I

With the mercury dip
The community collects like snow drifts
Where she brings him to the shore
Of the silvered lake
The expanse of white ice
Dotted with dark fishing huts

Hollow grating soaks into snow
The rust-dead wagon rattling
As they watch the men
Drag it out onto lake Stoco
Sacrificed to the harsh winter

And while warming icy hands
Beneath their shirts
She leans over to kiss the boy
But whispers instead that she is leaving

He watches the words crystallize
In the wet-pavement sky
Guessing that the day she departs
Will coincide with the thaw

Walking home through Tweed
Past decorated hydrants
Their painted faces laugh at him
Tell him to take the cold
Hold it in cast iron
Like a man

II

One February night he dreams of white
As blizzards whip Siberia outside
Burying the town’s water main totems
In a glacial grey lace

He shivers
In that witching-hour darkness
As she traces soft circles on bare skin

Warm like a morning light mantle
Slowly eclipsing

This winter breaks the record
The coldest the town remembers
And even time becomes brittle
Shattering into jagged fragments

So they hibernate in that damp basement

Forgetting her departure

III

But two months can’t last forever
And ice thins with days
Until on the eve of her parting
A clown-faced hydrant bursts
Spewing frigid wet

While their love melts

Now
As March sun
Brushes tall shadows over receding snow
Her tail lights fade down Highway 7
And lake Stoco moans
And swallows

Turning from the asphalt shoulder
The young man
Takes satisfaction in his prediction

While standing in the warmth of dusk
Looks out at a cracked ice lake
Regretting the spring thaw

Photo by VicWild

It fell all the way down into the water with a resonant splash. The two boys laughed and searched the bridge for another rock, each taking their own direction along the tracks.

“I found a good one Mark,” John, the younger boy yelled down the rail.

“I’m comin’ Jack,” he said, running to where John stood with his back bent as he tried to lift the large stone. It rested at the base of a birch tree at the north end of the bridge and the two boys hoisted it onto the gravel.

“This is a good one Jack.”

“I can’t lift ‘er,” he replied, wiping sweat from his eye. “Should we roll it?”

“Yeah lets roll it.” Mark agreed. Each taking a side, they pushed the rounded stone along the railway to the middle of the overpass and stood a moment catching their breath. Mark sat down at the edge of the bridge and let his feet dangle in the air. John hesitated and then did like his friend so that the rock was between them.

“What time do you think it is?” John asked.

“Three I guess,” he said, “I’m gettin’ hungry and I didn’t get any lunch.”

“What time do ya have to be home for supper?”

“Five, I think. You?”

“Same.”

They looked out over the river and watched the water churn far below their dangling shoe laces. It had been deeper the year before, but at most parts the water still went down a good fifteen feet. Thick bush pushed against the river’s shore and overhanging trees stuck out at parts, sipping the water with low dangling branches. In the distance they could hear a train sounding its whistle and it echoed along the valley below.

On the edge of the bridge, John sat a foot shorter than Mark and was of a smaller build. Both boys had short brown hair, though John’s was somewhat lighter, complimenting the yellow freckles scattered across his nose. Mark’s deep green eyes gazed into the horizon, pensive, occasionally blinking long eyelashes to keep the sun out. John watched him stare blankly until Mark’s concentration broke and his eyes bent down into the water below.

“Someone died here once,” Mark said softly, sticking his head through his legs to look beneath the bridge. “An Indian boy.”

“An Indian boy?”

“Yeah. He jumped.”

“Into the water?”

“They never found his body, just his shirt that got caught on a stick.”

“How d’you know?” John asked with a look of disbelief.

“My older brother, Bill told me. They used to play together in Pee-wee. So it’s true.” John glanced at Mark then turned and peered down at the water. It was very far down. Higher than his house he thought. And the water so deep and grey. He could hear it gushing quickly beneath him.  The thought made him lean back slightly. The train called once more and again the echo faded into the surrounding forest.

“My brother said that his parents died when he was young and he went to go live with his uncle on the reserve but his uncle hit him and made him do things.” Marks voice trailed slightly.

“What things?”

“Bill wouldn’t say.”

It must have been bad, John thought.

Fall was coming and the sweet scent of rotting leaves filled the cooling air. The boys sat quietly on the bridge as the wind whipped beneath them, swinging their legs and trilling softly through the boards. Sometimes it would hold a note and whistle, but mostly it just sounded like whispering. The mid-afternoon sun sparkled on the water as a hawk circled for a moment then dove towards some still water. It’s fall was purposeful and graceful. With two beats of its large wings against the water, the bird sprung into the air, a small pickerel in its talons. They watched it land on the sun-bleached skeleton of a poplar as the train’s engine rumbled through the trees. It drew closer and the third sounding of the whistle told the boys that it was quite near. Mark looked at John, who was deep in though. He picked up a pebble and tossed it at him.

