Critics Who Know Jack Read online

  There you go. Towards the edge of the water and in the middle of the water pool you see bubbles and your drunken partners make jokes about your ball drowning. And of course you’ve walked far ahead to get that ball and avoid the embarrassment and, just as you put your hand in to troll with your fingertips, you hear a snap and gurgle and it’s nothing less than an alligator looking for lunch. Of course, the warning from your partners comes much too late and there you are with wet shoes and only two balls left in your bag. “Ha ha ha!” the merriment goes and between the bears and alligators you know you aren’t in Disneyland ‘cause these things don’t smile and shake your hand with big friendly paws and dopey head nods.

  And you think: What kind of karma is in this? Almost getting mauled by a black bear or losing a middle finger to a gator? Karma like the woman on the sea bus talking hippie and new age all at once and the likelihood that you would have asked her out to a movie if she didn’t keep going on about the karmic truths of each human movement. All this to say — You could die on a beach or in the woods out in the great North woods and nobody would hear about it. And that’s the long loneliness of the high pines with their constant coniferous reach to the sky regardless of the incessant rain.

  This ain’t East and the cityscape of bustling downtown neighbourhoods. This is volcano and monsoon and earthquake/mudslide country! And they carved a city out of it! And somewhere some real karma may come down and it feels like it could be any time soon. High pines. Vancouver pines. The word pine itself. The mourning of it. The troubled drug-infested city square off Gastown where non-archetypical junkies sit on street-corners and don’t even ask you for a dollar. This is the down low part. The part the city doesn’t invite you to. The magazines on the airplanes and The National Geographic good looking lady scientist rock-climbing yet another peak while her kids go kayaking with lawyer dad and the perfection of teeth.

  This is the hell the city fathers and mothers don’t want you to see. You are better off eaten by a bear than being accosted by a street junkie who has lost her card-boarded flat and hasn’t seen a relative since her parents put her up for adoption thirty years ago in some mid-western plains town with apples on the trees and flocks of crows cawing the sky. This is where the height “comes down” and the Jesus the lady on the sea bus talks about to whom all sing praises on more than only Sundays. This is the awful height of paradise. West and East of Eden at the same time. Alligators, pines and bears aside.

  THE DEATH OF SENSU(SEXUALITY)

  Yoga and you ain’t just meditating as your latest date says: “Do you believe in Tantric sexuality?” You answer that you haven’t had a fit for a long time and there goes language again! “No, not since I was nine and my brother threw an orange at my head!” “Oh, that’s awful. Did it hurt?” “No, he missed but he broke the window when I ducked.” And so begins the reduction of sexual impulse to psycho-sexual conversation thus the donuts and the pizza will have to wait.

  What is it that our western culture desires from infusing and inhaling traditional oriental and Asian meditative traditions including ones that take sexual impulses and reduce them to ether? Buddhism, neo-tantra and lattes all mix together to cut the lines and angles of modernization and attempt to effect the blood-brain barrier in a transcendent manner. Sitting aside all this is a verve for body and the “pornographic” yet the term “pornographic” seems to suggest a “voyeurism” more than a sexual practice, given its availability through our internet technology following publication upon publication of the hustle and tumble magazines of earlier decades.

  The culture we live in seems to suggest that it is wonderful to have a website dedicated to the creation of cup-cakes and wholesomeness while our sons and daughters attend bars and clubs late into the weekend dressed to kill and manifest the olfactory wonders of perfume and cologne variations.

  So when your date wants to tell you about Tantric sex and the practices of ego-less body pleasure, the hypocrisy increases as you lie on your bed and wonder what it just might have been like to engage in the actual act of love-making. And if you offer, in the midst of one of these pre-love-making situations, the classical Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, you might find that culture skipped a hurdle in the long run to pleasure, knowledge and even spirituality.

  So what should we get on the pizza?

  I don’t eat pizza or panini or any gluten.

  You don’t have to eat a lot of it.

  No. I mean gluten. My mother is a naturopath.

  Has she seen a doctor?

