I met her at friend's house after work (where I'd flipped a hundred or two pounds of beef for mass consumption) and she caught my attention right away. She was an inch or two short, sassy and curvy and as soon as she was offered up for my approval I wanted to get her top off. I'd never met anyone like her on the local bar scene (I've since learned that I didn't look hard enough) and the bold intoxicating lovely went right to my head before we had been properly introduced. From the moment I first took her into my mouth, there was no escaping. Or so I wanted to believe. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing so I dumped her on an August afternoon 9 years ago.
She was never really good to me. Even that first night was just a good first impression over a pile of shit. She took me for a ride up to the Wall and I came home used up, broke and without my shoes. It got to the point where keeping up with her was making me sick - spending time with her was killing me for real. Anyone who wanted a taste just came right on and took it and she let them. She would take all comers. Really, when I started having conversations with my splinter-selves trying to figure out the best course of action out of variouis plans of attack I knew there was something really wrong going on. But she smelled so good and her legs were great and I still couldn't look at her without wanting to take her top off. And she tasted like morning dew with a tang like something sweet left to sit somewhere wet too long.
And now she's back - I can't believe she's back after all of these years. After all of the effort I put in to putting her out of my mind - all of the fruitless obssessing - she comes grinding back in like the bad old days all over again. I'm stricken...I'm piqued - I'm flying to heights that will be too far to fall when I crash and burn again. There's no controlling her once she gets ahold of you. I know this from experience and thought that I'd understood what the trouble was. For the love of all that's good, I swear I had her beaten, broken and dealt with - put away forever. Good crap! I'm married now, I have responsibilities. This can't be happening but I want her so bad that driving for a break in reality sounds pretty fucking good right now. And she's sitting right in front of me, still an inch or two short, still curvy, still perfect. All I have to do is reach over and take her top off and everything's like it used to be.
I shouldn't. But I will and be damned. Fuck it and I don't care who knows.
Her name is Sawmill Creek Autumn Blush wine in the 1.7 litre bottle and I'm just lucky that I don't know any women like her (anymore).
Sunday, July 25, 2010
A Six Pack of Sonnets
I might believe these words you’ve sent to me
Except that what I read are awful lies.
I doubt you know my depths of misery.
You’d know if you could look behind my eyes.
My life’s become a chain of lonely sighs
That echo hollowly within my head.
I miss your soft hellos and warm goodbyes,
I miss you lying next to me in bed.
And since you’ve left the only words I’ve said
Have lost themselves to waiting emptiness.
I haven’t slept or taken daily bread
Since losing you has left me in distress.
Believe me when I say my love was true.
I only wished to hear the same from you.
My losing you has crippled self esteem.
Regrets have left me pondering alone
Where once we lay conjoined as in a dream
Transcendant - we were more than flesh and bone.
I want these words, at last, to make it shown
That nothing will compare to what you meant.
I’ll sing of you with all the skill I’ve known.
I’ll sing until I’ve soothed my discontent.
Perhaps one day you’ll ask me to repent
This sin of song but I cannot forgive
The fact that I’ve endured abandonment.
What’s worse than what I’ve lost I have to live
Without the strength I had before we met.
You’ve weakened me and I cannot forget.
Perhaps I wanted nothing more than words
To learn by rote, repeat and pass the time;
A litany to show the milling herds
Of hoi polloi the meaning of sublime.
I need to write this down and make it rhyme,
To lay it out and have my thoughts unfold.
I don’t recall committing any crime
(Unless you count the contraband I sold).
I wasn’t ever base or overbold.
Incapable of holding any grudge
I treasured you more jealously than gold
And hoped you wouldn’t ever have to judge
If I was worth the time you set aside.
You said I was but now I know you lied.
I’d sometimes play on words that made no sense
And try, at once, to make them seem profound
And lunatic. Not knowing you were tense,
Unused to having anyone around
Who’d dive on down so pulse’s drums would pound
Their intimacy music in your ear.