“Jack, the train’s comin’. Get ready.” John turned and smiled back at his friend.

The smoke emptied from the locomotive as it rounded the corner, bearing down on them. With eyes closed they took in a large breath, holding it in anticipation. The train’s iron wheels were twice their size so when they first  touched the bridge on the south side, they felt the huge structure shake beneath them. The screech of the metal wheels on the track was shrill and their ears rang as the engine rumbled with such force they could feel it in their stomachs. A  mass of air pushed at them and the boys gripped the side of the bridge for fear of being blown off. Car after car blew by behind them as they looked out over the sparkling water. When the caboose finally passed they breathed deeply and smiled at each other, hair tangle with tears of excitement in their eyes.

Again they sat silently, full of thoughts, listening to their heartbeats regain a normal tempo. John noticed that the sun had slipped lower in the sky.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

“Me too.”

“Do you think it’s dinner time?”

“Must be close.” They watched as the hawk, finished with its meal, flew off through the trees.

John looked down. “So he jumped from here?”

“That’s what my brother said.” Mark followed his gaze into the water below.

“Lets go home.” John said finally.

“Yeah.”

The boys stood, brushed their corduroys off and began walking back to town the way the train had gone. When they reached the end of the bridge, Mark spun around.

“Jack, we forgot to push the rock you found into the water.” His voice carried with it a sense of urgency and the younger boy answered his friend’s worry with a smile.

“We’ll save it for tomorrow,” he said. Mark smiled back at John and the two boys turned to follow the tracks home, the way the train had gone.

the warmest memories come first
flashing a fantasy of rotting childhood
when animals could speak my name
I hear the children laughing
taste the only kiss
as water refreshes quenches
how my mouth is dry
like feigned apologies

then
copper veins short circuit
muscles in my face
the ones that let me smile
the chair is cold and numbs
I grip the arms
hands swell stung with splinters

blurred words fall into my lap
where bound legs can’t kick
dark clouds form behind my eyes
I see their tortured faces
fairies in the smoke
a haunting I regret I made

tremors       then
the smell of yellow
melting to the floor
flesh            boils

shaking
chair is hot
shaking                     endless shaking
bite my tongue can’t stop                 shaking
taste crimson bitter            thin
blinding      white     sweat and spasm
strobing silhouettes
remembering
when i         wasn’t scared
screaming    shaking
a sudden pleasure
endless    energy

then

The following is a story I wrote in a workshop 2 years ago to describe why and how I came to be in Public Relations.

My father called them ‘alleys’ – probably because they resemble the fulsome yellow eyes of alley cats – but I always knew them as marbles, the schoolyard currency of preadolescent boys jammed deep into overall pockets or toted in the purple velvet sacks that came with high-end rye whiskeys. In the late 80’s marbles occupied every school recess and lunch break. Kings, Jumbos, Steelies, Opals, Black pearls – I had them all. At age nine I was the neighborhood pro and a little bit obsessed. Strangely enough, however, my absorption in marble culture offered me unique opportunities to discover early communications skills, which can now serve as poignant examples of how I was steered into the public relations field.

Like almost everyone, we had a peculiar teacher at our school who, in addition to wearing black socks with sandals, garish broaches in the shapes of animals and unhealthy amounts of perfume that somehow smelled fluorescent, was also a really unhappy woman. She especially hated marbles. She hated how the kids in her class would trade marbles behind her back while she scribbled on the chalk board, cringing at the sound of them hitting the parquet floors. She hated that she became some sort of referee during recesses when kids would come crying to her because they lost their favorite marble in a match. She hated them so much she would snatch them away from children at every chance. She was a Hungry Hungry Hippo.

One day, a friend of mine hauled his entire collection of marbles to school in a large plastic pail. While the children were queuing to enter the building, he shifted out of line to talk marbles with another kid in the line next to us. *SNAP! Shrieking incoherently, the teacher tore the bucket from his hand and launched it across the yard. Of course all the kids broke ranks, scrambling for my friend’s marbles, me included. It was chicken feed for our souls and we pocketed those shiny multicoloured globes in a beggar’s frenzy, but it was the culminating moment in a long saga that finally led to the school principal calling an emergency assembly.

There was no debate, marbles were to be banned. This was the decree and the teachers smiled smugly to themselves as we whined in astonishment. When everyone settled, the principal once again addressed the students. He asked if there were any comments – I had one.

