kids for a long time. I wouldn’t dream of taking that away from him, even if he can’t think that far ahead just yet. But let’s talk about something else. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you looked into that . . . unpleasantness with your dad?”
***
“Well, Maxime, I guess this is really it for us then.”
“I suppose so.”
“Then I want you. I want you one last time.”
“Is that . . . Are you so sure that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t think that matters at this point. This may well be my last chance, and not just with you.”
“That certainly introduces some pressure.”
“Mon Dieu! You poor thing! Now come here, there’ll be plenty of time to mope afterwards.”
“How well you know me.”
“Now be gentle, Maxime. You’ll need to be gentle.”
46
PARAGONS
WITH MASTER MONTBLANC in Ottawa for the next few days and with thoughts of constraint and lost agency starting to taunt my sedentary situation, I decided to play a little hooky. Yes, I will hold for applause. Cherish me as the pillar of the human condition. But what of the rest? Cooped up in these environs I felt myself becoming detached. What life is mine? Hunched over a desk all day, piecing together the life story of a man who has all but made a prisoner out of me? Aristotle reminds us that humans are social animals, and for me to re-establish the required link with my mammalian brethren I must once again dive headfirst into the cultural zeitgeist, the mana of humanity, the—ah, fuck it, what I’m trying to say is that I bailed on work today to go see a movie.
The theatre was nearly empty when I arrived after walking nearly an hour from M’s castle. Apparently not the hottest ticket in town at 3:15 on a Wednesday afternoon. So much for surrounding myself with people. That’s okay, the film itself is sure to provide me easy access to the full spectrum of human emotion. I took a seat in the middle of an empty aisle. That is, I chose a seat in the middle of an empty aisle. A few others trickled in as I fervently watched the pre-show advertisements. Sell me the world. Sell me a place to belong. Sell me my own seat in the middle of an empty aisle. I notice that I’m the only one sitting by myself. I hope that I am not responsible for any feelings of empathy. We are all friends in this dark room. We are all sharing our quest for the human condition. We are all in this together. I will never leave any of you.
Time now for our feature presentation.
I know nothing of the film other than that it’s a sequel to a movie about superheroes. As I submit to losing myself in the narrative I find that occasional snippets of dialogue ricochet within my head longer than they were probably intended to, threatening my immersion, and indeed, the very mission itself.
As you know, the Totality Crystal has been safe in Washington since the battle with Dreadnought four years ago.
If we already know this then why say it? Shameless exposition without any trace of subtlety or tact. Hold on. Relax. Don’t start getting critical yet, the movie just started. Remember why you’re here, you can let this one go.
Meet Dr. Ophelia Everett, she’s in charge of the laboratory.
Let me guess—she falls in love with the protagonist? And why would they name her Ophelia? Already this story could generously be described as trite and now they want to drag old Billy through it?
If that seal is broken it would unleash a power that could demolish any army on Earth. It wouldn’t be a battle—it would be a slaughter.
Oh my. That sure was some powerful and convincing language and the stakes certainly seem high this time around. I wonder how our heroes will ever be able to defeat such an enemy.
This specialized suit will allow you to tap into powers you didn’t even know you had.
