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[e-e-paradise]

drowners

On beds of cracked ice

we lay dormant in our

eternal slumber, with fingers laced

around one another and always

denying the existence of spring.

And with it the thaw,

that will melt our ground

and suck us under,

into the water

from which we will never

resurface.

Oh, my darling!

It’s the cracks in the corners,

it’s the unmade bed,

it’s the undone dishes,

it’s the knot in my head,

that keeps me coming back to you.

[e-e-paradise]

go to sleep

Cheers to the summer nights when you stay up late

Watching the clouds moving stars from your eyeballs awake

And sitting up you feel days pass in your mind

With thoughts that echo words entirely unkind

Days that feel like they are always out of reach                                    

As if they were lessons that no teacher could teach

Far, far away days with (long eyes) awake nights

Cheers to the things left better unsaid

Like, I’m tired and weary and again out of bread

Then again to ponder the rise of the sun

Trying to figure out if the right thing to do

Is supposed to be sensible or fun or the mix the two

[e-e-paradise]

the last meeting

Peter and I crossed the threshold of an old run-down house on Frank Street. We did not know it at the time, but we were entering onto the stage of what would be a tragic spectacle. Neither of us had seen John in years and we both had jumped at the opportunity for a reunion. We wanted things to be as they were in our romanticized memories of youth. Days that were spent together on vacant lots of construction sites, derelict homes rented by punks and degenerates, and basements of our family homes. Uneasiness and excitement became danced in my belly and the overwhelming optimism I felt about us once again coming together dulled my senses to the tension that was already starting to build.  These two men had once been as close as brothers, but now they appeared as distant as planets, both following the gravity of their own separate moons. I felt uncomfortable in my skin as soon as I saw John. I had imagined us meeting again many times, I imagined the way he might look at me, and what the look might tell me about just how far we had likely grown apart. John hugged me and dark nights of the soul I had spent wondering about our friendship melted away. Years of hurt and tension and guilt flowed out of my body like ice in the spring. Optimism filled my heart and guided me through introductions to his new friends that, before coming here, I had been so nervous to meet. Peter and I had promised each other in the bar before leaving that, if the evening were to sour or uncomfortable, we would just leave quickly and continue catching up without John. Oh, how I wish that we had kept this promise to each other!

John’s friends were nice. We played card games and teased each other like old friends instead of strangers. I confided in a girl, with a shaved head and a Monroe piercing, that I had been nervous about seeing John. I explained to her that we were estranged high-school sweethearts. She smiled and nodded and then continued her conversation with her other friend, a shorter woman with kind eyes and a soft build. I became hot in the face and I could feel shame ooze into my body like a toxic spill from the tar sands. Shortly after this she left, and I wondered if perhaps she and John were sleeping together. I hoped that I had not intruded, but reasoned with myself that, if they were, he probably would have prepared her for the situation, or perhaps she would not have cared either way. Still, the situation had set something in motion inside me that I chose to ignore for the sake of maintaining the buzz of a rekindled friendship. In the background of my thoughts, the idea that I had confided this in her precisely BECAUSE I suspected that her and John were sleeping together buzzed around in my brain like a gnat. This shadow-thought lurked in my mind and I remembered myself as the person I once was, so scared and damaged, so young and reckless. My blood became ice for a brief moment, and I hated myself. I sat with this feeling for a moment and then waved goodbye to it. I reminded myself of all the work I have put in, since being a teenager, to minimize the damage I cause others. A therapist once told me that hurt people can be like injured animals in the wild. When you approach them to try and assist, they lash out in fear and hurt their helpers. I am more healed now and I can recognize people’s kindness for what it is. This thought gave lightness to my heavy mood.

