by Mark Foss
— Ashok!
Anthea jumps up to give him a hug that lasts about four seconds longer than I would call normal. He waves to Hoss, who has put down his can of Niblets on the counter out of respect. He smiles broadly at Swann, who looks back coldly. Turning to me, with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye, Ashok says:
— I must be a shock to you.
— Not really. Do you know any Jann Arden tunes?
— Please excuse my brother. I warned you.
— Actually, could you excuse both of us? I’d like to talk to Hoss in private.
— I’m quite happy to wander around outside.
— Be sure to take a walk in the field. It’s the highlight of any trip to the Wasteland. Ashok laughs.
— I like you, Little Joe. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk, just the two of us.
— I’ll have my people call your people.
I’m sure Hoss has told Ashok all about my quicksand fixation. How it’s one more fantasy from the past that I cling onto. How the field may be desolate and toxic, but remains essentially harmless to the casual traveller, even during spring storms. Boots have never been known to sink lower than ankles in the muck. We’ll see who’s right.
Swann heads upstairs, while Anthea gives Hoss a haughty look before slipping out the back door with Ashok.
— So you brought your guru.
— Teacher.
— It wasn’t enough to bring your girlfriend and her son, and then leave them with me.
— You are so wrong, as usual. I’ve got a lot done, so can you drop the attitude? I can’t stay in this kitchen. The energy is oppressive. Let’s go for a walk.
My knee is throbbing from its collision with the can of corn, but I won’t give Hoss the satisfaction of seeing how much he’s hurt me. Anyway, he doesn’t notice the limp because he keeps two strides ahead.
THERE IS, APPARENTLY, an arcane New Age law that says the eldest child is fated for certain tasks. Hoss remembers this from a birth-order workshop with Ashok. So it makes perfect sense to him that he has been named executor of the estate. Never mind his early failure and defection, the sparse visits to the Wasteland, the lifetime of avoiding any discussion about Candy. I think Joseph wants to punish him and spare me the hassle of the paperwork. He certainly doesn’t want to saddle Candy with the burden — not on her first day back home.
Hoss has made arrangements, as one assembles flowers in a vase. Joseph does not want us wasting our inheritance. The will is clear on this point and Hoss is determined to respect our father’s wishes. Not something he’d ever done while Joseph was alive, but death changes everything.
Only two times are available each day for families wishing to witness the cremation of their loved one. Hoss books the early morning slot tomorrow. He’ll pick up the ashes the following day. We’ll spread them in the Wasteland that afternoon. They’re calling for sun.
The heavy chest, bowed head, and general stupor are yesterday’s moment. Buoyed by the arrival of his guru, he strides along the concession road with a spring in his step. His dust in my face clouds my thinking. My plan has always been to present the film montage of Candy and Molly O, and evidence from my blog, at the right moment. What does it matter if Hoss believes me or not? It just does. But he will sit after watching my film with a smug and superior look, the kind he once got from Genesis. He won’t dare express an opinion before his guru, and Ashok will dismiss my logic out of hand. To accept Candy’s career as Molly O throws everything into question, including Hoss’s commitment to Momentous Moments. Ashok will not release his followers without a fight. It may take Candy herself to cut his stranglehold over Hoss. No one can seduce like she can. Her arrival will free us all. I only need give her enough time to find the blog and get here. If I think it quickly enough, it almost sounds possible.
— What’s the rush? You don’t want to stay in this moment a while, read up on the Tibetan Book of the Dead?
— We’re leaving on Friday. We need to think about how to clean out the house and sell the place.
Typical Hoss. Make a plan that’s impossible for him to execute. For once his hypocrisy may end in my favour. If Candy doesn’t show right away, I can work with a real estate agent and make sure the place doesn’t sell. I won’t have Candy return to a different family at the Wasteland, or worse, an empty lot. Nor will I hire Cyril McInnis to stand on our stage and auction off all our useless and unsellable heirlooms. But making the Wasteland unsellable is Plan B. In the meantime, Candy will surely arrive. Maybe she’ll want to buy the Wasteland to keep it in the family. She can have my share.