I can’t do it. I’m sinking. I’m caught in a malignant maelstrom of spite and frustration, delivered to you now, unfiltered and unrefined so that some good may yet come from this failed experiment:
Heroes assemble and show me the meaning of virtue. Go on adventures I could never have, speak dialogue I could never say. I can see it all. I see the close-up shots of the misty-eyed female lead. I see the crew spraying her eyes in-between takes. I see the swelling minor key of the soundtrack, invisibly manipulating my emotions. I see them stumble through the predictable plot. I see the three act formula in place. I see the computer-generated explosions obstructing every inch of the frame. I see the lightning-fast cuts disorienting my senses and trapping me in the action. I see the syringe filled with pathos being injected into my eyelids. I see the steps that were taken to get to this point, and yet I can’t bring myself to follow them. I have no business being here. These people want justice, catharsis, and the triumph of good over evil served up in an easily digestible two-hour meal. They aren’t my friends. I can’t speak their language. The film is reaching its emotional climax now and as it does I feel my life as a profane and wasted thing. With the days dropping slowly but noticeably audible like the leaking roof gradually filling the spare cast-iron pot (the one I never use), I wonder how much time remains before a meniscus is formed, that being the final warning sign of the inevitable overflow. ‘No’, as obsessive thoughts form around this ignominious end. My life to be represented by a few drops of escaped water, so easily wiped up and forgotten? I want to be a stain on the floor, something that the combination of elbow grease, home remedies, and brand name promises would not be able to remove.
Something unexpected now happens. As the film draws to a close I become wholly engrossed in the narrative. These heroes are on the brink of defeat, but they find the strength within them to resolve and carry on. It’s so life-affirmingly beautiful. With their combined efforts they finally defeat the villain and I feel a grand release. A tear is forming behind my right eye as this inspiring story gently guides me through its dénouement. Fade to black, roll credits. For a split second I swear I can see my name on the black background as a cover version of a popular song from the 1980s begins to play. People have started getting out of their seats and slowly shuffling toward the exit and the blinding sun waiting beyond the cinema doors. But I stay in my seat in the middle of an empty aisle as one-by-one the room empties. I read every name that scrolls across the screen and soon I am the last one there. The lights come on. I wipe away the tear that almost escaped. My reintegration is complete.
You may now cherish me as the pillar of the human condition.
47
PUTRESCENCE
AFTER LEAVING THE cinema, not content with the thought of surrendering the emerging evening to Montblanc’s empty house, and still very much riding the waves of ethereal inspiration crashing against my standardly soundless shores, I decided to further tease the possibilities of spontaneity and keep this party goin’. What a mistake that was.
I’m sat at the bar of a local pub, waiting for something to save me. It’s one of the few drinkeries on this street that has yet to be bought out by a chain and converted into their cookie-cutter parameters, and the relatively impressive amount of people here early on a Wednesday evening suggests that the owners might be able to avoid this fate. That’s worth a toast. I’ve been nursing the same bottle of Coors, now my third, for about forty-five minutes, the label long since peeled off by nervous and unfocused hands. Though far from my favourite beer, Coors is the easiest for me to say, and I didn’t want to burden the unignorably attractive bartender with my eternal struggle to pronounce hefeweizen. No, I’ll stay quiet. Just a man of few words, sitting at the bar by himself. Maybe she thinks there’s something appealing about that? Maybe sh
e’ll want to know more about this mysterious and pensive stranger? Or maybe she sees losers like me every day. Stop. Don’t go down that road. Not tonight. Tonight is all about experiencing the joys of civilization. The Penguins are playing the Rangers on the television that’s mounted above the bar, and while I have no investment in either of those teams or the outcome of the game, I keep my eyes focused on the screen. If I can keep them there I don’t have to worry about where they might end up.
When I arrived here an hour and a half ago I was under the delusion that sitting down at the bar and ordering a drink would be the magical password that ushered me into a night of jovial revelry and comradery with my fellow brothers and sisters, but instead I’m sitting by myself, drinking tepid beer that I don’t really like, watching a hockey game that I don’t care about, trying to catch the eye of a woman who probably just wants me to pay up and leave. Yeah, I’m a real rock star. Someday I’ll be the one who’s paying an idealistic young writer to document the escapades of my electrifying life. But for now, I think I’ll go check out the bathroom. I don’t really have to go, but maybe someone will stop me on the walk over and invite me to their table. It could happen.
Of course it didn’t, and now I find myself sitting in a bathroom stall, pants still on, in a truly pathetic attempt to kill some time before I return back to my seat. Maybe they will have moved it to the corner and provided a dunce cap for me by now? Helping me pass the time are the brave men who came before me, those heroic souls who had the courtesy to scribble messages all over the walls of this stall. I share with you now some of the more elegant examples.
