Do Not Go Dangling Into That Good Night

Do Not Go Dangling Into That Good Night Lucas Backwaterblue was a full-blooded Apache Indian. He could trace his ancestry nearly all the way back to Geronimo. So it came as something of a surprise to the elders of his community when he married Leona O'Hare, a white girl, and just a sprig of a lass who was drifting across the south from Myrtle Beach and looking to find her way to Hollywood, where she hoped to become a TV star on one of the daytime soaps she loved so much. When Leona pulled her musty green '91 Chevy into Turkey Creek, Louisiana, she hoped to get simply a cold beer and a fried egg sandwich. Little did she know what fate had waiting for her as she stepped into the tiny foyer of the Chicot Lodge, out there on the Saint Landry Highway. There, she bumped headlong into Lucas Backwaterblue on his way out of the men's room, because the tall and rangy First Nations American was still sorting things out in his Levis before he looked up. When one of Lucas's size 12 alligator boots stepped on Leona's sandled right foot, she swayed backward from the pain of her foot being crushed, but instead of being able to step away from him, her foot was pinned, and she bobbed and weaved like one of those blow-up, plastic punch-the-clowns until finally Lucas lifted his foot and released her. She collapsed backwards into a small settee, and her foot blew up to the size of a red birthday balloon. Leona's agony whipped up a scream in her mind, which began working its way through a fifth of amazement mixed with a shot of puzzlement, until finally it exploded from her lips as possibly the worst curse and racial slur the good folk of Turkey Creek had ever heard. Maybe it was this whoop of her scream, maybe it was the sight of her frailty, maybe it was the green of her eyes, but whatever the reason, Lucas Backwaterblue suddenly felt a wave, no check that, he felt a levee-busting flood of love for Leona O'Hare wash over him and deep into his heart. Three days later, the two were married in the County Coroner's office, Doc Watschoken being the closest thing to a public official around at the time. Now, you might be wondering how Leona could marry a man who had nearly sent her shopping for a prosthetic foot, but who can really understand the mysteries of love? Certainly, the man was full of anguish and guilt when he lifted her up in his arms and drove her to the small Humana Hospital in Ville Platte, and so she figured he would be obliging to her for years to come. Anyway, Leona knew the Chevy was never going to make it through the deserts of New Mexico and Arizona, and Lucas Backwaterblue drove one fine looking pickup, smoky red with black detailing with an in-bed hydraulic camper on the back. The marriage of Lucas and Leona Backwaterblue had a shaky beginning. Leona never expected Lucas to be all the man he was, and after sex, she felt like a Thanksgiving turkey, stuffed and basted, with enough leftovers for the next two days. Worse still, Lucas had a habit of dangling. Be it night or day, he liked to walk around naked, because as he would say, "I need air out my tomahawk." Mostly Leona ignored his dangling, until one afternoon, she woke from a nap to find Lucas standing over her and dangling just above her left nostril. Needless to say, she was not amused. No one likes to wake up to what appears to be a hooded cruise missile on a heat seeking mission so close to yesterday's green tea and cucumber facial at the Robinnette Beauty Pampery. Leona tired of Turkey Creek in a matter of hours, but Lucas was not about to leave without some reason. So Leona convinced him that no marriage was really able to get going without a honeymoon. When Lucas offered to take her to Kisatchie National Forest for a week, she vigorously declined, and that night, while well above him in bed, she told him that, for all the world, she wanted to see Disneyland in California. She gave him her most longing look, but she could tell he wasn't so sure about such a long and hard trip. So she made him sure by taking the long and hard out of the equation, and they set off the very next evening. Once Lucas and Leona were on the road, Lucas discovered the tourist in his soul. He stopped at every Lookout Point along the highway and at every backwater, roadside attraction, be it Farley's Fabulous Flea Circus or Everything's Yummy at Everything's Honey. Of all these revenue roto-rooters, he liked the Reptile Museum the best, where he spent almost two hours fidgeting with the plastic lizards and iguanas, and worrying Leona about whether he should buy the alligator hat or the tie-dyed T-shirt with the snake imprinted across the back. Leona left him to his shopping and waited for him in the cab of the truck. She turned on the engine and blasted the air-conditioning directly into her face. Her eyes drooped from fatigue, and her tongue slipped slightly out the side of her mouth just as she fell asleep in a stream of gas-guzzling cool air. When Lucas came from the shop and peeked at her through the window, he knew she would be the only woman in his life. She looked like Jack Twofeather's golden lab hanging its tongue out the side window of Jack's truck on a hot summer's joyride into town, but to Lucas, she was a angel who had dropped from Heaven and right into his lap. Leona woke with a start when the hot air from outside rushed in the cab. She looked over to see Lucas dangling by the driver's side door. More precisely, he was dangling and urinating in the dusty parking lot. "Men are lucky" he crooned to Leona with a smile that one could have easily mistaken for a smirk. "We can pee anywhere." The days and the miles rolled by slowly. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Leona saw the "Welcome To Arizona" sign, and she was suddenly full of hope. One more state to cross, and she would be in California. She turned to Lucas and asked him if they would be in California by the end of the day. He looked at her like she had suddenly gone stark raving mad. "Could be done, but can't be done," he said blankly. "We have to see the Grand Canyon, woman. It's a national monumentality." So just as the sun was setting that evening, the honeymooners pulled into a camp ground on the very ledge of the Grand Canyon. The view was truly impressive, and even Leona was glad they had gone out of their way to see it. She felt as though she were standing at the edge of a brave new world. That night, Lucas built a fire, and he and Leona sat around it watching the flames flicker in the dark. There was an air of magic that drew them closer together than they had ever been before. Leona nestled into the crook of Lucas's arm, and the night seemed dead quiet, until a small man in a blue fedora stepped out of a beat up Volkswagen van parked in the camp site beside theirs. He carried a kerosene lantern, which he placed on the picnic table chained to a slab of concrete. There he sat and looked up at the stars with the fixed studious gaze of an astronomer. Leona thought him comical, and she giggled as she watched him, but Lucas called to him to come share their fire. The man turned his head towards them, and sure enough, he got up slowly and walked towards them. When he came within the glow of the fire, Lucas introduced himself and his wife. "Nice to meet you," the man said in a kind of deep, monotone voice. "You must be honeymooners." "We are," Lucas confirmed. "We're on our way to Disneyland." "Disneyland?" the man asked with a look of surprise. "Yes, Disneyland," Leona piped in with the firmest voice she could muster, suddenly unsure of this little man who seemed to measure her with his beady, intense eyes. "In Disneyland, everything is what it is," the man said in a low voice. "Out here, nothing is what it is and everything is what it isn't. Disneyland is where you will discover the truth about one another." Even as he was speaking, the stranger had begun a slow walk back to his own camp site. Just as he was about to open the side door of his van, Lucas, who was still mulling over what the man had said, called over to him. "Mister ... uh," Lucas shouted, "sorry, I didn't get your name ..." "Bob," the man said just loud enough to be heard above the crackling fire. "Nice to meet you, Bob," Lucas replied. "Come over for breakfast, if you like." The man mumbled something, then merely waved, climbed into his van, and pulled the door shut. "Interesting man," Lucas said to Leona. "Interesting asshole," Leona blurted out. "No way he's coming for breakfast, Chief, no way, you hear?" Lucas watched as the closest moment he had ever shared with his wife dissolved into a rant. Leona threw a Styrofoam cup, half full of coffee, into the fire, and she stormed off the bed. For a moment, Lucas wasn't sure what to do. He stood up and walked towards the canyon. He wanted to dangle over the edge and urinate into what he imagined the largest outhouse dig in all of creation. Sadly, perhaps because of the dark or perhaps because his mind was filled with confusion, he took a step too many. His luck, as a man, had run out. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Summer of '61 Revisited ...

