Great White Author
by Flannery Dean (flannery.dean@utoronto.ca)
How stacked Canadian girl who live dirt humble in village of Toronto, which in American tongue translate city of negligible interest in border country of little significance, who never read no better ‘an Mordecai Richler, never dream no higher ‘an night manager of Tim Horton’s, find spiritual renovation in chance encounter with American literary scion Neal Pollack, you ask? Sit down, remove pants and I, Liat, beguiling womanchild of the frozen North, tell you tale of discovery deep as ditch, life changing as two-dollar scratch ticket.
On rare evening when I not engaged in coruscating sexual encounter with brooding German exchange student, I alone and watching TV with cats. Such a blank white space in heavily inked sexual agenda occur in enchanted March night of this year. During exceptionally loud commercial break, through shredded screen of apartment window, big silver moon call to me in icy silver tones. Over deafening advertising din, moon shout, “Steady diet of Entertainment Tonight and stale Rold Gold’s gonna kill your soul and soften your belly.”
Moon no have to tell me twice. Right there and then, in flickering violet light of idiot box, I decide to give metabolism much-needed boot in arse; soul, last chance to prove existence. Defiant, I rise from sodden sofa bearing imprimatur of poorly stabilized refreshments, and walk out into blue and silver night. I no know then, but beautiful blue night soon become carnival of revelation. Fear of Dworkin-sized girth and increasing preoccupation with personal life of J. lo, however, nothing compared to anxiety attending late night walk in undulating shadows of Queen’s Park I find; and so to combat adolescent fear of dark, I recite fragments of Lady Atwood’s poems aloud. Elders say her words keep evil spirits away. Like literary gargoyle, poetic witches’ ball.
I holler, “Men with the head of eagles no longer interest me” to the rustling bush, “I raise the magic fork over the plate of beef fried rice” to the swaying sapling, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” at black squirrel who leap madly across my path.
Sitting down on park bench to catch breath, questions soon replace poetry in my mind, fear give way to curiosity. I wonder why Lady Atwood never holler her words, why she sound so goddamn bored? Like android reading Dictionary of Literary Terms. If she indifferent to words what in hell she expect from me?
I no blame her for being bored, I read Edible Woman, but I grow wrathful as drunken uncle that she try pass boredom off as poetry, studied indifference as profound intellect, like man who shit in cake pan and call it apple charlotte.
Escalating mindrant soon checked by sound of grief in dark night. For many moments I still as my eyes seek source of woeful heartsob; and then I see small boy with face like leprechaun and hair like singed straw crying under ancient maple tree. Before me he sit holding small yellow book against dirt-streaked knees, making cool grass wet with hot tears.
I kneel in front of trembling mound and ask, “Why you moan mini man, what make your face so wet? “
Between sobs he say, “Words. Words is big problem. Mandatory reading: Stephen Leacock, Sunshine Sketches of Little Town.
Shuddering, I pull sweater flaps tighter around me. Night suddenly get a lot darker; moon become menacing streak of black ice and stars flame out one by one as I listen to boy’s familiar tale of enforced reading of soul-crushing Canadian canon. Boy’s runny childsorrow take me back to my own. To open-concept classroom painted in garish shades of orange and maroon, to menacing blackboard seared with heart-sinking acronym, D.E.A.R. Drop Everything and Read.
I was nine-year-old, and though I have little love for Literature, I have big love for reading. I also have unwieldy C-cup and degenerative astigmatism, but no matter. Defying gray-faced teacher, I hide recently purchased Archie Double Digest in worn copy of Mr. Leacock’s exasperatingly quaint work. Guileless childgiggle dead giveaway. When Ms. Moore hear me laugh, she know I no read no stinkin’ Leacock. She teach me painful lesson that day. Pale crescent-shaped scar between thumb and index finger—punishment for poor reading habits—gleam in dark night like opalescent puddle of spilt shampoo.
“Poor bastard,” I say, cupping boy’s face, and sliding my thumbs back and forth under his eyes like fleshy windshield wipers. His pain make me want to grab goddamn book and throw it high into sky like defiant ape fling tibia in Kubrick’s 2001, but before I can, I realize we not alone: whole city in mourning for state of Canadian literature, poor quality of Canadian soul food.