“Sir,” I began, as I rose and stood on my seat. “I think this is unfair. On behalf of everyone who plays marbles in this school I beg you, please don’t ban them.” I was told to sit down. It made no difference. The assembly disassembled and we filed back to our classrooms as though heading for the gallows.

After school a group of us met in the street outside my house. Because of my oration earlier, I was chosen to lead a resistance. We devised a marketing strategy and drew posters on the sidewalk until well past when the streetlights came on and our parents began shouting from the windows. The next morning we posted flyers, circulated petitions in the classrooms and gave inspirational talks during recesses. We nagged our parents to call the principal and to help us write letters to the school board. We invented a secret language that quickly irradiated throughout the school. Teachers noticed that we were more distracted than before the marble ban. Now they could hardly understand what we were saying.

A month later another assembly was called. It was short. Marbles would be allowed again in the spring, with certain conditions. Our black-socked teacher nearly wept at the news. That was enough for us. We emptied into the halls pumping our fists in triumph.

Without knowing it I had begun my communications career. Having represented the interests of the marble-playing community, devised an awareness campaign and actively engaged my peers to democratically affect their school’s policies, I learned that I had an ability to communicate effectively and that epiphany has lasted through to today. As such, I can certainly say that I will always love communications…and marbles.

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I am marrying a beautiful and wonderful young woman by the name of Minseok from South Korea and we have officially set the date as May 2, 2010. It will be a traditional Korean wedding and we will be blogging about the traditions, cultural significance and our own experiences related to the wedding and all that is happening around it.

If you’re interested to know what is involved in a traditional Korean wedding, visit us at www.roryandjamie.wordpress.com. You can also follow us on Twitter at www.twitter.com/roryandjamie.

By the way, the pic above isn’t that random. Geese are an important symbol of fidelity in Korea.

 

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“oh that the desert were my dwelling place,
with only one fair spirit for my minster.
That I might forget the human race,
And hating no one, love her only.”
- Lord Byron

Ra is heated
his perpetual brilliance cast out
so scorpions retreat to the shadows
cowering into narrow creases.

Their sting burns
lightly
against the searing of bare flesh

so I never notice
the vast expanse expanding
in a distending mirage.

Jaded djinn wail within the feral sands
whip my eyes
taunt me with an inescapable fast.

Lips bleed
I stoop to my knees
wait

for light to bow below the dunes
to the empress wrapped
in silver folds of sand

glimmers in the cooling starlight
my divining rod.

Long fingers weave the wind
soothing spring kisses
lift me
along a silk road
towards her hidden oasis.

She breathes softly as we bathe beneath
swirling planets
whispers

‘I will wrap you in the finest of silks.
For you are the Sultan of Ajban.’

Seoul is a rattle in the hands of small children
it shakes with restless waking
the evening and raging buses.

Their faces turn towards the dirty lights of street stalls
and babble with the fire
of kimchi.

I walk between them, parting oceans
I only just crossed
into littered streets and towards
brighter lights

the knotted women root on bus stop benches
– bent smiles
are like the music of subway stations.

Exposed fawn calves of schoolgirls
only compliment
the plaid of their skirts, cigarette butts on street curbs, the wafting scent of fish oils.

East past fast food restaurants
ancient stone walls lead from neon
a time-line
sent spiraling

Grey block ramparts encircle secret gardens
of past princes shadowing shallow ponds
and an island of yellow grass.

Paths lined by magnolia lead deeper
into forests
crimson blossoms peeking through the prison bar bamboo.

There is a forested mountain and a sapphire-tiled shrine, rocky streams, farms of rice.
Toothless men dig barefoot through watercress, eyes gleaming
as the clams spill from an overfull basket.

On the peak
a ginger stone, bent like Buddha, overlooks a jade kingdom.
Silver wing-tips play in velvet pine,
candid chatter swimming through the valley.

Eternity is trapped in the fragrance of stagnant rainwater
beneath a warming sun.

If I don’t come back
this is where you should find me.
Just listen.
The drum beats steady by my hand.