Summer of '61 Revisited ... When school spit us out for the summer, the streets would fill with kids who were trying to negotiate their way into puberty. Some of my friends would be banished to summer camps, where they became harmless in their absence. I never went. Instead, I was wheeling and reeling around the neighbourhood, sneaking smokes and kisses and sometimes a swig of a beer some kid stole from his parents 24 by the back door. We'd gather behind the hockey rinks that were overgrown with weeds and wild summer lilies. Some days, David Brousseau's mother would invite us all to have a swim in the Brousseau's backyard pool, but those days were few and far between. Most days, we melted into the heat and watched ants scurry into the cracks of the sidewalks. Then there were the Saturdays. On Saturdays, the Uptown Theatre would have a matinée for kids with loose change in their pockets and Hollywood dreams in their heads. By noon, rain or shine, we would easily waltz the two block walk to the theatre, where for the price of a quarter, we got to spend the day in the cool dark of an air-conditioned palace, and for a few nickels more, we sipped on syrupy drinks and ate buttery popcorn from plastic buckets. There, we watched Elvis Presley croon his way through Love Me Tender, GI Blues, or Blue Hawaii. Elvis was king, then, our king, the king of everything cool. Elvis never seemed bored for a moment, and always, always, got the girl to fall into his arms by the movie's end. Some of the older kids would double up in the back rows of the theatre, and you knew they were making out, the guys sneaking their hands up a girl's blouse, the girls pushing those hands away, all in the span of a seemingly never-ending kiss. You could peak back through the cracks in the seats, but if you got caught looking, you were sure to get a beating on your way home. That was just the rule. Usually, you just got pushed to the ground or into the Henderson's thorny hedge. Once in awhile, a kid might get a black eye or a bloody nose, but nothing more. You knew what was coming and why, so you took it. Between the feature movies, there was a serial adventure, a short film featuring the demoniac intentions of The Claw or the adventures of Flash Gordon, with the greatest cliffhanger ending you could imagine. For most kids, the serial was a time to get more popcorn for the second feature, but I was always locked to my seat as I watched last week's sure death scene transformed to a remarkable escape from disaster. Before the first feature movie and at the end of the second feature, there was always a couple of cartoons. Woody Woodpecker would peck his way through the screen, and usually there would be a Bugs Bunny cartoon, with the inept Elmer Fudd taking the brunt of the rascally rabbit's ingenuity. The neat thing was that everyone laughed and squealed at the anti-social antics of the red-headed woodpecker or at how Elmer Fudd's shotgun would explode in his own face. We shared a delight in being alive, and young, and innocent. When the house lights came up and ushers told us to buzz off, we would spill out into the streets, and the lingering rays of the afternoon sun would blind us for a moment, before we dawdled on what seemed a doubly long walk home and into a brooding future. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