  She doesn’t need to.

  Chinese?

  Have you heard what the Republican Chinese are doing re: the Dali Lama?

  You mean the bald guy who laughs all the time?

  I feel like a latte.

  I know this Italian place around the corner . . .

  I will not have Fascist espresso!

  Cuban?

  Oh, we had a Salsa class the other night and it was packed. I brought my sneakers for the class and then changed into my heels to dance at the club later.

  Did you eat?

  Martinis. Martinis. Martinis.

  That’s an Italian drink, isn’t it?

  No. American.

  You American?

  No but we were brought up Christian Fundamentalists.

  And so there you are with no prospects for food and on the verge of more ego-driven conversation and maybe all because you could have spared yourselves the time and coffee expense and just approached it all by internet dating. But in this culture of have-and-get-it-all we all seem to need space. Not outer but inner space. (Well, come to think of it, both.)

  Robert Frost in his poem The Star Splitter has his main character say: the best thing that we’re put here’s for’s to see . . . Yet the failed farmer of his poem decides to watch stars at night and burn down his barn so he can collect the insurance money and buy a telescope. An exact realization of the connection between “inner” and “outer” space. A desire to be part of a myth or be witness to it. A cut right through the contemporary new age psychology. A pragmatic approach to living in the moment and the sensuality of the soul without the semantic babble and protracted delay of experience which takes even our sexuality down a step.

  Not that we are dying to rut and tumble, but that we are denying the feeding of our spiritual core by 3D-ing and “screening” our world before we jump into it. Supposedly, the mind is still quicker than the fastest computer. The mind’s speed including the ability to imagine and recollect and envision a future without the aid of others’ or mechanical interpretation. There is too much light and not enough “hum.” Too much tantric and not enough love and exploration. Too many ideas and no execution. Yet there are suggestions of renaissance when 100 guitar players (who are not professional — nor are they good) sit in a park on Sunday and pursue fame within their small group. Though most will not crack the code of mythology (being something bigger than you are), they at least have entered the stewing-pot of the fickle codes of dandyism and poseur-ism. Scratchy beards and bad clothes-matching and personal aesthetics aside.

  There is always room for conversation. Talk to any old Italian man or woman. Never read a book or sat at a computer screen. For that matter, forget they are Italian and learn the power of their illiteracy. The ability to intuit and feel and make sense of a “humming” world. As for sensu(sexuality) — small wonder they had so many kids.

  INTERNET DATING PROFILES, OR: DO YOU LIKE DOGS AND SEMIOTICS?

  Janie’s Profile:

  Well, what can I say about myself? I have a dog. Nice dog. Hasn’t bitten anyone for, oh, let’s say . . . about five years. But that was not her fault. There was this guy who wasn’t happy that I was going to move to the Northwest Territories and one day he came over and began to pack his things and in the process picked up by accident my dog’s playball. The dog started barking but he was into his own rage and head so much that he didn’t realize he’d taken the dog toy. Well, as he was taking the boxes out to his van, D
og-girl ripped into his right leg and he dropped the box. Then of course he blamed me for the fractured toe he received from the falling box.

  I teach. I play piano and like gardening. I’m about five foot seven and sometimes go out winter camping. I love summer though because it’s time off from the constant day-in, day-out work-work of teaching special needs. I have special needs too and maybe if you like what you read you can help with them? My last good thought was when someone asked me what my last good thought was. I was surprised that I was asked and it took me back to another time and place as I was in the immediate moment of response.

  I don’t think women like guys to be complicated. Most women want guys to be nice, secure, interesting and positive and tender, loving and a go-out-and-get-it type of man. I don’t see a contradiction in that but it must be complicated being a guy? That said: you can’t live with them and you can’t live without them. That’s why I’m writing this.

  Is there anyone out there who isn’t going to talk about sports and classic rock? Knows jazz and likes to walk with me and my Dog-girl? Has a great car? Doesn’t want a clinging girl? (Though last time I cleaned the house there were a lot of clinging dog hairs).