And you were used to faking pleasure sounds
Without a meaning more than too much beer
And circumstance. If you detected fear
(I scared myself) I hoped to have it licked
By calling up the nerve to make it clear
That you, of all, were who I would have picked
To share the inner reaches of my mind,
To dive in deep. Alas, I’m left behind.
I don’t know what I did to make you leave.
You once complained I loved you from afar,
While other times you couldn’t quite believe
That love would let you stripe my back with scars
Administered in bliss. Those searing stars
Of ardour on my skin from fingernails
Grown long and sharp to show in local bars.
Or was it all my pretty spoken tales
Of gallantry and quests for Holy Grails
That made you think, perhaps, I was a fool
For wasting time on one whose face went pale
When she admitted dropping out of school.
You knew enough to spout hypocrisy
And taught me more than university.
For instance, I have learned that any pain
Will ease when given time enough to heal.
I’ve learned to sing without our old refrain
And judgements made are subject to appeal.
Another woman’s offered me a deal;
She’ll take my hand and walk with me a while
If I consent to tell her how I feel.
It’s easier than holding back the bile.
I’ve never seen a brighter, truer smile
Than what she shows me every time we meet.
I’ve found a girl who’ll go the extra mile
To share herself and make my life complete.
I’ve learned that hearts can mend when they’ve been torn
And burning love be, phoenix like, reborn.
Except that what I read are awful lies.
I doubt you know my depths of misery.
You’d know if you could look behind my eyes.
My life’s become a chain of lonely sighs
That echo hollowly within my head.
I miss your soft hellos and warm goodbyes,
I miss you lying next to me in bed.
And since you’ve left the only words I’ve said
Have lost themselves to waiting emptiness.
I haven’t slept or taken daily bread
Since losing you has left me in distress.
Believe me when I say my love was true.
I only wished to hear the same from you.
My losing you has crippled self esteem.
Regrets have left me pondering alone
Where once we lay conjoined as in a dream
Transcendant - we were more than flesh and bone.
I want these words, at last, to make it shown
That nothing will compare to what you meant.
I’ll sing of you with all the skill I’ve known.
I’ll sing until I’ve soothed my discontent.
Perhaps one day you’ll ask me to repent
This sin of song but I cannot forgive
The fact that I’ve endured abandonment.
What’s worse than what I’ve lost I have to live
Without the strength I had before we met.
You’ve weakened me and I cannot forget.
Perhaps I wanted nothing more than words
To learn by rote, repeat and pass the time;
A litany to show the milling herds
Of hoi polloi the meaning of sublime.
I need to write this down and make it rhyme,
To lay it out and have my thoughts unfold.
I don’t recall committing any crime
(Unless you count the contraband I sold).
I wasn’t ever base or overbold.
Incapable of holding any grudge
I treasured you more jealously than gold
And hoped you wouldn’t ever have to judge
If I was worth the time you set aside.
You said I was but now I know you lied.
I’d sometimes play on words that made no sense
And try, at once, to make them seem profound
And lunatic. Not knowing you were tense,
Unused to having anyone around
Who’d dive on down so pulse’s drums would pound
Their intimacy music in your ear.
And you were used to faking pleasure sounds
Without a meaning more than too much beer
And circumstance. If you detected fear
(I scared myself) I hoped to have it licked
By calling up the nerve to make it clear
That you, of all, were who I would have picked
To share the inner reaches of my mind,
To dive in deep. Alas, I’m left behind.
I don’t know what I did to make you leave.
You once complained I loved you from afar,
While other times you couldn’t quite believe
That love would let you stripe my back with scars
Administered in bliss. Those searing stars
Of ardour on my skin from fingernails
Grown long and sharp to show in local bars.
Or was it all my pretty spoken tales
Of gallantry and quests for Holy Grails
That made you think, perhaps, I was a fool
For wasting time on one whose face went pale
When she admitted dropping out of school.
You knew enough to spout hypocrisy
And taught me more than university.
