Friday, April 24, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Sunshine in the Sky
No bitter rain
No desert dry
No crushing pain
Only sunshine in the sky
No old men wander through cold night
No sickly women wait to die
No war fires blaze brilliant and bright
Only sunshine in the sky
No lonely smoke in late night bars
No rabbit fear nor foxes sly
No strangers sit in steamy cars
Only sunshine in the sky
No oily shores
No hungry cry
No corporate whores
Only sunshine in the sky
Look up, look up
You children dear
And see beyond your frightened tears
Look up, behold the loving eye
Only sunshine in the sky.
Copyright 2009 John David Phillips
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
And I Moved by Pete Townsend
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6vvTaJVuiY
And I moved
As I saw him looking in through my window
His eyes were silent lies
And I moved
And I saw him standing in the doorway
His figure merely filled the space
And I moved
But I moved toward him
And I moved
And his hands felt like ice exciting
As he laid me back just like an empty dress
And I moved
But a minute later he was weeping
His tears his only truth.
And I moved
But I moved toward him
And I moved
As I saw him looking in through my window
His eyes were silent lies
And I moved
And I saw him standing in the doorway
His figure merely filled the space
And I moved
But I moved toward him
And I moved
And his hands felt like ice exciting
As he laid me back just like an empty dress
And I moved
But a minute later he was weeping
His tears his only truth.
And I moved
But I moved toward him
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Eyes of Oscar Wilde
The eyes of Oscar Wilde gazed upon me. Dreamy eyes, many of them. The thinker, chin resting on hand; the aesthete, in white tie and knickers fashionably past their day; the adventurer, spinning yarns to eagerly listening young brutes in the American west; the lover, strolling at Oxford with Lord Alfred Douglas, the instrument of his undoing. I had happened into this shrine to the writer, a pub called Wilde Oscar’s in the Church & Wellesley Village, to escape a punishing shower. Autumn rain in Toronto is cold and hard and it is best to get out of it.
I had been roaming the streets looking for a place to sit and set about writing the great novel. I had imagined a library, or a coffee shop, or some great gothic gallery. This smoky bar was a surprise. But under the circumstances, I had decided to allow myself to be swept up by the winds of reinvention, so I welcomed this serendipitous encounter with Oscar Wilde, found a table in a corner, opened my notebook, and was immediately interrupted.
“Fuck you, Jack! I said sorry and I’m not saying it again.” The voice resounding from the bar was angry, but the undertone was the hollow, shrill sound of despair. “I just feel like I’m going nowhere. I had big plans when I came here. It’s been over a year and I’m still waitressing. No…there’s nothing wrong with waitressing but...my mother’s coming next week and she’s gonna crap all over me. What? Well you don’t know my mother, Jack! She thinks I fucked up. And she’s right. Do you know what? I’m getting upset again. I’m hanging up.”
Soon, the sad voice was speaking to me. “Can I get you something, sweetie?”, making an effort to brighten up. I looked up to see an exquisite girl probably in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than myself. She was tall with black hair and porcelain skin. Her blue eyes, still brimming over slightly with the remnants of tears, looked like melting ice. I wanted to talk to her, tell her I knew exactly how she felt, how my life had no meaning either. I wanted to tell her about the non-descript cubicle in which I worked, to tell her about my mother.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, please.”
Soon I was staring out the window, watching the rain turn the buildings into a bleak, impressionist blur. I remembered.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The path beneath my feet had been transformed by hours of driving rain into a mighty bog. My knit hat was matted against my head and my boots were filled with water, as I tried in vain to shelter my face from the angry wind. Shivering, I looked over the fence at my house with its warmly lit windows and shadows of people moving around inside; shadows of people who felt like strangers. My attempts to open the gate had caused the wet mud to gather and build on the other side, lodging it in the ground. Four years old and unable to climb the fence, I was trapped.
