Well, I have desires that don't accord with the status quo."
-- Bruce Sterling, Holy Fire
Blue house. Fraser and East 14th. Vancouver, 1981. Basement. First Nations Shirley and her ermine, bush-survivalist boyfriend, threatening to, a) not pay rent, and b) take off tramping into the wilderness to join a pack of wolf shapeshifters. Basement couch. Myself, with sole cargo-cult possession of fake leopardskin luggage, crying to sleep each night upon contact with said-accessorized furniture. Kitchen. Teenage sister, sagged out on the floor, cutting herself with long, sharp kitchen knives or razorblades, jagged white scars, piled an arm high. Enjoys performing to an audience (yours truly) or equally wont to hack, on a whim, in inebriated despair, contrition or boredom, alone. Al Alcoholic - passed out, head in oven, inhaling gases spewing forth, if he has conjured enough presence of mind to turn oven on - assuming he made it home, otherwise, most likely comatose in nearby Chinese restaurant dumpster.
Second floor. Tin-tin and Zaza, engaging in the most passionate, intense sex ever, or in the act of killing themselves (same thing). Porkface, masturbating, or playing electric guitar (same thing - wanker). Attic roof. Rude, funny, lovable, red-haired guy with freckles, stinking drunk, shagging wasted punk chicks. His name is Rude, I mean he is Rude. Awww, forget it. Disclaimer : these are my personal memories, very likely obscured, in comparison to those of the other occupants...on the whole, this is what passed as NORMAL BIO-OPERATING PROCEDURES, in our fallen-by-the-wayside, upside-down, farcical experience of an existential crisis.
This is the house I happened to return to, that fateful fall evening after the Cure concert at the Commodore ballroom, meeting the tall, lightning-striking stranger on the dance floor. Oddly (not even!), he is standing in the kitchen when I walk in the door, later that very same night. Quicksilver flash of traveling desire! Turns out he is the splitting (and spitting) image of his darker twin; blond to 'Tin's black. As to which twin possessed the darker humor, ahhh! they were truly masterful rivals in both musical proclivity and their sharp-witted dissemination of banality. We were to become inseparable over the next eleven years - (a sunspot cycle!) - my fey antennae sensing the opening of our entwined, karmic pineal cone, in those first heroic moments of the long journey ahead. He knew the difference between a flop-house floozie and a luscious lady of luck and distinction. Attraction's eminent domain cast the die, amid subtle flickerings of the sixth sense. Holy Batman!
Light years away, in another galaxy, energy from a supernova collapsing into a black hole / plasma sub-station, commenced sucking us in. Shades of the future raced past, tentacles tantalizing down on the Now, merged hallucinogenically-like with the Surreal, crystallizing a ripe moment of déjà-vu into view. Feathery intuitions of "Que Será, Sera", tailspinning in the Light, left us stunned in speechless exclamation point; accepting the finely-interlaced filigree of the tightening web - a frightening and purposeful Arc of Sheer Destiny.
The Dark Night of the Soul
On a dark night, kindled in love with yearnings-- oh, happy chance!
-- I went forth without being observed, my house now being at rest.
In darkness and secure, by the secret ladder, disguised-- oh, happy chance!
-- In darkness and in concealment, my house now being at rest.
In the happy night, in secret, when none saw me, nor I beheld aught,
Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart.
This light guided me more surely than the light of noonday to the place where he
(well I knew who!) was awaiting me-- a place where none appeared.
Oh, night that guided me, Oh, night more lovely than the dawn,
Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover, lover transformed in the Beloved!
Upon my flowery breast, kept wholly for himself alone, there he stayed sleeping,
and I caressed him, and the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.
The breeze blew from the turret as I parted his locks;
With his gentle hand he wounded my neck and caused all my senses to be suspended.
I remained, lost in oblivion; my face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself, leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.
-- St. John of the Cross (1542-1591)
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