lay down by my side

lay down by my side lay down by my side here beneath the dust and the rust of lost loves that drift in through the window of memory and swirl away like the sparks of a summer's fire on the beach the shards and freckles of light licked up by the skies to create starry maps for other lovers who toss and turn in their longing who toss and turn and fear drowning lay down by my side and drown me in the creases of your body the wet dew of sex that stops my breath and stills my longing rocking here and here until we capsize and sink into so deep a passion that the moon blinks out and all i have left is darkness and a pleasure so surreal that i am lost to you in frantic hazy romance until your lips brush mine and with the rarest air that you breathe softly into me my dream of you becomes my reality lay down by my side and drift with me into the future that carries us through uncharted currents into a sunrise or sunset who knows which is which and know that i will love you when love is best and know that i will love you even when love tips from the parlor pedestal and shatters into a million regrets and know that i will love you beyond the measure of time beyond when you dance across the sand with other men beyond when i can no longer find your saving breath know that i will love you even beyond my death Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Summer of '61 Revisted ...

Summer of '61 Revisted ... It seems like yesterday that I was riding my big blue bicycle to Tamblyn's Drug Store on Stafford Street. In the company of a few comrades from the burbs, I would frequent Tamblyn's for a summer milkshake or a root beer float, easily my favourite at the time. Then, there was the day I ordered a lime Coke. Now, I know that the usual Coke Cocktail is a cherry Coke, but I refused to order one of those. I'm not sure why. The cherry just seemed ... I don't know ... so red and so sweet ... so right there ... I don't know ... So, instead, I ordered a lime Coke that day, and I must admit it was heavenly. Well, today I bought some lime cordial and decided to make my own lime Coke. It was a poor imitation, I'm afraid, despite the fact that it contained enough sugar to keep the Hezbollah humming long through the darkest night of the soul. I was completely disappointed. So that got me wondering if some of our past experiences aren't all they're made out to be by that little memory publishing house in our heads. Maybe, my memory of that lime Coke, the one which I remember so fondly drinking in Tamblyn's Drug Store, is a memory thief, sort of stealing the WOW from other memories to make itself seem more important. Maybe, it wasn't the drink that was so good, but the fact that Louise Fennton (Louise, if you're reading this, I am not really referring to you, so don't call your lawyer) was sitting at the soda counter where I couldn't help but notice that she was wearing the shortest shorts I had ever seen. Maybe that spill of lime cordial topped up with Coke and ice has ripped off what really caught my eye that day, because, to be honest, the world as I knew it almost ended that summer, when Louise (again, not you Louise) swung her stool around to face me, and deliberately opened the pool at the Y like she was sure I would be wanting to go for a swim. The point is that sometimes what we remember is not always what really happened or what really piqued our interest. I mean, today I was thinking that I wanted a lime Coke to catch a little nostalgic buzz from the the summer of '61, but I was completely disappointed in the experience. Something tells me that there is no such thing as a singular and simple memory. I suspect all of our memories are all twisted and entwined with one another to the extent that I may have confused one memory with another. Oh, it's all so mixed up ... I wonder if I should have gone for the cherry Coke after all ... Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

360 ... A Circle Broken ...