05/2005

Trapped in a mechanical popcorn wind
The ride erupted, tossing us with calculated detonations
And within the rust-iron cage
We imagined the streaking neon flashes
Into falling sparks

Screams above and beside
Within us
Holding your balance with one hand
You clutched your breast pocket with the other
But couldn’t keep the hotdog in

You were always smiles and hilarity
A warm red caramel fix
Of candy apples
In a dark carnival
Your disarming masquerade

Driving me home on vapid country highway
The car veered unnoticed
Because you were a joker cackling
The punch line eluding me

When it’s not expected
A wheel turning gravel feels like dentist drills
Abrasive friction, stomach dissolving into itself
Like the screams within us

You were telling me you stopped drinking
As the ditch slammed into your door
My face into the glove compartment
The rust-irony unfolding in the random blasts

Rolling in that silent chaos of head trauma
I could only think
Fuck you, fuck you
While imagining the falling sparks
Into streaking neon flashes

on the worn armrest of the old, brown sofa, the little cat slept. this was his favorite spot. the material was faded and slick, the padding flattened by years of dreaming and purring and watching. that is what he liked most. just watching. he would look out the small, dirty window at the traffic below, picturing the cars as mice. chasing them with his eyes. life was good.

his keeper was a lonely man. what was wrong with being lonely the little cat couldn’t understand. he himself preferred it. no complications, no noise. but for his keeper, loneliness was a germ, a fungus on his hands that needed constant attention. and so the little cat let him pet him. every day he would come home and drop food in the bowl, sit down on the couch. the keeper watched the glowing box. the little cat watched the cars below. life was good.

one rainy day the little cat’s keeper came home late. he knew he was late because the sky had grown dark and the glowing eyes of the cars streaked yellow across the window pane. it hurt his eyes to watch so he just slept and dreamed of a hundred mice of different colours trapped in a cardboard box. he just watched them crawl over each other. blue, red, yellow, white, green… they just walked back and forth squeaking, squeaking, squeaking.

the little cat awoke with the sound of the door latch turning. click. his keeper was home but something was different. he smelt the change before he saw it. someone was with him. another cat.

the little cat’s keeper swung open the door and stepped onto the black mat in the entryway. his coat was shiny from the rain and he shook his umbrella out in the hall before fastening it closed and hanging it on a hook by the door. the little cat watched as he kicked off his rubber boots, blowing damp hair from his eyes as he bent to pick them up with one hand. he was holding something under his coat with the other. his keeper seemed to stumble and he opened his arm, loosing what was held snug beneath. who was held snug from the rain. the little cat’s claws dug instinctively into the armrest, piercing the taut fabric with tiny popping sounds. the big cat just stood motionless where he fell to the wood floor. he was looking right back at the little cat. eyes wide, back slightly arched, the big cat licked its lips. in a deep voice he spoke the first awkward word, ‘hello.’

the little cat did not reply. for a full minute he just stared at the newcomer as his keeper removed his coat and hung it in the closet. who was this big cat? why was he here? how could his master do this to him?

the big cat began checking things out. he climbed onto chairs, ducked under tables, poked his head into open doors. the little cat watched every move from his perch on the sofa arm. after he had satisfied his curiosity, the big cat jumped up onto the sofa and made his way over to the little cat. the little cat pretended not to see. ‘hello,’ he said again. no response. ‘hello, whatcha doin’?’ he asked. nothing. ‘are you looking out the window? can i see?’ silence. the little cat was ignoring him. maybe he will just go away, he thought. the big cat tried to see over the little cat, to see what was outside. he put his front paws on the armrest.

‘GET OFF!’ the small cat yelled. the big cat was startled. he quickly jumped to the floor and backed away from the little cat. ‘this is my couch, this is my armrest and this is my window.’ his voice lowered as he squinted his eyes. ‘get it?’ the little cat didn’t wait for a response. he turned his head towards the dark outside and the yellow light caught in the rain dripping down the pane. the big cat was unsure how to react. was this to be his new home? he wondered.

the small cat awoke to the sad mewing. the big cat was in the closet. outside the sun was rising and the cars below began to come more frequently. the rain was still falling but in the daylight the driblets did not blur his vision. he couldn’t concentrate though. the big cat was making too much noise. what was his problem? why couldn’t he just go away? he tried to picture the cars as mice. tried to think of them with tails and colourful fur, trapped in a box with nowhere to go. but the crying. the big cat just wouldn’t stop crying and it was driving him crazy. he jumped from the sofa and made his way gently to the closet. in the back, beside the vacuum, the big cat was curled into a ball, his eyes glowing yellow in the shadows. he was so sad-looking. so scared. the little cat didn’t know what to do. ‘could you pleeeaaasse be quiet?’ he said rather rudely. the big cat swallowed and stopped his sobbing, large eyes blinking slowly.

the little cat turned and left him there in the dark. well at least he listens, he thought. he climbed back up onto the armrest and lay flat on his stomach. the spot was still warm. outside the rain had picked up and the droplets were bigger, making small tapping sounds as they hit the window ledge. the sky, street and even the cars looked grey. he closed his eyes and imagined a cardboard box. hundreds of colourful mice were scrambling inside. everything was quiet except for the tapping of the rain. it was better to be alone, he thought.

Jamie Read – January, 2006