La luna ammenzu 'o mari.
This is a restructured post eaten by LJ earlier. The original rambled more, and made less sense, and I think was more uniquely me, whatever the hell that means. Still, this one will do. Ever since I started writing papers in school I hated editing. Although a good edit invariably cleans things up, it takes a vibrant, messy, living thing, and lays it out pristine, sensible, and clean, on the silver morgue table of my meagre creativity.
A recent post written by a friend (and those who have read it will know which one I'm talking about) stirred up some old memories of mine last night, like lees in the bottle. All day they lay there, colouring what I did and said. In an attempt to exorcise the ghosts of my past I'll spill them out here. I don't know if it will help, but {Jackie Mason Accent ON} it couldn't hurt.{/Accent}
Rose and I were constant companions for three or four months over two decades ago, when I went to Ottawa for the first time, ostensibly for school, but really just to drink. (I had a lot of growing up to do, and I wasn't ready to do any of it). And then, when the school wisely offered me a chance (as in ordered me) to go home and not come back, I still visited monthly, to distract my friends from school work and ... drink.
(Things were different then, and the Army had taught me two things: how to kill with my thumbs, and how to assassinate my liver with sweet amber poison. I've since built up too much negative chi to kill with any part of my body, and too much self-respect to attempt continual, or even fairly regular, inebriation).
A couple years later I was still going to Ottawa, but not to drink. I had found Carol (to be precise, she found me) but that's another story.
In the beginning my Ottawa was the halls and tunnels of Carleton and some bars on Bank St. The Market was unimaginably far away. I was part of a crowd that seemed to live by the bottle. And that's where I met Rose. She was smart, she was hot, and she could bend arms with the best of them. Soon we were nigh-inseparable, and wherever we were the good times followed like children after the Pied Piper.
But we were never a couple. More on that soon.
Years later we sat together in a smokey little cafe in the Market on a gray and snowy April afternoon ... I think it was Cafe Vim, which is long gone now, as are so many of my memory's landmarks in Ottawa. It was her last year .. it was her last week, in fact. The wanton destructiveness of our first year had mellowed into a more fulfilling platonic relationship based around coffee houses and rep theatres, although we'd still polish off a bottle of red wine or two. And there was Carol, but like I said, that's another story. We both realized this moment would represent our last afternoon together, as she'd be off to the real world, and after all, it wasn't like we were going out or anything.
Why have I never been any good at staying in touch?
She asked me why I had never tried to kiss her. I choked on my cider. Cafe Vim used to put this tiny piece of butter in the cider, and I used to imagine Dutch gypsies who would tell your fortune by the strange patterns it cast on the cider's surface.
"I did."
She claimed she didn't remember. She wanted to know if she was drunk. Drunk? Of course she was, we both were. Roaring and maudlin, tipsy and staggering, hung-over or ill, we were always drunk. So I told her a little story.
Once, late one October evening, a boy and a girl walked a little unsteadily across the hand-locks on the Rideau canal. The girl didn't like heights, so the boy held her hand, and when they started down the promenade toward Dows Lake he kept holding it. That was a first.
It had been a warm week, but the temperature had dropped sharply that evening. The surface of the lake seemed to steam, and the half-moon lit the resulting haze with a bright glow. The boy and the girl stayed still and watched it for a while. Then the boy had an idea. He was quite proud of it. The boy slid his arm behind the girl's back and pivoted them both so they were facing each other, coat rubbing against coat. She looked up at him, and he gladly would have scaled panthers and fought icebergs for her at that point.
The boy had a second idea. He was quite proud of this too. So he leaned forward and kissed the girl. She did nothing. Her arms remained down at her sides. She was still. The boy recoiled. He had been wrong. Blood rushed to the boy's face. But the girl circled her arms tight around the boy, with her face pressed against his chest. And the boy understood. The girl wanted to be friends, the girl liked the boy, but didn't want to go out with him. And the boy was hurt and happy and confused and content. A while later the boy and girl walked back to the Res, where they met many of their friends, and drank things, and the boy never tried to kiss the girl ever again.
Back in Cafe Vim, Rose wanted to know if that really happened. Was it a true story? She certainly didn't remember.
"Well, I guess it wasn't very memorable."
