When Brothers Love … (another short story)

He had said, early on, that one can only perceive what one can see. She, naturally, did not agree with him. This had been their way.

When they had last met, they had tried yet again for reconciliation. He had given her a small, hard-carved argillite pendant. As he had given it to her, she had accidentally dropped it and the top edge had chipped off. He gruffly remarked that she was certainly cavalier. She brusquely replied that she was sorry: it was an accident. She slipped the broken rock into her pocket. Soon, however, their escalating bitter words pushed them even further apart, until, finally, they abruptly broke off from each other. Later, alone, separate and thoughtful, they wondered just how they had become so estranged. What was really going on between them?

Meanwhile, she continued to sit for his brother. He had been working on her portrait now for several long months. And while she sat, framed, as she was, by the early morning light from the east-facing window, they would talk, his brother and she, about the ways of seeing.

He was painting her as an angel.   She knew this was stupid. But she said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the flow of his fantasy.  She just sat, hoping he would be finished soon.   It was only a matter of time, in her mind, before he redesigned the glistening wings, darkened the golden aura to some mud sepia, removed the cherry glow from her cheeks. Just a matter of time. Perception, she knew, changes. The wind blows. It is as simple as that. And yet, she sat.   Still, quiet.  Mindful of his intent gaze.   For that reason the portrait was taking an indeterminable amount of time.

She preferred it best just before they began. When they went into the studio barn together they would idle about making tea, or coffee, listening to the weather hiss through the wooden walls.  He might lightly touch her elbow as he gently guided her to the stool. She would tease him about his ever scruffy shoes. She would flow with his motion like she used to flow with his brother’s motion. Within that motion intimacy was the knowing – ‘you belong to my brother’ , ‘I belong to your brother’.  Never spoken of course. But there – in the air. For this reason too, the portrait was taking an indeterminable amount of time.

The final reason that things were taking longer than usual was that he, the painter brother, was falling in love with her.  And as any painter knows, this is not what a painter should do.  It disrupts one’s Work.   It interrupts one’s Ambitions.  But there he was, sable brushing gold fleck around this pretty angel’s face.

This problem was compounded by the simple fact that he was married to a good woman who he loved. He had had two children with her. He loved making love to her, and he loved her making love to him. Yet, here was this angel, sitting quietly, waiting patiently, perched on a stool, bathed in warm sunlight. He knew what a splendid gift his brother had indirectly given him. To fall in love with her seemed the most natural way of saying thank you.  But it was a problem. He knew he could only ever really touch her through his painting.  Her portrait was interrupting all his other work.  He had spoken of it with his wife.  She knew what was happening to him. And she, being the good wife that she was, would always make sure that there was enough tea or coffee in the studio barn before they began their painting sessions.

And so the portrait continued: -

“What do you think, Jack, about painting me in the moonlight?”

He paused. His brush lifted from the painting.

“Nude?”

She turned her head slightly. Looking at him.

“Sure. Why not?”

They held eyes for an instant. Then he looked back to the canvas.

“It would be something.”

“I guess it all depends on when we finish this one,” she said.

He put his brush into the thalo blue.  Pushing it around the oil, thinning it.  She resumed her pose. Exactly.

From her vantage point, she could see out the window. She was able to watch the training arena with its broad white blank railings. The wind was starting to blow. She noticed a bent post. She quickly licked her lips.

“Did you see the moon last night Jack? It was so beautiful. Full.”

Jack paused. Lifting the brush again from the painting.

“Yes. We walked home.”

“I envy you that.  I can see it now, strolling down some river path, past the lake, beneath the willow trees. I can see it.”

He touched his brush into the yellow, sliding the tip into the olive green.

“Any news from your brother?” she asked.

He lifted his brush. Pausing. They listened to the air.

“No. Not recently.”

She held her gaze out the window. Not flinching.

He placed the brush near her eye. The tip touched the wet canvas.

“I could give him a call tonight, and find out what’s up. Any message?”

“No. Thanks. We will speak when we will.”

She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. He noticed her face fell.

“Any horses in the arena today?” he asked.

She focused. “No. But there is a post bent over by the gate.”

“What’s happened?”