My neighbour’s dog run was the only way I was permitted to reach my friend’s house on the next street. That dog run was now my prison. In hindsight, I could have gone back the way I came, returned to my friend’s house and called my mother. Or I could have screamed in the hope that someone would hear my small voice over the whipping wind - my house was no more than 100 meters away. But I did neither. I just stood there, wet and shaking.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
My mother’s voice was like a kaleidoscope, with constantly changing shades and colours and patterns, bright and dark. She could, with a word or a tone, fill me with joy or send me running in terror. And you just never knew. On this night, she spoke softly. She sat on my bed, balancing the picture book on her knee, and read in that lilting, hypnotic voice that mothers use to put you to sleep:
“I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. What did he see? He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.”¹
I was still awake when my mother quietly closed the book, turned out the lamp, and left the room. She did not kiss me good-night. She never did. I rolled over on my side and closed my eyes. Before long, I heard them. I knew that I would. The footsteps. My mother had said it was just my heartbeat that I could hear in my ear against the pillow. But I knew better.
¹ Excerpt from “The Selfish Giant” by Oscar Wilde
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Our nightly ritual had begun again. My parents and I had eaten our dinner in silence. My mother cleaned up the dishes, went to her bedroom and closed the door. My father and I walked into the den. I opened a book. My father sat in his chair and worshipped the television, cigarette smoke drifting around his head like incense. Edith Bunker was bringing Archie a beer when I heard the footsteps outside…slow and heavy, causing the earth, our house, the windows to tremble. Like clockwork, I soon saw the eye of the giant, large and cold, peering in through the window. Oblivious, my father rose from his chair and went to the bathroom. As usual, I quickly left the den, put on my coat and boots, and ran out the front door. As I crossed over our lawn, I could see the top of the giant’s head behind our house. He must have sensed my presence because he turned and looked right at me, rage in his eye. He only had the one eye. That was my advantage; that and the fact that I knew the neighbourhood better than he did and could hide easily. I ran. He followed.
I ducked behind an overgrown shrub and watched him lumber by. I climbed a low stone wall into a field where the other kids often played, and saw several older children throwing a ball. I ran up to a boy that I knew and tried to warn him about the giant – but no words came out of my mouth. He caught the ball, threw it to someone else and told me to go away. Just then, I saw the giant step over the same low wall that I had climbed minutes earlier. He saw me. The other children continued to play and, to my astonishment, the giant ignored them. He was only interested in chasing me.
At the other end of the field, there was a house with a cat lounging on the step. I ran to the house, knocked loudly on the door and rang the bell. Noone answered. The giant moved closer. Suddenly the cat spoke to me. “Go home. Remember? He can’t get you at home.”
The cat was right. I remembered that the giant could not get me when I was inside my house. Since the giant was blocking me from the field, the fastest way home was the dog run in the backyard of the house next door. The dog run was a long enclosed path that, years before, our neighbours had built for their dog to play in. It led to my backyard. There was a gate at both ends that sometimes got mired in mud in a heavy rain. But today it was sunny and warm so I knew I would have no problem getting through. By the time the giant reached the step where the cat sat undisturbed, I had passed through the gate, tumbled up the lawn and into my house. I went to the window and saw the giant, wandering around in search of me.