— On second thought, better keep the furniture. For now. Empty houses are harder to sell. We should just clean out the clutter.
— I remind you the estate has been divided into three equal parts. Joseph clearly thinks we should track Candy down. I have some —
— Will you stop talking in the present tense? He’s dead. So is she. The lawyer says death in absentia is just a formality after all these years.
— All these years of what?
Hoss can’t say Candy’s name, and doesn’t seem to mind.
— You’ve been in absentia from the Wasteland most of your adult life, and yet you seem to be among the living. The three of us need to agree on what to do next.
— There is no three. There is you and me. I’m glad Ashok is here. I hope you’ll learn from him.
— About that. What the fuck?
— I need him here. Hear me out, would you?
Hoss stops abruptly in front of Rox’s house, too selfabsorbed to notice the bus shelter is gone. It’s normal for the wooden floor to have extinguished all life underneath by now. But there’s no dry splotch of earth, not even a square of dead flattened grass. It’s as if the shelter has never been. In an echo of some B-grade horror movie, the weeds that had ensnarled Candy’s words have taken back the land. Frogs can’t be far behind. No sooner do I discover a piece of Candy unknown to me than it disappears. Has my intrusion released a plague of locusts that devoured the wood? Pestilence, wild animals, flies, blood — what’s next? If Candy is enslaved in Egypt, let her go before her absence ruins us all.
— When I took off the other night, I drove to the Night Brew. It was a real lapse into my old self. I wanted to score some weed. It’s a parking lot now.
— They paved paradise.
— Will you shut up for two minutes?
When haven’t I listened to Hoss? All those early mornings back from Shep with the munchies, shaking me awake so he could recap the excellent weed, the good deals, the bad girls, while showering my face with bits of chocolate from his Jos. Louis cakes.
— I spent hours driving around my old haunts, looking at punks making deals. I could have stayed a loser like them. But I grew, as a person. I developed. I haven’t smoked in years.
I’m not sure if his voice is cracking with emotion or late-breaking adolescence. I notice his paunch and greying hair for the first time. When did my brother get so much older?
— I bought some weed from a girl. We smoked together. She was maybe seventeen. She had Crimson on her iPod, the fortieth anniversary edition of Larks’ Tongues in Aspic. Fifteen discs. Live recordings, alternate takes, remixes. Bootlegs rediscovered and remastered. We were listening in tandem through earphones. This was the girl of my fucking dreams, and I’d met her thirty-five years too late. I wasn’t sure if we were having a moment together or if she was just bored. I quoted from “Exiles.” Except I said the palm of my hand was “wet” instead of “damp.” She laughed in my face.
Hoss must be in a bad way to forget Crimson lyrics and then openly admit it to me. He looks at me plaintively, probably the same way he stood before Ashok to confess his forbidden relations at the retreat. Either he wants more punishment or absolution. The truth is, while Bootleg Girl is demeaning Hoss with her wet talk, Authentic Girl is dousing herself with Perrier to humiliate me. Maybe we’re not so unalike. We’re both looking for Candy in all the wrong places.
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br /> — Wet, damp, moist, clammy, it’s only talk.
A lame reference to another Crimson song, but enough for Hoss to offer a slight smile. He turns for home, his stride less confident. The soothing effect of Ashok’s influence has a limited range, and he needs a recharge. Maybe we should stay parked out here on the third. I like him like this, sidetracked from his spiritual path, floundering with uncertainty. It makes me feel older.
— I came to see Joseph last year. I wanted to ease his suffering, send a few waves of energy to build up his reserves. He’d fallen asleep with the light on. It took me ten minutes to move closer to the bed. The covers were off. He was lying there in pyjamas, all exposed, snoring. I could not get my hands to move. They weren’t on fire, just heavy. Damp, in fact. Holy fuck. Just like in the song. That’s what it means. That’s what it’s all about. I was exiled from myself.
