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.

fragments of a life

inspired by jars of clay and dionne brand

a couple of weeks ago, dionne brand was in winnipeg, reading from her latest work inventory. if only i could explain how this woman, her poetry and her voice, move me…

…until, it must be said, the moment when all women realize
the war they’re in, that the only possibility is falling
that the fragments of winter and music are only solemn
kisses to their half-life and only mercy and surrender move
their hand.

and jars of clay were in winnipeg today.
speaking with them and hearing them sing has reminded me of how the poetry of their song has woven its way into my life and my consciousness in a very powerful way. if i look through any of my journals i can find so many of their lines juxtaposed to mine, inspiring, upholding, and sustaining. i have listened to no one as much as i have listened to them and i have listened to them enough that their music could be the timeline of the last 10 years of my life.

Oh my God look around this place
fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
flights of grace and future falls
in present pain
All fools say ‘Oh my God’

i wonder: do we interpret our lives in fragments?
as we write in our journals,
hearing songs, not symphonies,
and determining everything in a single moment
so unlike our creator
who knows everything without a single moment at all,
but all at once

“quebec”

who knew ‘but’s could be so sharp?
or the past tense?
the way you spoke me into history made me wonder if i was still breathing.

then my own poems
laughed at me.

i think fragmentation produces liminality.
and liminality demands patience.
yes, patience is the attribute that the liminal requires.

“How to be a Poet (to remind myself)”
Wendell Berry

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill – more of each
than you have – inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgement…

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”