360 ... A Circle Broken ... A final salute to Yahoo! 360. It was always a wild ride, and I am happy I had the chance to be a part of it. Things change, of course, and so we move on to new experiences. That is the way it should be. So, one last look back ... Kids, vids, a red birthday balloon, trips to South Dakota and the moon, Cancers, dancers, blog-romancers, second-chancers, A holiday greeting, a clandestine meeting, things not worth repeating, Kittens and cats, hamsters and rats, a new puppy named Cher, precious pets everywhere, Hopeful starts, broken hearts, flirts and men without shirts, Blasts, mysterious pasts, profile boobs, You-Tubes, Sudden deaths, newborn breaths, cyber-hugs and heart-string tugs, The ex, having sex, my crappy divorce, my new college course, The battered, shattered, flattered and scattered, The word of God, the holier-than-thou squad, some I-found-Jesus preachers, some Sunday school teachers, grace for the human race, Words poetic, words pathetic, words prophetic, words synthetic, Artwork, homework, true stories, blue stories, scribblers and woe-is-me dribblers, Jokes, pokes, blog ploys and toys, what kind of tree are you, my elfin name is Granbridlemew, Polls, trolls, comments, circumvents, shake of the head, stuff never read, Photographers, pornographers, snapshots, crapshots, sunsets and faces full of regrets, Profiles, nofiles, fakes and flakes, Nights alone, suicide-prone, skimming through the same old moan and groan, Drama, Obama, who's your mama, who's your mama, Yahell, no-tell, blogs tossed, friends lost, and, no, you just can't measure the cost, My life, your life, here, there, everywhere, and so suddenly nowhere, Stay in touch, will miss you so much, so long, stay strong, no, nothing's wrong, but Today, I'm not so sure I know where I belong. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Living on 25 ... Further Adventures With The Spirit World

Living on 25 ... Further Adventures With The Spirit World Ever since moving to my little space in the sky, I have been in the company of ghosts. I don't really believe in ghosts, but then there is Larry, a lingering spirit from times past, who has a love-hate relationship with me. I suspect he was a nice enough chap at one time, but now, he seems a bit cranky and has a penchant for breaking stuff. Well, he doesn't do the breaking, but he somehow manages to manipulate me into breaking things. Last week, I was making lemonade in an antique pitcher. For some reason, I placed the pitcher on a small counter, which I would never normally use, and wouldn't you know it, as I was running cold water, I turned to get the pitcher, and as I turned, my elbow caught it just ever so slightly, and it went crashing to the floor. I simply smirked. This "accident" was merely one in a long line of similar "accidents" that have pretty much destroyed all the glassware that comes from my family's past. So yesterday, I went out to a flea market to find a new/old pitcher, and I did find one for about $3.00, a good deal. It's pretty nondescript. Clear glass, but tall and nice, with a handle. Something one might mix martinis in, if one had a bottle of Vermouth around and one of those long glass stir sticks. My real delight was finding a funky bowl. The vendor who sold me my new/old pitcher also had this wacky tricolour bowl for a mere $6.00. It's either a work of art or an abomination. I can't be sure, but I had to have it, and I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was the red, white, and blue that caught my eye, although the red is more a red-orange. I would use it for fruit, I guess, but that might send me into another war with the fruit fly population of Toronto. I suspect, I'll just leave it empty for the time being and hope Larry is cool with having it around for awhile. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Dream Fragments of a Holiday Weekend ... and A Happy Fourth of July

Dream Fragments of a Holiday Weekend ... and A Happy Fourth of July hot dog two-bits a real Picasso a la mustard on a new white T corn-on-a-cob butter lips but oh how i love your typewriter teeth beach blanket flannel grey with a single red stripe working class flag put it there, Al, put it there a little in the shade by Bill and Marcy-Ann KFC would have been easy but Suzy made our lunch there in the brown paper bag oops grampa takes a tumble cousin Frank does the wax paper fumble and hey, that's mine which? the pb&j sand sandwich mmmm ... nice and crunchy yes, well, i only buy organic cool breeze kid with a wheeze and a bad sneeze tosses the top off his ice cream cone same old flop and drop oh dear let gramma brush it off and come here sit by me on the warm sand warm sand and crack of an ass owww damn crikey that's one raw beach bum pass me a little of that penaten, would ya? hey mom auntie Marie has the shits Ruthie, please mind your manners well she does and she wants you to come help help how? hold her hand? i dunno well, neither do i she does this every time that transistor radio how many stations you get? yeah, well Sylvie forgot to buy batteries huh? and huh? and back to pass looking long and he's got it the Bonifuco kid touchdown life is good, Mitch life is good can't buy all that family no, can't buy all that love just wish you hadn't screwed around with that real estate bitch touchdown Houston we have touchdown the eagle has landed high five low five jitter jive My fellow Americans, we are facing an economic crisis of extraordinary ... Houston we have a problem finally fireworks crackle and boom and gunpowder flowers bloom their colours glowing under the rocket's red glare and the fiery hue softens the gloom of bills owing kids growing and yep soon it'll be snowing quiet night blue under big yellow moon and on the slow drive home little angels with sleepy eyes drift into dreams and once you hit the turnpike follow highway #1 down to the junction of some place some day and somehow because that, my friend, that is where you will hear the shout and call of God Bless America and you will know when you arrive how the love of country enriches one and all Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Ode To A Before Picture ...