For instance, I have learned that any pain
Will ease when given time enough to heal.
I’ve learned to sing without our old refrain
And judgements made are subject to appeal.
Another woman’s offered me a deal;
She’ll take my hand and walk with me a while
If I consent to tell her how I feel.
It’s easier than holding back the bile.
I’ve never seen a brighter, truer smile
Than what she shows me every time we meet.
I’ve found a girl who’ll go the extra mile
To share herself and make my life complete.
I’ve learned that hearts can mend when they’ve been torn
And burning love be, phoenix like, reborn.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Prophet of Sod
My Grandpa told me ‘fore he died,
"The greatest sin of Man is Pride.
Best never see the City, son,
Don’t ever leave this mountainside.
It’s yours since you became a man
Just make it pay as best you can,
Or someday it’ll all be gone,
A sacrifice to Babylon."
Since Grampa’ was a proper fan
Of God and all his Ten Commands
The parish loaned him resting ground
On proper consecrated land.
There’s some begrudge his little grave,
(Which others think befits a slave’s)
But it’ll grow as rich a lawn
As ever grew in Babylon.
I’ll credit him for dying brave.
He never bitched and wouldn’t cave
If life was tough, but he was strict,
And now it’s time to misbehave.
I’m planting up a sea of green,
The finest crop you’ve ever seen.
The guy who showed me how’s a con
Who shat some time down Babylon.
I’m more than used to living clean
But more and more that’s living mean.
Now sitting high on harvest time
I’m wond’ring how it coulda’ been
My ladies bloomed a pound apiece
With buds enough to spare for grease.
I copped a ride from Sullen John
And trucked it down to Babylon.
We talked about our newest niece
And kept an eye out for police
Before a pack of bikers showed
And took us for some lambs to fleece.
The city steamed from off a way
Its skyline’s shroud was filthy grey.
But hell if I’d become a pawn
To all the sins of Babylon.
The wicked men held us at bay.
I warned them there’d be Hell to pay,
"Repent yourselves and flee or else
You’ll never see another day."
So when they forced us to the ground
I prayed to him whom I’d been bound,
"Send lightning Grandpa! Cast it on
These scavengers from Babylon."
They might have fed us each a round
‘Cept right then straight from out the ground
A rumbling’ rose beneath our feet
And lightning from the sky unwound.
It made the wicked men explode
And rain down dead upon the road.
Towards the sun that brightly shone
We drove away from Babylon.
I never sold my mother lode.
Instead I used the grass to goad
My virgin brain along a course
Away from what the city showed.
A pliant mind is all it takes
To learn from all your life’s mistakes.
And now I needn’t scrape or fawn
For table scraps from Babylon.
There’s nights I dream, right wracked with shakes,
Of needing truths when stuck with fakes
Until the balance point is pressed
Then stilled and calm my soul awakes.
To visions of the other side
Where Grampa’s shade is satisfied.
Consider, friends, next risen dawn
What price you’ve paid to Babylon.
"The greatest sin of Man is Pride.
Best never see the City, son,
Don’t ever leave this mountainside.
It’s yours since you became a man
Just make it pay as best you can,
Or someday it’ll all be gone,
A sacrifice to Babylon."
Since Grampa’ was a proper fan
Of God and all his Ten Commands
The parish loaned him resting ground
On proper consecrated land.
There’s some begrudge his little grave,
(Which others think befits a slave’s)
But it’ll grow as rich a lawn
As ever grew in Babylon.
I’ll credit him for dying brave.
He never bitched and wouldn’t cave
If life was tough, but he was strict,
And now it’s time to misbehave.
I’m planting up a sea of green,
The finest crop you’ve ever seen.
The guy who showed me how’s a con
Who shat some time down Babylon.
I’m more than used to living clean
But more and more that’s living mean.
Now sitting high on harvest time
I’m wond’ring how it coulda’ been
My ladies bloomed a pound apiece
With buds enough to spare for grease.
I copped a ride from Sullen John
And trucked it down to Babylon.