Help it smells
I feel for you, brother, but we’ve all got problems. Here in the loo, the great leveler, all men are made equal. Here the great taboos unite us all. I can’t do much, but I’ll keep you in my thoughts and pray that the white flowers of vanilla accompany the precious moments of your future.
Jesus fucks
This reminds me—while in university I met a girl who claimed to be sexually attracted to Jesus—something she apparently only told people she really trusted. She said it was something about his eyes, and the way that they were sad, but at the same time warm and inviting. She told me that her fantasy would be to lay him down, climb on top of his slender body, and show him the wonders of human sin. One sentence in particular has always stuck with me, a button permanently placed on the soundboard of my memories. ‘He wouldn’t last a minute, but we would cherish every second.’ I wonder what it is about my own eyes, neither sad nor warm, that lead people to trust me.
Why do so many people shit with pens?
Actually a very apt inquiry. These are the things we tend not to think about. Ours is a society focused on the final product, not the processes of making said product. Unless the final product happens to be the soon-to-be Prime Minister.
SPEAK ENGLISH
Nice to see that myopic ethnocentric sentiments exist near the shitter where they belong.
Josies cunt
Forgiving the lack of a possessive apostrophe, who is Josie? Does she know that she is the muse of this porcelain-pot poet? The legatee of this literary latrine laureate’s loyalty? Does she know that her cunt is of concern to this commode commentator, this lavatory lecturer? Is she aware that her facilities are the focal point of the walls of these facilities? Josie, I may never meet you, but now that I’ve become acquainted with your reputation, I long to know if this bard of the boy’s room ever had his affections requited.
There are no diamonds in the mine.
A cryptic comment on constipation perhaps? This sounds so familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on where I might’ve heard it before . . .
Treat sluts like sluts
You know, I’ve never actually seen a glory hole in real life before. I’m sure they exist somewhere, just probably not in the types of places I would normally visit. In these environs it is difficult not to shed fastidiousness and libidinous modesty—still, my approach would likely be one of whimsy and nothing more. I’m something of a coward in that regard. Might explain why I’m thirty years old and hiding in a bathroom stall.
Women have dicks too!
Your guess is as good as mine on this one.
Power without love is a dangerous thing.
Hold on a minute. How did unexpectedly profound words find themselves here of all places? More importantly, how did I find myself here? The mood in this men’s room shifts. What lost perseverance beckons me back to task? Would Montblanc find peace in the thought of me pretending to be the sarcastic king of this particular partition when he has scheduled my talents elsewhere? Do I owe allegiance to the loveless power shaping my days? I sit here having found futility in the promises of freedom and now I yearn for the safety of my cell once again. I felt better watching my warden’s long arm dangle the cell keys from Ottawa, leaving me to the happy endings of daydreams.
That’s it. If I leave now I can still get a good chunk of work done. Let today’s failed experiment serve as a reminder to the grim possibilities that arise from petulant attempts at jollity. Find my brain floating in formaldehyde, lob the beach ball toward it, expect more gesticulation from it than from me. I am the world champion of servility. I write the annals, so I ought to know that there’s no mention of me to be found within them. I have a $13.50 bar tab. I will leave a $20 bill. God Save the Queen. And while He is doing that, I have a job to do.
It’s time to shit or get off this pot.
48
PALISADES
AS I FLEE the bar I’m met with twilight outside. The usual evening crowd hasn’t even arrived yet and I’m already running home with my head pointed to the ground. ‘Home’, he says, as if that were at all the correct word to use. It would be a ten-minute cab ride back to la maison de Montblanc, but oddly this day of repeated failures has yet to take the last bit of wind from my idiomatic sails. I chose instead to walk, banking on the hope that something will happen on the way back that can justify leaving in the first place.