I returned to the den where my father was back in his chair watching television. By this time, he had finished his second of three stiff nightcaps and was nodding off. I could still hear the giant’s footsteps outside but I could no longer see him. I knew with certainty that I was now safe from his evil grip. I sat for several minutes anxiously watching the television. Then, as my father drifted off to sleep, I snuck out, opened the door, and returned to my private adventure.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I never knew when it was morning. The curtains on my bedroom window were so heavy that they blocked out any hint of the sun. My mother told me I had light sensitive eyes. I have a memory of a family trip to Maine where we stayed in a grubby little cabin with tattered curtains. I awoke at dawn, bathed in light, and screamed in horror, thinking I would go blind. My mother screamed back at me to be quiet. “Be quiet!” Later, she asked why I had reacted to the sun the way I did. I told her my fear and that she had said my eyes were sensitive to light. “Don’t be foolish”, she said, “Mummy never told you that.” But she did. She did.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I had become fond of Wilde Oscar’s. By my third visit, I still hadn’t written a word but the heady atmosphere of the bar stirred up countless memories and ideas. I knew I was on the verge and that excited me. It occurred to me that maybe there was a story in the young waitress’s struggles. I now knew that her name was April. She had moved from Halifax to Toronto a year ago, to get away from the grip of a mother who controlled her and a boyfriend who ignored her. Her father, now dead, had been an insurance salesman and a disappointment to her mother, a domineering woman who wanted April to marry a doctor or lawyer and settle into a life of dignified prominence. April worked as an office temp and took ballet classes. She had a dream of getting out of Halifax and becoming a dancer or an actress. Finally, she mustered enough money and courage to say goodbye to her old life and begin anew. She boarded a bus bound for Toronto, found a place to live and a job at Wilde Oscar’s. A year later, here she was wiping tables, bringing me wine and learning that an unfulfilled life is the same wherever you go. I should say that this is what I imagined her story to be. I still had not spoken to her, except to order a drink.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Dad, why do you watch TV all the time?”
“What?”
“I was just wondering why you watch TV all the time?”
“Who the fuck are you to ask me that?! What the fuck do you do? Read! Read, read, read like a fucking little girl!! While all the other boys are outside playing ball. I’ve never seen anyone read so much!! I work my ass off for you and your mother and what do I get? ‘Daaad, why do you watch TV all the time? Jiiiim, why don’t you go back to school? Maybe you could get a better paying job, Jim!!’ As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are a couple of ingrates. I’m a tired old man and I like to come home and watch TV. What’s your excuse, you fucking little girl?! Just keep your mouth shut.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I drove the car slowly up the lane. Beneath the street lamp, a rough, handsome boy was lighting a cigarette. I came to a stop, as lust converged with fear, and opened my window.
“Looking for company?”
“Yeah.”
He got into the car and we drove away. We parked by the lake and spoke not another word. Later that night, I dropped him off back at the street lamp.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“And alien tears will fill for him pity’s long broken urn. For his mourners will be outcast men and outcasts always mourn.”
The inscription on the bottom of the large photograph of Oscar’s grave was also the epitaph on the back of the grave itself. He had written these words in his last poem, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”. The grave was a very plain large concrete block, surrounded by the more traditionally ornate and intricately carved monuments of prominent Parisians. Oscar was not Parisian nor, at the time of his passing, was he prominent; rather a penniless social pariah. But even in death, Oscar found a way to make a bold statement, for out of the front of the plain concrete block soared a carved figure, a spirit, a phoenix, a something, that seemed to proclaim “I am alive!”
I ordered red wine this time. I stared at April as she brought my drink. She smiled. Overhearing conversations, I learned that her dream was to be a singer. She had written a few songs that she was proud of but had no idea how to launch a music career. She had assembled some musicians and found a cheap studio where she could record a demo CD, so she seemed to be making progress.
I had come to think of her as something of a kindred spirit. Thought we could help each other. I wished I knew her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was just wondering why you only gave me a C. I aced every paper.”
“That may be so. But, if I’m not mistaken, this is the first time I have ever heard your voice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In an entire term, this is the first time I have heard you speak. And you know this class is a seminar. You were expected to share your thoughts, to debate. From your papers, I’d say you’re a bright young man with some lovely ideas, and I was looking forward to hearing what you had to say. Just once. But nothing. What would you have me do?”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The psychic was dark and foreign and had a tumour on his cheek. He laid the cards out on the table. The first said Honesty. I didn’t look at the rest. He asked me to give him my watch, took it in his hands, closed his eyes, and began to speak.
“I feel that you’re in a job that doesn’t fulfill you. Does your job fulfill you?”
“No.”
“No, I feel like you should be doing something else.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Do you have a cat?”
“Yes.”
“Is it black and white?”
“Yes.”
“I feel like you don’t say what you feel. Is that right?”
“A lot of the time.”
His eyes were closed again, as I searched my shirt for signs of Puss. None.
