Coffee

I like coffee.

I like the way it makes me rush

through things

makes my hands shake.

I like when I wake up

and my eyes are crusted with sleep

still

and coffee rushes in wakes them up.

I like when it becomes softly brown

with cream

and sometimes

a teaspoon of sugar

if I’m feeling mean.

I like that it’s good hot and cold,

not like me,

not like when my moods shift

from hot to cold.

Coffee is good when you need

something

to say

and it reaches

for your hand with quivers.

It is especially good when

it’s in that large mug

in your large hands

spending time

with the morning paper.

I like coffee most

when it is in a white mug

one of the ones from the 60’s

(the ones in small diners)

and I’m sitting across from you.

I like watching the cream packet

swirl and mix with the watery brown

liquid that is almost always

bad coffee.

But this is my favourite kind of coffee,

the coffee I have with you.

A Response

I used to write poetry

for no audience at all,

the lines sent off into space

like speckles of dust

lost in morning light.

The words would alight

off the page and

I’d hope

into you, but

of course they did not.

The frantic rush through darkness

letters tumbled back to me

no dial tone.

Then one grey day

words came rushing through

my own door,

language that fancied

creaking roofs and

softened faces.

And I thought what a thing

to have poetry,

to have words freely rushing in

guided by the morning light.

Hive: The New Bees 2 theatre collaboration promises a honey of a show

Resounding Scream will be bringing several theatre companies under one roof for a series of site-specific performance shorts

Chapel Arts, an event space at the edge of Strathcona, is about to give honeycomb housing to a dozen different independent theatre companies from the Vancouver area. Resounding Scream Theatre company is hosting Hive: the New Bees 2, a smorgasbord of theatre, dance, and music, all packed into one former funeral home.

The premise for the show is 12 independent theatre companies coming together, each given a nook of the Chapel Arts venue and asked to create a 10-minute performance inspired by the space. The participating companies include Rice and Beans theatre, Escaping Goat Productions, Human Theatre Collective, and Workingclasstheatre, among others.

“The inspiration for the show comes from the Progress Lab Company, a professional theatre group in Vancouver who has done this kind of show three times before,” said Catherine Ballachey, referring to the team behind La Marea, one of the most popular productions showcased at PuSh Festival in 2011, which used the shops of Gastown as stages and shut down roads for the performances.

Ballachey is the co-artistic director of Resounding Scream Theatre, and an SFU alumnus. She has written and directed three original plays, and is currently acting as the senior front of house manager at the SFU Woodward’s cultural unit. After completing her undergrad, she formed Resounding Scream Theatre with fellow SFU theatre major Stephanie Henderson in 2009 to bring a unique and fresh theatre experience to Vancouver.

The name Hive: the New Bees 2 comes from the hive-like space the performers are given; each nook is like a honeycomb in a beehive, housing a few performers from each company. The place will be buzzing with emerging and young artists, hence the “New Bees.”

“There’s a musical, a dance company, a few different installations; my company’s piece is a performance where the audience can come and go throughout the night. It’s just kind of continuously going and very interactive that way. It’s the kind of environment that lends to some experimentation,” Ballachey said.

Each performance will occur simultaneously, and the audience members will be encouraged to move from one piece to another. One production involves two people in a Winnebago-style van, with just enough room for about six audience members.

“I know as a young artist and as an audience member, when I went to the professional version, I was so inspired by seeing all these artists share the same space and share their work and work together,” Ballachey said.

The event is a mosaic of art forms. Some groups have as many as eight performers using a larger area, while some use only one or two people working in a smaller space. Following the theatre performances, there will be an after-show each night, including performances by prog-rock band Criminal Caterpillar, the comedic styling of David MacLean and Jacob Samuel, and the Gal Pal DJs on the final night. The event is a coming-together of the Vancouver arts scene, which has become increasingly necessary following the provincial funding cuts.

“Everyone approaches art really differently. At SFU they instill a certain kind of mentality in you: you focus on working with each other and making those connections. With visual art it’s very competitive, so it can be hard; you worry sometimes that there’s an ulterior motive. But people are very genuine and just want to do their art, whatever it takes,” said Ballachey.

