Chez Nous … (another short story )

‘Rainbow’ supplied by CanadadaPHOTOGRAPHY.blogspot.com

Philip Pianovic, the famous retired poet of Warsaw, ran a hippie-style bed & breakfast outside the village of Grimsby in the southern province of Ontario in the country of Canada. From the middle of May to the middle of November he ran the B&B catering to the tourists of the increasingly fashionable Niagara wine district. He’d been doing it now for over 20 years since he had first immigrated in the late 70’s. He had lost two good wives over it, both hardworking pleasantly plump women, and had, in turn, gained four pleasantly plump precocious children. His four boys lived with him on the large maple-shadowed property with a riveting horizon view over Lake Ontario. During the season, Philip lived in the rambling central clapboard farmhouse while the children lived in three separate little cottages that he had built for them scattered about the place. The B&B arrangement was set up in such a way that they rented out the cottages on the weekends, mostly to American road trippers and to sightseers from Toronto. Philip’s children would happily move back into the farmhouse for the two or three nights always carefully preparing the cottages for the in-coming visitors before they moved over. No detail was too small. It was a game now as much as a way of life for them all. Who could create the most interesting cottage? How many photographs would the visitors take? To date, Gilly was winning hands down. Everyone photographed his little cottage at the back of the property down the cedar hedge laneway.

The entire place had the air of the poetic about it. Everyone said so.

Everyday at dawn Philip would let out the large lumbering Newfoundlander, Puzzler, and go around to the little houses to wake up his four boys. By the time they got over to the main house at seven, their breakfast would be hot on the table. Philip always cooked up a big hearty morning meal for his brood and any visiting guests.

There had been quite an influx of European visitors recently since the explosive debut of the Niagara Ice Wine Festival several years ago. Philip discovered that these tourists generally preferred to stay in the more traditional Victorian B&B’s run by the ex-pats up the North Shore Service road towards Niagara-on-the-Lake. Philip actually understood their ‘we-want-colonial-grandeur’ preference, and just continued on catering to the less demanding egalitarian simple-minded nature-loving touring North Americans.

Anders, his eldest son, now 19, lived beside the outdoor trampoline in the largest and most expensive of the little cottages called ‘Sunny One’. He was an enthusiastic sports nut and his cottage reflected his diverse water-sport interests. Surf boards and sailboats were jammed under the house frame. Paddles were criss-crossed beside the front door. ‘Sunny One’ was painted a vivid lemon yellow with ebony-black louvered shutters. A concrete leaf walkway that Anders had made out of a sunflower pod meandered from the cottage to the lake. It also had the best view. Anders had created a lot of additional features that made visitors want to return to it again and again. He’d built a queen-size box spring out of discarded barn-board in the attic for the waterbed. Created a mini spiral stairwell without an exterior handrail. Mirrored the little livingroom with tinted glass to add depth, and he’d even attached dried grapevines aroundthe bay window interwoven with jack o’lanterns to add festive atmosphere. The best feature however was the two-headed outdoor shower that he had hooked up behind the barn-board screen under the large maple tree near the trampoline. Many bums had faced out over the Lake through the years. The shower had steamy hot water flowing from its direct spray nozzles as well as a mosaic sunflower floor splash. He’d hung prisms in the branches for glamour. The shower was actually a favourite spot with all the guests within the B&B compound, not to mention a continual source of interest to the slow-poke beachcombers. Philip could rent out the whole ‘Sunflower’ package to an American couple for $250 U.S. per weekend. Easy. Needless to say, Anders took a great deal of pride in his little house. Even his assorted shiny hockey trophies mounted on the center beam added a novel touch to the eclectic interior décor. The whole spot had a marvelous madcap well-kept fun-feel about it.

Gilly, at 17, lived in the ramshackled cedar shake cottage down the cedar hedge laneway. ‘Peach Pod’, situated at the back of the property stood near the now empty peach sorting shed. Gilly was by all accounts a very gifted young artist. ‘Peach Pod’ had no view of the lake, but rather, had its windows facing out over the vast cultivated peach tree nursery that extended far up to the lip of the escarpment. It was the most desired cabin during June when the wafting floral scent of the orchard was at its most poignant and the soft ivory blooms were brain-embossing vibrant. Bees could be a problem though, especially later in the season, and Gilly had unfortunately developed an allergic reaction to their bites. He never complained, just popped another antihistamine, and told someone to listen to his speech for 30 minutes. If he started to slur, it was time to rush him up to the little medical clinic down the road in Grimsby. They only had to do that twice in all the years. ‘Peach Pod’ also had the best open-grate wood stove surrounded by bulging bookcases. Gilly kept the stove well maintained and primed at all times. It was the central topic of most of his conversations. He hated the cold with a passion and always kept the cabin warm and cozy. It was not uncommon to smell wifts of wood smoke late at night in the middle of August. His fingers had to be warm enough to draw his fanciful pre-raphealite portraits of the passing parade of guests that he would haphazardly tack up onto his cabin walls. There were sketches, folios and paintings everywhere. Gilly would cut down all his own firewood from the prunings and dead wood dragged in from the orchard. He was meticulous about this backbreaking job: the logs were never cut greater than 5″ in width, and were never longer than a foot in length. He would stack the wood creatively on the southeast side of the cottage so it would properly air dry over the season. His geometric woodpile was a sculptural thing of beauty. The guests always said so, and usually took several photographs from several different angles. Even the discarded trimmings were artfully arranged in a quixotic eye-catching teepee. Gilly was winning the competition by far again this year. Everyone said he was going to be famous, just like his father.

Michael, now 12, and Tom, at 9, lived in the smallest three-room red vinyl cottage, ‘Apple Shack’, beside the central farmhouse. Philip could keep an easy eye on them, and could shout out the window whenever their music or rough housing got too loud during the week. Naturally inquisitive explorers, these two healthy boys were always finding new treasures to add to their owner-proud front garden plot. Last week Michael had brought in a big hunk of trilobite rock that he had broken off from the limestone shale at Shandler’s Point. He had made a port-a-harness for Puzzler. The Newfoundlander was temporarily transformed into a turn-of-the-century workhorse as Michael marched alongside triumphant with his latest treasure. Tom, not to be outdone, had a fine collection of sword sticks and spoke shaved lances. After Michael had planted the stone, Tom had artfully latticed the exterior of thefront windows withsome of his finest sword creations even using a step ladder to get up there when no-one was looking. They were gaining in the competition this year, but weren’t quite ready yet. They wanted to win. They had even started wearing costumes in the hope that visitors would take more pictures. Tom had a grand billowing cape made from a discarded boat sail, and Michael had made a helmet with large holes for his eyes and nose from a discarded leaking sap tapping bucket. A pink toilet bowl cleaner jammed into the top added a certain regal flourish. Memorable lawn ornaments, the boys would freeze-frame when the clouds parted. Cameras were clicking.