“I feel like you’re going to travel. I see a warm place. For some reason, LA comes to mind. Do you plan to visit LA?”
“I just visited LA.”
“Well that could be it. But I see you moving to a place like that. Now I’m thinking it isn’t LA. Maybe Vegas. Have you ever been to Vegas?”
“No.”
“You should really go. The desert is amazing.”
“I’ve been to the desert.”
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
“Have you ever been to Sedona?”
“Phoenix and Tucson.”
“I asked if you’ve ever been to Sedona.”
“No.”
“You really should go.”
I hadn’t been to Sedona but I understood. I had gone on a few hikes in the Sonoran Desert and sensed the mysterious energy. I had felt very connected and …alive.
“So maybe it’s Sedona or someplace else in the desert I am meant to go to, not Vegas.” I was certain that I was not meant to go to Vegas. The lights and showgirls held no fascination for me.
“No, I am pretty sure it’s Vegas. You should just go and see what happens. I feel like you’re a creative person, but you don’t create. I see you writing. Do you write?”
“Not really.”
“Well I feel that you should write. I can tell in your eyes that you have an active mind. You’ve seen and felt a lot. I sense that you‘re brimming over with thoughts and ideas and experiences that you don’t share. You know, I’m just here to say that you need to find your voice and speak your truth. And promise me you’ll go to Vegas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I finally got the seat by the fireplace. I had wanted to sit there since the first time I entered Wilde Oscar’s many months ago. But it had always been taken. I looked across the room to the bar where April was pouring me a Cointreau. A large portrait of my muse hung behind her. In this picture, the eyes were not languid and distant. They were fiery and lascivious and looking right at me, daring me to act.
April brought my drink, smiled and turned to walk away. My head spun, my heart raged and my face reddened as the words came out: “Do you mind if I say something a little strange?”
She turned and gave me a puzzled look. “Okay.”
“So a few days before I came in here for the first time I went to see a psychic just a lark really and he had a massive boil on his face so that was off-putting but it was okay because he told me I have a black and white cat which I do and I searched my shirt for cat hair, none, and so how did he know so I thought he must be good and over the course of twenty minutes he totally deconstructed my life and he told me that my head was filled with thoughts and ideas that never come out and that I was unfulfilled in my job because I’m not doing what I’m meant to be doing and that he thinks I’m meant to be writing which would make sense because I love to read and I’m thinking that I will never find meaning in my life until I say what I feel and I suppose it’s because of my parents but that’s for another day and he said I needed to find my voice and speak my truth and I’ve been coming in here all these months and so I totally identified with you when I heard you talking on the phone way back when about your life going nowhere and it seems like things are looking up for you with the CD and all and I’ve just started to write so maybe I’m on my way too and I think we could help each other and maybe we’re kindred spirits and I would really like to know you.”
I stopped to take a deep breath.
“So what did you want to say?”
“Sorry?”
“You just asked me if I minded if you said something strange. What is it?”
“Oh…..I was just wondering if you’ve ever been to Vegas.”
I had been roaming the streets looking for a place to sit and set about writing the great novel. I had imagined a library, or a coffee shop, or some great gothic gallery. This smoky bar was a surprise. But under the circumstances, I had decided to allow myself to be swept up by the winds of reinvention, so I welcomed this serendipitous encounter with Oscar Wilde, found a table in a corner, opened my notebook, and was immediately interrupted.
“Fuck you, Jack! I said sorry and I’m not saying it again.” The voice resounding from the bar was angry, but the undertone was the hollow, shrill sound of despair. “I just feel like I’m going nowhere. I had big plans when I came here. It’s been over a year and I’m still waitressing. No…there’s nothing wrong with waitressing but...my mother’s coming next week and she’s gonna crap all over me. What? Well you don’t know my mother, Jack! She thinks I fucked up. And she’s right. Do you know what? I’m getting upset again. I’m hanging up.”
