The Ghosts of Jay MillAr (13 page)

2
One could look towards and learn from the popular engravers of that period. Their methods by which to remove so many of the unnecessary layers, or by which to fruitfully ignore them, were not only ingenious, but easily imitative. Sadly, these have been lost to the world forever.

 

‘
have met at least nine incarnations of my wife to date, and
I
have to admit that each one of them has been incredibly patient while the drunken orangutan was writing, but you should see all of them walk into a room together, no one on this planet could hope to write like that!'

-from H,
Azel's Dream,
Book Thug 1999

portrait of H. Azel by Alex Cameron

James Liar

I always wanted someone to follow me around

from day to day who could write down my

dreams so i could look at them from

outside myself like flowers or

teapots or clouds. my regards to the fiction of the

moment, you are the sweetest being i ever knew,

a tall blonde colour'd shadow,

biographer of all the moments i wasn't

paying attention to my own mind.

Not Possible.

how could i possibly hope to

disregard my own mind?

i'm sorry you get all the credit and no one

understands your poems, but thanks to you

i now have more time

to consider the artwork of the clouds.

   J.M.

Prelude to a Perfectly Ordinary Dream

lying in bed this morning

light start wakes the window

all present so it might hold the sight of the blood

to see it pulse her neck is to see

how the skin jumps

absolutely alive in the memory

these dreams

every morning we stopped at the same restaurant for breakfast

the same restaurant somewhere in the midwest

until we knew we weren't going anywhere

driving a day at a time and arriving at the same place we left

though the restaurant became a little more chaotic each morning

not so it was uncomfortable, but so we could take the time to notice

waitresses smashing into each other, flocks of dishes flying,

one morning the cash register fell over and exploded

random swizzle sticks from the bar shot randomly

through the necks of people as they attempted to bite

their raw bacon sandwiches

we always ordered the same thing, ham and eggs,

it was terrible, boring placenta and rubber tar,

as though we were desperately hoping each day would move

to a perfected level of chaos and since the world

around us seemed destined to remain exactly the same

but fall to pieces and us in the middle

it was ridiculous, the calm bite on a fork that could not

bother to complain about infinite possibilities

but about food instead

every day we left a smaller tip

not because the service was bad

we were growing more and more concerned

about the monetary value of things

where we were heading

back in this light there comes a sigh

a bodily shift to the blood a little faster

Perfectly Ordinary Dream #o (March 19,1992)

I met my wife in a photograph my father showed me.

In it I am wearing full 1920s speakeasy regalia,

complete with Doc Martens for the futuristic effect that was

popular at the time, my trousers rolled up at the bottom,

my hands in the pockets of my jacket

and a green scarf around my neck.

I face the camera with a broad grin.

My wife is standing three or four feet away,

turn'd sideways, (it is a landscape photo,

taken on our trip to the mountains, none of which,

amazingly, and thankfully, can be seen.

The colours of the sky in the background are recognizable as clouds.

The sun must be setting for the colours offer'd.)

She is also wearing the aforementio'd uniform,

however hers is more form-fitting, while mine, slightly oversiz'd

makes me look broad shoulder'd and relaxed.

She has a small elfin face and huge eyes, fawn-like

in appearance, with a quick animation of the face

hovering silently between a defiant pout and

blonde blonde hair cut short against her skull

bright enough to see by but not blinding.

She had attitude and a beautiful ass.

I recognized immediately how obviously in love we

were obviously in love.

My father showed me the photo because I had given it to him as a

Christmas present a few years earlier when I had no money,

could afford little else, and thought perhaps he would enjoy learning

about his heritage. What better gift could there be?

It's sure funny how things come around.