“Looks like one of the mares has been rubbing it. Probably that dappled gray.”

“What makes you think it’s her?”

She laughed. “Haven’t you seen her Jack? The way she runs around? She’s just a frisky filly forever taunting that tired old stallion.”

He smiled, changing his brush. Wiping his hands on his smock.

She looked out the window again. She noticed the trees were budding. She had been watching them throughout the winter, wondering at just what point they would finally brave the cold. It always happened so suddenly. This new discovery was like a beacon. Her body hummed to it. Even through the window. The trees beckoned, inviting her to come closer. But she was stuck, immobile, enraptured at a distance. ‘Be still’, she said to herself, ‘be still.’

He was painting around her thigh.

“If there is one thing I would like to do, Jack, it would be to paint you in the nude.”

Startled, he lifted his brush. He saw she was smiling.

He smiled too. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll paint you nude painting me nude. Deal?”

She chuckled.

“Spring has sprung. Me thinks,” he said.

She sighed, glancing down at her hands. “Yup. Guess so.” She looked out the window again.

Jack’s wife was coming down the path with a plate of cookies.

The barn door opened.

“Hi. Jack, your brother is on the phone. He wants to know if we would go up to his place for brunch. I told him you were painting.”

The stool squeaked.

“I need another hour. I’ll call him back when I’m done.”

“O.K. How’s the coffee? I’ve brought some cookies.”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Well, I won’t disturb you. Nice to see you.”

The girls nodded at each other. And the door closed.

“Are you good for another hour?” he asked.

“Sure. Then I’ve got to get going.”

“All right.”

They resumed their positions. He continued painting for a time.

“I’ll have to fix that post I guess,” he mumbled.

She suddenly jumped up from the stool.

“Jack! Jack! Here she comes!”

He rushed to join her at the window to see and as he did his brush blazed a bright orange trail right across the centre of the canvas.

Meanwhile, after Luke put down the receiver, he returned to the calf skin sofa, and lay down. The room was filled with books. Architectural drawings were stacked upon the marble floor. He placed his right arm over his eyes and tried to sleep.

…

Her taut thighs, calves, ankles and bare feet curled around the silky body of the steaming stallion as she thundered on towards the birch grove.

Asleep, Luke’s hand slid to the floor. His immaculately cleaned baby finger nail touched the glistening white marble.

Her mud-caked gripping fingers clung to the coarse wild mane. Her red auburn hair blew wild. Warm blood flushed through her cherry cheeks, and her lips glistened with saliva and early morning dew.

Luke turned his head.

As she slid from the broad backside, the large equine head turned and nuzzled her matted tussled hair. She left him with a gentle pat, and began the slow walk up the rocky promontory.

Luke opened his eyes.

She stood very still. Her aching body absorbed the vastness of the extending horizon. The wide lake far below shimmered bronze and gold as it stretched further east and west. Skeletal feathered trees rose from the water’s edge. Mauve mist hugged the shoreline. Birds soared slowly to and fro high above her head.

She took hold of the rough stone in her pocket. Pulling it out, she rubbed her thumb along the broken edge. Holding it up to the rising sun, she cried,

“So, just what is it EXACTLY that you want me to do?”

Luke rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He sat up. As he turned his feet to the floor, he noticed, through the window, that the mist off the lake was filling the rising air with a soft golden hue. The skeletal trees fanned the shoreline in gradations of rose and mauve. He could see a brisk breeze blow across the lake. The wind was coming up. In the distance, storm clouds were rapidly forming. Strange, he thought. He looked down at his watch. Damn, they’ll be coming soon. Will she come too?

She accidentally dropped the stone to the ground. It landed with a thud. Rain began to fall upon her tangled hair. As she bent to pick up the argillite pendant, she exclaimed over her shoulder -”You want me to do WHAT?”

…

As Jack closed his paint box he could hear the rain hit hard on the roof and the wooden walls. He thought, I’ll ask him to help me with that post tomorrow, before she comes.  She’ll like that.  He slowly turned back to look at the spoiled canvas and then lowered his eyes.

His wife burst through the door, her hand pushing back her rain hood.

“Ready Jack?”