All in all the Pianovics were a content and happy bunch.

Meals were an informal affair. Philip always had enough food in the two refrigerators in the house, and the rule was that they could eat whatever and whenever they liked, but the last eater always had to leave enough for the next food marauder. No one was to ever go short. It was all understood. They had to replace the milk pouch in the canister with the next and clip open the top, close the lids properly on the hamburger or hotdog toppings, unwrap the butter and wipe up any spills anywhere. Do their own dishes. Always leave the fresh poppy seed buns for the weekend breakfasts, and share any extras. It worked out well enough. Puzzler was, tangentially, a very happy dog.

Philip continued to write his poetry on the weekends when the central farmhouse was filled with his boys and the cottages were filled with eager guests. He would sit pensively on the screened-in verandah tying words together, twirling tongue teasers within his second language, while his boys ransacked the house and his guests settled in for their short stay. There would be many interruptions: keys, cars, directions, instructions, directives, counseling and even comforting. Philip found that these interruptions actually enhanced his poetry-making experience. He enjoyed these intrusive non-sequitors coming in from all quarters. When whatever issue or problem had been satisfactorily sorted, he would return refreshed to his poet mode and nook, and continue tinkering away creatively at new sounds linked to new symbols. He kept a scratch pad and pen handy on the verandah swing and just kept adding on bits when the spirit moved him. He had nearly 70 pages scribbled down at the moment, and the season was still young. It was only mid June.

The telephone rang. Anders took the call in the kitchen. It was another reservation for the up-coming weekend from a Miss Lucille Towe. She was a newcomer from Kingston, had never been to the region before, but had received a recommendation to stay there from Alec Demur, the poet from Vancouver nick-named ‘The Rowdy Acquiescent One’ aka T.R.A.O (spoken as Trao), who had visited two summers ago. He had suggested she try for the ‘Peach Pod’ cottage. “Unfortunately,” Anders explained, “‘Peach Pod’ is reserved for the weekend. All that was available was shared accommodation in the ‘Apple Shack’ with another single female tourist, Susie LeFleur from Montreal.” He added that there was quite a substantial savings in the rates if they shared. Almost half. Only $75 CDN each per night. There was a long silence from Lucille. Philip could hear Anders starting to oversell. He reached over and picked up the phone extension in the verandah. “Hello?” he charmed with his thickest baritone accent. “Can I help you?” Anders interjected, “That’s my father. He runs the place. You can talk to him. Dad, Trao recommended us to her.” He hung up and finished preparing his turbo submarine sandwich of ham, turkey and beef. He gave a quarter of it to Tom who was hovering nearby. Lucille asked, “I’m sorry but have you got anything cheaper? I’ll only be staying two nights, Friday and Saturday. I’m attending an Ice Wine conference in Grimsby on Saturday. It’s really a business trip, not pleasure, as much as I am interested in the area.” Philip considered the voice. “Well, we really don’thave that much available here, we can only sleep six comfortably in beds, but I might be able to squeeze you in at $30 a night on a cot somewhere if you are prepared to wing it a bit.” Lucille liked the sound of his voice too. “That sounds fine. I’ll fit in wherever. I just need a pillow for the night.” Philip replied, “No problem. We’ll find a spot for you.”

During the week everything went along as normal. The boys kept pretty much to themselves and their respective projects. Philip worked away on his poetry in the farmhouse. Thursday came and went, and Friday arrived bright and crisp. Philip awoke at dawn wondering where he was going to put Miss Lucille Towe. There had been no cancellations from any of the other reserved guests: all were coming. There really was no spare room. It was going to be another full house for the weekend. He drifted for a moment thinking how he might even plan a little extra entertainment for the group with perhaps a bonfire on the beach or a picnic at the back end of the orchard on Sunday. Then he returned to, where would he put her?At breakfast with the boys he raised the issue. They had to find room for Miss Lucille Towe. It was concluded that they would make up the empty peach sorting shed with a cot and comforter. Everyone would contribute three items from their cottage to make her feel at home. They could convert one of the sorting stalls into a make-shift 10×12 room. There was even a small window there that faced east towards the village of Grimsby; she would be able to see a tip of the lake. There was electricity. Gil had a spare lampshade. They could hook up the hose to give her a washbasin in one of the sap tapping buckets. Since Gilly’s cabin was rented to a repeat couple from Sedona, Arizona, she would need to come up to the farmhouse to share the john with the rest of the family. Michael was given the job to have that cleaned up. The pair from Arizona were a quiet artsy elderly couple and could keep an easy eye on Miss Lucille, they were friendly enough. So, it was all decided.

The boys put their assorted creative objects in the shed before heading off late again to school. Anders took over his biggest trophy, his kayak paddle and a more-or-less finished twisted-vine mirror frame. Gilly tacked up his striking portrait of Alec Demur aka Trao beside the window and left a spare drawing pad with a 3B pencil and pencil sharpener. Michael took over his well-thumbed copy of ‘A Natural History of Lake Ontario’ and put two of his favourite treasures on the window ledge: a flint chipped arrowhead and a found driftwood coconut shell. Tom took over a cluster of his bulrush wands dipped in yellow house paint and made a dramatic bouquet outside the front of the stall. Philip later added the finishing touches. He rolled open the small camp cot opposite the window so she could lie in bed and see out. He turned the mattress and made up the bed with fresh flannel sheets. He hung a hummingbird feeder off the maple justoutside the window. He put the lampshade over the bare bulb hanging in the middle of the room, painted the naked metal switch engine red, and put out three large clean lime green bath towels with a new bar of hand-made organic mint soap beside the bucket and the hose. He plugged in the tiny but efficient space heater, checking to make sure it was turned off. Then he rushed into the village to get more bacon for the weekend and a new batch of freshly baked poppy seed buns from the bakery.

By 6 o’clock ‘Chez Nous’ was full, except Miss Lucille had just called up saying that she was lost, she was up on the hills past the vineyards somewhere, phoning from the Esso station beside Carol’s Diner. Philip gave her simple turnaround directions and continued sitting on in the verandah, musing. Michael was tormenting Puzzler with a new harnessing contraption that threatened to involve his tail. Tom was cutting out banana blobs of felt to add onto his cape. Anders was adjusting the brace for his new slalom ski, tilting back and forth in the foot-hold, swaying left and right on the front lawn. He kept changing his forward front foot. He just couldn’t decide which was his stronger leg. Gilly was carefully sharpening his colouring pencils with an ancient Swiss army knife making a delicate perfect mound of swirling wood shavings on the center of the second tier of the front step.