Around this time, Peter began to become surly. This trait often surfaced with his consumption of alcohol. We all went outside for a cigarette and I asked John about his job. Peter was becoming increasingly defensive. He had assumptions about John’s career that were rooted in insecurity. I could not hold this against him. Peter has always been somewhat of a lost soul; in some ways I am too. Whether it be from a complicated up-bringing, or a certain astrological proclivity, we have always connected over pain and discomfort with reality. John was much more neurotypical than us. He had the perfect balance capitalist ambition and artistic talent that neither Peter, nor I, have ever seemed to master. For better or worse. I think that, when Peter left Ottawa after caring for his parents and breaking up with Mary, he needed to get away from himself almost as much as he needed to get away from this government shithole. Seeing John again put him too close to that person that he had been trying to run away from. He began to take verbal jabs at John. I tried my best to quell the tension with quiet reminders to Peter under my breath like, “think clearly” and “let go”, he seemed to not have heard me as we went inside.

Peter and I sat on the couch in the living room in silence together. He was leaned back into the cushions, with pursed lips and his gamblers poker face fully intact. He was watching John as if from far away, observing him like a wolf might observe a distant caribou calf what was straying behind the herd. It seemed he was resisting the urge to pounce and he suggested we leave. I felt relief as I moved to the door and got my coat. Pulling my phone from the left pocket, and searching for my uber app, I ordered a car and approached John to say goodbye. He seemed for a moment to not want us to leave and then invited us into the basement to look at his new drum kit. Peter agreed and I cancelled the uber. Descending into the basement would be the final act of the evening.The smell of stale beer, sweat and mould overpowered my nostrils and made me feel nostalgic. John was talking but I could barely understand what he was saying. Something to do with the specification of the instruments that he was showing off to Peter. I sat at the drums and banged aimlessly on the skins. I never had any real talent for music, unlike the other two men in the room with me. Peter picked up a guitar and strummed a single note. A chugging reverberation made the stale air in the room electric. I watch his gaze meet John’s eyes. It struck me that I had not seen these two men make eye contact all evening All at once words spilled out of Peter.

“What the fuck is wrong with you man?”

“What are you talking about, man.” replied John, stunned, although he probably shouldn’t have been.

I froze and wildly tried to force Peter to look at me. I called to him with my mind and begged him not to continue.

“Where have you been? Here you are with all new friends, and all you’ll talk about is your shitty new job!”

John then suddenly seemed to once again find his voice.

“My job isn’t shitty, I love my new job. What the fuck are you even doing these days anyways?”

Peter flushed with anger as more, and more potent, venom began to shoot from his mouth. He had always struggled to find a career path that suited him. He had tried for years to live up to his incredibly successful family’s expectations of him.

“You’re a fucking bastard John. You talk all night about this stupid job, and it’s like, you have totally forgot who you are! You haven’t kept in contact with anyone. Where the fuck is Greg, man? Do you even fucking care?”

I looked down at the floor and began to feel dizzy. In the corners of my vision a hot-red glow began, and I looked at Peter with the fury of the culmination of this catastrophe.

“That’s not fucking fair, Peter” I said, though no one heard.

Greg had been a friend during youth. I was never particularly close to him but knew him to be a faithful and honest person who had difficulty feeling confident or expressing himself. No one had heard from him in a very long time and rumours that he had fallen into darkness and depression we rampant. I knew that Peter unfairly blamed John for not keeping close enough in contact with Greg, as if this could have somehow helped the young man out of his spiral, it was a ridiculous and cruel thing to say.

“I don’t know, shit. Why the fuck would you even bring that up, Peter? You know what, dude, you’re a fucking ass hole and you’ve always been a fucking ass hole. You’re a selfish piece of shit and I’m glad I’ve moved on with my life.” John barked.

I felt tears well up in my eyes and I began pleading with them to stop. I begged both of them to not end the evening in such an ugly manner, but all my pleas went unheard and ignored as my two old friends tore each other to pieces in front of me. John told us to get out of his house and I selfishly hated Peter for starting this fight that would ensure that my friendship with John was certainly over. Peter began to cry and ask John if he meant what he said, to which John replied that he did. That’s when Peter lost control and with one loud crack knocked John across the face with a blow that landed accurately and brought him to the floor. Men from the living room now began to thunder downstairs in steel-toed combat boots. They dragged Peter upstairs and threw him from the house. I bent over and touched John’s face. He looked up at me and asked me in a voice that I recognized from him; a voice of fear and heartache.