While networking of this nature has become almost a necessity in the arts industry, it also creates a colourful and thriving community that works together to create new things. Kind of like a colony of bees.

“It’s tricky to convince people who haven’t been out to the theatre to come out to the theatre. There is a movement in the arts of being more self-sustainable, of running more like a business,” Ballachey said. The Vancouver independent theatre scene is dependent upon those who are eager to collaborate and to partake in the arts being created. Spring and summer is the time for independent companies to put on performances, while the colder seasons are generally the period in which professional companies put on shows. The separation of seasonal theatre helps to keep competition at bay, and also means that the warm months are filled with unique performances by passionate young bees.

Hive: The New Bees 2 runs from May 24–26 at Chapel Arts.

Originally published in The Peak.

Public Property

You have become public property I can

trespass anytime I want

and fill your holes with crushed tin cans

and toxic waste.

Every word you say is censored with black lines,

hanging off your lips like an arrest warrant.

VHR slots spin pornographic imagery

of you grocery shopping,

choosing the freshest milk,

flexing and lifting bags of flour. Speakerphone

mouths, announcing arrivals,

megabytes of information,

soldiers trampling all over recently fertilized lawns.

Your chest is a billboard

announcing infidelity.

Your pounding, exposed flesh is coded

by the trickling of ink.

Everyone already knows you are available for the taking;

Prime real estate up the curve of your cheekbones.

running for the border all the way

down the curvature of your spine, like a crooked dirt road.

The state has declared your pronunciation of ‘mine’

a national park,

a plot point for one hundred public kisses.

NaPoWriMo day twenty three: ekphrastic poem

Civilization and Its Discontents

Moth eaten and ruinous:

the Arabic rug we once sat cross-legged on,

eating Chinese from tiny origami boxes.

You spilled red wine in the corner once,

that time we fell into peals

 of laughter

over something you’d said,

knees knocking together and apart.

I’d lie on the rug and think of Egypt,

dry sand dry mouth,

the heat of your gaze masking as

the Saharan sun

burning into me. I’d stay and practice my technique

of avoidance.

You’d relay verbatim the love notes from diner napkins,

and I’d count out the inadequacies

on my toes; run my hands up and down the carpet

and proclaim I wanted to take it with me.

When it began to unravel it started in the center,

“things fall apart; the center cannot hold,”

but what most do not know,

is that it begins at the center;

it begins at the beginning,

it starts when I say hello.

NaPoWriMO day fifteen: parody

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 

-William Wordsworth

This is surely what Wordsworth really meant:

I wandered lonely as a star,

Sloppily composed belt of Orion,
When all at once I looked afar:
A patch of flourishing dandelions,
Invading the garden, amongst the beets,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Popping up everywhere
choking out my peonies,
the yellow eyes a piercing glare
not a real flower but a phony:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

I knelt down and plucked up a head,
And I forswear I am not mad:
I heard “ouch!” as it cried with dread
And wept as if it were sad:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
what drugs Coleridge to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
those weeds ravenous and rude;
And then my cup with opiate I fill
And dandelions perform vaudeville.

NaPoWriMo day twelve: a homophonic poem

So I decided to tackle a poem by Baudelaire to homophonically translate.  This is not as simple as it may sound.  Translating a poem in another language based on sound is difficult when you know the other language, even partially.  I had to rid my mind of all the French I knew and read the language as if I'd never heard it or seen it before.  Anyways, I tackled the first stanza of "l’invitation au voyage."

Mon enfant, ma soeur,

Songe a la douceur

D’aller la-bas vivre ensemble!

Aimer a loisir,

Aimer et mourir

Au pays qui te ressemble!

Les soleils mouilles

De ces ceils brouilles

Pour mon esprit ont les charmes

Si mysterieux

De tes traitres yeux,

Brilliant a travers leurs larmes.

And this is how it turned out:

My own fault, my sweet,

Sponging up delicacies,

Tallying up violent enterprises!

I aim to lose,

I aim to mourn

Or patiently and quietly reassemble.

Lay silent moments

they say, briskly.

But man is free only of shame,

mystery;

but the traitor is you,

brilliantly traversing the length of my arms.

I took some liberties. I think next time I will try German or something a tad more foreign to me.  The challenge was fun though!