The motorcycle was very loud as it rumbled up the loose gravel driveway towards the front of the farmhouse. A pleasantly plump woman in black leather turned off the engine and dismounted heavily. She lifted off her helmet putting it over the left handlebar. A cascade of ruby red hair fell voluptuously to her waist and she began slowly striding up to the house. The leather squeaked a bit between her legs. All had stopped what they were doing to watch this arrival. Philip put down his poetry scribbler and stood up in the verandah to watch her pass Anders who gave her a great big smile. As she neared the steps she said to Gilly, “I might upset your little pile there.” Gilly grinned and said it was all right. The steps sagged ominously under her heavy foot. The pile remained intact.

Philip opened the screen door as wide as he could. As she entered she said, “Hello. I’m Miss Lucille Towe.” He responded with a friendly chuckle, “Welcome to ‘Chez Nous’ Miss Lucille Towe. Or, should I say – Mistletoe?”

She giggled and nodded, her red hair swishing.The weekend had begun.

‘The Gilded Beaver by Anonymous’ – - – - 10th Anniversary Celebration!

“…mystery surrounds this erotically charged novel ….the ABC’s of Canadian fine furniture design and production…” – Ottawa Citizen

“…like good wine – rich, complex, pleasingly acerbic…a dance of intellect and eros that expertly unfolds …and closes with panache…” – Jim Bartley, Globe & Mail, Toronto

“…a psycho-sexual tug of war in the world of design…” – Spring Book Review, Globe & Mail, Toronto

‘The Gilded Beaver by Anonymous’

LOOK FORWARD

IMAGINE, dear reader, if you will, that we are in the year two-thousand-eight-hundred and ninety-seven.  2897 A.D.

We are watching an old man. His name is Wong. He is carefully removing the tattered remnants of decaying cloth from an ancient and fragile black walnut chair frame. As he gently brushes the dirt and grime from the back of a brittle marquetry panel, an inscription is uncovered in a language that he does not know. Close by, there are two numbers beside each other, pencil written by two different hands. One is relatively recent, the other an ancient script.

1997 / 2336

Wong’s experienced fingers caress the smooth worn-out carving on the shafts of the weakened legs. He discovers that the once dramatic and voluptuous human figurines at mid-section are oddly without hands. He has never in his long years of restoration seen this kind of mythic imagery. One leg had been professionally pinned and well repaired long ago. Wong quietly admires the subtle and skilful craftsmanship of his talented predecessor of 2336.

He stands back to study the piece. Puzzled.

Again he examines the intricate marquetry panel. Once beautifully done, it shows a small mouse nibbling on a cherry seated on a burled wreath of pine cones beneath a sprig of mistletoe. Wong’s index finger thoughtfully touches the adjacent inlaid antler image, trying to understand. Some pieces of the original ebony stringing are now missing.

He looks again at the overall shape of the chair frame.

He curls his fingers around the knuckle on the armrest. It had originally been crisply carved by, and for, a delicate hand. But the overall size of the chair was uncommonly large. And there was something being told by the taut stance of that back leg. And why was the wood hoof on the front cuffed with what seemed to be some kind of beaded bracelet? Again he looks at the fading antler image, damaged by time through exposure to raw sunlight.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the long lost mystery of Origin began to reveal itself to the ageing Master’s Eye. This strange decorative art object was North American, late-twentieth century, of that he was certain. As for the rest of the intricate details of its engaging story, who had so artfully made it, and why, that, he regretfully knew he would never ever know.

He chuckled, returning to his work. Nature still managed to keep some of her creation secrets from the prying sharp eye of her attentive white haired apprentice. “

…

Winner of the Hamilton Arts Council ‘Best Fiction Award’ in 2000, ‘THE GILDED BEAVER by ANONYMOUS’ was first printed in a Collector’s Edition of 800 Numbered Copies. In celebration of this title’s 10th Anniversary, ACORN PRESS CANADA is offering an EXCLUSIVE opportunity to ‘Canadada Readers’ to purchase this work significantly below the List Price  of $79.95 for an amazing  $48 Canadian !!!  Price ALSO includes global shipping & handling!

Dear readers, only 122 copies remain in stock. This is truly a Collector’s item …

If interested in owning your very own piece of  ‘Canadada’ – please send an International Money Order for $48 (Cdn funds) (- available at your local bank or post office – ) to ‘ACORN PRESS CANADA’ .  Mark envelope as follows: –

Attn: ‘The Gilded Beaver by Anonymous – 10th Anniversity Offer’.

ACORN PRESS CANADA

17 Main Street, P.O.Box 1425

Waterdown, Ontario, Canada, L0R 2H0

Remember to mention in your cover note – with your return address – that you are a ‘Canadada Reader’, then kindly allow 2-4 weeks delivery. This offer has been arranged ONLY for this  10th Anniversary Celebration and runs ONLY until December 31st, 2009. The Gilded Beaver by Anonymous’ is ONLY available at this price via CANADADA.

NB: First come, first served -  while quantities last.

… phew … how was that – ???

Love & kisses,

Canadada

‘Three Cups of Tea’: GET THIS BOOK!

Seldom do I whole-heartedly endorse a work of ‘non-fiction’ but this book by Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin  is truly inspirational.

Greg may be a ‘failed’ mountaineer, but he is without a doubt a truly accomplished ‘humanitarian’. His relentless determination to build schools in Northern Pakistan and Afghanistan over the past decade has been brilliantly retold by David Oliver Relin. The tale is nuanced, highly visual, evocative, wide-ranging, insightful and uplifting – a GREAT read.

Suitable for all ages, GET & GIVE THIS BOOK!

— Change an impoverished child’s life forever.–

Order direct from Greg’s foundation – The Central Asia Institute

…

Of comparable interest is a Canadian organization – Ten Thousand Villages ….

“Ten Thousand Villages began in 1946 when Edna Ruth Byler, a Mennonite Central Committee (MCC) worker, visited volunteers in Puerto Rico who were teaching sewing classes in an effort to help improve the lives of women living in poverty.

From this trip, Edna brought several pieces of embroidery home to sell to friends and neighbours. The pieces became quite popular and she soon added cross-stitch needlework from Palestinian refugees and hand carved Haitian woodenware to her inventory.”

Now a world class portal for hand-crafted goods, she promotes ‘Commerce with a Conscience’ … “Men and women around the world have a simple dream – to earn an honest living, provide a home, food and education for their children, and to be gainfully employed in a job that brings dignity and joy. Ten Thousand Villages partners with thousands of talented artisans in a healthy business relationship.

Often referred to as ‘Fair Trade,’ our philosophy of helping to build a sustainable future is based on the principle that trade should have a conscience. Through ‘fair trade,’ artisans receive respect, dignity and hope from working hard and earning fair value for their work.”

Order direct from Ten Thousand Villages

Gone Native … (another short story) …

(’Island Spirit’ by Canadada)

Sometimes we remember things differently and for different reasons.

It had begun in this way.