Soon, the sad voice was speaking to me. “Can I get you something, sweetie?”, making an effort to brighten up. I looked up to see an exquisite girl probably in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than myself. She was tall with black hair and porcelain skin. Her blue eyes, still brimming over slightly with the remnants of tears, looked like melting ice. I wanted to talk to her, tell her I knew exactly how she felt, how my life had no meaning either. I wanted to tell her about the non-descript cubicle in which I worked, to tell her about my mother.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, please.”
Soon I was staring out the window, watching the rain turn the buildings into a bleak, impressionist blur. I remembered.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The path beneath my feet had been transformed by hours of driving rain into a mighty bog. My knit hat was matted against my head and my boots were filled with water, as I tried in vain to shelter my face from the angry wind. Shivering, I looked over the fence at my house with its warmly lit windows and shadows of people moving around inside; shadows of people who felt like strangers. My attempts to open the gate had caused the wet mud to gather and build on the other side, lodging it in the ground. Four years old and unable to climb the fence, I was trapped.
My neighbour’s dog run was the only way I was permitted to reach my friend’s house on the next street. That dog run was now my prison. In hindsight, I could have gone back the way I came, returned to my friend’s house and called my mother. Or I could have screamed in the hope that someone would hear my small voice over the whipping wind - my house was no more than 100 meters away. But I did neither. I just stood there, wet and shaking.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
My mother’s voice was like a kaleidoscope, with constantly changing shades and colours and patterns, bright and dark. She could, with a word or a tone, fill me with joy or send me running in terror. And you just never knew. On this night, she spoke softly. She sat on my bed, balancing the picture book on her knee, and read in that lilting, hypnotic voice that mothers use to put you to sleep:
“I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. What did he see? He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.”¹
I was still awake when my mother quietly closed the book, turned out the lamp, and left the room. She did not kiss me good-night. She never did. I rolled over on my side and closed my eyes. Before long, I heard them. I knew that I would. The footsteps. My mother had said it was just my heartbeat that I could hear in my ear against the pillow. But I knew better.
¹ Excerpt from “The Selfish Giant” by Oscar Wilde
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Our nightly ritual had begun again. My parents and I had eaten our dinner in silence. My mother cleaned up the dishes, went to her bedroom and closed the door. My father and I walked into the den. I opened a book. My father sat in his chair and worshipped the television, cigarette smoke drifting around his head like incense. Edith Bunker was bringing Archie a beer when I heard the footsteps outside…slow and heavy, causing the earth, our house, the windows to tremble. Like clockwork, I soon saw the eye of the giant, large and cold, peering in through the window. Oblivious, my father rose from his chair and went to the bathroom. As usual, I quickly left the den, put on my coat and boots, and ran out the front door. As I crossed over our lawn, I could see the top of the giant’s head behind our house. He must have sensed my presence because he turned and looked right at me, rage in his eye. He only had the one eye. That was my advantage; that and the fact that I knew the neighbourhood better than he did and could hide easily. I ran. He followed.
I ducked behind an overgrown shrub and watched him lumber by. I climbed a low stone wall into a field where the other kids often played, and saw several older children throwing a ball. I ran up to a boy that I knew and tried to warn him about the giant – but no words came out of my mouth. He caught the ball, threw it to someone else and told me to go away. Just then, I saw the giant step over the same low wall that I had climbed minutes earlier. He saw me. The other children continued to play and, to my astonishment, the giant ignored them. He was only interested in chasing me.
At the other end of the field, there was a house with a cat lounging on the step. I ran to the house, knocked loudly on the door and rang the bell. Noone answered. The giant moved closer. Suddenly the cat spoke to me. “Go home. Remember? He can’t get you at home.”
The cat was right. I remembered that the giant could not get me when I was inside my house. Since the giant was blocking me from the field, the fastest way home was the dog run in the backyard of the house next door. The dog run was a long enclosed path that, years before, our neighbours had built for their dog to play in. It led to my backyard. There was a gate at both ends that sometimes got mired in mud in a heavy rain. But today it was sunny and warm so I knew I would have no problem getting through. By the time the giant reached the step where the cat sat undisturbed, I had passed through the gate, tumbled up the lawn and into my house. I went to the window and saw the giant, wandering around in search of me.
