Ode to Johnny Kroeker and the liminal people (Part II)

Last night, in classic white people fashion, Leon and I headed over to a friend’s place for a dinner party (#90). We dawned our best outdoor performance clothing to stave off any potential work-related conversation (#87), grabbed a bottle of wine (#24), left our apartment building by the water (#51), hopped on our bicycles (#61), and headed over to our friend’s lovely, ikea-inspired apartment (#79).

It was a lovely dinner. When we arrived, everything was in the final preparation stages. The plan was to fondue, and our gracious hosts were finishing off the cheese fondue, adding some cheese with a name I can’t pronounce, and discussing the list of obscure ingredients that they had to hunt around to find before the big day. Anyway, the dinner was wonderful and we enjoyed ourselves immensely.

In part, the enjoyment came from how well the dinner party went over. It had all the necessary elements: a stylish apartment, good music, and good conversation. And Leon and I were, of course, the best guests, but not because we brought any obscure desserts — we were actually the only guests. However, the dinner party was especially fantastic because of our hosts: the very lovely Amanda, and none other than number one of my top five liminal people. I know people have been waiting anxiously for almost eight months for the unveiling of the fifth and final of the top five liminal people. Well, probably people waited for a month or so and then gave up on me and forgot about my blog altogether. Either way, here it is:

Johnny Kroeker.

Since I moved to Wolseley last summer and until I moved again last month, Johnny and I walked to work and back together almost everyday. In addition to witnessing some interesting events (e.g., a hit and “got up and ran”), those 15 minute walks included some of the best and most intense conversations I have ever had. Johnny is a fantastic listener, an animated speaker, and a good person. He asks the right questions all the time and does not rest until he’s gotten satisfactory answers. My friends will attest to the fact that while John and I were doing what we termed “the walk,” most of my stories/discussions with them would start with, “Well, I was walking home with John yesterday, and…” Now that I’ve moved, and our walks to work no longer coincide, I see John (and the other liminal people) a lot less. But he’s still one of my favourite people, hence the ode, and also my last post.

Yes, this is the end of the liminal spaces project. I just don’t have time for it anymore. I have to spend more time training for marathons (#27) and watching Arrested Development (#38 ) — but don’t worry white people, I don’t even own a TV (#28), I’ll just be watching it on my roommate’s mac (#40).

Ode to Johnny Kroeker and the liminal people (Part I)

Since I moved to Wolseley several months ago, I have been walking down Broadway almost everyday to get to and from work. This routine has produced a cast of regular characters. Here are the first four of my top five:

1. ‘The guy with the bowler hat’ – Although I haven’t seen him for several weeks, there is a man, probably about my age, who walks down Broadway in a trench coat and a bowler hat, and never, ever, smiles. He’s kind of a legend at my office, as I assume he is at every office on Broadway, although I don’t think anyone from my office has ever spoken to him.

2. ‘Blue helmet bicycle man’ – Blue helmet bicycle man is one of my favourites. When I pass him, he is usually riding an old bicycle and wearing (you guessed it) a bright blue helmet. In the last couple of months, our interactions have progressed from little smiles, to big smiles, to full-on “good morning” greetings. It’s a strange but happy interaction; I have a real soft spot for this guy, maybe just because he rides a bicycle.

3. ‘Creepy jogger’ – Apart from the jogging attire, Creepy jogger looks like a pretty normal old guy; his actions, however, suggest otherwise. Usually he’s sitting on a bench or leaning against some building on Broadway when I pass him. Perhaps a retired football coach or wannabe, Creepy jogger likes to take the opportunity as I pass by to encourage me with a thumbs-up. This might make sense if I was jogging by, training for a marathon or something, but the encouragement seems to be for something else: “Good work. Lookin’ good, baby. Lookin’ real good….” Thanks, I try (!?).

4. ‘Mr. Profanity’ – The first few times I saw this man, he made me a little nervous. Always riding a bicycle and wearing a beige jacket with a bright orange anarchy symbol spray-painted on the back, Mr. Profanity is a regular on my walk to work. His classic move includes biking slowly (even peacefully) down the sidewalk for about half a block, then getting off his bicycle, and swearing profusely for about 30 seconds while shaking his fist violently at what can only be described as thin air. Then, as if nothing happened, Mr. Profanity will climb back onto his bike and repeat the process. I am convinced, after witnessing this action for a few weeks, that even when it appears that Mr. Profanity is swearing at someone (or following them) it is actually pure coincidence, that one of his swearing outbreaks has just happened in close proximity to a human being. I can only assume that he is actually completely oblivious to everyone around him. But I must admit that now that I’m no longer afraid of him, I do laugh a little bit to myself when one of his dismounts takes place near some unsuspecting person who can’t help but scurry down the sidewalk in terror when his string of vulgarities begins.