We talked about our newest niece
And kept an eye out for police
Before a pack of bikers showed
And took us for some lambs to fleece.
The city steamed from off a way
Its skyline’s shroud was filthy grey.
But hell if I’d become a pawn
To all the sins of Babylon.
The wicked men held us at bay.
I warned them there’d be Hell to pay,
"Repent yourselves and flee or else
You’ll never see another day."
So when they forced us to the ground
I prayed to him whom I’d been bound,
"Send lightning Grandpa! Cast it on
These scavengers from Babylon."
They might have fed us each a round
‘Cept right then straight from out the ground
A rumbling’ rose beneath our feet
And lightning from the sky unwound.
It made the wicked men explode
And rain down dead upon the road.
Towards the sun that brightly shone
We drove away from Babylon.
I never sold my mother lode.
Instead I used the grass to goad
My virgin brain along a course
Away from what the city showed.
A pliant mind is all it takes
To learn from all your life’s mistakes.
And now I needn’t scrape or fawn
For table scraps from Babylon.
There’s nights I dream, right wracked with shakes,
Of needing truths when stuck with fakes
Until the balance point is pressed
Then stilled and calm my soul awakes.
To visions of the other side
Where Grampa’s shade is satisfied.
Consider, friends, next risen dawn
What price you’ve paid to Babylon.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Dad Label
I've had a few sober women tell me lately that I'd make a good father (because what guy would ever tell another guy the same thing without a few beers in him). Sometimes I say thank you - other times I play it down to their making nice. But it always gets me thinking; What man doesn't want to understand what it would be like to have a spliced bit of himself make it's mark on the world? Boy? Girl? It would make no difference to me because kids - as a rule - are a great idea. If you don't agree then maybe you're not cut out for having kids. Maybe you want to think about the ole snipperoo or give ligation a chance? In any case, I really don't think these women I know would have said what they did if they knew how I treat the kids I have now.
Before the rumour mill starts grinding away at the few grains of repute I possess, allow me to explain. There are no little splice bits of Hot Air floating around (that have made themselves known to me). And I am not talking about the grown men and women at work who call me Mom behind my back (and to my face). Rather, I'm referring to those products of desire, conception and gestation that I put to pages. The ones I have locked away in dark places under the bed would count themselves shit-ass lucky if they could see the scattered piles of DNCs cluttering up the place. The ones I doom to dusty neglect would turn cartwheels if they knew the state of those I'd kicked out of the house with no real structure or values. Some have survived to tell rambling stories, some trip around rhyming their heads off while others try too hard to be funny. Still more are deformed by the literary equivalent of foetal alcohol syndrome or fifth drafts disease. I sent a few off to live with mothers whose inspiration warranted their arrival into the world fully formed and passing fair though torn out. A few I've had committed to the flames when they grew out of my control. Some will never get from under my watchful eye. I don't even know how many there are. I just can't stop fornicating with my notebooks.
There's something in me that makes the act of putting pen to paper on a par with coitus, either way I'm an old fashioned kind of guy. I'm not much of an experimenter but I've made a few noteworthy discoveries along the way to literary fatherhood. First, a woman is not always necessary (though it helps). Yes, there is something to be said for inspiration and stimulation but the end result is usually purple. I believe that the finest products need to either be heavily revised test-tube adaptation or else glorious miracles of immaculate conception. Second is that creation begets regret and disappointment is inevitable. Sure, you might pop out an Atwood or a Fitzgerald on your first try but more than likely you'll find yourself denying they're yours at all. And third, it's almost always advisable to just put the cap on, walk away and save yourself the grief.
So why can't I take my own advice to heart?
Even now, sitting here, all I'm doing is cheating on my notebook by spilling seed into the ethernet cable in hopes that some of it will find a willing receiver. How many hordes of twitching homunculai will be smeared on these napkins I'm collecting? Sure, I share them out like they're foster children but what choice do they have. I'm the dad, I choose when to wear the pants and when to take them off but something about all of this smacks or irresponsibility. I just hope that these sober women I know have better judgement than I do.
