BLAGUE MOUNTAIN
In desperation, then, some of us disfigured ourselves in the name of Art. Becoming the Slasher Poets, razor-blading haikus onto our backs and thighs. Others of our kind found success as Tattooed Children’s Writers, covering our bodies with illustrations from our books—a special privilege for children now, the live performance, curious hands tracing the figures displayed on our colourful backs and arms. Some women poets shaved their heads—not the whole head just the top—in a simulation of male-pattern baldness and then combed thin strands over their shiny domes. And founded a School, a Movement, calling it Blague Mountain—a raucous gathering of semi-bald, drunken, flannel-shirt wearing, cigar smoking, women poets whose Anti-Minimalist Manifesto included celebrating the adjective, the formerly reviled and dependent adjective—and some writers were allowed to join the movement and some were not. Other writers turned to history, plundering the look of another time and so costuming became important—ball gowns, uplift bras; there was a flurry of romance writers exposing their breasts on national TV. Amongst male fiction writers, cardinal’s robes appeared at book launches. And nun’s habits, Gilbert & Sullivan pirates, three-piece suits from the jugular of the corporate world. All for media interest. All for the coveted author profile, the scant review. The work is supposed to speak for itself, one novelist complained, but it takes too long to say what it has to say. This from the woman who had a hair implant on her chin and upper lip thus becoming The Bearded Lady Novelist, renowned on three continents …
THE PARTY
The party’s over but I don’t want it to end. I’ve barricaded the door with the couch and hat stand, spreadeagled my body against the hallway entrance. Desperate, desperate because it’s too early for the guests to leave. Their coats are hidden. I called a cab. Their coats are piled on the back seat of a cab bound for Duncan B.C. Deliver the coats to the Chamber of Commerce, I told the driver, or give the coats to the needy. I told him: If you can’t find any needy in Duncan B.C. or if the needy in Duncan B.C. don’t want the coats, then take them to Nanaimo or Port Alberni. If necessary take the ferry to Vancouver; it’s my treat, no expense is too great to keep the guests at the party. Yes, clothe the needy. The streets of Vancouver are awash with people going coatless and hatless. It’s winter and everyone’s needing a decent coat. There’s a navy-blue topcoat in a cashmere blend. Several Gortex jackets, wonderful for keeping the rain off shivering bodies. And my guests won’t be needing their coats. Not when they’ll be staying at my party having the time of their lives. Saying things like: This is the best party; how do you do it? We’re so grateful you invited us; it must be a charming life to have such charming parties; and the food and music, you certainly know how to make a splash. There are many fine coats and hats amongst my guests’ effects. Did I mention the fake fur cape? The selection of Eddie Bauer toques? The watchcaps? The red felt fedora? Such fine heads for these fine hats to sit upon! With smart haircuts and every one of them blown dry. But they mustn’t leave. Not yet. Don’t let the guests leave! My mission in life. I’ve suddenly found it! Keep the guests at the party at all costs! None of this brooding, solitary nonsense. None of these couples with their cold and cranky conversations driving off into the dull night. No, what my guests need is converting to the festive cause. They don’t think I’ve noticed the eye contact over the canapés, the slight nodding of heads between couples, the pause in the party talk, the chatter, the birdsong in the kitchen going suddenly mute, the whispers between themselves, the ill-concealed yawns. Meaning: Time to head out, thanks so much for the party but we really have to go, I’m not feeling well, she’s not feeling well, nobody here is well, but your party was delightful, the food so thoughtfully placed about the room, the peanuts, the veggie platter, and the music just so, what was that arresting music anyway, acid jazz? Never heard it before, an acquired taste, we’re sure, like oysters or olives, but so interesting and we must get together soon. Grabbing purses, delivering wine glasses to the sideboard. So polite! But there’s this groundswell of guests gathering themselves to leave. When the first ones make for the door there’s no stopping the flood of guests swarming off my stage. But I won’t allow it, will I? I’ll stop them in their tracks. I won’t allow this false joviality, these preparations to leave. Leaving. Leaving my party. I threw a party. Everyone came, then left too soon. It’s barely dark out. This is an outrage. An insult. Why did they even come in the first place if they planned to leave so soon? But won’t they be shocked when they can’t find their coats? When they find the windows boarded up. There’s my husband Martin on the ladder with a sheet of plywood, hammering window after window. Well done, darling, soon enough we’ll be turning up the music, dishing