empty space. a pocket of light enclosed by darkness. a square of light projected. the contents: live blue water, short gentle waves, mixed with occasional accidental frames of leader and blank white light. matching audioscape.
some vacation. goddammit.
afternoon picnic on the beach.
hot. humid. overcast.
there was a gorgeous girl bicycling around the far side of the bay,
with huge dark Audrey Hepburn sunglasses pushed up
on her forehead.
I was waiting for a breeze
to billow up her skirt when I felt
let go inside me. pulled me underwater and
I stayed there
the view is blurry
like a still, shot with an out of focus lens.
the camera shakes, echoing the current,
crazy light refraction, lens flare, halos
angels everywhere, madly splashing
but what a shot.
process it by hand, cut it
together with some found footageÖ
years from now, covered in dust,
in a canister in an art museum, stock. nothing more than
more found footage. the director shoots his own death.
hurry up and get your quotation marks ready.
fire away you weekend warrior CBC radio prick.
hey, no, really: itís good stuff. not fun. yes critical acclaim. not reviews, but
prize nods at festivals,
references in text books. ok,
only maybe 50 people in the entire living worldíve seen it.
my lifeís work. and here we are. waiting on my 45th birthday.
itís just like a fucking Canadian to dwell on the weather.
this is the first vacation Iíve had in years. some vacation.
what a bitch.
an urban dwelling place, probably the kitchen. 5 friends. all laughing, in the middle of something.
in no particular order
throwing caution to the wind
he drank the last drop of
vodka and threw the bottle
in to the street
the echo of the glass smashing
between hotel towers,
standing up on top of the van
taking off his shirt
(which was mostly unbuttoned already)
(god we all looked rough by then)
and helicoptering it around
over his head, dancing
then his belt buckle
then his belt, and his pants
those tighty whities
and then, whoosh,
off they came
and oh my god
there he was in his
portly half tumescent glory
howling into the dark sky
like a quarterback after the big touchdown.
beautiful, scary. kind of gross
no one cared. Berlin, right, love parade, all night
sex clubs, booze cheaper than water, no
one gave it a second thought.
ha. I never wanted to see his hairy ass
god, Iím glad he did it. I will never forget
naked as the day he was born
I wish I could have been there
I was there
I donít think I ever saw him
that way. never out of control.
whatís the opposite of that
I donít mean anal or repressed, that sounds so bad, not prudish
not like that but
just, yeah, just not wild.
she raises her glass
an out of town festival. coastal city. mid-afternoon. a nearly empty cafť terrace by the sea. self-taking pictures, the kind where you extend your arm, lean back, and mug for the lens. finish it off with laughter, then the kind of silence that precedes a more serious conversation.
that was something we never considered,
that it wouldnít keep on going
you take a relationship like that, everythingís in one small hat
there isnít room for growing apart, there isnít any built in
elasticity, any pre-existing
I know, I know, what youíre thinking
itís boring, after so many years it gets
dull and tired, unless youíre into rad
I donít know
rad, kinky sex,
non-vanilla sex, other partners, more extreme
stuff, then where do you go with it
everything gets used up
ten years is not that long
but itís long enough to start to hate
someone that you used to love
I donít want to hate her
donít really hate her,
hate the fact of her, and donít feel that
touch her, to fuck her,
I just never feel that drive anymore
how could I tell her that
have you told her any of this?
you have to talk to her
worst part is,
I think she knows.
the way she looks at me when
we sit. eating. in silence
I can barely swallow
it makes me gag,
I feel guilty
you have to say something
itíll kill you, itís no way to live
she wants to have a baby
sheís 35. the timeís now.
iím it, or she has to find someone else.
a donor, or get one of her guy friends, or go out and fuck around with
strangers, it isnít fair, but thatís it
you want a baby
I donít not want a baby
but you donít want to be with Jess anymore.
what a pure fucking mess
yes. a mess. can we get another beer
you know whatís going on with me and Elena
always at work, both of us
moving in different directions
out of words. shared too much. suddenly awkward. server finally arrives with beer
race you to the bottom.
Lisa Twardowska is an actress, Ďdeviserí of theatre and dance pieces, and more lately, a writer. In the last 10 years she has lived in Toronto, London (Ont.), Ottawa, and now in Vancouver. You are most likely to find her staring at the ocean through the viewfinder of her camera.
April 6th, 2010
Griffin Poetry prize shortlist announced
April 1st, 2010
Gaspereau Press Wins Five Alcuin Design Awards