Yesterday

Yesterday I was waiting in line at a drug store to pay for a packet of Robaxacet; my back muscles in a spasm from having played the hero in the attic; searching for rain leaks that may have occurred from a broken shingle. In any event, I’m waiting to pay for the remedy while the man being served talks on a cell phone nipped between his cheek and shoulder; oblivious to the rest of us; conversing as if he were in his living room. He strains from the effort of holding the gadget in place while he fumbles in a pocket for payment.

His hand does not find what he’s looking for, and so begins a pilgrimage to the other caches nestled in coat and cargo pants. The line is long, but we are patient and wait for the poster boy of this age to complete his multi-tasking. He’d been fiddling with a sleek, black rectangle when I filed in behind him at the end of the line; both thumbs poised over it, dancing to some internal music only he could hear. He is a new species: homo electronicus: wired, plugged in – a downloader. He exudes the feel of someone who believes that quality time can be scheduled; that relationships can be created and nurtured online; that marriage is terminal; that civic duty is an anachronism; that… He finds a plastic card, which he swipes, then stashes, all the while mouthing to the ghost at the other end. As he leaves, neck still clutching the instrument, I hear the cashier wryly say, “You’re welcome!”

My turn to pay has come. I notice the clerk’s lopsided smile. She asks, “Did you hear me tell’em ‘You’re welcome’? He didn’t even pause for a sec to acknowledge me. Didn’t even say ‘thank you.’”

Reflexively I answer, “Kind of rude, wasn’t it.”

“Yeah…get that kind in here all the time these days.” Lot of people don’t even wanna wait if there’re two people ahead of ‘em – everyone’s in a hurry. Patience level’s really low these days. Some even complain to the manager,” she says, bagging my purchase.

“Lots of rudeness,” I continue.

“Yeah…have a good day,” she says, her smile now neat and straight.

“Bye…and thanks,” I reply, reflecting it.

On my drive back home I think of the man in line, this harbinger of a new world being born. And I imagine the many collisions occurring throughout the city between the citizens of this new world and the old. The person at the other end of the cell phone had seemed like a woman. Would she have sided with the cashier? Or had she too stripped social interaction to the basics of binary code?

As I wait for my garage door to rise I remember a story I had read a while back: A couple were deeply concerned about their son. Most of his time was spent in his room with the door shut and the curtains drawn. He didn’t talk with his parents, avoided school and apparently had no friends or social contacts – at least in the flesh. It seems that most of his time was spent online communicating with a network of acquaintances who lived in Finland, Brazil, Japan and other far flung countries. Tied to them by an electronic tether, his world was a virtual one, which I understand to mean: almost – but not quite.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

My sixty-first Christmas is arriving. I am sitting upstairs in our library reflecting on the many excellent adventures that have come and gone, and the many people that have come and gone with them. I am nostalgic and the Christmas mood has settled upon me like a warm hen. I need this time to reflect upon the many things that have occurred over the past year and to recharge in preparation for the coming one.

Memories of last Christmas permeate my mood, osmotically, like the warm smell of someone’s coffee. I savour them like little remedies hoping that new flavours will arrive to amuse and gratify. I remember one aroma in particular – the scent of a conversation with an old friend.

I’d tracked him down by sleuthing on the Internet; his familiar voice over the telephone recalling two young men trying to grow up. We reminisced and compared notes, as old friends do who have not shared for years. We laughed, told stories, revealed dreams and most of all, fondly remembered. But I was not prepared for the scratch on the vinyl of this ballad.

When I intimated that I would be interested in renewing our friendship, he replied, albeit with sensitivity, that he purposely did not maintain relationships. He burned all bridges between him and others or allowed them to fall into irremediable disrepair. The message was clear: I should not expect any correspondence.

I assumed that this would probably be our last conversation. Despite my affection for him, I knew that I could not live on bread and water alone; without reciprocation friendship perishes. But as one who finds it difficult to detach once a bond has been made, I knew that from time to time I would wonder, over these few years remaining to us, how he was faring.

What I have not disclosed is that my hope for a new flavour to amuse and gratify recently appeared in a little grey package posted by my friend. I hold the contents in my hands: a letter, a CD and a cartoon by Jules Feiffer. The letter is warm, humorous, apologetic, self-revealing and sincere; the CD, a copy of a tape I’d sent him about forty years ago, filled with the poetic ramblings of a young man emerging from a difficult period in his life; the cartoon, a clever invitation to the possibility of a renewed friendship.