And I was soon to meet my wife in person at her mother's house

after the war. It was New Year's Eve, I remember, and time

was prepared to stand still. God, in retrospect it was beautiful

when she came up the stairs from the sunken living room

(all the rooms were in shifting panels of brown and accents of soft orange;

the den contained curving plastic furniture against the wall

on the shag carpeting, and the local tv station was on, flickering

a news report about the little aliens). She looked about 14 and her

hair was still golden, even after all that time. She was such a tiny creature,

mayfly as in the photograph, and so happy to meet me, O! those eyes…

How hopelessly in love we were, finally comfortable in the peace of

one another's iron grip after being forced apart for so many years.

Let me tell you of how we were forced apart.

During dinner we couldn't stop casting glances across

the table and laughing nervously. The duck was absolutely

delicious, with an almost piscine appearance, and

tasting of chocolate mousse. Afterward, on our way to the

liquor store for provisions, from the back seat I heard

her say a sad joke about the size of her breasts, but I

didn't mind. I knew in time I would come to love her self-

destructive sense of humour. Picking her up at the

passenger door I carried her across the parking lot. Wind

blew all around us, shooting clouds back and forth, pushing the

sun into a tiny ball of post-war boom and drinking songs.

We didn't even know each other, regardless of whether the air

could actually disappear and dance menacingly across our

line of sight. We were just looking at each other, there;

and it was the happiest moment of our lives, all those eyes

no more than a foot away from one another and looking in.

Later we would come to realize (was it inside the liquor

store, between the French reds and the cann'd beer?)

that marriage is an art built on eye contact

that cannot stop because the hold never does.

Afterward we left the liquor store,

walking through the automatic door as it slid open,

bottles swinging and the presence of laughter, and on

the other side of the door we were divorced by reality.

Perfectly Ordinary Dream #1620 (August 17, 1925)

The imagination could thrive in worse places of the world. It had become this particular newlywed couple's best interest to spend whole days hiding in the most expensive bookstores in town. No one ever bothered them there, and they were free to hug and kiss in the most exciting ways between the shelves. Occasionally they would browse through a poetry volume or two, but they found them dull and vile. They preferred returning to each other's company, perhaps foolishly over a blueberry muffin and apple juice at the snack counter. They were in love at each moment in the bookstore, happy to be holding hands and smiling, ignoring all the literature of the world. On one occasion, they both noticed Edward De Vere standing at one of the shelves, admiring one of his more recently published books. They exchanged a glance of concern. Both were wondering, as young couples might, why such a man would appear in this bookstore. Surely he was entirely out of place. In a room filled with characters dressed in the traditional neon colour'd garments of that country he seemed a parody of history wearing his sixteenth-century wool knickers and vest, the long ruffled Elizabethan coat and a pair of thin black leather shoes. Even his hairstyle added to his ridiculous costume. Somewhat longish, as though he were wearing a wig. It was tied at the back of his head with a velvet ribbon showing the weariness of age. The couple suddenly remembered the five dollars. They began to drift towards the door, shielding their faces as best they could with any available pamphlets, sticks, or newspapers. De Vere spotted them, however, and intercepted them in front of the store. He immediately demanded the return of his five dollars, exclaiming ‘how is one to eat if everyone is constantly removing his money from his person!? A man has to eat, or poetry is nothing!' And he began slapping the young man about the face, though without any real violence, for when one is dealing with magic, violence can only be erotic. Despite this, the young man did in fact find himself growing somewhat annoyed, for De Vere squealed ‘Five Dollars!' very loudly in a high-pitched voice for almost half an hour as he continued his assault. In a fit of exasperation, the young man suddenly tackled
Edward De Vere about the waist and lifted him (he was so light, the young man thought) upon his shoulders. And much to the rage and hollering of the great poet, (‘five dollars! five dollars,..!') the young man began to spin around and around on the sidewalk in front of the book-store. The scene is very quiet. It is only the young man and Edward De Vere. No one else dares to enter the picture. At last the constant spinning became too much for the young man, and De Vere was ejected from his shoulders, landing in a crumpled heap in the gutter of the street where he lay for some time, until a smile surfaced on his ragged face. Standing, he straightened his collar (for he wore no tie) gave many thanks to the young man for his hospitality, and bid him good-day.