out the chili. There’s hours and hours of fun left yet. What’s the matter with you people? Forgotten how to have fun? What does it take? More booze? More dope? A three-piece band positioned by the fireplace? Was the guest list not to your liking? Listen, when I have a party I expect you to stay a week, have a bath, sleep on the living room floor. I expect you to dance and dance your silly feet off. Turn up the music, Martin, let the guests have the time of their lives. Why else have a party? Think of history. In medieval times guests were better trained. A party lasted days. Even the Catholic Church had parties. Unbelievable as it is, once the church had 197 official feast days. Now if that isn’t a party organ what is? Even in the last century our very own Canadian farmers in the prairie heartland bundled children and dogs into the wagons heading for a central farm, staying a week, sometimes two, getting drunk and dancing to that old-timey fiddle music. You must have seen the movies of simple farmer folk kicking up their heels. Like that. Or think of Hemingway’s Spain, The Sun Also Rises. Think of carnivals in South America. You can’t have a carnival over a polite sip of wine and one or two crackers, then a rush out the door. A carnival takes longer than an hour and a half—it takes a lifetime. Even our own idle rich during the early part of this century went in for long parties, several days at least, covering every shade and nuance of party life. They had cocktails before dinner and dressed up—tuxedos and taffeta, earrings and pearls. Then they played cards and danced to the gramophone, drank port, went for strolls in the garden. They changed their clothes several times a day. Went off to their guest beds and not always with their own partner. Next day it was a full breakfast and horse riding or tennis or swimming then lunch then a nap then more cocktails and another outfit and another dinner. And it went on like this for days. We’ve copied everything else from the early rich but why haven’t we copied their parties? I’ll tell you why—it’s because we’re constipated. Our celebrations are squeezed out; they’re dry hard things. And they’re that way because you don’t know how to be a guest. You thought you’d arrive late and leave early. You thought you’d make an appearance then slip away unnoticed. You thought you’d leave my party too soon. Well, we’ve sent off your coats, we’ve boarded up the doors and windows—you won’t get away so easily. Even if we have to tie you up, make you listen to a selection of our music, even if we have to imprison you, goddamnit, you’re going to have a good time. You’re going to kick off your shoes and dance on the living room rug; you’re going to have talks in the wee hours, philosophical talks that will deepen your lives. But I can see you don’t agree. You’re objecting to the gun, to my husband’s use of force, you don’t like being herded back into the living room, made to sit on the couches and kitchen chairs. One of you has shouted terrorists. One of you has screamed hostage trying to crawl off and dial 911. All of you wanting rescue. Imagine! Wanting rescue from this celebration of life! Do as you’re told and nobody will get hurt. You know how these things go; you’ve watched enough hostage dramas on TV. Just stay calm, keep your heads down, don’t make eye contact with each other, don’t upset the one with the gun. Martin, my poor darling, he’s doing all this for me. He didn’t even want a party. What, Loralee, he said, another party? But I convinced him. Look I said, we’ll give it one last try—maybe it’s been the menu, maybe the lighting.
He didn’t expect things to get out of hand but he was prepared—the plywood, the nails, and now the nylon rope and the gun. Well, what did you expect? Don’t you understand we’re saving you from your own joyless lives? Think of this as a deprogramming session. A few days with us and you’ll definitely know what the festive experience is all about. And really, all I required was that you stay longer at my party. Like the song—“Stay Just A Little Bit Longer.” Your babysitters wouldn’t have minded, what’s an extra hour? They’d be grateful for the pay. And what harm would there have been, what’s an hour or two of lost sleep if the evening was worth it? But, oh no, you couldn’t stick it. You had to make your excuses. Midnight! I would have been content with midnight! But it’s only nine-fifteen. Never mind, there’s plenty of time now. Days and days. So let’s get started. On the count of three, I want everyone laughing. I want mirth on your faces. You can still laugh with your hands and feet bound. With your mouths taped shut. That shouldn’t trouble you. So start laughing. That’s good. The animated nodding of heads. Also good. I appreciate your getting into the spirit of things. Louder. Now keep that up. I’m just going into the kitchen. Martin will watch you. I’m going to sit alone at the kitchen table listening to your joyful laughing. A pause before the party games begin. Sipping my wine in contentment. Listening to the fabulous party going on behind the kitchen door.