But they are entitled to their own opinion.
Before the rumour mill starts grinding away at the few grains of repute I possess, allow me to explain. There are no little splice bits of Hot Air floating around (that have made themselves known to me). And I am not talking about the grown men and women at work who call me Mom behind my back (and to my face). Rather, I'm referring to those products of desire, conception and gestation that I put to pages. The ones I have locked away in dark places under the bed would count themselves shit-ass lucky if they could see the scattered piles of DNCs cluttering up the place. The ones I doom to dusty neglect would turn cartwheels if they knew the state of those I'd kicked out of the house with no real structure or values. Some have survived to tell rambling stories, some trip around rhyming their heads off while others try too hard to be funny. Still more are deformed by the literary equivalent of foetal alcohol syndrome or fifth drafts disease. I sent a few off to live with mothers whose inspiration warranted their arrival into the world fully formed and passing fair though torn out. A few I've had committed to the flames when they grew out of my control. Some will never get from under my watchful eye. I don't even know how many there are. I just can't stop fornicating with my notebooks.
There's something in me that makes the act of putting pen to paper on a par with coitus, either way I'm an old fashioned kind of guy. I'm not much of an experimenter but I've made a few noteworthy discoveries along the way to literary fatherhood. First, a woman is not always necessary (though it helps). Yes, there is something to be said for inspiration and stimulation but the end result is usually purple. I believe that the finest products need to either be heavily revised test-tube adaptation or else glorious miracles of immaculate conception. Second is that creation begets regret and disappointment is inevitable. Sure, you might pop out an Atwood or a Fitzgerald on your first try but more than likely you'll find yourself denying they're yours at all. And third, it's almost always advisable to just put the cap on, walk away and save yourself the grief.
So why can't I take my own advice to heart?
Even now, sitting here, all I'm doing is cheating on my notebook by spilling seed into the ethernet cable in hopes that some of it will find a willing receiver. How many hordes of twitching homunculai will be smeared on these napkins I'm collecting? Sure, I share them out like they're foster children but what choice do they have. I'm the dad, I choose when to wear the pants and when to take them off but something about all of this smacks or irresponsibility. I just hope that these sober women I know have better judgement than I do.
But they are entitled to their own opinion.
Lie(u) Days
"The only thing worse than having a job is looking for one." These words ring in my ears with the same truth as The Sermon on the Mount and the lyrics to Dust in the Wind. I'm not sure if comparing The Kids in the Hall's Bruce McCullough with Christ or Kansas is kosher but truth is truth no matter he who utters it and I hate looking for work. I only make mention because my own job's taken on a sort of metamorphosis that won't be resulting in my emerging as a beautiful butterfly from the office chrysalus. In fact, I believe that my job's been trapped in a body snatcher pod and if I do emerge it will be as a staid and pre-programmed shell of a man (kinda' like me when I was still going to Church). I'm stressed out and there's no denying it. I'd love to quit but how would I feed my family? Who would look after my kids?
I search inside myself for the answer to these questions and find one in the 14 year-old paperboy I was, "Lie, man," he says. "Take a day, centre yourself and become fortified against the work-a-day onslaught."
Of course! It's clear again. No job is too terrible when you have no shame and sick days. Lies and deceit are the worker's most effective weapons against the capitalist oppressor. And how could I have forgotten the many faceted art of the sick fake. I was once a self-taught master of faking sick. I still have the recipe for brewing home-stewed vomit out of common household items (complete with pre-chewed food and genuine stank) that would make you want to throw the real thing into the mix. The 17 year-old bag boy, 22 year-old grill jockey and 25 year old coffee barrista in me all agree, "Take a Lie Day!"
Only one voice raises an objection, the 35 year-old PAR Team Leader. "You have responsibilities now. You have an active roster of 27 people who rely on you for support. Pay no heed to the rabble in your brain and do your sworn duty."