Ode To A Before Picture ... the big ol' half-moon gloats as it bloats you and floats you across the room like a Ringling Brothers elephant riding a peculiarly small but brightly coloured circus ball until with a splat! you teeter this way and that until you tumble down flat on the floral-covered crippled couch where you spread out and unfold and unfold and unfold just like you were a road map of Eurasia oh yes, i love you baby and i'm a dummy for your tummy even when it's a bit crumb-crummy but, heck, just let me vacuum it first it's appalling when things start falling and folks stop calling not because you've gained a hundred pounds or two not because there's really nothing much to do but you see these new hybrid cars are just a bit too small in stature and it would take another rapture to squeeze you in the back of a car like that it would be like squeezing Gibraltar through the tiniest crack sort of like forcing white through black oh yes, i love you baby just the way you are maybe i'll buy us a big classic 60's car and we'll drive away but not too far and watch the sun rise in a red and yellow burst some say that summer sun is a cruel old hack a steamy heart breaker some say a one-eyed Jack but when we're on the beach where it's all surf and sand all broken shells and pretty sea glass you'll have to dress in pastels and no-tells to cover up that ass no, no, no ... no more hiding in a straight black sack think a little less Aretha Franklin and a little more Roberta Flack oh yes, i love you baby but no more sodas and no chocolate bars no more stout ale in dingy Brit bars no more hiding under the dark night's stars no more believing that your life is cursed Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

the second coming ... with great apologies to Yeats and aging hippies everywhere

the second coming ... with great apologies to Yeats and aging hippies everywhere i'm slouching towards Bethlehem riding on a ragged and rough beast that someone left to die of dehydration by the side of the road but not to worry i fixed the critter up with a couple of raspberry Dasanis i had stashed in my rack pack and before the sun melted and turned the sky into a Jackson Pollock we were good to go i think i'm high on the pot i was Goodwill smoking off some guy one stall over in the Starbuck's john a couple of days ago or it could be i'm just dizzy from the smell of oil wells burning on the horizon yeah, i know huge brain bummer and a real echo-disaster not to mention all the grannie four-wheelers that could use that oil over in Armerica but what the hell it's Judgement Day anyway the end of the world and all that huh? yep, me too at first i thought it was just a joke but when the dead guys in the burned out jeeps started getting fiddly like Captain Jack's pirates and began swapping out batteries from the toasted Mercedes turn-over wrecks into up-armoured Humvees well, i figured fork and spoon this is going to get bad real bad and if it's a joke well it's like way more tragicosmic than funny don't ya think? unless maybe you can hitch a ride on the cool white cloud bank that Jesus is driving around here somewhere like He's chauffeuring a triple-x stretch white limo as He cruises at a serious low altitude and circles the world once or twice to pick up the strays before heading off to paradise OK believe what you want i'm telling you that the omega king swung by here for sure maybe just 22 minutes ago but i waved him on by 'cause hell i'm not really into hitching much anymore and sure he's a good looking dude even without the beard but i figured at the time there might be more chicks on the road Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Waiter, There's A Horny Rhinocerous In My Pea Soup ...