I returned to the den where my father was back in his chair watching television. By this time, he had finished his second of three stiff nightcaps and was nodding off. I could still hear the giant’s footsteps outside but I could no longer see him. I knew with certainty that I was now safe from his evil grip. I sat for several minutes anxiously watching the television. Then, as my father drifted off to sleep, I snuck out, opened the door, and returned to my private adventure.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I never knew when it was morning. The curtains on my bedroom window were so heavy that they blocked out any hint of the sun. My mother told me I had light sensitive eyes. I have a memory of a family trip to Maine where we stayed in a grubby little cabin with tattered curtains. I awoke at dawn, bathed in light, and screamed in horror, thinking I would go blind. My mother screamed back at me to be quiet. “Be quiet!” Later, she asked why I had reacted to the sun the way I did. I told her my fear and that she had said my eyes were sensitive to light. “Don’t be foolish”, she said, “Mummy never told you that.” But she did. She did.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I had become fond of Wilde Oscar’s. By my third visit, I still hadn’t written a word but the heady atmosphere of the bar stirred up countless memories and ideas. I knew I was on the verge and that excited me. It occurred to me that maybe there was a story in the young waitress’s struggles. I now knew that her name was April. She had moved from Halifax to Toronto a year ago, to get away from the grip of a mother who controlled her and a boyfriend who ignored her. Her father, now dead, had been an insurance salesman and a disappointment to her mother, a domineering woman who wanted April to marry a doctor or lawyer and settle into a life of dignified prominence. April worked as an office temp and took ballet classes. She had a dream of getting out of Halifax and becoming a dancer or an actress. Finally, she mustered enough money and courage to say goodbye to her old life and begin anew. She boarded a bus bound for Toronto, found a place to live and a job at Wilde Oscar’s. A year later, here she was wiping tables, bringing me wine and learning that an unfulfilled life is the same wherever you go. I should say that this is what I imagined her story to be. I still had not spoken to her, except to order a drink.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Dad, why do you watch TV all the time?”
“What?”
“I was just wondering why you watch TV all the time?”
“Who the fuck are you to ask me that?! What the fuck do you do? Read! Read, read, read like a fucking little girl!! While all the other boys are outside playing ball. I’ve never seen anyone read so much!! I work my ass off for you and your mother and what do I get? ‘Daaad, why do you watch TV all the time? Jiiiim, why don’t you go back to school? Maybe you could get a better paying job, Jim!!’ As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are a couple of ingrates. I’m a tired old man and I like to come home and watch TV. What’s your excuse, you fucking little girl?! Just keep your mouth shut.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I drove the car slowly up the lane. Beneath the street lamp, a rough, handsome boy was lighting a cigarette. I came to a stop, as lust converged with fear, and opened my window.
“Looking for company?”
“Yeah.”
He got into the car and we drove away. We parked by the lake and spoke not another word. Later that night, I dropped him off back at the street lamp.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“And alien tears will fill for him pity’s long broken urn. For his mourners will be outcast men and outcasts always mourn.”
The inscription on the bottom of the large photograph of Oscar’s grave was also the epitaph on the back of the grave itself. He had written these words in his last poem, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”. The grave was a very plain large concrete block, surrounded by the more traditionally ornate and intricately carved monuments of prominent Parisians. Oscar was not Parisian nor, at the time of his passing, was he prominent; rather a penniless social pariah. But even in death, Oscar found a way to make a bold statement, for out of the front of the plain concrete block soared a carved figure, a spirit, a phoenix, a something, that seemed to proclaim “I am alive!”
I ordered red wine this time. I stared at April as she brought my drink. She smiled. Overhearing conversations, I learned that her dream was to be a singer. She had written a few songs that she was proud of but had no idea how to launch a music career. She had assembled some musicians and found a cheap studio where she could record a demo CD, so she seemed to be making progress.
I had come to think of her as something of a kindred spirit. Thought we could help each other. I wished I knew her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was just wondering why you only gave me a C. I aced every paper.”