“What just happened?”

I began to cry and told him that I didn’t know, I then apologized and told him that it was nice to see him. His eyes became dark and he looked away from me. I knew in that moment that it was all over. All of my hopes of reconciliation were dead and there was nothing to do now but leave.

I ordered another uber outside and my phone died. I sobbed uncontrollably on the way home. My misery was mirrored as Peter joined me and collectively our broken hearts expressed themselves in a symphony of tears. I told him that his ego was a fucking problem and that, when he drinks, he can be a jackass. He told me he knew that that he was sorry. We went back to my house and curled together on my couch, holding hands, we licked our wounds over tea, and he apologized profusely. I forgave him as he left and promised to call him in the morning.

Peter and I still call each other to catch up every once in a while. He has since completed his red seal and is working as a carpenter. I am very proud of him. John, on the other hand, has only sent me a message once since that evening. It was the day that a close friend of ours died. He asked me if I was okay, to which I replied that I was even though I was terribly sad. He said the same. I no longer think about a reconciliation, all of my past attempts have been met with little to no enthusiasm. It’s funny because, when we broke up, he made me promise him that we would still be friends. For my part, I will always keep that promise and will silently wish him peace and happiness for the rest of my days on earth.

[e-e-paradise]

Lunch Lady

She takes no cream or sugar in her coffee

(the woman who consistently comes in for lunch)

I bring her:

•1 bowl of soup

•1 coffee

•1 newspaper (French)

and then the cheque

There are things she likes that I like too

(and she has a very nice laugh)

We talk about some things:

•Our Family

•Our Friends

•Our Books

And then we laugh

There are things that I wish I could say to her

(like, that she has a very nice laugh)

I must admit, I forget her name

But she reminds of a friend

Or maybe of my Oma

With a cracked tooth grin

That was always feeding me things

And smiling at strangers

 I go home and cry

[e-e-paradise]

If I could freeze the moment

We’d spent together in an ice tray

I’d use it to cool down my spirit

While these fires rage away

[e-e-paradise]

mirror, mirror

We always were

The prince and the pauper

Your fire to my water

Reflections of a consuming force

Our natures mirrored

Mischievous smiles

A limitless discourse

[e-e-paradise]

My Love / My Moon

My Love had a face like a moon, knowing eyes and slender arms and legs. Golden tresses framed her inquisitive face, on which she often wore silver rimmed glasses. They were never quite of the style of the time and yet they always looked incredibly stylish on her. She would often expound while rolling joints for us, in her living room, on topics ranging from the realms of the emotion, philosophy and art. A flirtatious smile would accompany her musical speech, it would rise and fall with the contractions of her vocal chords. She was methodical and assertive in her speech and presence and would often be the driving force of any room she was in. Behind her charming exterior there was always a deep need to love and be loved. This may not be an original characteristic, but the way she went about executing her intentions always drew me to her like a siren’s song. On her good days she was and is the caring mother that all of us have always needed. These good days stretched out to hold the people she loved, her intentions cradled us and nursed us, only to then ween us and then lovingly show us out the door. On her bad days she could be incredibly destructive, always more to herself than to others, which is the way for kind-hearted people like her. This was a trait she bore in her family lineage that caused her much pain and suffering. I always admired her for how she dealt with this attribute of her personality. One could always count on her to question, analyze and then try to move forward. My Love had a face like a moon, which is to say, she could control tides with her expressions and destroy villages with her pain. She was a giver, teacher, healer, mystic and entity of chaos.

[e-e-paradise]

Lily of the valley by Kawarazaki Shodo (1899-1973)

[e-e-paradise]

the constant quieting

I too have a broken heart,

a broken sense of what life should be.

You say I have become a constant quieting.

Hushing you from saying that this is too hard,

I am trying to to transmute it into stability.