The retort comes pouring from my mouth like hot sewage on a Sunday afternoon, "It's your fault that I'm in this mess in the first place. Kansas! but we were happy as a phone answering monkey. It was a job we could have done in our sleep. The old lady configured us to be polite on the phone, for McCullough's sake! What else was all of that percussive maintenance good for? And sworn duty, my ass! The only swearing I do at work is under my breath so that I don't frighten the kids."
"Calm down," he says (the 35 year-old PAR Team Leader in me can be very soothing when necessary), "it's not as bad as you think. Go in, take an extra smoke break or two, put in a good days work and let job satisfaction be it's own reward."
Something about his smarmy, self-satisfied tone gets under my skin and my hands start acting of their own accord. Bringing up my work email from home is a programmed muscle response by now, I don't even have to think about it to make it happen. Thirty seconds later the 35 year-old Team Leader shuts his mouth and crawls back into his hole in my brain because we have access to something much better than a Lie Day.
See, being a salaried employee in a multi-national corporation means that you don't get paid overtime for working late or on holidays. Instead, you're entitled to Time in Lieu of Pay. July 1st was Canada Day and even though I wasn't scheduled to work I'm still entitled to a day off. That's why my hands knew to type, "Hello All, I will be using my July 1st lieu day on Thursday, July 15 in order to combat creeping malaise and a raging ennui. Kind Regards, Hot Air, PAR Team Leader, North Bay and Sudbury. Suck it, bitches."
Spell check...send. Done.
I search inside myself for the answer to these questions and find one in the 14 year-old paperboy I was, "Lie, man," he says. "Take a day, centre yourself and become fortified against the work-a-day onslaught."
Of course! It's clear again. No job is too terrible when you have no shame and sick days. Lies and deceit are the worker's most effective weapons against the capitalist oppressor. And how could I have forgotten the many faceted art of the sick fake. I was once a self-taught master of faking sick. I still have the recipe for brewing home-stewed vomit out of common household items (complete with pre-chewed food and genuine stank) that would make you want to throw the real thing into the mix. The 17 year-old bag boy, 22 year-old grill jockey and 25 year old coffee barrista in me all agree, "Take a Lie Day!"
Only one voice raises an objection, the 35 year-old PAR Team Leader. "You have responsibilities now. You have an active roster of 27 people who rely on you for support. Pay no heed to the rabble in your brain and do your sworn duty."
The retort comes pouring from my mouth like hot sewage on a Sunday afternoon, "It's your fault that I'm in this mess in the first place. Kansas! but we were happy as a phone answering monkey. It was a job we could have done in our sleep. The old lady configured us to be polite on the phone, for McCullough's sake! What else was all of that percussive maintenance good for? And sworn duty, my ass! The only swearing I do at work is under my breath so that I don't frighten the kids."
"Calm down," he says (the 35 year-old PAR Team Leader in me can be very soothing when necessary), "it's not as bad as you think. Go in, take an extra smoke break or two, put in a good days work and let job satisfaction be it's own reward."
Something about his smarmy, self-satisfied tone gets under my skin and my hands start acting of their own accord. Bringing up my work email from home is a programmed muscle response by now, I don't even have to think about it to make it happen. Thirty seconds later the 35 year-old Team Leader shuts his mouth and crawls back into his hole in my brain because we have access to something much better than a Lie Day.
See, being a salaried employee in a multi-national corporation means that you don't get paid overtime for working late or on holidays. Instead, you're entitled to Time in Lieu of Pay. July 1st was Canada Day and even though I wasn't scheduled to work I'm still entitled to a day off. That's why my hands knew to type, "Hello All, I will be using my July 1st lieu day on Thursday, July 15 in order to combat creeping malaise and a raging ennui. Kind Regards, Hot Air, PAR Team Leader, North Bay and Sudbury. Suck it, bitches."