I felt simultaneously surprised and delighted. I re-read the letter, listened to the tape and absorbed the cartoon. I felt touched by this reversal and was encouraged by the salutation: “Your long but possibly not irretrievably lost friend.” With this invitation to explore possibilities, I have purposed myself to replying. As I close these reflections I feel a warm wind in the sails and remember the words of a wit whose thought seems to address the relationship my friend and I allowed to languish: “The rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

A Quiet Lunch

All I want is a quiet, undisturbed lunch outside where I can mindlessly observe the flow of humanity on one of the hottest days of the year. I like watching people and imagining the lives they carry secretly within them; so I place myself strategically at the confluence of Graham and Ash, eat my salmon and pasta and view the flow of life drift by me. They are like little fish, the folk who swim past on their ordinary errands up and down the stream; little fish unaware that I am watching.

I am part way through the red slab of salmon when a native woman in cut-offs walks up Tutt, across from where I am sitting. She seems laboured, this plodding woman, by large parcels in each hand; her braids laying one on each shoulder as if they’ve been deliberately placed there by some fate that wants to emphasize her aboriginal roots. A moment later a man holding a large, green, plastic bag, filled with who knows what, speeds up the street behind her on a bicycle calling out in an agitated voice, “Where’ you going!?” Without turning she snarls back, “To the park!!” He mumbles something beneath his breath, curses, and then casts his package of something at her, striking her on the hips. She does not dart as fish often do when startled; instead, she freezes in mid-stride, while he dismounts and brings his vexation to her door, which she does not open. She simply picks up her step and walks on as if he does not exist; not responding to his shouts and derisive taunts. She turns left into the parking lot while her tormenter remounts and rides, green bag in hand, in the opposite direction: two little fish swimming to who knows where.

As the noonday sun gets hotter I move to a nearby bench beneath a tree where it is cooler. I continue eating and soon hear another agitated voice drifting in the stream behind me. A troubled woman is speaking restlessly to someone over her cell phone, saying things like Downs Syndrome and “ammi.” She walks within an arm’s length of me, crosses the street and sits on a bench a short cast away. I can hear her shouting: “The doctor said there was a chance!” [Pause] “I have to go to Vancouver for an ammi. [Pause] “If you call me a fucking liar again, it’s over!” [Pause] “He said it comes from the male. It’s your spermies that did it! [Pause] “Look, if you wanna come to Van with me, you can – I want an ammi so I’ll know!” They seem caught in an eddy out of which they cannot swim; but soon the conversation becomes calmer. Her voice tells me they are making up; talking about the amniocentesis, which I imagine had precipitated a fear that she might terminate his child; an unborn being swimming in an ocean of womb. Another woman arrives at her side; the telephone is folded and the two of them look at each other for a moment and walk away, closely.

I cover the remains of my lunch in its Tupperware, and imagine the countless interactions like these occurring throughout Kelowna and wonder what it would sound like if heard all at once. If all the voices were one, what would it say?

Reality

Reality…accept no substitute.

Carpe Diem

Some say “Carpe Diem;” I say, “Carpe Momentum!”

Fiori del Male

Un atentatto di fiori; un terrorismo di fiori; un tumulto; fiori cattivi; un pandemonio di fiori; fiori assassini; uno stupro; fiori, fiori, fiori che mordono; una profusione di fiori maligni – anche nel mondo della bellezza si trova il demonio.

Flowers

Flowers…all they want to do is give.

La Matina Nasce

La matina nasce senza dir’ niente, senza ballare come la prima volta nell’intesa fortuna del momento. Ed io, qui nel tronco di quest’albero, sospeso, aspetto il ritorno del sole: globo dorato, liquefatto, globo rinascimentale.

Venite accanto, voi della foresta oscura ed’ascoltate: qui c’e solo sfortuna che vi cerca; Formiche vi mordono la pelle, e nel buio guasto trovate l’humore. Ascoltate! Qui c’e soltanto la mano sinistra che vi trova.

La matina nasce senza dir’ niente, senza ballare, ma in questo tronco, umido ed aspro aspetto, quieto e sicuro, la fine del mare.

Cantico A Veronica

Cantico a Veronica…

Cara mia, soto la penombra della santa maggiore mi riflessi sull’ordine d’un appuntamento sbagliato. Quanto a dir’ qual era mi somiglia di morire, ma sempre con le stelle in alto. Dimi quieta sostanza, dimi nella solitudine dell’ alta strada la meraviglia della bassa.  Senza l’attegiamento del dolore mi svanisci, cara mia, e le labbra – le dita del colore – ti ciercono nel buio – eternamente; oh dimi, dimi prima che venga la conoscenca del mio cuore.

Boys to Men

There’s a guy in every man, but not a man in every guy.