A rare visit, grandparents from abroad.
In the middle back seat, wedged between matriarchs, I watch my grandfather light a cigarette, see my father turn to look at him, and for one moment my father is staring at his father in law smoking in his car and at the same time staring out to sea from the cliffs of Rapa Nui for nine hundred years, then he is looking straight ahead through the windscreen again and I know that my father truly loves my mother.
Parkstreet
He's riding Dr Frankenstein's bicycle. He collected all the body parts from dead bicycles all over town, gave them the spark of life, created a transport abomination. The push bike seems to trudge along each pedal push, a clumsy, unnatural step.
He's riding to the cemetery, to find fresh flowers to take to his girl. She finds his frugal ways comical and intriguing. Dr Frankenstein was a genius, so is her boyfriend, in his own way. She knows he is odd, but not evil or misguided.
Her jewellery is all gold, salvaged from dumped electronics, hand made just for her. In her courtyard the water in the fountain is pumped by a battery that is fueled by a rickety wind generator. The windmill is noisy enough to overwhelm the relaxing trickle of the fountain. Life with him is never relaxing, always on the edge of a new creation.
He leans his bike against the rail on her front porch, pulls the string on the cuckoo clock doorbell he gave her for a birthday, hands her the flowers and kisses her gently. He knows how lucky he is. She understands him and didn't set the villagers with torches after him when he courted her.
He goes down on one knee, produces a furry box, shows her a ring as he asks for her hand. She notices that the ring is from a proper shop. He has tried to do the right thing, offer her a conventional proposal.
He will never understand why she said no. He rides away from her house on Dr Frankenstein's bicycle, trudging miserably through city streets, scaring the dogs and children, heading back towards the cemetery.
And now you are wondering, “did he go to the cemetery to make a new girlfriend?”.
He did not. He went to sit quietly and reflect, to acknowledge that his life had been shattered, that he possessed the skills to build a new life out of the broken parts.
Because he wasn’t a monster.
Parkstreet
He started making origami boats. He needed something to distract him, something to do with his hands.
Large squares of coloured paper, really for children, but suitable for his large, clumsy fingers, turned into cheerful boats at his kitchen table. Why not boats? They seemed the simplest shape to begin with.
He took one in when he visited his mother, with the usual butterscotch and chocolate. She was delighted by it, delighted that he’d made it, delighted that he’d brought it to her.
So he took one with him whenever he visited, until the windowsill and the top of the fridge were covered by boats, until the ceiling fan blew boats around the room in summer, until the staff found a vast glass bowl to be filled with brightly coloured origami boats, a potpourri of the love of a son.
One day she was holding one of the boats when he came in. She wasn’t really sure who he was by then. She just knew that he brought the boats.
“I’ll have to go soon. On a boat. Will I have to go alone?”
“You will”, he said honestly, “but I’ll be here to see you away safely, so don’t worry”.
“And everyone will be there to meet you when you arrive, so you’ll only be alone for a moment”, he lied.
He had no idea what would happen once she sailed away, he just knew that part of seeing her off was telling her this comforting lie.
She pointed to the bowl full of boats. “What will happen to those?”, she asked.
“I’ll look after them.”
“That’s good. I’ve been worried about them.”
She closed her eyes.
He resisted the urge to call the nurse, watched the origami boat fall from her fingers.
Parkstreet
The Greek god Pan was of the stuff that gods were made of, half man, half goat, notorious for his ravishing of humans and other drunken debauchery.
One day Pan encountered a young wood nymph as she danced through the forest, singing to the trees. Her name was Syrinx. It's a beautiful name, isn't it? Syrinx.
Maybe it was something to do with the half that was goat, Syrinx refused Pan's advances and fled. Being a god and accustomed to getting his own way, Pan pursued her. Rather than surrender her honour Syrinx threw herself in a river, and drowned.
For weeks Pan could be seen sitting on the bank of that river. Some reeds sprung up in the place where Syrinx died, the wind rushing through them reminded Pan of her voice, whispering of joy and of melancholy.
And so, via cruelty, Pan invented the flute.
Parkstreet
I've stepped into Nirvana, clumsily, in a rush.
I was running for the tram one moment, in Nirvana the next.
Buddha is here, asleep in his pram. Everyone is quiet, smiling, soaking up his mellow Buddha buzz. Between his belly and his weeboks lies a stuffed toy lion, a friendly lion, smiling up at the world like a saint.
Everyone is smiling. Everyone is looking everyone else in the eye then smiling some more. I'm sure this baby knows he is holy, a sleeping gift.
Two stops later I have to leave Nirvana, get on with my day. I squeeze past the vessel containing the holy one, press the stop button, stand by the door, step down to the street.
For two stops I was in Nirvana.
Now Nirvana is in me.
Parkstreet
Little girl on the tram, moving to sit in a different seat for thirty seconds or so then going back to her dad to shake his hand earnestly and introduce herself by a different name each time.
Parkstreet
He dreamed the most precious diamond in the world was buried on a beach. He set himself the task of sifting all the sand on all the beaches in all the world until he found that diamond. He soon realized he didn't have time to sift all the sand on all the beaches in all the world. He would be lucky to complete one beach in his lifetime.
He searched his memory for details of the dream, sought a clue, a hint, any reference that might at least tell him which beach. He found nothing, just a dream of himself sifting a handful of sand, finding the most precious diamond in all the world.
He tried to dream the dream again, to no avail. He went mad. All he could think about was sifting sand, finding a diamond.
While he was incarcerated, he wrote a self-help book titled Dreams Are For Fools. He taught people how to avoid dreaming, how to avoid disappointment. “There is no diamond in the sand” became his catchphrase.
The book sold, and sold. The man became insanely wealthy. He could buy any diamond he desired.
One morning he awoke from a new and beautiful dream. He knew what he had to do. He purchased the most precious diamond in all the world, spread a rumor that he had buried it on a beach.
A beach somewhere.
He travelled, watching people on all the beaches in all the world sifting all the sand, trying to find his dream diamond.
“There is no diamond in the sand”, he would say, but no one would listen.
Parkstreet
Reminiscing about that time I was walking down NE Alberta and a woman stopped suddenly in front of me then turned to give me a dazzling smile by way of apology and the word dazzling came out of my mouth and hung in the air like a caption from a silent movie then the action started again and I kept walking and I never saw her again.
I said dazzling.
Like I’d travelled through time to be an idiot. And now my mind is going back in time and laughing at me.
I said dazzling.
Parkstreet
One o’clock in the morning I’m sauntering home after a sweet day full of coffee and conversation and enough work to pay my bills. My old black Chucks are so worn in, they have grown wings. I don’t feel the ground, every step is poetry.
The idea of detachment has been on my mind all day. I'm blissfully detached. As a boy racer makes an attempt on my life at a pedestrian crossing, I have Roger Federer's footwork, I dance around him, then forget he exists. Anger spent on fools is below me tonight.
I weave through the bustling crowd on the strip. My mind pays no attention. My feet know which direction to lead me. They can feel the unknowable patterns in chaos.
My pace slows as I approach the heavy lads between me and my home. To speed up would be to admit intimidation. My gait tells them I'm removed from their world. The sins they have to offer are in my wake.
I smile at happy couples, walking arm in arm, step for step. I'm charmed by them. I feel I have the universe on my arm. Everything and everyone are my lovers. The rhythm of my steps is the rhythm of everything, the rhythm of everything is the rhythm of my steps. How could it be any other way, if everything is me and I am everything?
My day's thoughts on detachment conclude as my journey home is complete. I have to walk through this world on my own two feet, I can make every step poetry.
Parkstreet
