lapsus linguae

Monkey See… Do See Monkey

Monkey is the debut novel of Michael Boyce, who lives in Calgary at the moment, not that that has anything to do with anything. As for Monkey. That Monkey.

Monkey’s not like a lot of other novels that I read. At first that’s kind of irritating. I like fewer words. So I’m overwhelmed with words words words and wondering when Monkey will get moving, get to the point. And then biff baff, a kung-fu fight on a rooftop. Because that’s the fastest way to get to know someone. That makes perfect sense to me, because a) I’m aggressive, and b) I’ve seen at least a hundred and fifty kung-fu movies. And around then it just happened that I started thinking about Monkey in a different way. I started to see the kung-fu movie structure underneath all that monkey chatter, and then Monkey starts to see it too! To learn things. About himself. Now that’s interesting. A young guy learning. About himself, his thoughts, his feelings, learning to be alone with himself. Learning that neither good nor evil is all that interesting. That’s really interesting.

So what this Monkey makes me think is that most novels are only novels. They’re made of novels, made to be the most novel they can be. Monkey’s made of other things besides. Made of movies to be sure, much more like a movie than a novel really. But also made of real like things. People. How they do things, how they think. The words words words drives me a little crazy but that’s really more how we think. Most of us. We’re slow learners. I don’t like slow, but it’s true. Monkey thinks out loud and it takes as long as it takes and doesn’t skip ahead or jump around or know things as yet unknown. Which is what a lot of novels do. I think it’s good to know a lot about novels and a lot about other things besides. And mix them all up. Good good. Now what? Now what will that Monkey Michael Boyce do?

http://monkeyreadings.com
. . . . .

heat week

It’s raining hot water and thundering car alarms.
The sidewalks stink of urine and old bandages.
There’s no express train, no L train, no AC.
A Brooklyn bound fog approaches on the lower level.
We move in thick trickles, stolid and sweat-stained.
Nothing sells well except for umbrellas and fruit.
Heat swollen hands deep in heaps of cool cherries.
I bought a greet belt from a black man for three dollars.
He said, so slowly: Today didn’t turn out all bad.
. . . . .

The Tropical District

an hour wait put the board back in border.
we’re doing our bit to keep America safe.

the reason for our visit?
we’re here for the heat wave.

where will we stay?
in the tropical district.

where cold water is a hot commodity.
and it’s sundresses for everyone.

at home I’d be turning a mere 34 Celsius.
but here I got a hundred degrees for my birthday.
. . . . .

The Greyhound Eulogy

I’m back from Banff, caught up on sleep, reacclimatized to high heat and humidity and happy to announce that my short story The Greyhound Eulogy appears in Matrix Magazine #74, in stores now, in Montreal at least.

I can’t remember who, but someone said – Gordon Lish maybe, or John Gardner – that it’s impossible to write an unsentimental story about your grandmother. Even though The Greyhound Eulogy is about writing my grandmother’s eulogy on a Greyhound bus bound for NYC, it’s hardly depressing at all thanks to the unsentimental readers: Amy Hempel, Ibi Kaslik, Lilly Kuwashima and Kate Sheldon. Much thanks also to Matrix editors Rob Allen and Jon Paul Fiorentino.

Here’s an excerpt of The Greyhound Eulogy:

“In the town of Glens Falls, N.Y., the Greyhound passes through a protest in progress. On one street corner, amid a cluster of hand-printed placards one small sign stands out: ‘Another veteran against the war.’ On the other side of the street, a wind-warped banner reads: ‘America is worth fighting for.’ I write: ‘Always the optimist, she brought humour to every situation,’ and try to remember her favourite burning Bush joke.”

J. R. Carpenter, The Greyhound Eulogy, Matrix #74, Montreal QC, Summer 2006.
. . . . .

Leaving Banff

leaving is hard
especially people and places you love
especially early in the morning

driving away from mountains is hard too
even after you stop looking over your shoulder
they’re still there in the back of your head

there’s nothing fun about an airport
except arriving at your departure gate and
hearing and the half-forgotten accents of home

on the plane I sat next to a guy who had never flown before
he was older, anxious, without English, hands scared, arms brown
and the whole flight I tried to look at everything as if I’d never seen if before

flying over Montréal I spotted our apartment
easy to do as there’s a large, green, copper-domed church near us
and even from the air I could see the Portuguese football fans going crazy

my husband met me at the baggage claim
the baggage took its sweet time, still on mountain time
but all that standing around was nice after four hours on the plane

my mother-in-law is an expert in not paying for parking
brandishing an out-of-date handicap parking pass at the police
she circles the airport, idles in the bus and the taxi-only zones

which is right where we found her, my husband manoeuvring my luggage,
and my dog! panting and drooling and shedding and wagging in the backseat
best of all the welcome-home surprises

between the airport and home
between the dog and the French and the high heat and humidity
we nearly died three times in old-lady related driving incidents

dropping down from Little Italy into Mile End
football fan flags festooned every apartment’s balcony and
my mother-in-law asked me if I missed Saint-Urbain street

even though my husband says I came home on the loudest day of the summer so far
to sick sticky heat and the stink of smog and moving-day mounds of garbage
yeah, I said, I missed Saint-Urbain street a lot

cars honked by with girls leaning out the window waving Portuguese flags
and July first moving-day vans parked at traffic-snarling angles
and in-between families lived out dramas on sidewalks and steps