**** ** ***** ** ***** ** ***** ** ****
I don't know if this is a true story. Certainly I often drank cider at Vim. And certainly I told Rose about that night, although I won't lie to you, I recalled it for her far more simply and straightforward.
And I don't think I ever told her about the panthers. Or the icebergs.
Doug.
A recent post written by a friend (and those who have read it will know which one I'm talking about) stirred up some old memories of mine last night, like lees in the bottle. All day they lay there, colouring what I did and said. In an attempt to exorcise the ghosts of my past I'll spill them out here. I don't know if it will help, but {Jackie Mason Accent ON} it couldn't hurt.{/Accent}
Rose and I were constant companions for three or four months over two decades ago, when I went to Ottawa for the first time, ostensibly for school, but really just to drink. (I had a lot of growing up to do, and I wasn't ready to do any of it). And then, when the school wisely offered me a chance (as in ordered me) to go home and not come back, I still visited monthly, to distract my friends from school work and ... drink.
(Things were different then, and the Army had taught me two things: how to kill with my thumbs, and how to assassinate my liver with sweet amber poison. I've since built up too much negative chi to kill with any part of my body, and too much self-respect to attempt continual, or even fairly regular, inebriation).
A couple years later I was still going to Ottawa, but not to drink. I had found Carol (to be precise, she found me) but that's another story.
In the beginning my Ottawa was the halls and tunnels of Carleton and some bars on Bank St. The Market was unimaginably far away. I was part of a crowd that seemed to live by the bottle. And that's where I met Rose. She was smart, she was hot, and she could bend arms with the best of them. Soon we were nigh-inseparable, and wherever we were the good times followed like children after the Pied Piper.
But we were never a couple. More on that soon.
Years later we sat together in a smokey little cafe in the Market on a gray and snowy April afternoon ... I think it was Cafe Vim, which is long gone now, as are so many of my memory's landmarks in Ottawa. It was her last year .. it was her last week, in fact. The wanton destructiveness of our first year had mellowed into a more fulfilling platonic relationship based around coffee houses and rep theatres, although we'd still polish off a bottle of red wine or two. And there was Carol, but like I said, that's another story. We both realized this moment would represent our last afternoon together, as she'd be off to the real world, and after all, it wasn't like we were going out or anything.
Why have I never been any good at staying in touch?
She asked me why I had never tried to kiss her. I choked on my cider. Cafe Vim used to put this tiny piece of butter in the cider, and I used to imagine Dutch gypsies who would tell your fortune by the strange patterns it cast on the cider's surface.
"I did."
She claimed she didn't remember. She wanted to know if she was drunk. Drunk? Of course she was, we both were. Roaring and maudlin, tipsy and staggering, hung-over or ill, we were always drunk. So I told her a little story.
Once, late one October evening, a boy and a girl walked a little unsteadily across the hand-locks on the Rideau canal. The girl didn't like heights, so the boy held her hand, and when they started down the promenade toward Dows Lake he kept holding it. That was a first.
It had been a warm week, but the temperature had dropped sharply that evening. The surface of the lake seemed to steam, and the half-moon lit the resulting haze with a bright glow. The boy and the girl stayed still and watched it for a while. Then the boy had an idea. He was quite proud of it. The boy slid his arm behind the girl's back and pivoted them both so they were facing each other, coat rubbing against coat. She looked up at him, and he gladly would have scaled panthers and fought icebergs for her at that point.
The boy had a second idea. He was quite proud of this too. So he leaned forward and kissed the girl. She did nothing. Her arms remained down at her sides. She was still. The boy recoiled. He had been wrong. Blood rushed to the boy's face. But the girl circled her arms tight around the boy, with her face pressed against his chest. And the boy understood. The girl wanted to be friends, the girl liked the boy, but didn't want to go out with him. And the boy was hurt and happy and confused and content. A while later the boy and girl walked back to the Res, where they met many of their friends, and drank things, and the boy never tried to kiss the girl ever again.
Back in Cafe Vim, Rose wanted to know if that really happened. Was it a true story? She certainly didn't remember.
"Well, I guess it wasn't very memorable."
**** ** ***** ** ***** ** ***** ** ****
I don't know if this is a true story. Certainly I often drank cider at Vim. And certainly I told Rose about that night, although I won't lie to you, I recalled it for her far more simply and straightforward.
And I don't think I ever told her about the panthers. Or the icebergs.
Doug.