Grotesque carousel of suffering spin round me: red-faced and groaning fat man wearing black turtleneck sit on curb tearing copy of The Lives of Girls and Women in half, like Englebert Humperdink tear deck of cards, while teens wearing thick glasses hysterically play hot potato with Collected Poems of Al Purdy. Ghostly recitation of E.J. Pratt’s Titanic by rubber–lipped Shi-Tzu send me into flailing sprint. I run and run until sharp pain in abdomen bring me to my knees by shining waters of Lake Ontario. Panting, I challenge unremarkable skyline with harsh truths in form of question.
Why words cause so much pain?
Why Canadian writer seek shelter under pretension’s pashmina?
Who tell Stephen Leacock he funnyman?
Does grant based system create parasitic and bland literary culture?
Naked man, matted beard hanging down to navel, emerge from muddy Lake, grinning wildly like peyote-wizened Farley Mowat.
I turn from naked man, from filthy lake, and begin long walk home. Boy is right. Words is big problem, too big for hysterical womanchild to figure out. Profound heartsickness merge with acute awareness of physical weariness. Tired legs long for downy elevation of sofa, tired heart long for wordless twilight of television torpor; tormented extremities yearn for skilful caress of Byronic kraut. But blessed vision always come to despairing soul and broken body and I thank harsh God for what I see and what I hear that night as I walk holy Church Street. TWO Long black limousine pull up on clean Canadian curb, rattling No parking sign. Loud music and musical laughter float from window open just a crack to accommodate glowing orange ember of French cigarette. Curious, I join growing crowd of dirty children and sad young men with hairy faces around flashy American automobile.
Beauty clear a path for wisdom, as splendid looking young woman in clinging dress of midnight blue step out first. She advance through crowd and then she turn and look behind. Ribbon of gold encircle her thick mahogany curls. It run along her supple spine, all the way down to impressive loft of her adamantine arse.
And then from darkness of open door emerge brilliant visage of what I later hear called literary sun king. A beautiful woman is a beautiful woman, frequently seen, frequently forgotten, but a beautiful man is like white hart that troubled the hearts of sportive kings: mythic quarry. Involuntary moan escape my trembling lips. I never seen no kind of man like that before. His hair was bright like egg yolk and his flesh dark as burnt toast. In outstanding example of creative costuming, he pair patterned sarong with sharply tailored tuxedo jacket, displaying all the sartorial poise of transvestite centaur.
I watch him smile and nod. Watch him strike a match on front tooth of gaping beggar, and light long black cigarette. And when he strut into house of well-chosen words, I follow.
Clever men and women in corduroy pants and ironic tshirts, their hair cut in asymmetrical strips, or not cut at all, make their way to front of vast hall, while I make my way to back, where thoughtlessly attired and fiercely sweating uncomfortably sit, praying for invisibility and longing for notice in startling instance of simultaneous desiring. Taking seat next to ponytailed and portly, I wait for lights to go out and dark hall to be lit up by literary luminary.
Handsome American wordsmith wink at beautiful brunette as he glide across stage, and as he do I wonder if he sound as good as he look. I no wait long to find out he sound better. He talk like man used to talking, and talking loudly. Like man who refuse to be boring, who, like Rousseau, say openly what he did, what he thought, what he was; but without French accent.
Effect of his strong, clear voice on my weak mind is powerful. It make me laugh at folly of foreign manners, cry for tragic consequences of corrupt foreign policy; it makeme want to purchase selection of his works. Hearing his care-worn but fiercely quixotic tales, I cling to hope for change with Aung San Suu Kyi in Rangoon, passionately proclaim advantages of democracy with tank driver in Tiananmen Square, chase the dragon with Paris Hilton on cashmere sands of Mustique.
Like Neal, I, too, place pennies on satin eyelids of Notorious B.I.G., laughingly place check for $50,000 in breast pocket of dead F. Scott Fitzgerald, bring deadlocked jury to triumphant not guilty verdict in Los Angeles, gleefully stuff hundred dollar bill down g-string of eleven-year-old stripper in Bangkok—all with words. Beautiful, bold words reverberating through ecru colored walls.
Words no longer seem big problem, but wonderful solution to big problem.
What come of such a night? Anything you can hold in hand, post on Internet, sell at discounted rate? Aside from duplicate copy of American Anthology I have nothing material to show. Nothing but words. I stand in long line to speak to such a man. I say, “Pleasure to meet you. I enjoy your talk.”
And he say, “Yes, of course you did.”
Yes, of course you did. Months later, I repeat these words to myself still. To some, this appear a meaningless, infinitely forgettable exchange. Yes, to some, but that some is called pricks in my country. That some have no idea about powerful influence of meaningless and forgettable on busty becoming hoser like me.