Spell check...send. Done.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Water Wants Me
I was born on the laundry room floor. Mom's water broke when she was shifting a load of whites from the washer to the dryer and out popped my head. My first conscious memory is seeing amniotic fluid running down through the flood drain and hearing my water mingle with the world's. Now, I don't know if it was fear of my preternatural awareness or what but when I fell all the way out while Mom was bending down to put in the dryer sheets I heard the water cheer my impending death. And I probably wouldn't be sitting here writing this if I hadn't landed in a basket of Dad's crotch stained underwear. The stink was stupefying, I cried and Mom realized I was out. Ever since that day, the water has wanted me and I always smell-test my gonch.
I went a couple of years thinking that I'd been the only one to hear that gurgling cheer from the drain but Mom must have heard it to and it stuck in her head. She was always trying to give the water what it wanted. Closing my eyes, I can see Dad pulling her away through a rippling film as I roll over from where she's held me down in the sink. I can hear my brother crying as she tries to force my head under during a mutual bath, "Don't cry, the water only wants Air." And through it all the water calls to me in a flowing liquid tongue that promises peace like in the beginning when the world was without form and void and darkness shone on its face.
No, this isn't about Mom, it's about the water. But she was the one who signed me up for swimming lessons and told me the lifeguards were water priestesses who did what it said all the time. She was the one who'd watch from the gallery waiting for the moment when I went under when she could start into histrionics and wail that the water took her boy. Bah, I used water-wings until the priestess-instructors made me stop but soon mastered the art of controlled drowning that some call swimming. When it came to the point where I actually looked forward to my lessons Mom knew I was beyond her reach and left the water to its own devices.
There have been many attempts since those days. The water has sent itself in rain to swamp me under while canoeing across Algonquin Park. It has tipped me into itself with rapid hands and held me under while exerting hundreds of pounds pressure. Always there's been someone to prevent my dying, always I walk away to make my own water in each offending body. The water doesn't like that, no indeed, and it has since found a much more insidious way to achieve its goal.
Water now acts as the vehicle for alcohol and oh what joy it must have felt when I finally turned my back on the god that kept me from drinking. It's grown patience and knows that eventually I will imbibe too much and meet my end through accident or self abuse. I can still hear it when I'm in my cups but faintly, like someone calling me from a long time ago. The water waits and I wait hoping that the world will end in fire and so deny it forever.
I went a couple of years thinking that I'd been the only one to hear that gurgling cheer from the drain but Mom must have heard it to and it stuck in her head. She was always trying to give the water what it wanted. Closing my eyes, I can see Dad pulling her away through a rippling film as I roll over from where she's held me down in the sink. I can hear my brother crying as she tries to force my head under during a mutual bath, "Don't cry, the water only wants Air." And through it all the water calls to me in a flowing liquid tongue that promises peace like in the beginning when the world was without form and void and darkness shone on its face.
No, this isn't about Mom, it's about the water. But she was the one who signed me up for swimming lessons and told me the lifeguards were water priestesses who did what it said all the time. She was the one who'd watch from the gallery waiting for the moment when I went under when she could start into histrionics and wail that the water took her boy. Bah, I used water-wings until the priestess-instructors made me stop but soon mastered the art of controlled drowning that some call swimming. When it came to the point where I actually looked forward to my lessons Mom knew I was beyond her reach and left the water to its own devices.
There have been many attempts since those days. The water has sent itself in rain to swamp me under while canoeing across Algonquin Park. It has tipped me into itself with rapid hands and held me under while exerting hundreds of pounds pressure. Always there's been someone to prevent my dying, always I walk away to make my own water in each offending body. The water doesn't like that, no indeed, and it has since found a much more insidious way to achieve its goal.
Water now acts as the vehicle for alcohol and oh what joy it must have felt when I finally turned my back on the god that kept me from drinking. It's grown patience and knows that eventually I will imbibe too much and meet my end through accident or self abuse. I can still hear it when I'm in my cups but faintly, like someone calling me from a long time ago. The water waits and I wait hoping that the world will end in fire and so deny it forever.
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