Honourable Mention: ‘Dwight Schrute’ – With only one sighting, this guy can’t legitimately be on my cast of regular characters, but I wish he was. In my one sighting, I was not able to determine whether this man was actually Dwight or just his doppelganger, but either way, I thought all my wildest dreams were coming true. I have been nothing short of heartbroken everyday, since then, that I haven’t seen him.

an editor’s lament

’47 is a crazy age to die’
she thought
watching the gentle curves of her script
soak into the dull but thirsty paper
slowly at first
but steadfast
until it was all completely gone to the page

it was then that she realized
‘my death lies in this paper,
in these careless inky scribbles which
regardless of their content
have become my life and breath – my soul’s bread and butter
how could i live
now that anger has become a quick slash of red ink
and love its equally unintelligible – illegible – opposite’

could the answer be so simple
yet so horrifyingly solemn?

resolve lies not in faith as it did when her careless ink journey began
but in something else
something new
metallic
efficient
Terrifying.
so she writes with as little resistance as possible
because it is no longer a concern
but a circumstance she finds her life controlled by

or maybe her death

’47 is a crazy age to die’
she thought
and began to write.

a way to dialogue

i wanted to tell you, my friends,
what it felt like to step out
moments before dawn onto a
well-trodden path (moonlit
minus the stars) and fall in love

but i knew that if i started there,
you would not have believed me when i told you
that the thing
i fell in love with
was history

how come, how come
I anticipate nothing as intimate as history

perhaps if i explained this:
those walks
had become a daily ritual, a rite
performed faithfully in the slow
awakening of each morning.
and this:
at first i did not know the way.
the path was unfamiliar
(though not entirely unknown)
and i was weak and young.
but i stayed with that soil –
i had been told that it was
the only way.

Stay with this mud,
this granite. Every other step you take
will be a revelation.

can you imagine what it felt like
when the ground itself
began to teach me?
when the earth, as guide and course,
would show me how to tread it
if i studied it
if i took care enough?

indeed it was the strange pedagogy
of that prairie path
which taught me (a longer lesson) the meaning of
give and take.
it took the testimony of my steps
whether or not i was willing to give it
and eventually taught me to trace
in the grooves of its earthy floor,
the stories of others who had walked there,
who had also loved its worn-out soil.
everyday those stories caressed my fresh soles,
shaped them, taught them, hardened them,
until they began to respond, in kind,
with tales of their own. i learned
to tread carefully – always listening –
but also writing as i walked,
inscribing my story into the dusty path
until finally, one day, my own soles (aged by then)
could no longer recognize which marks were mine
and my story no longer belonged to me.
then, like every good teacher,
the earth (and i – which are one)
spoke less and less

Birds, singing, move
among leaves, in leaf shadow.
After many years you have come

to no thought of these,
but they are themselves
your thoughts. There seems to be

little to say, less and less.
Here they are. Here you are.
Here as though gone.

perhaps now, my friends, you would believe me
if i told you that i did fall in love with history
but you must also know that it is not unbelief
which keeps me quiet

(excerpts are Dionne Brand, Luci Shaw, and Wendell Berry)

what’s on my heart these days…

The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart.

- Iris Murdoch, The Red and the Green, 1965

a poem for spring

Although I wrote this poem last summer it only seems fitting to post it now.

Au printemps
(pour pierre)

Je suis assise ici à ne rien faire,
en flânant un peu
jusqu’à temps que tu reviens de l’aventure
dans l’arrière-cour avec tes amis récemment.

J’aurais été inquiète
si tu ne faisais pas ça tous les printemps
(lorsque les fleurs fleurissent, et les oiseaux chantent)
dans l’arrière-cour avec tes amis récemment.

Il y a trois semaines
quand tu commençais à t’asseoir sur le bord de la fenêtre
et désirais avoir une aventure
dans l’arrière-cour avec quelques amis nouveaux.

Mais, maintenant, je m’assieds
à côté de la fenêtre et
j’attends pour ton retour chez nous, à la maison
de l’arrière-cour avec tes amis récemment.

untitled

another occasional poem:
i wrote the skeleton of this poem many years ago and then rewrote it this fall for my brother and his wife and read it at their wedding (although if you asked my father he would tell you that i didn’t just rewrite it, i rewrote it and then revised it and revised it and revised it and. . .)

i.
intent and focused,
i feel a gentle hand surprise my body and everything
falls into place with this
welcome interruption;

an inexpressible, inexplicable relief.

that same hand reaches out for mine before i request it,
and not a moment too soon
the fear rushes out of me;

and i know now that this is love:
the vital union of necessity when everything
suddenly
resolves into perfection

ii.
driving through the sunlight nothing matters
not our destination or even our words,
because we’re finally together;
poised,
trembling,
satisfied,
sincere.

and our hands,
knowing themselves all too well in one another
ask of us a grace:
all that we desire,
all that we suffer -
what we add to this gentle touch
with words never spoken.