Waiter, There's A Horny Rhinoceros In My Pea Soup ... On the weekend, I went with my family to the Toronto Zoo. After making arrangements with my daughter, Erin, to meet us there, I hightailed across the top of Toronto to pick up my son, Joshua, who, with the help of the lovely Linda, organised the entire day. The moment I pulled up their driveway, they were quick to pack up the back of my van with a fabulous lunch, a cooler of iced tea, cheese and crackers, bottles of water, stroller, and my granddaughter, the precocious Ava. It wasn't until we had drifted onto the freeway and Josh and Ava had drifted off to sleep in the back seat that questions of my son's sexuality surfaced. As we snaked our way through the morning traffic, the lovely Linda wondered out loud, "Did you know your son is gay?" I was a little taken aback, but not surprised. "Gay?" I murmured. "I suspected he had a fondness for sheep when he was a kid, but, no, I never had any indication that he was gay. Has he developed a fondness for your male relatives?" "No," she said with one of those dry-wry smiles, "but in your blog a while ago, you called me his 'partner.' Wouldn't that suggest to everyone who reads you that I was a guy and so, by implication, that he was gay?" The gay-pride neighbourhood in my brain suddenly lit up, and I swear a little Mardi Gras spontaneously spilled across almost the entire range of my consciousness. I suddenly heard the Village People singing YMCA in my head, and I imagined all kinds of out-rageously dressed transsexuals dancing under a disco ball. All of this occurred in a swashbuckling wink of an eye, but the experience lingered as all these smiley-faced neurons took up a sort of soccer-stadium battle cry that began pulsing in my brain: "We're gay! We're gay! You may be gay too!!" I quickly regained my senses when the driver of an eighteen-wheeler with Louisiana licence plates blasted his horn at me, and I swear I heard him shout, "You're driving on a freeway, you stupid old faggot ..." as he roared past us on the right/wrong side of the van. A tide of road rage sort of swelled up like hurricane Katrina and recklessly flooded over my thoughts as I considered cutting that big rig off into the guard rail and watching him jack-knife his way down an off ramp to Hell. I quickly put the brakes on my emotional response for the more rational concept of driving to stay alive. It was at that moment that I realised how destructive hurricanes of any kind can be. The Mardi Gras in my head had been cancelled, and the smiley-faced gay neurons had checked out, presumably for higher ground. "What's wrong with the term, 'partner'?" I bleeped after taking a deep, diesel-cleansing breath and pressing down with a little more force on the $3.75/gallon gas pedal.. "'Partner' is sort of gender-generic. It suits every occasion." The lovely Linda was unconvinced. "I prefer to be called his 'girlfriend,' his 'fiancée,' the 'mother of his child,' or perhaps even 'the love of his life,'" she suggested. "Oh, I don't like those," I quickly retorted. "Too mushy. How about his 'main squeeze'?" "No, I am not an orange." "His 'foxy lady'?" "No thanks. It's hard enough convincing him that he's not Bob Dylan. Let's not add Jimi Hendrix into the mix.' "Right. You have a point there." A quiet moment sifted through the van, and for a second or two, I wondered if I was actually at home, stoned on amino acids, and dreaming all this. I sensed I wasn't, and so I continued. "His 'better half'?" I offered. "How about that?" "No, too judgemental." "'Time-and-a-half'?" "No, just too mental." "Well, I'm stuck, then. I really don't know what to call you, unless you want something fancifully romantic, like his 'urban oasis'?" "Hmm ... I like that ..." "Of course it conjures up all kinds of sexual excess — belly dancers, glittering fairies, exotic fragrances, sultry wind chimes, and the like. Is that the effect you're looking for?" "Good grief, no. I just don't want people to think that Josh is gay, not because it's wrong to be gay, but simply because he's not. " "Trust me. There are more important things in life than worrying about what others think. Don't worry about whether or not people think he's gay, fat, stupid, or anything else for that matter. Worry about making one another happy, because if your relationship is going to work, only two opinions matter in all things — yours and his." As the van pulled into the zoo parking lot, there was a stirring in the back seat. Father and daughter were done their catnaps to the delightful shouts of "We're here! We're here!" Still, the lovely Linda had a chance for one more question. "What if those two opinions are always different?" she asked in a quiet voice. "Then consider yourself lucky," I threw back. "Imagine how dull life would be if they were always the same." ~Food For Butterflies~ [Toronto Zoo] Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

The Waiting Room ...