— Sure.
— I’m standing in Joseph’s room and the moon appears from behind a cloud. There’s a moon on the cover of Larks’ Tongues in Aspic. I am freaking out.
— There’s a sun on the cover, too.
— Remember that episode of M*A*S*H when the power goes out, and they move all the wounded out of the operating room into the field, and Radar orders a fleet of trucks to shine their headlights so the doctors can see? It was like that. A flash of inspiration, a flash of light. Joseph seemed at peace. I forgave him everything and I asked for his forgiveness. Nothing I could articulate. It was just a feeling. I felt clean on the inside. My hands were lighter. They were dry. Without trying, I had attuned to my innermost needs and reached a decision. I would offer my gift of healing, such as it was, and risk his rejection. Maybe I would do some good. Maybe I wouldn’t. I had no ulterior motives. It was coming from a place of unconditional love. Then the moon disappeared and he turned his fucking back on me.
He’s expecting a snide comment, but I actually wish he could stay in these moments of despair, however impure, instead of running to the guru for love.
— Ashok can help us get through this. Give him a chance. You won’t even notice him. He’ll sleep on the stage. He likes a hard surface. They’re calling for clouds, but no rain.
— We don’t need him. Candy is coming home.
Molly O
The Seductive cinema of Mickey Nailand
Home Films Suppositions About Me
Molly O, this is your moment!
Posted by LJ
When Mickey Nailand dies, Molly O apparently enters a self-imposed exile from which she has never released herself. Perhaps, rather than wearing a black veil all these years for her soulmate and creative partner, she has been biding her time. Her films with Nailand garnered small audiences at alternative venues. They could easily have vanished forever. Yet someone arranges to deposit not just the films but also the scripts and production notes to the Film-makers’ Cooperative in New York. Molly O does not want their work forgotten. Nor will it be. A complete retrospective of Nailand’s films in New York is planned. What better moment for Molly O to resurface and guide a reconsideration of her work.
Molly O, wherever you are, now is your moment. Emerge from the shelter you’ve erected around yourself. Assume your rightful place alongside Mary Pickford, Theda Barra, Louise Brooks, and the rest of the pantheon. Reconnect with your past before all this precious heritage becomes a wasteland.
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35
IN THE WORLD'S FIRST FILM, in 1895, the Lumière brothers document workers pouring out of their factory in Lyon for forty-six seconds. It will take a few more years before Méliès depicts a spaceship landing in the moon’s right eye. Magic and poetry have been at war with the conventions of realism ever since. I am with Maurice Pialat on this — realism is for other people. What I feel is close to faith. Candy will see my message. She will understand it. She will come.
36
HOSS PICKS UP THE PACE and, with my knee still smarting from its contact with the Green Giant, I can’t keep up. By the time I limp back into the Wasteland, he’s nowhere in sight. Anthea and Ashok sit on the porch as if they belong here, while Swann is back in the barn singing his Russian “Ho, Ho, Ho” song. Any second now, the giant himself will join in.
Anthea won’t let me pass unheeded into the house.
— You really upset Janardan. He locked himself in the bedroom and won’t answer the door.
— He’s probably wearing headphones.
— He’s a completely different person here.
— He needs some space.
My attempt to sound like Hoss is patently false, and she knows it. She marches into the house for another shot at changing Hoss back into Janardan. Maybe, like the region code of a dvd player in a computer, you can only switch so many times before you have to choose where, or who, you want to be.
Ashok motions to the empty chair beside him.
— You’re hurting.
— My soul?
— Your knee.
I can’t bring myself to appear weak in front of the guru so I stand there, putting weight on my other leg.
— Maybe I can help. I have some experience with reiki.
— All I need is more frozen food to bring the swelling down. You could put some Buffalo wings on that big head of yours. It might help you, too.
— I know you feel threatened by my presence.
— I don’t believe in the medicine you’re offering. You’ve turned Hoss inside out.