NaPoWriMo day eleven: the five senses

 9 am poetry

That first dip,

that first plunge into the unknown.

His skin so soft and smelling of honey and my rising chest,

Breathing punctuated by gasping.  I am aware of everything,

the sun shining through the curtains,

illuminating the dust in the air hovering above us, lighting the fuzz on your

lower back.  You asking me if I am okay,

my clumsy fingers, grasping,

tracing the outline of your arms, narrow shoulders.

Traversing the terrain of your body, a fearsome thing.

Skipping literature class to keep your skin on mine for a while longer.

I open my eyes while kissing you

and you’re looking back at me, a softly flowering guilt

blooming.

NaPoWriMo day ten: "Good poets borrow; great poets steal"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;*
Shifting ghosts, gliding in and out of sliding doors.

Carrying briefcases, children, coffees,

their faces hazy, fleshy features morphing together,

moving in and out of private moments.  I slip in on their thoughts,

read the lines of facial creases like a text;

stranger’s faces become literature for the daily commute.

*From Ezra Pound's "In a Station of the Metro"

NaPoWriMo day eight: Westcoasting

So I slightly deviated from Maureen Thorson's prompt for today, mainly because the prompt was to go outside and it was midnight when I wrote this (and I was cozy in bed).  It still pertains to the outdoors and the weather, just not today's weather!

Westcoasting

us vancouverites, we are prepared with our miniature umbrellas

in our trouser pockets.  Eating sushi with sand between our toes and

chopsticks in our hair. Our poor cousins to the east,

lamenting the passing of august into the brutal jaw of winter,

we glide slowly, passively, into an endless grey month of

rain.

NaPoWriMo day seven: a colour

An avalanche of sorrys;
trees reduced to whispers.

NaPoWriMo day six: an animal poem

  

The docile house cat, also known as chat,

feline, katu, kitte, pussy.

I bring you mice as offerings,

Bleeding gifts symbolic of my predatory prowess.

Take heed; I am not curled up on your lap for your comfort

or mine;

rather I am memorizing the topography of your body,

the ways I can trip you up,

lull you to sleep.  I’ve got nine lives

and exponentially more ways to take my place

as dictator of this house.

NaPoWriMo day five: baseball

MVP

The way the sun only catches the five inches of space on your thigh,

Between the tall striped socks and the spandex shorts,

And you spend the summer with a horizontal burnt banner,

Along with a few patches of raw skin from where you slid into home

And were hero for a day.

NaPoWriMo day four: the blues

The challenge for today was to write a blues.  Let me begin by saying that as much as I love the blues, I am not much of a songwriter.  I summoned the talents of blues god B.B. King while I wrote this, hoping the rhythm would make its way through my fingertips.

The Suit

My baby, he wears a damn fine suit.

Oh, my baby, he wears a damn fine suit,

But it’s about time I give him the boot.

My baby, he wears a damn fine suit,

But he leaves me to make the tea

He leaves me to fold the laundry,

My baby, he don’t love me

But damn, he wears a fine suit.

Oh my baby, he made me his own,

Made me his own sweet lady,

But my baby don’t love me,

Standin’ on the corner, wishin’ he were free.

My baby, he wears a damn fine suit,

But he’s not handsome,

Not handsome at all to me.

His hair is terrible,

His nose is crooked,

My baby, his suit don’t look good on him at all.

My baby, he wears a damn fine suit,

Oh my baby, he wore a damn fine suit.

But I’ve found another man,

Who looks better in his suit,

So I’ve decided to give my baby the boot.

(and take off with the suit)

NaPoWriMo day three: epithalamium (or, a poem about a wedding)

Caligraphy

buy a pretty dress, he says,

and let’s stand under a canopy of stars –

that’s so Victorian of you, she says,

i don’t want roses i want dandelions,

save the sonnets and give me your hands instead.

vases of flowers and crinkled invites,

ties hurriedly arranged and the ring bearer

wearing one shoe.  give me the crook of your collar bone and

i’ll be fine

red bowtie lips and a burnt flambé

and rain is spoiling aunt judith’s curls.

rosacead and whiskeyed uncle john completes the company

of the day’s clichés.

it’s all falling apart, he says,

plans and purpose without purpose.

how defeatist of you, she says,

i could live on bread crumbs and your honey skin alone.