I forgot how many books I have
and how many hot outfits and cool shoes
and what it’s like to drink vodka fresh from the freezer

we drank martinis from martini glasses
and ate fried calamari from the Terrasse Lafayette
and my husband caught me up on the neighbourhood gossip

the old Greek lady next door got thrown out after twenty-three years
all the while I was away she was packing unloading crap on my husband
now our apartment is full of old textbooks, floral bed sheets and fresh mint

the tacky Anglo girls that have the back-balcony across from ours
have taken to inviting two loud, shirtless Latino boys over
whenever their boyfriends go away for the weekend

our landlord, who lives downstairs,
has divided half his yard into a parking lot and
we’re excited because at least it’s not a swimming pool

while I was away my dog puked in my studio so many times that
my husband threw out huge piles of my stuff and now that it’s gone
I can’t imagine what I was keeping it for

despite this, in case I haven’t mentioned it already,
my dog is the cutest, sweetest, best-behaved dog ever
who snores, and cuddles, and is afraid of thunder

leaving is hard, but coming home is good
and, in case I haven’t mentioned it already,
my husband is the best person I know

. . . . .

Some Thoughts on Letter Writing

“Writing a letter today, I was struck by the fact that I had been here only three weeks. Three weeks elsewhere, in the country for example, would be like a day; here they seem like years. And I mean to write no more letters. What’s the use of telling anyone that I am changing? If I am changing then surely I am no longer the person I was, and if I am something else than heretofore, then it is clear that I have no acquaintances. And to strange people, to people who do not know me, I cannot possibly write.” Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, trans. M. D. Herter Norton, NY: W.W. Norton & Co., 1949. Page 15.

“I see him there on a night like this but cool, the moon blowing through black streets. He sups and walks back to his room. The radio is on the floor. Its luminous green dial blares softly. He sits down at the table; people in exile write so many letters. Now Ovid is weeping. Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing. In his spare time he is teaching himself the local language (Getic) in order to compose in it an epic poem no one will ever read.” Anne Carson, On Ovid, from “Short Talks” in Plainwater, NY: Vintage 1995. Page 32.
. . . . .

Tunnel Mountain Rainbow

Yesterday we climbed Tunnel Mountain.
We were tired and almost didn’t.
We almost said: no, we should work.
But then we said: no, let’s do it.
The trail was only steep in parts.
Switchback weather changed its mind.
Digital cameras can’t gauge distances.
Far-sighted mountains are far too blue.
Rundle’s bald head hid in the clouds.
Breathless from grade we kept talking.
We raced to glimpse the other side.
Gripping grey railing, we peered sheer down.
And found ourselves above a rainbow.
And were sure it was brighter from above.
And wondered if they could see if from below.
And said: wow, we almost didn’t bother.

. . . . .

Here’s what I remember:

(…this will only make sense to five or ten people…)

Everyone knows everyone.
The Saint James Gate.
Edmonton up one nothing.
The Embodiment of Idea.
Every other store sells sweets.
Every other store sells fleece.
The wolf T-Shirt.
The liqueur store dwarf.
The house yells at the dogs.
Myron on the phone a lot.
A voice in my ear.
The flash of digital cameras.
Low ceilings.
Lots of pipes.
But not on Flickr.
Front-end, back-end.
All the of kinds of vodka.
Filtered or otherwise.
One air mattress broken.
Sandra burned stuff in the yard.
The smoke got in our eyes.
Michael wrote a book.
I matched the balloons.
Plotted world domination.
Noble wouldn’t come over.
Nachoes at his place.
Multi-coloured cupboards.
An amber-coloured beverage.
A young Patti Smith.
We sat on the floor.
We went to the Devil.
Drank in her kitchen.
A naughty Geisha glass.
A pink-coloured beverage.
Michael got lost.
Sandra noticed.
We set out to find him.
Mike dressed up as him.
A girl drew me a map.
We walked in the street.
We found Michael at Myron’s.
Most names start with M.
M-A walked me home.
I fell asleep with my boots on.
World domination takes so long.

. . . . .

into the thin air

the thin air has made thieves of us.
homeless and breathless and dry-eyed,
we steal through the night.

through the night our skin thins and flakes,
elbows ashen and ankles arid enough to
scratch the surface of our illicit food dreams.

illicit food dreams feature fillets of fish flying
into our purses. deserts disappear in droves
and wherever we go crumb trails follow.

crumb trails follow us into the forest.
we gnash at snatched sandwiches
and feast on our forbidden fruit.

our forbidden fruit fills us with careful cunning.
into a stash of stolen moments we disappear,
thieves into the thin air.
. . . . .

A Dear John Letter

my name is carpenter
I hardly ever wear overalls, but
construction sites follow me around
I keep extra safety goggles in my purse
and don’t get to town much, because
you can dress a belt-sander up
but you can’t take it anywhere
if my name were rich
I’d still wear work pants, but
I’d ditch the hard hat
an armoured car service
would drive me into town
I’d be a hit at the cash & carry
I’d be a star at the solid gold bar
I’d sing double platinum hits

(happy birthday john richey)
. . . . .