Solstice

Follow the street to the river down at the heart of this place, frozen and dangerous. Walk the bottom flats where the river bends, where ice heaves like teeth up the edge of gravel bars. Stand amid night-black maples as this glistening city steam blasts a thick neon sky - a half million lives. It’s all wrong, though gallant, to use the archaic sense - to persist at the edge of cultivation consuming every speck of old life, contingent upon the spark. But I was born to this, marginal and abbreviated, mixed blood coupled on the land. My vapored breath and the city’s join, can’t escape that, whatever our differences. We huddle here together on the edge of frozen tundra, still waiting for the light of day.

The Pickings

There is a crow on the wet road in front of the old folk's home, a chestnut held scissored in its black beak. Two other crows circle like gunfighters, waiting for one false move. The building has been faced with cream-coloured cement, much softer than the unsightly brick of my grandmother's last home.

Their white-haired heads float behind clouds reflecting in the second floor windows. Do any of them see the crows? There must be some tall evergreens nearby. Just then I remember the cemetery, down the street, beside the church. Nothing remarkable, a few broken stones, probably vandalized.

I'm new to the neighborhood, it's my second walk down to the piers. I feel terribly uncomfortable in this town, disoriented and a bit dangerous. I see an old man watching from the window - I've stood too long in the street - at least he can't read my thoughts. The crows fly off and I hurry down the hill.

A light rain starts to fall. I follow the railway tracks past some warehouses. I'm in a mood, walking the rails like a vagrant. I come to a vacant space between the buildings and stand quiet for a moment. Ahead, silver rails vanish into a gathering mist. A dog ambles across the tracks, its head turned slightly toward me. I smile and my mood lightens. I have found a back route through town.

Forgetting Hephaestus

I sat with an elbow propped on the arm of my old stuffed chair, held my head in my hand and read a poem called Jane's Dream by John Haines. It's about a woman who in a dream finds one of her children lying in bed with a torn throat: There was a stranger. We didn't want to tell. Mother mustn't know. Don't say a word.

A drop of blood fell to the page. I stiffened. A chill shuddered through my veins. But, silly me, I had merely scratched a scab at the side of my nose. Imagine my relief. I wondered: was I supposed to pay particular attention to the coincidence, did it mean something, was it a sign of some sort? The torn throat, the blood on the page

I remembered my most recent, more serious wound. It was the day we packed our van to leave for the coast. There was no room inside so I hefted the spare tire onto the roof. I lost my grip and the tire fell back, the metal rim struck me on the forehead. I staggered into the house, barely consciousness, blood trailed through the hallway and into the washroom.

I stood before the mirror, blood smeared across my face, already clotted in my eyebrows. I thought about the veins in our foreheads, how they are so very close to the surface. And that anatomical detail reminded me of Minerva. I remembered how Jupiter devoured his pregnant wife and developed a nasty headache, then asked Vulcan to hit him in the head with an axe. Jupiter's blood spilled on the clayey earth and his daughter Minerva sprung up in full armor.

Sometimes I forget the name of Vulcan's Greek counterpart. Some things we never knew, some things we'd rather forget. I recognize the phrase in Haines' poem - don't say a word - because I hurled it at my younger brother, followed by, "or I'll pound your head." I also recognize the woman's nightmare - waking with a start, bathed in sweat, fearing for a child. All these thoughts in three blinks of an eye. Bloody coincidences. Bloody memories.

Oystercatchers

It’s not dark enough to cradle thoughts and the music is all wrong. A bee flew through the open window, buzzed across my screen. These words refuse to walk to the water where a matched pair of oystercatchers dart low over the shoreline. I hear their high-pitched cries and imagine their red beaks, unwieldy, seeming as ridiculous as these words.

Morning Coffee and Relevant Note

Early Sunday morning, downtown Victoria. Church bells sound through the rising mist, homeless people appear from the alleyways and vacant buildings. I sit at one of several outside tables at a corner cafe. I watch across the street, to the adjacent corner, as an overweight woman in a pink T-shirt and torn jeans chooses her spot. She sits cross-legged against a sandstone wall, directly beneath a brass sign that says Human Resources.

A young man in a rumpled grey track suit prowls past the cafe. He halts in the entrance for a long moment and mumbles to himself. "Have a nice day," he finally says, as if to everyone and no one. He walks angling across the intersection, to where the fat woman in pink sits with her tattered cardboard sign. I'm homeless, anything will help.

A red sports car moves slowly through the intersection. The young man in the track suit veers back into the street. "Nazi," he says, jabbing a finger at the car. "A small princess is being spanked." A balding man two tables away says, "He's suffering disassociation. Hasn't a clue where he is."

The young man reaches the cafe side of the street again and grabs a signpost with one hand. He leans out and swings round four times, then stops to face my table. He crocks his head as if listening for something. His thin face is unshaven and pale as exhaust. "I know what it all means," he announces. "Even from a distance. We are made of the same stuff."

The young man continues along Government Street, raving every so often, weaving through the early window shoppers, the retail and restaurant staff hurrying for work, a group of kids on skateboards, an oriental girl on rollerblades. No one pays the young man any mind. The church bells stop ringing.

Relevant Note