Jules had said,  “Use positive, then negative pressure, then finish with positive.”

She said, “Well, in Human Resources we say it differently – we say ‘try to make a sandwich’ – bread, meat, bread.”  Then she put her hands together in prayer.  “Like this.” And she opened them. He responded by saying, “Honey, I was addicted to ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ as a kid, you can’t coax them with childish rhymes. It’s conventional organizational behaviour.”  She countered, “Noise, noise everywhere – and not a spot to think.” He said, “I know you think it’s always some kind of psychic war – a negative mental pollution generated by the corporation, but you’re ….”  “Not entirely,” she interrupted, “I think it has more to do with atrophied DNA from previous evolutions. Think calcified neurons. There’s a name for them, ‘entrons’ I think. Anyway, it’s really a physical problem, not a behavioural one.” He said, “I think you’re wrong Ginny. Bottom line, it’s only ‘dog eat dog’.” She laughed, “Right you are Romeo!” She slapped his bare bum and he, in turn, lunged for her. They made love again.

She heaved herself up from the bed. “I’m getting up now. Alert the press.” Wrapping her dressing gown around her nakedness, she walked towards the window and drew back the curtains. It was still very early. A soft rosy golden light shimmered over the island landscape. The water lapped the rock shore, pecking the shimmering pink boulders with persistent impertinence.

She watched the shorebirds swirl above the out islands, and said, “Why don’t we go fishing today?” Jules rolled over to look at her, “Fish?”

She turned to him, “Yes! Let’s go fishing. I’ll make a picnic.”

He smiled, “Ok. You’ll have to do the worm thing though.”

She smiled, “My corporate he-man.”

She opened the door of their bedroom and shuffled across the living room towards the pantry and kitchen. Oreo, the cat, sprang off the worn sofa and headed for her bare feet, meowing. Ginger bent over and patted the pet, “Breakfast, old girl? Where are the mice? Where are the mice? Come on.” Oreo ran ahead of her towards the kitchen.

The screen door was rattling back and forth on the hook. The wind was coming up across from the mainland and blowing through the backdoor into the kitchen. Not a good sign, a northeast wind usually brought bad weather. Ginger re-fastened the hook securely, then shut the interior door. It should have been closed last night before they went to bed. She’d try to remember tonight, if they didn’t drink too much vino again. She filled the coffee pot with lake-drawn water and turned on the stove. The propane burner sputtered to life, shooting out an irregular flame that settled down to a relatively stable flow. She measured out three heaping tablespoonfuls of freshly ground coffee and popped them into the top of the tin coffeepot. She fed Oreo breakfast, then put away the dried dinner dishes from the dish rack. She thought how she might do a hand wash later. She opened the window overlooking the back deck, just a few inches to let in some of that fresh invigorating early morning air.

Jules entered the kitchen in slippers and loosely slung housecoat. “Feel like poached eggs on toast, bacon on the side?”

“Sure. I’m going to take my coffee out to the front deck away from the wind.”

“Ok, I’ll be there in a sec.” She placed her hand on his hairy chest as she slid past.

Jules poured his first cup and rattled around in the utensil drawer trying to find the poaching cups. They were at the back buried under an assortment of cottage kitchen junk: bottle fasteners, toothpicks and boxed matches. He then heaved out the cast iron fry pan from the lower pot rack and opened up the fridge. He pulled out the eggs, bacon, bread, juice and jam. Oreo swarmed in and out of his legs. He glanced out the window to the front. Ginger was settling into the striped lounge chair, putting up her feet. Her pink dressing gown flapped gently in the breeze. He watched as she brushed her auburn hair off her face. He flushed and smiled at his good fortune, he had finally gotten the girl. She was a beaut too. He turned towards the stove and placed the freshly butcher-cut bacon into the pan. The strips slowly sizzled. He poured another cup of coffee, adding two large spoonfuls of brown sugar. He thought of the tackle box – he couldn’t remember where his father had left it. It might be in the back of the tool shed, or tucked up under the bow of the old outboard. He’d have to check later. He opened the interior back door and the screen door immediately started to rattle loudly on the hook. A gust of fresh air billowed open his dressing gown. He glanced over towards the flagpole. The flag was cracking and snapping in the growing breeze. He looked towards the dock harbour, the boats were secure, bumping abit but nothing to worry about. The water beyond was starting to whitecap. He noticed that the wind had a bit of a bite in it. He pulled his dressing gown taut and shoved the hook on the screen door firmly down into the eye on the door-frame, closed the interior door again and went back to the stove to flip the bacon. He rummaged around for the rickety toast rack, splayed open the sides, and put on four pieces of the store-bought white bread. He turned on another burner and placed the toaster on it. He pulled out another pot to poach the eggs. Where was that tackle box, he wondered.

He heard Ginger call his name, once, loudly and urgent, he answered, “Yes?” He turned. “What is it?” He went over to the open window and looked over to the deck. Ginger wasn’t there. Only her coffee cup. “Ginger?” He opened the window wide. He listened. Only the muffled irritating rattle of that back door. “Ginger?” he called out again. He turned off both burners, lifting off the toast rack, “Honey?” He went through the living room and out onto the front deck, his eye scanned the island left to right. Only her coffee cup. “Honey? Gin?” He walked to the end of the deck and looked down towards the lake. He reasoned with himself that she was closer than that when she had called out. He turned back to the cabin, “Gin?” His eye scanned the building, he looked towards the bedroom, the curtains were open, the kitchen window was ajar. Nothing odd or unusual in any of that. “Ginger?” He walked over to where she had been sitting. Then he saw her.

She was lying face down on the ground, her body bare and her dressing gown jumbled up in a heap on top of the juniper bush. As he rushed over to her, he momentarily thought, my god, she’s dead. As he turned her over he waited for her eyes to open. They did not. She was breathing very slowly. “Ginger – can you hear me? What happened honey? Where does it hurt? Ginger?” He glanced quickly over her body, there did not seem to be any obvious breaks or lesions. No discolourment or disfigurement. Only her right hand seemed marginally swollen. He lifted her into his arms and took her over to the lounge chair. He took off his house coat and placed it over her torso. He lifted her head again, “Ginger, can you hear me?” He gently stroked her cheek, then gently patted her face, “Ginger – answer me – honey please!” He laid her head back down on the lounge chair and stood up. He stood with his hands on his bony bare hips staring at her. He had no idea what he should do. He had no idea what had happened or what was wrong with her. Did she have a heart attack? A concussion from a fall? Why had she yelled out? Had she seen something? Jules glanced back at the house and the spot where he had found her. Her dressing gown was still strewn over the juniper bush. He went over to pick it up. As he bent over to lift the gown from the bush, he instantly heard, too late, the distinct and horrifying buzz, a large rattlesnake flopped out and fell onto the underbrush. In fright, Jules collapsed backwards onto the rocks, losing one slipper. The snake slithered off into the bush. Jules scrambled to his feet and fell back again towards the deck. “Shit!” He sprang quickly up the steps and rushed into the living room heading for the hearth. He grabbed the fire poker and tore back outside. Ginger had not moved and her breathing was laboured. He dropped the poker and rushed to her. He lifted up her hand. Sure enough, two small pinpricks less than an eighth of an inch in diameter were now visible just between her thumb and index finger. He tried to remember what he was supposed to do. Anti-venom shot? Tourniquet? Cut and draw the blood? He tried to think.