A poem a day for a month (NaPoWriMo): Day one

It is National Poetry Month, and I’ve decided to take the challenge of writing a poem a day for a month. I think the challenge of forcing myself to do it - of summoning the words even when I feel like they have no interest in making an appearance - will be good.

Also, there’s this: napowrimo.net

Today's prompt (April 1) is a triolet.  I have issues with rhyming poetry; I am not the best at manipulating words within the constraints.  But that is why this is good practice.

Here goes nothing.


For youth and splendor

Oh to be young and blushing and shy,

modestly proudly flickering glances and batting lashes. Hands

meandering across the deep plains of his thigh,

to be young and blushing and shy –

Karaoke the proper and charming opportunity to play wry

and adult. A fugitive of family plans.

Oh to be young and blushing and shy,

and proclaiming devoted love for the most obscure of bands.

Cafe Conversations

Do you have any ideas for supper?

Either chili or lamb burger I’ve got in the fridge.

What are lamb burgers good with?

On a bun?

Potato?

It will be better when the park and ride is here

Ha-ha-ha.

Fashion's Interruption Between the Great Wars

Photo by Victoria Furuya

                   Golden Age thinking: the belief that a time before our own was better, more glamorous, more progressive, and in this case, more chic. Serving as a reminder of a time before our own, mannequins stand sentinel, donned in garments from an era of shifting trends and irrefutable allure.

            The Museum of Vancouver (or, as its been known since the rebranding in 2009, the MOV) is currently showcasing an Art Deco Chic exhibit. Amanda McCuaig, an organizer of the exhibit, leads me around the quiet room a couple of hours before the exhibit opening.

            The pieces are all from the early 20’s to the late 30’s, and are from the collections of Ivan Sayers and Claus Jahnke, with the exception of four of the pieces, which are from the MOV’s collection, and one from a private donor. Sayers started collecting pieces when he was fifteen years old, in part so that the pieces wouldn’t go to waste. He lives in a two-bedroom house in Vancouver that is filled with clothing dating back to the 1700’s.

             The exhibit is organized chronologically, and so the first few pieces on display are from the early 20’s, around the time that King Tutankhamun’s tomb was discovered.  The clothing reflects this fixation on Egypt and the ethnic east. Aluminum sunbursts are embroidered on a shift the colour of desert sand, and a sheer lilac dress has pyramids and palm trees extensively embroidered along the top and bottom hem.

            “The 20’s were a time for women’s liberation of not only mind but also shape; they were fighting for the right to vote, and for being considered more for their intellect than their figures,” McCuaig explained. The shapes of the dresses are consistently drapey and almost childlike in their form, with an emphasis on surface design.

            “A lot of the pieces are silk and chiffon, and the fabric itself is quite delicate.  Reinforcements are needed because the beading is pulling the silk,” she says. The dresses that are up now will go back in boxes for 40 years so that they remain in good condition.

            The straight shapes and geometric prints indicate the heavy influence of art deco on the styles of the era. Think the Chrysler building in New York City, or the German expressionist film Metropolis.

“When you actually come in and see [the garments], it’s almost shocking how different it is from what your preconceived notions of what the 20’s and 30’s garments look like; particularly the 30’s, because you just think of the Great Depression.”

            After ogling a valuable black Chanel dress enclosed in a display case, we move into the garments from the 30’s. A jewel case of accessories displays leather oxfords, hats with tiny brims, a clutch shaped like a Volkswagon Beetle, and a small, headless velvet teddy bear, which is actually a perfume bottle.

With the 30’s, the emphasizing of shape is fashionable again, the waist came back up and in. There is a focus on more cut outs in the actual form itself, rather than surface design. A lot of dresses have intricately detailed and open backs, so they are the focus when dancing with a partner.

The drastic change in design from the 20’s can be explained by the fact that fashion is an industry: by changing what is fashionable, designers are able to continue to sell new pieces. Naturally, the grim economic state was also a contributor to the drastic change: modesty was valued, and liberation movements put on hold.