“Artspeak!” – Converse like a Critic!

Fun post.

Was sent this link recently.

It’s just too good not to share  …  click  ‘here’.

…  hee-hee …  enjoy!

The Philanthropist … (another short story)

(Dear Canadada Readers: here’s another edit of an older ’story’  – would appreciate any feedback…. good, bad, indifferent – Thanks! – c)

I sat in the small audience with twenty-four other representatives from various Foundations at the Adopt-a-Village symposium. We quietly listened to a well-built black man in his early forties talk about starvation, mal-nutrition, malaria, military intervention, the heroic efforts of the Canadian Red Cross and the overall generosity of the Federal Canadian food banks. He talked too of the urgent need for family planning. As a humorous aside he mentioned that his hotel rate in Gobi was “a whopping” $3.00 U.S. per night.

As he spoke his large body flowed with a natural lilting of the head. He gently swayed from side to side like a contented elephant. His hands swept passively through the air and his long brown fingers would slowly unfurl. From time to time he would lazily scratch his head, or place his left hand inside his jacket and press, caress, his chest. His hand would go to his shirt collar and he would absentmindedly tug in discomfort. At one point his palm was turned out to us and I was startled to see how very white it was. His voice was melodious and soft. Low, deep, and sonorous. His entire body energy seemed to reflect a well-tempered contemplative individual. The overall body movement, the overall picture, was, to my watchful eye and curious mind, very appealing, and basically sexual.

I tried to concentrate, and listen. I tried to really listen to this whole black person talk as he moved so gracefully through such confining and restrictive white space. I listened acutely for the half-truths, and the half lies, listening to see, if this sexy massive man knew the difference himself between the politically correct white lies and the simmering elusive black truths.

He spoke well, with a polite firmness, yet with the craft of a well-versed and artful diplomat. As I said, he was good. Very good.

I found I could resist no longer, I had to speak to this big man. Investigate. So I asked one question after another. I wanted to get a sense of our private dialogue, the potential of our own undulating intimate rhythm. I wanted to see how he would answer me, if he would answer me, or just answer the question. He was very good. It was hard to tell exactly. Precisely. Yet, even so, his manly earthy charm was riveting. As he walked by me to answer yet another question from the audience I caught a whiff of his sweet smell body sweat. I lapsed completely from the job at hand and could only think of his black body on top of me. Laying over me. Lying beside me.

As he passed by I noted there was a gentle flabby jiggle at mid-section beneath his khaki coloured shirt. The tip of his tie twitched. And that made me vaguely uneasy. (If his people are starving, then why is he so well-fed and so well-dressed?) But I scoffed at my superficial assessment: he had obviously pruned himself for this important fund-raising presentation, and yet, there was something else, something else.

The man oozed. That was it. He just oozed sensuality. It was sheer and feral. Potent with potential.

I wondered about my white woman lust for this hulking black man. I noticed that he didn’t come too close to me. I flattered myself to think that he too felt our toxic sexual sub-current, our sultry sub-text. No other woman in the audience conversed with him as much as I did, except perhaps that hen-pecking frau in the back who kept after him about proper accountability, zealous Christian missionaries, unpredictable cycles of agriculture and the diminishing cleanliness of the water table. She spoke forcefully with a kind of condescending marmishness. And after her last question, I deliberately softened my inquiring voice, and almost spoke in a whisper. He smiled at me. Several times.

Towards the end of the presentation, he showed a beguiling slide of a sun-baked riverbed with a scraggly patch of cultivated maize growing in the sunken hollow. Beside the maize a bent old man with porcelain white eyes stood in a colourful mustard sarong. He was barefoot and leaning on a wooden stick. He gazed quizzically at the camera. Two small hairless children were freeze-framed as they played happily in the foreground with what appeared to be a tiger cub. A well-shaped and well-groomed mature bejewelled woman sat near them on the ground holding onto a gigantic water gourd, laughing at them. It was a pleasant picture.