It would take almost an hour by boat to get to the mainland. The nearest ship-to-shore phone was thirty minutes away. The nearest doctor and hospital was Parry Sound, three hours by boat and car, one hour by seaplane. He had stupidly left the medical kit in his car. He did not know what to do: suck the blood? How much time did she have?

Jules pulled off his draped housecoat, and lifted Ginger’s naked body from the lounge chair. He took her indoors and laid her out on their unmade bed. He grabbed a face towel from the wash basin on the bureau and tied it tightly around her wrist. He crooked her arm up, off the bed, to slow the circulation. She was unconscious.

Jules dressed quickly in shorts and a t-shirt, he put his car keys into his pocket. He wrapped Ginger in the bed blanket and lifted her again. He carried her to the kitchen, managed to open the interior back door, lift the hook on the screen door and shoved their bodies against the screen. He could hear the door flap shut, then open and flap shut again with a repetitive clatter behind him as he hurried down to the boats. He carefully stepped into the rocking outboard and lay Ginger down gently against the back wooden seat. He untied the stern, moved up to the wheel, started the engine and unhooked the bow line tossing it onto the dock. He reversed his way quickly out of the sheltered harbour. The white caps splashed into the back end of the boat. He changed gears and thrust the throttle forward. The boat lifted up and took off.

His instincts were to go to the Key. There were other people there, cottagers and old-timers. There must be someone there who would know what to do, who could help. The boat thundered over the waves, the belly slammed up and down as it smashed against the white caps. He glanced back at Ginger. But there was only the blanket. Jules let go of the wheel and looked around the boat. Where the hell had she gone? He pulled back the throttle and the boat slithered to a bobbing stop. The waves continued to belt against the side of the boat. The wind was blowing hard. Jules looked back over the water – had she fallen out? No sign of her. “Ginger?” he screamed into the wind.

Ginger placed her coffee cup down on the patio table and gazed out over the out islands. The rocks glistened with morning dew. It was going to be another gorgeous and magical Georgian Bay day. Windy, to be sure, but that was half the fun. From the corner of her eye Ginger saw something move left. She turned her head scanning the rock. She saw it, the island bunny. She sat up pleased. The island bunny had come back. By the end of the summer last year it had learned to take treats from her hand. She put out her hand to it as it leapt for cover into the juniper bush. Gone from her view, Ginger stepped off the deck and walked slowly and quietly over to the bush. The rock was cold and damp under her bare feet. The lichen too, usually so brittle and crunchy, was like soft wet moss underfoot. She leant over pulling back one of the bush branches and murmured, “Are you in there little island bunny?” Before she knew what hit her, the rattler struck. She stared at the snake’s mouth latched onto her hand, stunned, then she grabbed the writhing tail and yanked. The snake let go of her and swung around to its tail. She instantly dropped it. The snake fell full length across the bare rock, twisted, upside down. Ginger’s only thought was to kill it. Kill it. She couldn’t step on it, and there were no small rocks handy to smash it. In that split second, she whipped off her dressing gown and hurled it over the snake area. Then she scooped up the bundled wriggling mess. Suddenly she felt dizzy. She knew she was going to pass out. Jules. She had to call Jules. That’s all she could remember about the strike.

She first came to in the bedroom. She watched as Jules dressed himself. Why is he in such a hurry she wondered? We were going fishing, why was he putting his car keys into his shorts? She blanked out again. She remembered someone carrying her. She remembered the brush of a vinyl windbreaker against her cheek. And her bum resting on a damp wooden bench. Her hand had ached. She felt something cold crawling up her body towards her brain. Slowly, insidiously, methodically, seeking her, wanting her.

She had to escape and quickly. As she slithered over the side of the boat, the blanket fell off. Naked, she could feel the water luxuriantly envelop her form. Rather than struggle with the swell and mad swirl of the whitecaps she ducked underwater and started to swim back towards the island. She moved quickly, effortlessly, naturally. Once at the island she slid ashore and could immediately feel the sun baked rocks warm her body. It would have been nice to lie there for awhile after such a long swim, but oddly, she felt hungry. The spasm in her stomach was demanding. She knew there was food in the cottage, but that was so far away, surely she could find something closer. She started to make her way towards the buildings. Then she stopped. There was a large dragonfly flitting above the tall grass, bobbing from point to point. Maybe if she stayed perfectly still it would come close enough. She shifted her body weight ready to snatch at it. And waited quietly, as still as stone. Only her black eyes followed the darting dragonfly as it came nearer and nearer, blissfully ignorant. She sprang at it and chomped it down in one swift bite. Delicious. But hardly enough. She continued on with her scavenging. Entering into the tall grass, so many ants and insects. Hors d’oeuvres. She could feel something move about 20 feet from her. Something small, rodent like. It was moving towards the kitchen. She too moved towards the kitchen. From the movement on the ground she knew she would intercept shortly. She sped ahead, then stopped and waited. The mouse was scurrying forward, its cheeks full of food. It burst through the grass and stepped directly onto Ginger who struck out and swallowed the mouse in one giant gulp. The mouse undulated down towards her gullet. She lay contented for a time. The sun was getting hot. Maybe a nap now. A long sleep. Better to hunt at night anyway when critters would be active. She thought of the rock barbecue. There was a perfect hole on the side facing the flagpole where she could curl up inside for a time. And she slowly made her way over there.

Jules started to cry. He had spent the last two hours slowly traversing the bay looking for Ginger’s body. Clouds were forming over the mainland, the wind had died down, and the water was calmer, but it would rain soon. There was nothing. Not a trace. He needed more gas, the tank was almost empty. He made his way back to the island harbour wiping the tears from his eyes. He tried to think, to form a plan, but all he could see was her naked body crumbled at the juniper bush. He had thought she was dead then. He tied up the boat. He would retrace his steps, maybe there was something in that. As he wandered back up to the cottage, he walked past the flagpole, it was then that he saw the rattler slowly slithering across the bare rock towards the barbecue. He stopped dead in his tracks. Then stepped backwards, slowly step-by-step, towards the harbour. When below the hill, he turned and ran to the boat and pulled up the emergency paddle. I’ll kill the bugger. He hurried back to the hill and up the footpath. The snake was almost there. Its long sinuous body bulged with a recent meal. Jules moved into the tall grass to the right to come up behind it. He stalked forward quietly holding the paddle ready for a strike. He was within four feet of the beast when it turned and coiled. Its rattler buzzed viciously. He raised the paddle quickly. But too late. The snake sprang towards his shin and struck his leg. Jules slammed the blade of the paddle down onto its back and twisted the edge sharply. The snake let go of his leg and curled in agony around the paddle blade. Jules lifted the edge and brought it down hard again against the rock and severed the snake in two. Mouse blood and innards oozed onto the pink rock. The rattler was definitely dead. Jules dropped the paddle and looked down at his leg. A tip of one of the fangs was still stuck in his shin, he pulled it out, and suddenly felt very dizzy.