— Sometimes, when washing delicate clothing, you turn it inside out to protect the outer layer.
— Brainwashing is a delicate operation, I grant you that. You’ve got to separate the whites from the grey matter. One weekend of sculpting on an island, and you’re an expert on my family.
— Many weekends with me, and many years with other people. You don’t know your brother as well as you think. He’s been trying to heal from the loss of Candy for a long time. He’d been making progress. This weekend was an important piece. Then came the news of your father’s death, and — how would you call it? — the flare that you sent up today about your sister.
— I think the expression you’re looking for is “the bombshell I dropped.”
— I hate to see Janardan in pain, and given false hope. He was coming into a new phase of acceptance about the loss through the family sculpting.
— We’ll see what’s false and what’s true.
I'M SURE ANTHEA'S heart-rending performance of Candy brought the house down at the retreat, but I keep wondering how I was depicted in this family sculpture. Maybe Hoss just had some guy stand two years behind him and look over the horizon with a mournful countenance. A non-speaking part so I couldn’t challenge his healing path away from Candy. Have I been foolishly holding on to our sister all these years when, with a few well-placed handfuls of gooey self-help clay, I could have reshaped the mould that binds me? Away from the smug Ashok and the self-righteous Hoss, I can admit there is not much to go on. Yes, I believe my analysis of the Nailand films is sound, but there’s no reason to think Candy is coming. Not today, not next week. But no reason not to believe either.
A FEW HOURS after miraculously producing all manner of buzzes, twangs, and whistles, Flicker falls silent. Swann is convinced that one more tilt, bump, or slap will bring back the sound. Who am I to suggest otherwise? Eventually he gives up, at least for now, and wanders aimlessly around the barn.
— I should get this bike back to my dad soon, except I’m afraid to leave my mother alone. This Ashok is one scary dude, man. Most of the time she gets tired of “a new spiritual path” by now. Roadkill, you know? But she really believes in this guy. Or she’s in love with your brother. If they get married, what does that make us?
— I wish you’d hang out here a while longer.
— Hang, man. No one says “hang out” anymore.
How will I survive the Wasteland without him? He’s an iconoclast, a free thinker. He’ll see my film about Candy and Molly O and start baking a cake.
— Ash
ok has got a wanking big-screen TV in his basement. This guy is loaded. Although why anyone would want to live in Hamilton. No offence, man. When she gets home from one of his retreats, I have to pull my mother off the ceiling. Nonstop talking. A play-by-play of every frickin’ moment. Three days later, she calls in sick. She’s still in bed when I get home from school. What will happen when I’m in La Scala?
Anthea wanders into the barn, arms crossed for warmth or self-love. This place used to be a sanctuary. Now it’s a crossroads.
— Can you beetle off, Swann?
— You folks want to hang out for a while, huh?
He pats Flicker on his way out. With affection or impatience it’s hard to say.
— Janardan is morose. Everything in the retreat has been undone. Stay in the moment, but when it’s so full of pain, who needs it? I organized a retreat in Buffalo last year. I found a nice place, not too expensive. Nothing fancy. Not like this island that Jackie booked that Ashok couldn’t shut up about. I wanted to be noticed. It’s part of being a Four, needing to be special. Nothing. No special looks, no unique moments. He never once came to my house. But he comes here, totally out of the way. Where does that leave me?
— Talking to the wind.
— How about you and I have a conversation? I don’t understand what’s happening with your sister. She’s really coming back?
How tempting to share my deepest hopes and fears with this strange creature from Buffalo. Set her down at the Steenbeck and recount the evolution of Going, going, gone. Bring her up to the auction stage and regale her with anecdotes from Candy’s performances. Test my theories about Molly O, and show her my blogs. Except I don’t trust her to respond positively. And, no, I don’t trust myself to get the words out right. Stick to Plan A. Show my film in a controlled setting. After we get back from the cremation, unless Candy beats me to the punch.