15 weak lines on December 27
a great capacity
to the back fender
of my bike.
* * *
in pill form.
* * *
A spotty record of a writer.
He lives all the way over in Wolfville, but Lance La Rocque has been an excellent friend. We don't talk as much as we used to, but we do often have a game of e-chess going (he's won about 15; I've won 2). When he and Lisa lived in Toronto, we used to meet at the Second Cup at Charles and Yonge all the time and play chess. I would beat him more often then. But Lance takes time to think, and I don't.
Two neighbours were involved in a bitter dispute. One claimed that the other's cat had eaten his butter and, accordingly, demanded compensation. Unable to resolve the problem, the two, carrying the accused cat, sought out the village wise man for a judgment. The wise man asked the accuser, "How much butter did the cat eat?" "Ten pounds" was the response. The wise man placed the cat on the scale. Lo and behold! it weighed exactly ten pounds. "Mirable dictu!" he proclaimed. "Here we have the butter. But where is the cat?"
In my unending struggle to whittle down my book collection, I made my second stop at Janet Inksetter's used bookstore for her 50% off sale. Here's what I bought:
Tonight is the last night of Chanukah. We light all eight candles and we say the baruchas for the last time this year. I like to let the wax build up on the menorah over the course of the eight days of the holiday. And I never clean it off entirely. I think there is still wax on that menorah from candle-lightings by my parents and by my grandparents. I like that accumulation of the generations.
Tuesday night's Test Reading will go down in history. At least for a few days. Perhaps a lesson about the effects of sauce will resonate. The little cactus in the comic-strip Steven used to yell, "I want sauce!" Well, Jon Paul Fiorentino, who I like very much, regularly jokes, during his readings, about his beer consumption. And as he read, he was heckled, a little incoherently, by a well-sauced Victor Coleman. Victor, who I like very much and who was a mentor to me when I was just a teenage poet reading pretentiously in a Dylan Thomas drone, was out of line. Especially while Jon Paul read an elegy about his own mentor, Robert Allen, who died (or, as they say, when they don't like the word "died," "passed away") not too long ago. So Jon Paul escalated things by making a remark about Coach House, likely a pretty touchy subject for Victor. And thus the escalation proceeded apace, climaxing with the young drunk and the old drunk nearly snout-touching in a dramatic macho game of chicken. Maggie Helwig, the towering brute that she is, stepped between the two lads and defused things.
On Wednesday, December 13, I'm appearing at Jay MillAr's Speakeasy series along with New York poet Simon Pettet. I don't what Simon will be speaking easily on, and I don't yet know what I will speaking easily on, but it happens at 7:30 pm upstairs at This Ain't the Rosedale Library (483 Church Street). I believe admission is by passed hat, and a Q&A follows the talks.