Ginger wondered what was taking him so long. She would have had breakfast served up and finished by now. She turned towards the cottage and called out, “Jules?” She looked at the kitchen window, she could not see his silhouette. She looked at the bedroom window, the curtains were open but there was no sign of him. She stood up, “Jules, do you need a hand?” She sighed and opened the door into the living room and walked through to the kitchen. The toast was burning, the water in the egg pan was at a rolling boil and the bacon was burnt to a crisp. Typical guy, she thought, wanders off and forgets the stove. “Jules?” She turned off the burners, threw out the toast and opened the back door to let out the smoke. The screen door immediately started to rattle. She glanced down at the hook, it was out of the eye. She called out, “Jules?” and looked towards the flagpole. Then she saw him. Face down on the rocks.

Leonard Longhouse from the Henvy Inlet Indian Reserve had been out fishing near Fox Bay when he noticed the drifting boat pushing up against the red channel buoy. When he went over to see what was going on, he found both Jules and Ginger unconscious in the bottom of the boat. Both were stark naked. He immediately knew it was the Spirit Bay Rattler. Leonard used his grandfathers’ powers to revive them, then he took them into the Key for conventional medical treatment.

To this day, neither Jules nor Ginger can be entirely sure what happened that morning, exactly. They fixed the screen door and now keep the medical kit on the island at all times. They gave Leonard a 30-ounce bottle of whisky and thanked him for his help. He, in turn, had told them that they had to give the island back. They didn’t know what that meant exactly either.

The only thing they did differently was this: between themselves one night while sitting under the stars beside the glowing barbecue they raised their wine glasses and drunkenly paid homage to that strange bewildering day. They splashed their drinks onto the glowing embers and jokingly re-christened the island ‘Rattlesnake Rock’.

Yet, to Leonard and others from the Reserve, it is still that unnamed centre island of ‘Go Home Bay’.

Brainwaves: Frequencies & Functions …

… the brain activity chart above (circa 2008) raises as many questions as it answers …

… as does the image below of the Dalia Lama watching t.v.  …

... and what about gender?

The chemistry of the brain is not gender neutral. Hormones, glandular activity, body functions interact with the brain  -  & vice versa ..

…. Is it possible to separate the Sexual Mind from the physicality of the Brain?

I wonder …

The Decorative Peasant … (another poem)

… from my vantage boudoir point
of West of Centre -
or Left of Centre -
or Right of Centre -
depending if you politically gaze
on
or out
or in at -
I watch the continual
movement, surge
ebb and flow
of urban, suburban, rural
humanity
course along the young blood
of this my Canadian civilization

My own beating heart heaves
harmoniously
alternating panic with patience
adjusting to nuance of mechanic
and organic insurgence

…

waiting, I peel
a plumb purple grape
plucked from the cluster bounty
of my small garden
and pop its full bodied ripeness
into my mouth,
then, absentmindedly
crave that mysterious
envelope of skin

But the shocking discovery of
that succulent pulp voluptuousness
disorients profoundly
my hap-hazard analytical
watchful
Being

-    for a brief instant
the Centre shifts    –

LIFENESS ripples rapidly
down to the scarlet tips of
my budding toes

I gaze outward again
to regain my bearings
and yes, all is as it was before
(All was is as it is was before)

I furtively pull out another grape
from the clipped cluster
and methodically
peel back
the hardened weather-exposed
encasement of purple epidermis
and once more pop
that fleshy perfect orb inward
to taste again
n-wow-ness …

A Fertile Imagination … (another poem)

means
a willingness to
x – plore
the seemingly meaningless

it demands neutrality -
a suspended judgement
during quixotic questing – though
questing does bring understanding

as shape shifting synaptic valuations
stimulate the eventual judgment
of election & selection – yes, it does
zing & zang, it zings & zangs

a fertile imagination applies
what has been learned &
extends perception again & again
awwaaay out there beyond the known

to become thought -
filled feelings that cross pollinate &
create lush hybrids that BLOOM
with fresh clean BEAUTY

a fertile imagination allows
mindful indulgence. It just IS -
BEST when natural morality remains
grounded in Awe & Wonder

a fertile imagination is
critical for us & our combined evolution.

And  Survival.

Always ask WHY -
BECAUSE … you SEE …

IF we remove Fertile, all becomes Sterile
IF we remove Imagination, all Collapses
- nothing would remain, only a lonely
… …  monotone of monotony … …

Fused together we insta-leap into multi-verse
and EVERYTHING BECKONS At Once
come, sweet one
come SEE …

CONTRASTS: Hand-processed & Digital Photography – Exhibition @ The Sunrise Gallery, Hamilton, Canada

‘Pastoral Seen’ by M.L.Holton (SOLD)

Opening Reception:

Easter Weekend, Saturday, April 11th, 2-5 pm

Running thru til May 3rd, 2009.

Thurs, Fri, Sat & Sundays 1-5 pm.

@

The SUNRISE GALLERY,

HAMILTON (Beach Area), CANADA

For more info, MAP & phone – link HERE.

‘Planet Forward’ on PBS … Airing April 15th, 2009

The following web-based production struck me as innovative ‘tell-a-vision’:

http://www.planetforward.org/

The ‘idea’ is to draw on the vast resources of the web to whip up an informed ‘citizen’ broadcast that will collate, merge & present divergent points of view about our current energy needs and resources …

Check it out.

My own contribution occured sometime ago … waaaaay back in 2008, over at another blog site ‘wattsupwiththat’ …. If you want to consider that, here’s the link.

The main post there, ‘Top Ten Science Based Predictions that Didn’t Come True’,  acted as a ’spring board’ for a looonnng digression – and TIMELY DEBATE -  about Energy and OUR  Energy consumption. ‘The Debate’ in the ‘comment section’ got very heated & INTERESTIN’ …

Well worth the read.

