The Ghosts of Jay MillAr (17 page)

BOOK: The Ghosts of Jay MillAr

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He did not feel cheated in any way that the author of the book had received exactly half of the print run as payment. He had merely built an acceptable piece of architecture for the author's conception of a language, so both of them had had an equal responsibility to the finished product.

The question as to the success of an imaginary publishing company such as Book Thug lies only in the number of people who are willing to adopt it. Call it what you will, and when you do, and act upon it, you will discover both the freedom it offers, and the problems it presents, at any of the National Book Fairs, for instance, or in journals of literary review. The best thing to do in this case is to remain as imaginary as possible and let culture continue to battle at will:

The author was overjoyed with her half of the Book Thug edition. In fact, she was so pleased, that she herself had began producing her own imaginary publications under the name Ten O'clock Sharp. In just under a week she had built just under seven beautiful editions, and had distributed them accordingly: fifty percent here, fifty percent there, always placing her half of the profit on a shelf she had built specifically for that purpose. But it was becoming tiresome to have to explain to anyone who happened to visit her bookshop that the shelf was not empty. Exactly why people couldn't see her books she could not imagine.

Hazel's Dream (you are now in the present, reading)

In Hazel's Dream she is not only a part of the world, but she is the
world, a whole planetary moment of breath and anguish and love, here
for her own sake as the planet is. When I saw the words âLegalize
Freedom' scrawled across the bathroom wall of a restaurant some weeks
ago, I thought immediately of her, wanting to be permitted her own
stride during her time here without fear from the tyranny of assholes
et cetera. Or if she couldn't be the Planet, perhaps she could become
a part of it without the sudden afterthought that others around her
will think her wrong or stupid or unsympathetic. In other words, the
freedom to participate wherever she may be upon whatever mind she
feels free to be, without making enemies in the process. Even if she
chooses to be uncomfortable with her surroundings. For me, language
is an entire planet, every angle of existence seems hinged upon it. I
have become a part of a planet where freedom of speech is the natural
product of experience. My general state of grief comes from spending
my working days in a place where such a phenomenon is not only
unappreciated, but does not exist. As D said when he stopped by one
morning to drop off the posters for the Scream, I'm deep behind enemy
lines, but because of the language (the planet, in all its ongoing
possibilities) life there is bearable, and at the same time I can
observe Success from a safe distance where I can learn the details
without the pressures of being involved. In Hazel's Dream we are all
involved, everyone is on their own private level, interacting safely
and with vigorous appeal for the future of human knowledge, happiness
and the like. No matter what we do we are all allowed to do it, no
matter what we choose we have chosen it. There are no real sides
other than the ones we carry in our minds. In Hazel's Dream we start
to work on those dividing lines, borders that never existed in the
first place until those pesky humans came along. I 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.

Notes

1
Note to POD # 1860: lives cannot be of any other being, only our own, until it becomes confused by the ongoing commentary of sexuality, (kiss me, kiss me you angel you beast) but because of our sudden admiration, where it may appear, we are often amazed that anything exists at all beyond the sensations we experience as they occur. And with all these beauteous forms, who must be considered at all costs, we shall bite the nails of lifeand die. Blake's craggy deep opens upward, there is no place else for it to go.

James Liar
was born in Edmonton, Alberta, in 1971, and moved to Toronto when he was 30. He lives near High Park with his wife Emma, a librarian and bookseller. Two previous books,
The Sun Is So Dark
(1998), and
Wharts
(2001), have appeared from Coach House Books.