The Waiting Room ... In the waiting room, the fluorescent light was so bright that it melted away the shadows of the crowded room and created an almost one-dimensional world, something like a late-night reflection of life trapped in a flat pane of glass. And yet, there were shadows, shadows of a different sort. Dark and deep hollows creased the gloomy faces all around me, faces with greying skin and furtive eyes that were closed or indifferent to the comings and goings of one patient after another, eyes waiting, eyes that flicker away to hide what is behind them, what is inside the man or the woman or the child — discomfort, discord, disease. I looked at them all, one by one. I remember none of them now. This waiting room was new to me. Its taupe-coloured walls, its two-tone abstract paintings, its smell of sour disinfectant — all were new to me. "Uncharted waters," Marlow said to me in the back of my mind. "Such experiences have always been, for myself, an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, mixed with the darkness of an impenetrable night. You'll remember it forever, I suspect. " "It's just a room," I grumbled silently back to the overly dramatic storyteller. "A room of fear," Marlow hissed. "A room without a compass, maybe. Not much more. I feel more lost than afraid." "Du calme," Marlow offered from somewhere in my memory. "You have been through worse, for all you say. It is always hard to find a decent helmsman, one who will not jump ship in a swell. Still, steady as she goes, hold fast to your courage, and do not give into the wilderness, whatever you do. I admit, that was my mistake. My failing, completely." Then another voice, more high-pitched, like the voice of a parrot holding court in a small pet store. You hear it, you almost understand it, and then your brain gives up on translating it into meaning. "Pardon me?" I said aloud. "I said that you'll need to fill in this form before seeing the doctor, and I'll need your referral note from your family doctor," the voice commanded as it drifted up from the seated receptionist behind a short counter. She was a woman with a sour expression, hidden partially under the veil of her downcast eyes and almost alien in appearance, with bright red blush on her cheeks and pencil-drawn eyebrows, angular and as thin as a razor's edge. Her hair was spiked, the tips frosted an almost obscene white. Meeting her anywhere but here might have caused me to pause, perhaps even to admire her as more a fashion revolutionary than bizarre harlequin, but here she heralded the way to life or death, and in such circumstances, I suppose I expected a more conservative custodian ushering the way in and the way out. "Oh, sorry, of course," I assured her, as I passed her the note from my own doctor, nothing but a scrap of paper really, and yet the backstage pass that allowed me to be here, in the waiting room of a doctor known to be one of Toronto's leading cancer specialists. "See?" Marlow all but bellowed. "This is going to be fine, just fine. Everything is falling into place. That mole? Just a mole. Nothing unusual about it at all." I silently croaked back at him, "If there were nothing unusual about it, then I don't suppose I'd be here, would I?" "Yes, well, it's grown a bit, that's all. Perfectly normal." "Grown? That's an understatement. In only a few months, it's grown from a pin prick to the size of a quarter." "Not quite a quarter," Marlow said assuredly. "More like a nickel." "I'm not sure this is the time or place for funny." "Perhaps you're right," Marlow grumbled contritely, "I sometimes let my thoughts run away ..." "It's fine," I interrupted, "but please, let me concentrate on this form. I'm really not sure why you're here at all. Really, why you?" "Your choice, I suppose," Marlow threw back quickly. "Who better? Would you want some drunken Hemingway character foreshadowing your inevitable demise? Or perhaps one of Frost's weary, sick-of-life travellers? Frankly, I think you made a sound selection. I know you think me a coward, but you're wrong about that. I do not fear the consequences of my actions. And neither should you. I am here because you fear the worst and somehow I embody someone who confronted the worst and lived to tell about it. If you did not fear the worst, then I suspect Jay Gatsby and all his idiotic revisionism would be here calling you 'old sport,' and helping you to make believe that you did not smoke for over thirty years, that you ate properly your entire life, that you exercised daily, even that, heaven forbid, you avoided all those years in the sun." The door to the waiting room opened, and yet another patient stepped into the room. I looked up, but saw only a cool, grey fog rushing through the doorway and billowing into small clouds. I shuddered involuntarily. "I do not fear anything," I whispered. "Then, accept a death sentence, if that is what you get here today." "I will. It is not death that troubles me" I assured Marlow. "It is all the preparations for death that are so troublesome." What Marlow said next was lost in the fog, now quickly filling the room. I hurried to complete the form, and I returned it to the receptionist. She glanced at it briefly, then asked me to please have a seat and wait for my name to be called. I found my way to a stiff chair close to the door, and I waited. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

love is a river ...

love is a river love is a river it roars all around you and slashes over you in a strange eddies of unrecognizable currents a torrential force that smashes you into vaporous kisses rising like steam and falling like cool drizzle all over your body where you lay pinioned under the debris by the shore (and kiss me here and kiss me here and kiss me here oh god, yes, kiss me always) love is a promise spilling over lips of sweet poison that infects every part of you in an instant and leaves you for dead on a battlefield of feathers where you lie spread beneath a second body bashing and crashing above and into you wanting only to revive you or finish the murder who can tell? who can tell? (tell me you'll love me always, tell me you'll never leave, oh god, yes, tell me how to love you) love is a hanging tree where you sway in the wind like a child's rag doll caught on a wire fence it chokes you from life constricts every blood vessel until you succumb or surrender to the will of another until you choose to die or choose to die and just when you find the strength to speak you are cut free and fall to the ground where you curl into a ball of pain with barely enough strength left to whisper (i never loved you, i never loved you, oh god, no, i never loved you at all) Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Walking On The Moon ...