All in all, this wondrous planet IS our Future …

… we forget that at our peril …

Ring of Fire: The Movie … (another short story)

Draft 4. Screen Treatment:

An award winning international portrait photographer, Sir Anthony Post, introduces himself to the camera by announcing his decision to quit photography . “My eyes have been blinded by the Sun.” We see that he is basically a likeable fellow now living in splendid ‘retirement’ in Barbados in a gentleman’s ‘grand house’ with servants, pool and a stable of thoroughbred horses. Life has been good to him as he enters the eve of his life – he has just celebrated his 70^th birthday.

But tragedy has struck. His 15-year-old daughter by his second marriage has just been discovered dead in the pool. She has drowned and the circumstances are highly suspect. Anthony clearly knows who the murderer is, but he cannot and will not do anything about it. He knows too that he is ultimately responsible for this huge loss and that he must bear both the responsibility and his grief in shameful silence.

It is, after all, his just due.

He prepares a large transfer of funds to an offshore account as per the instructions of his young and beautiful wife. She is packing – content and triumphant – and ready to go. Tony picks up a faded snapshot from his desk and looks at it long and hard. “My eyes have been blinded by the Sun. At least, that is what I will say.”

Flashback to 1960. Anthony is a precocious and ambitious young prairie boy fresh out of the west coast Emily Carr Art College. His portfolio is strong and he is the pick of many newly emerging advertising companies. Soon he is winning enticing commissions that promote a variety of different consumer products. He cuts his hair short while his peers continue to grow theirs long. He develops a certain infamy for the stark realism of his work – much the result of offsetting angles. Objects are not framed they are sideswiped. ” I learned it from the prairie winds”. It is an unsettling but effective technique to get others to both look and see. His career takes off.

After several years of product shots from cans to cars, he is invited to undertake more ambitious projects. He begins to work on annual reports for corporate businesses. Americans begin to call. He moves to New York in 1970 and lives it up as an ambitious go-getter. He frequents Greenwich Village jazz clubs and Harlem nightclubs befriending unknown talented musicians and ladies-of-the-night. One young friend and co-vivant, Stewart, is a sax-playing Brit. Stewart was ‘hiding’ in America from his father’s ambition that he become a partner in the London based century old family law firm. They explore together.

In the late 70’s as Anthony’s pay cheque increases, he moves from the bohemia of the Lower West Side to the tony Upper East Side. Soon one plum ‘corporate photography’ assignment has him off to Indonesia for three months. There, he photographs an open-pit gold mine, part of the Busang deposit. Smelters and fires roar up from the bowels of the earth. While at the mine he is witness to corruption on a scale unimaginable in the generally law-abiding confines of North America. To fulfill his own curiosity, he casually and somewhat innocently associates with an unscrupulous local ‘geologist’, Raoul, to further investigate and ‘learn’. He inadvertently becomes involved in a series of events that embroil him in a controversial ‘corporate fraud’ (known as salting) involving the very company that has hired his services. During this interlude, while running with the rogue, Tony has a short sexual encounter with a shy local girl. Raoul had introduced the pair at a ‘company beach picnic’. The quiet girl is the daughter of the native chief of the Wawanessi tribe that inhabits the area surrounding the Busang deposit. The local girls are all very popular with the foreign men. But the government of Indonesia, the Wawanessi tribe, and her father are strictly against any inter-racial sexual mingling. It is forbidden. Tony is merely and somewhat naively satisfying his basic body urges. He cares for her in an off-hand kind of way and pays her handsomely for her thigh favours. He loves to burnish that penny birthmark on the back of her right thigh.

For the native girls, sex with the foreigners is a cheap and easy way to get valuable American dollars. They instinctively know how it will alter their centuries-old life and give them a modicum of freedom. As the chief’s daughter, the girl knows she enjoys certain privileges and associations. Advised by her mother (number 7 wife of the chief), she is doubly discreet and also highly ambitious. When she learns of Tony’s involvement with the ‘salting’, she uses it as leverage to secure her own future. She threatens to expose the ‘fraud’ to his unsuspecting overseas employers.

In anger at her surprising betrayal and ‘native’ cunning, Tony brutally rapes her, leaving her with a crashing blow across the face. He cruelly photographs her as she lies whimpering in the corner. However, he still throws the $5000 U.S. she had requested into her lap with the parting words ” Who would ever believe you? You’re just a two-bit nothing.” The assignment over, he returns home. Older and wiser and poorer.

Returning to America he continues to cultivate his career. Annual reports turn into corporate executive head shots – he flatters and shoots. In the early 1980’s, he is picked up by global media/advertising companies as a rising star ‘portrait’ photographer. He becomes a regular contributor to Vanity Fair, People, and Playboy; and quickly becomes the darling of celebrities who seek his irreverent yet sympathetic portraiture. His schedule is filled too with national dignitaries; he even shoots the ‘official portrait’ of two Presidents. And he begins to make a lot of money.

He meets and marries his first wife, Alice, in 1982. Tony is 37, she is 25. Alice is working in the public relations department for her family-owned privately held brewery company. A fluff job, she doesn’t really have to work for a ‘living’. She is an Ivy League born and bred beauty – complete with Yale and Vasser-Wall Street parents. Tony meets her on a ‘commercial shoot’. Their ‘best man’ is Stewart, (now a junior partner in the family law firm in London). Stewart arranges a British pre-nup that on the surface seemingly protects Alice’s large inheritance for any children. Tony grows his hair long into a ponytail when his peers cut theirs short. His is always the maverick ‘fashion’. Soon Tony is introduced into the tightly controlled world of the old money WASPS of the East Coast. The association gives him an additional polish and charm and her money further propels him into the international jet scene. Alice quits her job. Tony and his new bride travel to Europe frequently on her money and hobnob with private school and privileged young adults as well as eurotrash Prince and Princesses in Vienna, and Paris. She gets pregnant, but loses the baby after a bad fall on the ski slopes of Gstaad. Not long after, while lunching at a ‘see and be seen’ restaurant in Lichtenstein, Tony is approached by a Royal Family Messenger to ask if he would consider producing a ‘private family album for the Royal Family’. He does, at an exorbitant fee. While there he is privy to several indiscretions and uses photographs to extort an additional ‘privacy’ fee. The Queen, meanwhile, in gratitude for his outstanding work, bestows him with an honorary knighthood and ‘in-house’ title – ‘Photographer of Our Realm’. Now as ‘Sir’ Anthony Post the commissions just pour in. Alice gets pregnant again, but loses the baby again. She meanwhile gets progressively jealous of his growing social success and increasingly demands more of his time and his money. The marriage turns sour. He finally divorces her under English law – giving her nothing from his burgeoning estate – and gets away with it because she has ‘failed to deliver an heir’.