  I’m off for two months during summer. I would love to see Europe and other parts of the world. A fellow teacher (a speech pathologist) told me he really liked traveling, especially to the Mediterranean countries because people use their hands when they talk and I’m pretty well-trained in ASL.

  My favourite place to go is the gardens down by the lakefront. I like a guy with strong hands. Some of my friends wish I would answer my phone more often. I like communication. I don’t necessarily look at the stars at night and can’t name more than one or two constellations and even that is only because I think it has something to do with astrological signs which I read everyday.

  If you think I’m interesting and not complicated I would be happy to meet for a coffee (make that mint tea). I don’t think they should charge the same for mint tea as they do for coffee. What do you think? Oh yes, and there’s more about me!!!

  The reason I don’t like phones is that I suffered having to work day in day out doing telemarketing — yecch bigtime! Sooo, if I don’t call you back or if I invite you to a barbeque it might take forever and a long time. Please don’t ask me what barbeques have to do with phones.

  I do like sending emails once in a while. There is this guy I ‘kinda’ like and I invited him for a bbq but my bbq has broken down. You might think I’m weird that I haven’t invited him for dinner in the meantime. Thing is, I like to be mysterious but other people think I’m rude but I think I’m right. You might ask, ‘Right about what?’ and that, I must admit is a pretty good question.

  I’m also into practicing piano and conflict resolution. One of the ways I practice the latter is by withdrawing like a turtle. I think that’s a great amphifan or animal (not sure which) but I like it ‘cause it’s got a long neck like me. You might ask — ‘Doesn’t it hurt carrying a shell around all day and stretching my neck into the water or digging a hole to hide my head in the earth?’ That too is a good question. You seem to ask all the right questions and say all the right things. You sure you don’t know me better than I know myself or are you just highly perceptive? Geez, it’s hard to be mysterious when someone is perceptive and complicated to boot!

  Anyway, back to this guy. He seems to like me but is not impressed with my manner. He bought me a piano lesson but not a piano. I have one already and my dog likes it when I play ‘most’ of the time.

  I also have to get home at midnight because my pumpkin-red hair will turn green if I don’t. That’s hard to explain but I think that’s why Cinderella was traveling in a carriage because if her head turned green no one would see it. It would sure help if this guy had a car. Then my head could turn green in his face and I wouldn’t have to run home by subway though if it were St. Patrick’s Day I guess it would be okay. How’s that for mystery?!

  What else to say about myself and what I want? Well, the last guy I was with was a meanie. He said bad things and wouldn’t move to the NWT even though they have great potatoes and starlight. I have a friend who’s seeing a guy from the Middle East or somewhere hot. He’s a meanie too! Goes out with my best friend. I guess me and my best friend talk about meanies when she doesn’t get embarrassed that she is with one. He and I don’t get along to say the least.

  I know I’m going on but I want you to know as much as possible before we meet. If we meet?

  I was hurt before but I’m gaining my courage back. I hope you’re the right guy. Remember that I’ve learned a lot from conflict resolution. It’s what special needs teachers do. Oh, did I forget to tell you that? That’s my job. But it’s summer now and I am going to try to get my head out of the sand just enough to see who’s out there in the world of interesting and unattached men.

  Oh, another note. I like tall handsome men. I don’t really like anglo guys with grey hair though it makes a difference if there’s a car there somewhere. So if you are that guy, I am the gal!!!

  And another thing. Just because I don’t show interest doesn’t mean I’m not interested.

  Understand?

  I would attach a photo with this but I am spending most of the summer with my new wrap-around sunglasses on disguised as Spiderman’s Sister. I know . . . I know . . . you’re thinking: “Wow — what mystery and Holy Halloween all summer long?!!”

  PS

  I’m also interested into semiotics and Charles Bukowski pomes.