“That may be so. But, if I’m not mistaken, this is the first time I have ever heard your voice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In an entire term, this is the first time I have heard you speak. And you know this class is a seminar. You were expected to share your thoughts, to debate. From your papers, I’d say you’re a bright young man with some lovely ideas, and I was looking forward to hearing what you had to say. Just once. But nothing. What would you have me do?”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The psychic was dark and foreign and had a tumour on his cheek. He laid the cards out on the table. The first said Honesty. I didn’t look at the rest. He asked me to give him my watch, took it in his hands, closed his eyes, and began to speak.
“I feel that you’re in a job that doesn’t fulfill you. Does your job fulfill you?”
“No.”
“No, I feel like you should be doing something else.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Do you have a cat?”
“Yes.”
“Is it black and white?”
“Yes.”
“I feel like you don’t say what you feel. Is that right?”
“A lot of the time.”
His eyes were closed again, as I searched my shirt for signs of Puss. None.
“I feel like you’re going to travel. I see a warm place. For some reason, LA comes to mind. Do you plan to visit LA?”
“I just visited LA.”
“Well that could be it. But I see you moving to a place like that. Now I’m thinking it isn’t LA. Maybe Vegas. Have you ever been to Vegas?”
“No.”
“You should really go. The desert is amazing.”
“I’ve been to the desert.”
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
“Have you ever been to Sedona?”
“Phoenix and Tucson.”
“I asked if you’ve ever been to Sedona.”
“No.”
“You really should go.”
I hadn’t been to Sedona but I understood. I had gone on a few hikes in the Sonoran Desert and sensed the mysterious energy. I had felt very connected and …alive.
“So maybe it’s Sedona or someplace else in the desert I am meant to go to, not Vegas.” I was certain that I was not meant to go to Vegas. The lights and showgirls held no fascination for me.
“No, I am pretty sure it’s Vegas. You should just go and see what happens. I feel like you’re a creative person, but you don’t create. I see you writing. Do you write?”
“Not really.”
“Well I feel that you should write. I can tell in your eyes that you have an active mind. You’ve seen and felt a lot. I sense that you‘re brimming over with thoughts and ideas and experiences that you don’t share. You know, I’m just here to say that you need to find your voice and speak your truth. And promise me you’ll go to Vegas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I finally got the seat by the fireplace. I had wanted to sit there since the first time I entered Wilde Oscar’s many months ago. But it had always been taken. I looked across the room to the bar where April was pouring me a Cointreau. A large portrait of my muse hung behind her. In this picture, the eyes were not languid and distant. They were fiery and lascivious and looking right at me, daring me to act.
April brought my drink, smiled and turned to walk away. My head spun, my heart raged and my face reddened as the words came out: “Do you mind if I say something a little strange?”
She turned and gave me a puzzled look. “Okay.”
“So a few days before I came in here for the first time I went to see a psychic just a lark really and he had a massive boil on his face so that was off-putting but it was okay because he told me I have a black and white cat which I do and I searched my shirt for cat hair, none, and so how did he know so I thought he must be good and over the course of twenty minutes he totally deconstructed my life and he told me that my head was filled with thoughts and ideas that never come out and that I was unfulfilled in my job because I’m not doing what I’m meant to be doing and that he thinks I’m meant to be writing which would make sense because I love to read and I’m thinking that I will never find meaning in my life until I say what I feel and I suppose it’s because of my parents but that’s for another day and he said I needed to find my voice and speak my truth and I’ve been coming in here all these months and so I totally identified with you when I heard you talking on the phone way back when about your life going nowhere and it seems like things are looking up for you with the CD and all and I’ve just started to write so maybe I’m on my way too and I think we could help each other and maybe we’re kindred spirits and I would really like to know you.”
I stopped to take a deep breath.
“So what did you want to say?”
“Sorry?”
“You just asked me if I minded if you said something strange. What is it?”
“Oh…..I was just wondering if you’ve ever been to Vegas.”
Copyright 2005 John David Phillips
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2xODjbfYw8
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