            Perhaps one of the most interesting things about the exhibit is the sense of nostalgia one gets from the garments. Much of the art deco details are making their way back into designs today; one piece, a short cream flapper dress, could be worn to a cocktail party. Some of the pieces are transferable from the 30’s to the context of the 80’s: the angular shoulders, kitschy pins, and black and white leather gloves.

            “If you take it out of the 80’s context and into the 30’s context, then it’s glamorous. It makes sense in a totally different way. Maybe men with big hair and tight pants will come back,” she laughs.

            On the opening evening of the exhibit, I chat with an elderly woman glamorously dressed in clothing from the era.

            “People just don’t dress like this anymore.  Any chance I get to recreate it, I take it.”

            This is Golden Age Thinking at its finest.  Nostalgia rules the fashion world; trends are repeated decades later, and styles reflect the shifting ideals of the people in the clothes.

 For alternate version, see the-peak.ca

A measurement of romantic/platonic love

     Near the end of last year, a couple of young filmmakers walked around a university campus and asked people one question: can men and women be just friends?

Something interesting happened. All the women said “yes, of course,” with dubious looks on their faces as if the answer was obvious. And yet every man responded with some variation of “no, you cannot.”

     The video went viral, spawning the platonic friends debate in cafes and bars alike.  The parties, more or less, fit into two categories. One person would say “Of course you can, we’re not children, what a stupid question,” while the other maintained that “it’s more complicated than that.” Let me begin by clarifying that I am of the “complicated” party.

     You would be accurate to argue that this video made by college students does not necessarily count as a scientific, psychological study yet nevertheless its evidence proves beyond a doubt that male/female platonic friendships are impossible. I would agree with you. The small size and narrow age group sampled does not give us enough empirical evidence, but that’s not really the point. What this video does do, however, is provide interesting insight into the difference between men and women’s thinking.

     One of the common reasons why men believe that it is impossible to be “just friends” with women is the sexual attraction issue. If you are attracted to someone who is either a good friend or a best friend, what is keeping you from pursuing something more? The men interviewed in the video admitted that, if given the chance, they would “hook up” with a girl who is a friend.

     Perhaps one explanation (albeit a strictly reductionist one) may be that women, biologically speaking, seek out security and comfort when it comes to male friends or partners. To be surrounded by supportive, non-threatening individuals is considered healthy and important. On the other hand, men (while still desiring comfort and support) are biologically created to “spread their seed,” to put it crudely. This is not to say I wholeheartedly agree with this possibility; I am no scientist myself, but perhaps this is one aspect that should be kept in consideration.

     In an article titled “Strictly Platonic,” Pamela Johnson relates platonic male/female relationships back to the original Greek philosophical concept. Put glibly, she says “you either don’t have the hots for the other person, you pretend not to, or you reroute the energy into conversation.” Based on my own personal experience, this claim seems mostly accurate. Of all my friendships with men, there has either been a point where I considered the possibility of romance, or he did (whether that was strictly based on attraction or a greater admiration). Again, my personal experience alone does not suggest some wider truth, but rather indicates that cross-sex friendships tend to be more complex than same-sex ones.

     The complexities in cross-sex friendships is explored in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships in the article “Cross-Sex Friends Who Were Once Romantic Partners: Are They Platonic Friends Now?” Schneider and Kenny admit that “the potential for sexual attraction [is] a challenge that men and women face in a friendship between them.” According to one study, 53 percent of males and 31 percent of females admitted that they started a friendship with the hopes that it would turn into something romantic (Kaplan and Keys 1997). It was also found that “a majority of men and women reported wanting to be more than just friends at one time with their opposite-sex friend” (1997).

     As these studies suggest, opposite sex friends sometimes consider or act on sexual or romantic desires, thus complicating the friendship. This does not mean that every friendship a man has with a woman is fraught with sexual undertones; indeed, it is possible for two people to be friends without anything romantic ever occurring. The complication that I mean to point out is the “just” friends part. If one individual is in a relationship, or if the hangouts occur within a group, the chances of anything “complicated” happening are less likely. Yes, men and women can be friends, but the trajectory of that friendship will not always be so simple as “just friends.”