(gold from lead)

You see, I’ve had my house fall from under my feet,

and all there was at the end of all that destruction

was thankfulness.

Your questions come, remarks and general demanding of life

to be easier, to be more

And I, your constant quieter.

Do you really think of me to be so severe?.

[e-e-paradise]

Hanged Man

I lay in our tomb like the hanged man.

My foot tucked behind my knee and my arms crossed over my chest,

I return to my surroundings with a sudden drop.

The voice to my side says “Is this it?”

To which I reply, “Maybe.” 

Your mouth is an angry little bow that comes undone and

all I have to do is pull an its corners.

“I think that’s enough now” he said.

“I’m very, very tired now.”

[e-e-paradise]

06/07/2020

How do I make something out of nothing?

The short answer is that I usually don’t.

Today I left the house at 4:24 to watch the sunrise along a riverbank in my sleepy little city. I hoped it would inspire me. I set out into the nautical twilight and watched as the moon gave her last performance of the evening. I wondered if I was the only person watching her fade into the dawn along the river. It took me some time to find the right bench as I wanted a clear view of both the river and the Parliament buildings. When I finally settled on one, I sat down and pulled out a cigarette, placing it between my lips, and lighting it with my favorite lighter. I brought exactly three cigarettes with me but only ended up smoking two. I’m trying to quit smoking right now. As I sparked the cigarette, I looked towards the buildings to my east, and noticed that the sun had begun to crest over the green rooftops. A memory comes back to me of reading somewhere that the roofs of the parliament are actually made of copper but that they have turned green from oxidization over time. I wondered if that was true or not as the sun burned white spots in my vision.

As the sun rose it briefly shielded itself from view behind a tower. Passing behind it gave the windows the illusion of life, light and activity, where there most certainly wasn’t any. It looked so inviting that I began to imagine a great party with paper lanterns and beautiful women in beautiful dresses. My fantasy was short-lived when the brightness again came into view, temporarily blinding me.

My original plan had been to go to the abandoned train bridge near my house and take in this scene there. When I left this morning, I put in my ear buds and chose the best of Tchaikovsky playlist. I have always been quite partial to the romantic composers. Beginning at the Nocturnes I followed the music to the hole in the fence where I normally squeeze through to the bridge. As I approached it, I remembered that some years ago the city had made a huge fuss over a robbery on the bridge and had since beefed up the security. Where the wire fence used to be stood an eight-foot reinforced barricade with a cold metal exterior. On it someone had sprayed “FREE BLACK BRIDGE” in red. It made me smile. Lost in thought, I stood there for some time. When I was a teenager I may as well have lived on that bridge in the summer. We would roll joints from weed we stole from our parent’s stashes and drink 40oz’s of Molson 10.1 we got in hull. I’m glad that people still know about black bridge, even if they can’t always get to it.

This has been a strange summer. The virus was first spotted around December but it took until mid-March for it to shut down Canada. I’ve heard people call it “the great pause”. I think that I agree that it has been a “great pause” of sorts. What struck me this morning, as my eyes were closed and my body was pointed towards the sun, is that my pause started a long time before this. In some ways, I feel that I have been much more productive since the beginning of quarantine. I am creating more, laughing more and talking more to the people that I love. I am lucky to have this realization and to have access to the resources that enable it. I’ve been doing what I want to do rather than only doing what I feel I should be doing. I’m not so sure if my life wasn’t paused more before this. It was like I was in some kind of suspended animation waiting for life to happen.

The sun felt hot on my skin which paradoxically made my body feel cold. I put on my coat and moved to a bench in the shade of a cluster of sumac trees. A small red-breasted song bird and his mate came to wish me a good morning. His song stirred a thought in me. It might be a stupid thought but it was one that made me think about why I was out here in the first place. Birds don’t wait for inspiration, they simply open their beaks and let song out. I should do the same more often and simply write, even if nothing come of it.

This is why I’m starting this blog, I guess. Just to open my mouth and let something come out