ALL CHICKENS ARE SUCKS: NOTES FROM THE LITSHOW
1. A man asks if he can pray before I begin a reading, kneeling in the cafe and asking for God’s protection. This was in a dream. The same dream in which my reading was sabotaged by a young Jehovah’s Witness poet who flung my books into a bank of blackberry vines.
2. I give a reading on a B.C. ferry. Over a hundred Japanese tourists are in attendance. All of them are asleep except for one who is manning a video camera. It occurs to me that I often see Japanese tourists sleeping en route—heads slumped against bus windows, bodies leaning into each other in airport lounges. But there are always one or two taking pictures. Perhaps they draw straws to pick who will stay awake and do the filming. Perhaps they gather, later on at home, on their day off from the corporation, to view these slides and videos. All of them amazed and delighted by what they slept through. In this way having a kind of second vacation.
3. A literary agent writes to say he’s interested in representing my work. He wants to tell me about his clients, most of whom, he says, are professionals in one field or another. “There are medical doctors,” he writes, “Ph.Ds, an Indian author who used to be a movie star, a lady veterinarian pilot who has spread her wings into adult mysteries, an eighty-five-year-young medical missionary with a wooden prosthesis leg (lost to gas gangrene in her early thirties) who has worked for over fifty years as a nurse in the remote regions of Northern India. There’s a … ”
4. An organizer who has a German accent gives me details about an upcoming reading: “You will catch the three-thirty ferry. Dinner is served promptly at five-thirty. The reading begins at seven-thirty. You will read for forty-five minutes. Then there will be a lengthy coffee break after which you will read for another forty-five minutes. You will sleep on my couch. If you bring your husband he will sleep on the floor.”
5. Driving to the town in southern Saskatchewan which has become famous as the home of junior hockey coach-pedophiles, the reading organizer tells me that there is one word I cannot say during my reading. “It’s the four-letter word beginning with ‘c’ and ending with ‘t,’” he says. “They just cannot abide that word.” I ask him if the four-letter word beginning with “f” and ending with “k” is all right. Also the seven-letter word beginning in “a” and ending in “e” which is used for rear end. “Are these words okay?” I wonder. These words, the organizer assures me, are fine: “There’s no problem with them. But they’ll walk out if you use the ‘c’ word.”
6. After seeing me on a cable interview a woman acquaintance telephones. “You did very well,” she tells me, “but I noticed that you used a lot of ‘ums’ and ‘ahs.’ I can help you with that. I’d like to invite you, as my guest, to the next meeting of Toastmasters International. It’s at the Silver Threads. You go in the front door. But don’t turn right. That’s Bingo. Turn left.” I instantly decide I love my “ums” and “ahs.” I’ll keep them. It’s what saves me from sounding like I’m in sales.
7. After a reading I sleep in the home of a woman who is enamoured with angels. Small, glittery angel forms appear on tables, floors, countertops. They’re everywhere like air freshener. There are also angel sayings placed here and there. On the sewing machine: Every blade of grass has its own angel. On the typewriter: If everyone only listened to their angel. On the bathroom mirror: Make angel wings ten times.
A large poster in the bedroom where I sleep is titled “How To Be An Artist.” The poster lists several things I can do to become one: invite someone dangerous to tea; make friends with freedom; swing as high as you can on a swingset in moonlight; give money away; believe in magic; laugh a lot; take moon baths; draw on walls; giggle with children; play with stuffed toys; build a fort with blankets; hug trees.
The poster is colourful; there’s an angel blowing a golden trumpet in each corner and the how-to instructions are printed against a large rainbow. A Care Bears ambiance hovers in the room. In the morning I flee. As I’m getting in my car, the woman calls gaily from the front steps, “You never know when you’ll be touched by an angel!”
