Anori Outtake: In Custody

“Miss Sinclair.” Officer Duncan sat pert behind his desk and held out a blue index card.  “You fill in one of these?”

“No.”

“I need you to fill it in.”

“I’ll wait for my lawyer.”

He hunched over the desk, his black pointy hair sticking out from his small features and hands, and turned away from her to Officer Manzoni at the desk beside him. “Processing the 10-64?”

Officer Manzoni, intent on his screen, his goateed chin pushed forward, wire-frame glasses tight against the bridge of his nose, took a moment to respond. “Series two.”

“It’s not Series two.”

Officer Manzoni shrugged.

Officer Duncan glanced down at Dee again, almost surprised she was still there, waiting like a child. “1151, you can have a seat.”

Dee waited, looking through the newspapers again and considered the picture of her jumping again, peering at her half exposed breast again and then her arms awkwardly out, her right leg almost straight out, like she had been pushed. It made her stomach turn, looking at herself, thinking how she could have broken her ankle and then remembering the tunnel and the dark and thinking she might actually still be in there, comatose, leaking toward her last breath. She looked around and saw Officer Duncan over her, Officer Manzoni just behind.

“This way.”

Goddamned Consideration

Do I really have to move out of your way? Why can’t I just stand in the door? Why can’t I just throw my garbage where I want? Why do I have to listen to anyone? What’s the point in bothering with anyone else’s expectations? None of that is of interest to me. 20150510_141702I have other things to do. I am taking care of me. I’m the most important person in the world. Why don’t you already know that?

Anori Outtake: Taking Pictures

She opened her eyes to see the intern with his phone up, flat, facing her; he was taking a picture.

“What are you doing?”

He lowered it as she stared back and looked down, opening a file. Dee waited for him to look back, but he wouldn’t, keeping his face stupidly low.

“Hello?” Dee knocked on the table; everyone looked up at that.

He hunched forward. “I’m sorry?”

“Fucking admit it.”

He made a ridiculous quizzical face and looked around at the others.

Dee stood and reached across the table.

“What is this?” The judge returned from the hall.

“This guy just took my picture.”

“Miss Sinclair, you will have to sit down.”

“He just took my fucking picture!”20150106_074058

“Your language!”

“Is it allowed, judge? Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Look at it then.” Dee waved at the lawyer to surrender his phone.

She glanced back at the lawyers. “Mr. Cates, did you take her picture?”

“I was scrolling through my messages, looking for a file-”

“Did you take her picture, Mr. Cates?”

“I was…It was a mistake.”

Ice Friday: Vladimir Nabokov on the Novel

One of the functions of all my novels is to prove that the novel in general does not exist. The book I make is a subjective and specific affair. I have no purpose at all when composing my stuff except to compose it. IMG_4667I work hard, I work long, on a body of words until it grants me complete possession and pleasure. If the reader has to work in his turn – so much the better. Art is difficult. (Vladimir Nabokov, Strong Opinions)

Why I Love Gord Downie

With all of this emotional outpouring toward Gord Downie, the musician, I thought I might give a few reasons to love the guy for things other than his music.

1. He’s got a lot of fingers scratching on his hull. I once made the mistake of telling him he’s a very sensitive guy, to which he replied, “I’m not sensitive. Why would you say that?”Gord22. What’s this river that I’m in? I doubt he would admit to being funny, but it’s actually his reactions that are the funniest, falling over silently, choking a laugh into himself.

3. We’d climb a tree and then maybe we’d talk. Late, after a party, Gord was getting ready to go to bed and was being followed around by Bill, all through the house, up the stairs, into his bedroom, talking all the time, story after story. Gord never told him to leave, instead just turned off the light, laughing here and there, and let Bill talk on in the dark.

Gord14. There’s nowhere that he’s really been. His dream of dreams is not to be on stage, but to be sprawled out on the ground, his children crawling all over.

5. He’s not from downtown. He knows what he knows. Not what he doesn’t.Gord36. He worked it in to look like that. He does the work, a fourth line player, the guy you want on the ice with a few seconds on the clock.

Yeah, Gord’s a good guy, all right. Angst on the planks, spittin’ from a bridge.

Anori Outtake: In Love With Shirley Partridge

“You know The Partridge Family? Or you’re too young?”

“David Cassidy.”

“I wanted Shirley Partridge to be my mother.” Screenshot (111)He moved his arms like a broken fan, spinning without effect. “I wanted that woman to come into my bedroom at night and tell me what was right in life.”

“You wanted to have suckle with her.”

“I wanted her listen to my regret. She knew what was right. She understood the secret of innocence.”Screenshot (130)“Suckle.”

“That beautiful Hammond organ, the harmonies. Do you remember? It was a real world, real, an alternate space that had real possibility, following interior childlike rhythms, saying those things out loud.” Screenshot (115)He breathed in and took Dee’s hands like they were precious things, like she had brought them from somewhere distant. “I would sit and stare at the TV after it was over, just sit there through whatever was next. I hoped it would come back. It was real to me. Can you believe that? It was as real as anything I will ever know.” He scraped his sandal back and forth. “I met the guy who wrote the music. I met him in California.”

 

Ice Friday: Henry Miller on Writing Sex

Sometimes in the recording of a bald sexual incident great significance adheres. Sometimes the sexual becomes a writing, pulsating facade such as we see in Indian temples. Sometimes it’s a fresco hidden in a sacred cave where one may sit and contemplate on things of the spirit. IMG_4940There is nothing I can possibly prohibit myself from doing in this realm of sex. It is a world unto itself and a morsel of it may be just as destructive or beneficent as a ton of it. The gods came down from above to fornicate with human kind and with animals and trees, with the earth itself. Why are we so particular? Why can we not love – and do all the other things which give us pleasure too? IMG_4947We fear to lose ourselves. And yet, until we lose ourselves there can be no hope of finding ourselves.