Montblanc’s neighbourhood is lifeless on this Wednesday evening and so I pretend that the sidewalk is a red carpet that was rolled out for me personally. That façade fades as I’m overcome with the urge to enter each house that I pass. In lieu of my dejectedness and the day’s failures I muse instead on the endless possibilities each house offers. I want to go inside every room. I want to know what’s stored in the boxes in the basements. I want to see the art hung on every wall. I want to discover what secrets are being incautiously kept in bedside tables. Instead all I get are brief glimpses into lives I could never inhabit. A few seconds to pass by each dwelling and collect as much information as I can. Through a kitchen window I see a spice rack, and though I can’t distinguish any of them, I wonder how they might be used to cook a meal for me. A meal where I meet her parents. A meal where a deal is made. Next house. Through a basement window I see a flag with the Ottawa Senators logo on it. That same house has a basketball hoop in the driveway. Next house. I notice the inhabitants are watching the CBC on a colossal TV screen. I wonder if they were excited when they bought it. I wonder if anyone raised concerns.
Maybe I’ll be saved yet. Maybe someone will drive by and invite me to come home with them. These are thoughts pulled like levers in the utmost of sincerity by gamblers chasing their losses. Next house. I see a barbeque on the patio. Wooden fences separate each yard. Fences block everything that I was never meant to see.
Coming across an elementary school now and I fixate on the playground on the other side of a chain link fence. Every house thus far has been a denial, but this, well this is an opportunity to finally assert my humanity. Less than a minute later I’m sat on a swing set that I am far too big for, retracing the steps that brought me to this pathetic moment in time.
It was from a need to be heard. It still is. Like the bowels of houses recently passed my internal grievances remain unelucidated to those beyond the f
ence. Pity has been an unwelcome companion, doggedly following me around ever since my voice was first stolen and it remains with me still. I see it in the faces of everyone who is subjected to my fractured words. But pity can never match what empathy is able to accomplish. I would happily explain the difference if only the words could come out. I would happily write the difference if only my words weren’t already bought and owned. They don’t know what it’s like. And now I’m drifting dangerously close to self-pity—infinitely worse. But how did I get here?
It’s the swing set I’m sitting on and the prepubescent memories it excavates. It’s the empty playground. It’s the twilight. It’s the houses and their secrets I will never know. It’s the three beers in my stomach. It’s the empty and unmade bed I’m putting off returning to. It’s my voice and my words, both robbed from me. It’s the pity I don’t want but know that I deserve. It’s more than that. It’s the clandestine thoughts that can never be expressed. It’s the crass graffiti in a men’s room stall that will be read more than my words ever will. It’s the cold chains in my hands. It’s the winds from nearby Lake Ontario unwelcomingly caressing my cheeks. It’s the teenage couple that sat on this swing set while murmuring premature promises. It’s the pointless, meandering journey I’ve taken you on and the guilt I feel for wasting your time. It’s the safety of familiarity. It’s the familiarity of safety. It’s the rust on Leonard Cohen’s low E string. It’s the publisher’s rejection letters that I keep in a binder with my high school report cards. It’s the asseveration that I meekly offer at the shrine of Tenjin. It’s the predictability of the three-act structure that I’ve strained myself to eschew. It’s the ladybug landed on my knee that I haven’t the zeal to flick off. It’s the faint flame in the hearth.
It’s the faint flame in the hearth . . . And I think it’s coming from Montblanc’s house.
I don’t know why I can’t just stay down for the count. Where are these last droplets of vitality falling from? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. They compel me off this swing set and toward the house where my alleged purpose currently resides. Not far away now. As I continue the journey I pass several more houses, though this time I’m not concerned with stealing quick glimpses inside, instead I’m trying to remember exactly what it was that Montblanc said to me when I first arrived. Among the ground rules that were established were the banal—I could come and go as I pleased, I could help myself to whatever food I wanted—but also the curious.
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