I asked the Adopt-a-Village representative where the seeds had come from so that this rock hard farmer could plant his precious maize crop. He started to tell me that the genetically strengthened corn seeds were supplied by the Agricultural Ministry funded by various global bio-pharmaceutical Foundations like ours but then he stopped, and said, “Oh, you mean these people,” as he glanced quickly over his shoulder at the simple family portrait. “The Matsi carry their own seeds, they always have, from generation to generation.” Suddenly his large open friendly face snapped shut, and he did not meet my eye that time as he moved forward to the front of the room clicking rapidly to the next slide.
He had inadvertently slid from the script, and he knew that I knew it.

I instantly understood. The photograph was just a prop. A sophisticated yet ‘primitive’ sales tool for this global charity gambit. None within the photograph had known why their picture had been taken. They had no idea that their simple traditional lifestyle would now be used to raise cash. Their frozen visages were merely an eternal testament of ‘backward’ global poverty. A celluloid image to trade with the First World. It was equally as clear that they would never be the immediate recipients of any kind of global assistance. And by the look of it, they didn’t really seem to need our life-altering charity.

I looked again at the sexy black man as he moved stealthfully along the side of the wall selling his Adopt-a-Village concept to well-heeled, and isolated Canadian philanthropists. And, yes, suddenly I experienced a massive earthquake of doubt. He was not one of those stone faced and timeless self-reliant nomadic people. No, he was far too well-trained, well-educated and totally dependent on our Western commercial ways. Our money, my money, fed him and kept others like him in Gobi hotels at $3 a night U.S.

His effusive black charm instantly vanished, his skilful sonorous voice no longer seduced. He was just like any other polished floor-flusher. As I stood to leave, I did not look back at that handsome smooth talking hustler. How foolish of me to think.

But, I did pick up one of the well-designed four colour glossy brochures strategically placed beside the front door for the Adopt-a-Village programme. It was still an appealing idea, all things considered. Perhaps not all the money, I reasoned to myself as I hopped into the Benz, went to the well-organized administrators and skilled fund-raisers. There had to be some kind of trickle-down effect otherwise the whole scheme was just a fraud. And that couldn’t be true, now could it? I would make the recommendation to my Board, I decided, driving up Yonge Street, that we grant a provisional small endowment of $500,000. According to the brochure, that would be enough to care for 5 villages of 500 inhabitants for 5 years. That should do.

As I sat at the red light the sweet smell of that sexy black salesman lingered on in my nostrils.

Seeing ‘Patterns in Nature’ … a random taut

Recently finished reading  Marshall McLuhan’s collection of essays & lectures compiled by his daughter,  ‘Understanding Me’. That guy was so far ahead of his time it’s kinda mind-boggling.

But also encouraging, cuz if HE could SEE and understand back in the 1960’s & 70’s what was going to happen to children of mass media , so CAN we project & understand what will happen to our grandchildren in the next 30 or 40 years, with a little cogitation … no?

Example, he talks a lot about PATTERNS, recurring patterns, and  how our minds not only SEEK them, but MAKE them, neurologically.

This got me thinking …  Here a a few images to amplify this notion.   LOOK at these images and what do you SEE – ?

Collectively – they kinda make the  mind go ‘whoooop’.

Words can’t really ‘get there’.

It’s a visual RECOGNITION of similitude.  They show ‘a pattern’.

It’s a visual TRUTH.  Something we haven’t quite been able to articulate properly.  Something we haven’t quite GRASPED.  Yet.

Do you SEE what I’m saying here -?

While musing on this whole notion I stumbled upon some art work by Mrs. Brown’s grade 3 students.  They too were asked to explore  ‘patterns in nature’ …

That’s the first image in this post. Nice & natural, and TRUE, ain’t it?

(p.s. FYI, the image beneath the water droplet depicts man-made debris floating around our planet.)

The Dustbin Artist … (another short story)

I had just finished my grocery shopping for the week and was driving out of the parking lot when I espied several empty picture frames leaning up against a pile of rubbish. Ever on the look-out for nice frames for my own paintings I stopped the car, went over and took a look. There were three of poor quality and one of better quality with an oil painting in it.

It was not a particularly GOOD painting. It was very amateurish in technique.  The colours were way off for ‘realism’. There was no real skill in it.  It lacked the sophistication & painterly pretense of a ‘serious’ artist. No, it was essentially a private piece, heart-felt & honest, and I liked it.