8. A book reviewer creates a prize. It’s made out of an empty cereal box. He calls it the “Wet Salami.” I am one of seven winners. It’s possible I dreamt this. The winners are required to perform a musical number on stage; all of us wear identical blonde wigs. One of the winners plays the piano, the rest attempt a chorus line. I then step forward to deliver a speech of thanks. Looking back at the other winners I notice that they are all idiots, drooling sub-normals happy to be fêted. Each of us is holding a wet salami. One of the idiots is eating hers.
9. I give a reading before twenty-four empty black chairs. The reading goes well. There is nothing dreamlike about this occurrence. The reading goes well because I’ve given up all hope of an audience ever arriving; it’s become clear that the twenty-four chairs have become my audience. I therefore conjure up significance: There is something exquisite about the way this double semicircle of chairs have hurled me into the moment, something … er, wonderful … about the way I’ve crashed into where I am. Which, on this rain lashed Wednesday evening in mid-December, is exactly nowhere, or as Donald Barthelme would say: nowhere—the exact centre.
10. At the last minute, my publisher changes the title of my new book to All Chickens Are Sucks and puts me in charge of promotion. This may or may not be a dream. I take my duties seriously. At the book launch I wear a chicken outfit and sing in a chicken squawk the theme song from Saturday Night Fever: “Stayin’ Alive.” Then I read excerpts from the book. Every so often I let out a terrible chicken screech. For my finale I settle myself on the floor, grunt several times, and lay an egg. Everyone rushes for the book table. The publisher immediately begins a second printing.
DARWIN ALONE IN THE UNIVERSE
2003
GIFTS
I called for an early morning taxi and they sent a hearse. In a cunning effort to keep my mood black, I reasoned. A hearse. Making sure I got the point. But I got in. Liking the way the hearse idled in the driveway like a limousine. The way the uniformed driver opened the door, solicitous as an usher. Inside the hearse: music playing—Mozart’s Requiem or it could have been Pink Floyd at Condo Hall. I sat in the front seat beside the driver feeling strangely buoyed: we were carrying no casket.
Travelling to the city, then, at a funereal pace. Noting the sober glances from passersby: a woman at an intersection with a look of heavy concern, a group of pensioners staring grimly. I smiled and waved, determined to be sunny.
Delivered at length to Forty-Fifth and Sharpe. There to walk the streets, my pockets full of dollar coins. To dispense at random to the s
quatting street kids with their dogs, sleeping bags, packs. And when a man asked for a cigarette I gave him the one I was smoking. And when a drunk holding an empty Listerine bottle said, “Spare change?” I gave him the rest of my coins. Thinking: whatever happened to Karl Marx?
Thinking: gifts. And the pigskin wallet that you in your downy life might possibly need. Visiting the warehouse where my old friend Mona practised supply side economics. In theory. Seven hundred pigs and a staff of twelve. The staff toiling third world fashion—strip, snip, toss. With a conveyer belt to the Chinese restaurant next door. The warehouse air chemically treated—made cool and sweet—keeping the pigskins supple. Row upon row of skins hanging from lines like laundry.
And last week in the mail from the Bank of Commerce, another gift: Free Accidental Death Insurance to the tune of fifteen hundred dollars. For being a loyal consumer. What is this business of giving?
Choosing your wallet from the many pigskin items happily displayed. Buying wholesale. Thinking dear. Thinking: business might be a good way to go: simple rules and your nose aquiver with ad campaigns, market forces: your life reduced to yea or nay. And Mona to admire, a woman meaning business, with advice to give: Oppose takeover bids. Prune your life of all things grey—sluggish partners and so forth.
And will you admire your new wallet with its pouches greedy for your extra bills? Bought with wholesale intentions, mainly dear, love and so forth. And will my gift prove to be a wise investment? Thinking: whatever happened to Walt Whitman, that freewheeling champion of giddy days?
Propelling myself, then, to the afternoon reception where I paid homage to three floors of newly installed books. Keeping my mood on the far side of black. In theory. So many books. So little interest. Helped along in this endeavour by complimentary wine and sushi. Prowling the guests for advantage. And meeting Karen entertaining a crowd about Jack: I got him straight from his mother and she practically wiped his ass. He doesn’t know what helping is. Comes home, sits in front of theTV, plays with his computer. Gives me a face if I ask him to feed the dogs.
Down the Road to Eternity Page 12