Originally published in Mars' Hill, March 1, 2012

Plastic Acid is 'rock art' orchestra

Conductor-turned-gliding instructor-turned-cellist of anti-orchestra tells his story to The Peak

Dress Led Zeppelin up in a crisp white shirt and tie and you get Bryan Deans of Plastic Acid Orchestra. Sipping espresso in JJ Bean, Deans revealed the mechanics behind the 45-piece orchestra that blends Soundgarden with Shostakovich.

     “It’s rock-art fusion. A full symphony sound but with an edge,” said Deans as he described Plastic Acid, accurately named after the collaborative, wacky mixture of elements the group employs. The orchestra is an evolving amoeba of sound, and will soon be fused with the folksy artistry of Maria in the Shower.

     Deans began conducting for the graduate students of the University of Victoria’s music program after he was asked if he could switch up his style to accompany some new songs that were weirder than their usual repertoire. “I was like, what does it require, a chainsaw and a little bit of rock and a weird thing here, a weird thing there? So I said yeah, what the hell.” After conducting for three years with UVic, Deans was able to meet tons of student musicians and eventually figured he could do his own show. This spawned the beginnings of Plastic Acid, and the upcoming collaboration with Maria in the Shower.

     Martin Reisle, frontman of Maria in the Shower, came to Deans with the idea of collaborating in an unusual place.

     “I’m actually a glider pilot. I teach gliding in the Columbia Valley. I was flying gliders up there and this guy came out, this really skinny, little human comes out and said he heard that I played the cello,” Deans relayed. Reisle was looking for someone who was innovative with the cello. After singing the song he had in mind out loud to Deans (one can only imagine this scene occurring on the edge of a cliff somewhere, gliders in the background, two quirky musician cartoon characters humming to each other), Deans agreed.  The song, “Train of Pounding Hours” is now done with the full symphony, tying up the end of the show.

     Plastic Acid has gone on to play in various bars and clubs in Vancouver, including Caprice. A video online shows the smoky, cramped club filled with music stands and Deans, standing in a corner swinging his conducting baton as the crowd shouts along to “Black Hole Sun”.

     “I wanted to change it up so people can see it in a bar environment. Really trying to stay away from standard big time. We have a different setup overall, different genres.” The unique experience of Plastic Acid is meant to be as the name implies: semi-akin to doing acid. The aggressive, brassy pieces are not meant to be absorbed passively in a plush theatre seat, with arms crossed and eyelids drooping; but to be rocked out to and engaged with. This time though, they are moving back into the theatre, taking the stage of the Vogue. “We really want people to yell out and scream and participate,” Deans says.  Plastic Acid, infused with Maria in the Shower’s cabaret folk, is anything but your standard, classical orchestra.  It’s the rejuvenation of a tuxedo -filled theatre, but in this scenario, audience members are more likely to be donning faded Pink Floyd T-shirts.

     Now that the group has come full circle, acquiring a large enough fan base for the Vogue, the anti-orchestra has reached out to be a service group for the Junos. “The organizers want to see interest in the group, as well as a concert series lined up before they do anything.”  It’s immediately clear that if Plastic Acid is going to make as large an impact as they should, it’s going to be up to the audience’s participation and adoption of the genre-defying symphony.

     “Let’s say Plastic Acid has a few pieces, our own songs.  Or we play for other artists.  I’d pick Arcade Fire, or Mother Mother, and we arrange some pieces together, so when you’re nominated, we can back you up.  Or even go with Maria in the Shower.  A bit of a Canadian play.”

     Plastic Acid belongs in the group of innovative Canadian artists, slowly making their mark on the international market. Arcade Fire is one such colourful mix of musical geniuses, utilizing every instrument under the sun.  The beauty of Plastic Acid is its ability to transform; it’s a moveable creature, adopting sounds and genres and vaudeville along the way. “Already, people are coming up to me with ideas, asking how we can arrange it.  A heavy metal band approached me for the year after.  It’s already developing and we haven’t even gotten to this show yet.”

Plastic Acid Orchestra plays the Vogue Theatre with Maria in the Shower February 25.

Originally published in The Peak, February 20, 2012

Rotary Dial

“How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person on the other end shouts back ‘What?’