The mountain range, the clouds and the overwhelming conifer forest were rendered with a kind of attentive knowing. Nature was the larger focus of this simple untutored work. The little misshaped log cabin, massively disproportionate to the overbearing landscape, was the only human element in it. In fact, the cabin was the only clue that Man was even there at all.

The painting had a strange resonance with the ‘familiar’ from both ‘European Alpine landscapes’ and ‘the Canadian Rockies’. Yet, overall, the subject matter seemed more a reverie, or a remembrance of another time, another era. The ‘old world’ and the ‘new’ were colliding within the mind of the painter.

I doubted that it was a Real Place in Time & Space – though it might have been. It seemed more a place of longing, a fantasy piece, a desired place of gentle solitude among the magnificence of a Grandeur Design.

In the right-hand corner was the artist’s signature, H.Goebol, a european name. Who was this? Hendrick? Henrietta? Howard? Helena? Was ‘H’ a retired untutored lumberjack or a pining European maiden stuck now in suburbia?  Hortense? Harold? Heidi?

And why was it in the dustbin?

Was the artist dead? Was it in the rubbish as a result of a ‘clean up & clear out’ by uninterested relatives? Or, did the artist just tire of their own effort? Were they discouraged? Beaten? Had they given up on their dream, their longing?

I loaded the piece into the back of my car.

Goebel’s work now hangs in the guest bedroom at the lakehouse. It is visible to the eye every time anyone walks down the hall.  It continues to beckon, to invite, to welcome all in.

Goebol.  H . Goebol.  Dustbin artist.

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’.

Bansky: ‘Bad Boy’ Graffiti artist

Admit it, this ‘pseudo-anonymous’  graffiti artist’s work is pretty intriguing …

Learn more about him here. And see more visuals here.

In his own words …

“People are taking the piss out of you everyday. They butt into your life, take a cheap shot at you and then disappear. They leer at you from tall buildings and make you feel small. They make flippant comments from buses that imply you’re not sexy enough and that all the fun is happening somewhere else. They are on TV making your girlfriend feel inadequate. They have access to the most sophisticated technology the world has ever seen and they bully you with it. They are The Advertisers and they are laughing at you. You, however, are forbidden to touch them. Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyright law mean advertisers can say what they like wherever they like with total impunity.  … Fuck that. Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It’s yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head. You owe the companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don’t owe them any courtesy. They owe you. They have re-arranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked for your permission, don’t even start asking for theirs.”

“The thing I hate the most about advertising is that it attracts all the bright, creative and ambitious young people, leaving us mainly with the slow and self-obsessed to become our artists.. Modern art is a disaster area. Never in the field of human history has so much been used by so many to say so little.” – taken from ADbusters magazine

“Some people want to make the world a better place. I just wanna make the world a better-looking place. If you don’t like it, you can paint over it!”

“Bus stops are far more interesting and useful places to have art than in museums. Graffiti has more chance of meaning something or changing stuff than anything indoors. Graffiti has been used to start revolutions, stop wars, and generally is the voice of people who aren’t listened to. Graffiti is one of those few tools you have if you have almost nothing. And even if you don’t come up with a picture to cure world poverty you can make somebody smile while they’re having a piss.” – Banging Your Head Against a Brick Wall

“Only when the last tree has been cut down and the last river has dried up will man realize that reciting red indian proverbs makes you sound like a fucking muppet”. Banging Your Head Against a Brick Wall

“The artist Paul Klee said “drawing is like taking a line for a walk”, but for me it’s always been more like drowning a photocopier in a canal.”

“The craft is finding a decent drainpipe to get access to the site as much as it is in the art…Van Gogh used short, stumpy brush strokes to convey his insanity – I use short, thin ledges above mainline train tracks.” - Evening Post 2004 (taken from “Home Sweet Home – Banksy’s Bristol” by Steve Wright)

‘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

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
daring quixotic questing. For with
questing comes 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 long & lonely
… …  monotone of monotony … …

But fused TOGETHER

we insta-leap into multi-verse

EVERYTHING BECKONS At Once