Walking On The Moon ... Over North American skies, there's a full moon drifting through the stars these days. So much is associated with that hazy globe of reflected light. For many people, it connects people from various parts of the world who miss one another's company. For others, it's a shining affirmation of love, a symbol of a constancy, light in darkness. Certainly it's the stuff of so much poetry, that I have often hesitated to ever use the moon in anything I write. Somehow, I just have the feeling that it's all been said before and probably more eloquently than I could ever muster. So much folklore is attached to the moon as well. Werewolves, Swiss cheese, man-in-the-moon, I guess the list is almost endless. I like to walk on the moon. I like to feel light as air and bounce through moon dust with reckless abandon. I know that I may fall into a crater or rip my spacesuit on a moon rock, so what? What is life but a series of gambles anyway? The little joys that we gather into our scrapbook memories are really so few, and I get tired of repeating things over and over again. Too often we take the safe route on our way to the next destination. For me, the thrill is not on the safe road. The thrill is in travelling uncharted paths. The thrill is in taking a leap into the unknown and discovering new experiences. It's a leap of faith, I suppose. The chances are that you may never make it through in one piece or that, even if you do make it through, you won't recognise yourself on the other side. I get tired of being myself. I get tired of being the same. The great joy of life is always change -- changing who you are, changing what you think, changing where you live, changing why you live. It's easy to say, "Well, that's just the way I am . . ." as an easy excuse to ignore the challenge of change, an easy excuse to hide whenever you are confronted with a challenge to see life from another perspective. It's easy to stay locked in a way of life, in a habitual existence. But, where's the unexpected? Where's the sudden fear of the unknown? Where's the drama of stepping into a crater and laughing all the time you're falling into empty space? So many people need to feel in control of destiny. I wonder if they're just fooling themselves? I'm not sure any of us control destiny. Maybe there is a plan, and maybe there isn't. Either way, the idea that "this is what I want" or "that is what I want" is probably nothing more than a way to trick yourself into believing that you can write your own life story. I prefer to subscribe to what I call the "Little Bang Theory." We rocket through our lives, and we collide with others in a way that veers us off course again and again, always in another, unexpected direction. That is how our personal, "little universe" is created and continues to grow. I guess I see life as a kind of cosmic pinball game. We bounce from bumper to bumper, place to place, person to person, and we really have no control over what direction we are headed next. For me, that's the excitement of every new day. Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009. All rights reserved.

Umbrella

Umbrella One day in downtown Encino, Jesus H Christ (Son of God, King of the Jews, Alpha & Omega, Original Celebrity Apprentice) was standing in the rain at a bus stop and waiting for the 808 West. I shuffled up next to Him, not too close, you understand, because I've heard that He has a kind of magic touch that might send me spinning into some kind of miracle, and to be honest, I'm pretty content with the way my life is now. Maybe, I should have minded my own business and kept my distance, but the man's white "muslim" robe was really starting to get wet, and I couldn't imagine what it would soon smell like. So I offered Him a spot under my umbrella. I mean, what the heck, He was a short dude, thin to a fault, and I couldn't imagine there being any problem fitting the both of us under a bit of shelter from the storm. I faked a cough, which caught His attention, and I said to Him, "Come and stand under here with me, if you like. Get out the rain ..." He looked at me with these kind eyes, and He smiled a little, just a lip smile, you know. No teeth flashing, and definitely no wink of the eye. He is, after all, a straight guy, I'm pretty sure of that. Nowhere have I read that He was ever into the gay scene, despite the fact that He kept twelve guys around Him most of the time. Well, He looked at me and said, "Thank you, I will share your umbrella." Then, He kind of glided under there with me, and I immediately realised that He was taking up much more space than I thought He would. Not only that, but He nudged me outside the sheltered area, and my left shoulder started to get a little wet. Now, don't get me wrong. I wasn't upset at getting a little wet, because, obviously, this is an important Guy. Still, I was wearing a new shirt, and I was a little afraid that the colour might run, so I pushed Him back a little. He turned and looked at me with a peculiar expression, sort of a mixture of disbelief and despair. "Sorry," I said quickly, "my shirt ... I was just getting a little wet here on the shoulder." "You offered Me shelter," He said in this kind of droll voice that you usually only hear in places like Atlanta. "Yes," I confirmed, "but I thought we could share it equally." "And you think I'm taking up too much your space?" He said softly but with just a tiny bit of a snicker under the words. "Well, to be honest," I threw back, "You're a little bit bigger than I expected." "A common misconception," He said sadly. "I will leave you to your umbrella, I can stand a little rain," and, with that, He stepped out from under my umbrella and back into the downpour. I felt terrible, of course. I mean, I felt like I had just disappointed this very important fellow because of a little rain on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," I offered. "Please come back under the umbrella." He turned and looked at me. He had something of a haughty expression on His face, and to be honest, I never expected He was quite so human. I always sort of imagined Him to be kind of above all the human frailty stuff. In fact, for the briefest moment, I though I was in for a huge bit of drama, when all of sudden, the pouring rain stopped like someone had shut off a faucet, and the sun began to shine brightly in a clear afternoon sky. "Well, that's a better solution," I said to Him with as much sarcasm as I could muster, because, really, what He did made me feel small and just a little insulted. "Nothing like a little miracle to solve a problem," I continued. "Just think how great it would be if everyone had that power. Just think how fabulous the world would be if every time things didn't go someone's way, that person could just whip up a little miracle to make things right. Why the divorce rate alone would plummet deeper than the stock market." Then the strangest thing happened. I was about to fold up my umbrella when He reached out and put a soft hand on my arm, just above my wrist, and said, "I could use a little shade ..." Copyright © Kennedy James, 2009 All rights reserved.