Single again, rich, popular and very manly, he dates a variety of intriguing self-possessed and powerful moneyed American women. His relationships are short lived however as his work always comes first. The women are initially attracted by his prospects – good looks, life of the party, and growing international fame. But they eventually find him to be an emotional lightweight, unreliable and always ‘away on assignment’. Men are increasingly interested – in his rugged prairie good looks and polished charm. He meets and uses his new ‘artist’ acquaintances to further his commissions. He develops a ‘Coward-esque’ friendship with a Lebanese ‘art dealer’ who traffics in antique bronze horses. Soon he is introduced into the fabulous wealth and greed of oil-rich Arabs. ‘Sir’ Anthony is feted and a welcome palace guest and court photographer. He takes his camera everywhere and records it all – he then sells the world of the Saudi Princes to the National Geographic. (Armchair anglos just love those powerful sheiks with their veiled women chattel…) He photographs sidelong forbidden glances, the exoticism of desert racehorses and Moorish architecture. He wins his first coveted CNN World Photography Grand Prix Award.

When he returns to his New York Park Avenue flat his secretary delivers his messages and mail. There is a call from the pressroom at the United Nations, a Miss Emma Hanlu. He returns her call and instantly responds to her shy flirtatious tone – “Might he be available to group photograph the newly appointed Environmental Commission?” He meets with her to discuss the details and in short order they are an item. Emma is an outstanding Hawaiian beauty of surprising wit, charm, sex and youth. Young male heads turn as she glides into a room, and old men visibly buck up. Tony is besotted and marries her in a passionate instant. Anna’s mother does not fly over to the weekend-in-Vegas wedding. According to Emma, her mother does not speak English anyway and is a ‘bit backward’, her mother calls her ‘my little mongoose’ and is sort of embarrassing, so it doesn’t really matter. She never knew her father, it’s a non-issue. Tony could care less, all he wants is Emma.

Emma immediately becomes pregnant and has a child, a girl, Anna.

Anna is a beautiful honey coloured baby with only one unusual blemish – a small penny size birthmark on the back of her upper right thigh. A remarkable coincidence, Tony remembers the local native girl of long ago, but he says nothing of this to Emma. He does however derive a perverse pleasure in this seemingly peculiar ‘synchronicity’.

At 52, Tony settles into married life contentedly. He buys a small house on Long Island in South Hampton for his family, and keeps his apartment in the city. He dots on Anna and spoils her rotten. He continues to trophy and squire Emma. The money is pouring in. Tony hires a young ‘digital’ protégé, Daniel, to assume his small/mid size assignments and ‘work his profile’ on the internet. Additional awards and honors keep coming in. He receives an honorary title from the American Press Club.

Emma is increasingly homesick for Hawaii, and wants to introduce Anna to her ailing mother. Tony, ” suddenly frantic with business”, suggests a short holiday to the Caribbean instead, Jamaica. While there they meet Jonathan Winslow an old Greenwich village acquaintance of Tony’s, now Chief of Police and a major drug lord. He and Tony develop an easy money-laundering scheme. Tony is a frequent international traveler so he can move cash with impunity. He becomes Johnny’s front man and gets 17% of all the cash he redirects on Johnny’s behalf. Johnny also holds several exotic Caribbean properties and makes them available to the Posts as desired. These properties distract Emma while Tony “works” and she develops a small reputation as a ‘design consultant’. She makes a little pocket money. Anna attends private day school in New York.

At 62 Tony buys Johnny’s Barbadian ‘hideaway’, moves his family down, (escaping taxes) and settles into the life of an island gentleman. Emma redecorates with charming elan. A retrospective of his ‘advertising’ work of cans and cars is put on at the Gagosian Gallery in New York to great acclaim. Books are published that record his later ‘indigenous people’ works. He is lauded by the privately owned ‘liberal’ press for ‘showing the evil effects of corporate imperialism’ (especially noteworthy are the photographs of the tiny beaten native girl strewn with cash…) He gives several interviews by satellite. Larry King. 60 minutes. He produces a series of platinum prints ‘Thoroughbreds: Royalty and their Horses’ and is exhibited at the new Getty Museum. Life goes on.

He makes Anna her first pinhole camera as a birthday gift when she turns 10, and delights in island sojourns with her to teach her how to look and see. He buys her a horse, then one for he and Emma. They ride the island, exploring, enjoying. Life is borderline bliss.

Johnny Winslow dies of a heart attack. None are the wiser about his dealings with Tony.

Daniel – still running the office in New York – develops an interest in pinhole photography, grows his hair long and begins to visit at Christmas. He is developing an interest in the budding Anna.

Tony’s 70^th birthday is coming up and he wants a large celebration. Over 300 international guests and celebrities are to attend the gala 3-day affair (and thereby indirectly boost the island economy). The Governor makes special provisions and remarks that Anna is turning into a stunning beauty just like her mother. Tony’s heart swells with pride.

Suddenly Tony notices that Emma has gone strangely quiet. Her youth and gaiety vanish overnight and when he seeks affection she displays a forbidding anger. His conscience however intuits the shadowy truth. He begins to drink heavily – morning, noon and night. He sarcastically suggests she see a psychiatrist and he seeks solace in the pleasant and innocent charm of his daughter Anna, though the horrible and diabolical truth of his old sin becomes increasingly difficult to bear. Emma grows increasingly volatile and deliberately attempts to sabotage the ‘father-daughter’ love and affection between Anna and Tony. Anna, meanwhile, does not understand their muted martial problem and becomes increasingly resentful and angry with her mother. Emma is beside herself.

She has received a copy of her dead mother’s Will. Attached to it was a privately sealed envelope to her from her mother. Inside Emma finds a faded snapshot of Tony as a young man. He is boldly standing on a beach with his arm around her bashful mother – and the note reads in broken English: “Emma, Tony Post your daddy. No good. I shame. Move to Hawaii. When I see your wedding picture, I see our future. My little mongoose will eat this poison snake. We Wawanessi now all gone. Our land, our people, our spirit broken. And for what my baby this sad sad life? Never no gold in Busang. Never no gold. Ask your daddy now. Always kiss kiss you, mama”.

In a heart-wrenching scene, Emma slowly drowns Anna after the opening night festivities of Tony’s birthday. The following morning Tony discovers Anna’s body in the pool. Emma silently gives the photograph to Tony, and tells him she is leaving. With cold and forbidding eyes, she also tells him she expects the proceeds of his entire estate to right his great wrong.

Tony sits at his desk in the library.

He looks again at the faded snapshot, and considers his bleak future –

“My eyes have been blinded by the Sun.”

Camera Close-up of his face, his eyes, to the centre of his left pupil, enter in, saturate frame to jet black …

His voice over. ” … at least,that is what I will say … “

Cut.

(Author’s note: This ‘fictional story of a screen treatment’ is loosely based on the infamous Bre-X ‘gold mine’ salting scandal. When that ‘news story’ initially broke, the Canadian investment community, both greedy investors and savvy underwriters, suddenly ‘came of age’, kicking and screaming …)