- J.D. Salinger, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters

It was one of those nights that called for bourbon and an intimate phone call.  The hotel bar was long and grimy and the best place to fulfill self-loathing.  I swirled the liquid in the short glass and considered the last time her and I had spoken.  I believe her last words had been precisely:

            “Don’t forget to grab laundry detergent, dear.”

            And that was precisely two months ago.  I don’t know quite what had happened.  I had stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets and walked down the street, eyes skipping from light post to light post, meditating on the way the laundry detergent bottle would feel when I rescued it off the grocery’s shelf and whisked it off the to Maytag awaiting in our basement.  Next thing I knew I was buying an old Cadillac with the urgency of a heart attack and speeding south.

            The stain on the collar of my shirt loomed large and invasive.  I thought of the shape of her lips and coffee mug rims and cigarette burns.  I fingered the few dimes I had left in my pocket – the ones that would have gone towards clean socks and underwear - and held them hard in my fist.  The fellow beside me wore his fedora tilted down over his large pockmarked nose and smoked profusely.  I watched him for ten minutes as he continued to pull cigarettes out of his pocket, smoke them half-way, then grind them savagely into his empty glass.   I had the sensation that I knew this man, not that I’d met him before but that I knew him in a deeper, more profound way; like we had been Buddhist monks together in the year 1234.  Eventually he saw me looking and offered me one.  I declined. I felt I’d smoked those cigarettes that he had, and I’d had enough.

The phone mounted on the wall seemed obtrusively mounted, like anyone walking to the restrooms would undoubtedly walk right into it.  I staked out my bar stool, set my eyes on the narrow hall, fully expecting to see the next person run into it nose first, blood spilling down the front, black like wine.

It had been the freedom of moving my feet forward at first, like the fantasy of driving a car off a bridge: the exhilaration of the fall.  There was no plan, there was no next step.  It had been purely instinct all the way through.  I worked as a ranch hand for thirty days, long enough for it to feel normal. I wandered around the streets of New Orleans, long enough to get a taste for proper bourbon.  I barely spoke; I entertained the thought of never speaking again.  Maybe I’d be one of those monks who wore white robes and shaved their heads and kept their eyes downcast.  I’d wander through the brick alleyways and study strangers and never say a word in response.

I didn’t know what she thought of it - of me.  I’m sure she loathed me.  I’m sure she remained at home like the dutiful wife and mother she was, bathing our daughter in soap that smelled of bubble gum.  I’m sure she continued to make lunches, just in case I’d sneak in through the door late at night and snatch the paper bag, head to a regular day at work.  I’m sure my tie and pale blue shirt were laid on the bed after she’d made it in the morning, as if she expected me to just saunter in with the laundry detergent, nothing out of the ordinary.

I thought of movement as I swirled my glass.  I thought of the way smoke wafts above, not below.  I braced myself for a bloody nose.

After my second glass the feeling had gone.  The feeling of falling, of aimlessly groping had evaporated.  I was now just holding an empty glass and wearing a stained shirt.

It happened the way it does on film: the tunnel vision, the frame of black around that damn telephone.  Still no one had walked into it.  Perhaps I had inaccurately gauged its distance from the wall.  The perfectly circular limitation of view was unnerving.  Was it the bourbon, was I going blind? Is this what extreme cataracts felt like?  I looked away.  Blinked.  The bartender was looking at the phone too; my spirit-animal chain smoker was fixated on it. 

I had to take a piss.  I blinked twice and shoved the glass away, groaned, walked away from my stool.  Avoiding eye contact with the fucking telephone.  Looking down at my rounded brown shoes, I walked forward towards the men’s room, but stopped just in front of the phone.  Picking up the receiver, I just wanted to feel the way the rotary dial clickity-clacked.  I just wanted to feel something cold in my hands. 

I dialed home.  Listened to the dial tone, timing my breathing with each pause. 

“Hello?”  The jingle of a voice I hadn’t heard for two months.  A voice asking for white bread and non-homogenized milk.

“Ah, Alice, it’s me.  I couldn’t find the detergent you like.  I’m coming home now.  I love you.”

“What?”

“I said I love you.”

“What?! I can’t hear you, it’s loud in here.”

She shouted over the loud jazz music in the background.