  Janie

  • • •

  Response to Janie’s Profile:

  Helloooo Janie!!!! I love dogs!!! Make that Dogs with a cap-i-t0l D! But I don’t got one but would like to walk and talk about youre liking Charles Bukooski pomes, ‘cause I’m now writing my first ones. Well, okay — not really my first ones, but new ones. I went to see ‘Barflyer’ with Mickie O’rourke ‘cause I’m irIsh too! It was free.

  But I have to say I don’t know what semioticks is? I’m looking for fun and think Spiderman is great! I hope you like me too . . . Let’s walk!

  Yours,

  Patrick

  pS

  My sister got profile married too this year.

  WORLD CUP JAZZ

  Inflect! Improvise! Cross the musical scale like big slow fish with long arching chord changes and harmonics — look like you listen — eyes with ears — and then run in like a bop-playing saxophonist scattering and moving sideways to the “centrifugality” of BALL!

  This is jazz! This is Futbol! Set the radio mid-volume and turn the TV announcers down. Put the phone on vibrate and bring up Coltrane as the Argentine side shimmies an attack up-field against the forever England Team. Ain’t no one saying anything as your ears jump and sally, ride and perch, whistle and turn. Inflect! Improvise! Release at the exact moment of least resistance. It’s a long play. Play making can last minutes on end and the ref can change that but commercials cannot. Sepp Blatter. Giuseppe with a last name that sounds like a body organ. PLAY THE BALL! The head of Zidane! (Strange?) — The head of Pele. (Crown of Laurels) — The head of Maradona. (Banditry) Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia! to borrow a phrase from the ever-so violent Sam Peckinpah 1974 film.

  So goes the memory of the World Cup in 1998 — a year after my mother died (too early). American football didn’t seem to make as much sense with its rough ten second plays and whistles and commercials and predictability and rock & roll. Too much NOISE! I thought as I lay sleepless for a good few months, having seen my own ghost a few nights before the final. What is it about American Football that makes it adolescent, testosterone-driven and hard-edged compared to World Cup Soccer? Perhaps my own state of having lost the eternal/maternal safety of womb had something to do with the perception at the time?

  I know as I watched the Italians, French, Brazilians et al come together over a soccer field, there was a way to do it without listening to the drivel and drive of announcers that both sports have in common. The “GOL! GOL! G
OL! GOL! GOLGOL — GOL! GOL! GOOOOLLL! OOOOOOLLLLLLL!” of Latin-American announcers rivals the best of John Madden/Al Michaels hunkaburnin’ love NASCAR oratory. But the sport(s)? Different as night and day! Different as Springsteen and Queen cheer-leading frolics from Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie lateral ascending-descending scales and harmonics sans vocals. (Nota bene: It is important that there be no vocals for the jazz chosen to accompany World Cup Futbol.)

  Spanish side like light rain against the goonish Netherlands? This was 2010, the Final and the horns that sounded like a thousand bees drove the early morning North American audiences nuts! But Spain with its exactness, grace and precision managed to overcome the height and elbows of a once proud Total Football nation. The one of Johan Cruyff and Neeskens and Bergkamp. What did it mean to have such reversal? The new Asian and African teams with their speed and agility? It meant more jazz! Higher pitched and wheeling! Great thrusts forward but never alone. Each set of feet seeing the feet on the other side of the field.

  It was not push and pull and stammer on your heels waiting for the referee to throw a flag and prolong the last two minutes of a game as though there was everything left on earth to sell. From insurance, to medicine (with suicide tendency caveats) to cars (really big monster trucks) to a once in a while good society exposé on the latest ‘big guy’ doing good things for the hard-hit communities. But this can’t be done without stopping the game. Making the game last almost three and a half hours. A game that in truth is only played on the field for sixty minutes.

  Days before the two-thousand-ten final my father passed away. His favourite pieces of music were Southern Italian tarantellas. He didn’t know Coltrane but dug James Taylor. It wasn’t jazz but he believed, when I showed him a photo of big Charlie Bird, that he would have been a great goal-tender. I put on Hugh Masekela, turned down the volume of the television again and watched the light of nimble and fashionable feet in highlight reruns, thinking what kind of music would work with cricket?