The way out

Cable-carried am I,
upslope,
in harness.
Slow. It is slow.
I hear the rollercoaster clacks,
each prophesying sinister thrills.
With powered eyes I see
continents of fogged-in secrets.
Sorry horses stand, bedraggled in streaming rains.
They look to me with pleading eyes,
but I have no help to give.
Clack, clack, clack…..a sharp turn.
The dream veils are dropped,
and it is bright cooking sun.
Beetles of football size float by with a helicopter buzz.
At my left hand, now, is a rail of brass.
From it hang leather pouches,
each containing an object of obscure purpose.
Now a can of grease.
Now a pair of winged sandals.
Sunglasses with upside-down arms.
I see now that my left hand holds a red stop button,
and I press it.
The rippling tinkle sound of a taut chain relaxing.
I do not wish to leave items that I might need,
but I don’t know what to take.
I pick up a red phone, hung from a post.
Its rotary dial says “phone a friend”.
I say hello.
Someone in a cackling voice says
“We are all mad here”, and hangs up.
I decide that the items in the pouches are false bait.
There’s a tin pedal at my foot,
like the ones in bumper cars.
I step on it, and move on.
My path drops away, suddenly downslope,
and I feel a release from the ratcheting chain.
I am speeding now, in full panic.
There are three rushing rivers at the end of my Zip line.
Within arms’ reach, there is a lever with three positions available.
I try it, but it does nothing yet.
There’s a brake pedal too, and I jam it as hard as I can.
I smell the smoking steel, memories of subways long ago.
Once more, I am at a crawl, coming to the end of the line and the rushing waters.
There is one last leather pouch.
It holds a pair of stout cutters, and I take them.
Out of track, now.
Feet dangling, I hang from an overhead derrick.
I try my lever again.
It moves me over the gateways of each water.
Cockeyed conifers point to the left hand way.
On a ledge, above the right hand river,
a rainy horse.
I shift the lever, then cut the cord.
The water is warm,
and oh so sleepy.

Haraview Burgers and highway 11

I’ve been making trips to north central Ontario for nearly 50 years, almost all of them via highway 11.  During that time, I have passed by a curious anomaly that remains to this day:  A burger place that was in business for a short time in the early to mid seventies.  It shut down after two to three years, I think, but was never demolished or replaced by another business.  On the contrary, all of its signs still remain in good repair, and the building itself has not been allowed to deteriorate.  Within the last couple of years, it’s been graced with a new paint job (true to original colours), and occasionally shows signs of occupation.

For the back story to this, and some pictures, visit https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/07/16/haraview-burgers/

I have stopped there a couple of times, but have not seen anyone about.  I plan to try once more, and soon, as several readers have exhibited curiosity about it and one person in particular has offered his own excellent theory as to its history.  He also requested that if I knew anything further, or could give him any kind of a back story relating to the area, he would appreciate it.  And so, here goes:

In the early 70’s, a group consisting of myself and a few friends began camping on the weekends at a secluded resort by the name of Kahshe Motel and Trailer Park.  It was just a few minutes up the highway from Haraview.  On the highway between these two locations was a restaurant known as The Suomi.  It was there that I met the girl who was to be my future wife.  She was a waitress, and, unbeknownst to me, was staying in a cabin at Kahshe.  I will spare you the details until another time, but will simply say that we were married within three months of meeting each other.  She left her job there, and we made our first home in Mississauga.  That was nearly 43 years ago.

In the first years of our marriage, we returned occasionally to Kahshe and camped there, for the park was still beautiful and well kept and we had some fond memories of it.  Some years after that, The Suomi Restaurant changed hands, and became The Grand.  Sadly, within a very short time, a gas leak caused the whole building to explode.  It was completely demolished.  No one was hurt, as it was closed at the time.

Many businesses have come and gone along the highway during those forty odd years.  The Sundial restaurant was always a favourite.  It was shuttered for many years, but has been rebuilt and opened up under new ownership.  For a long time, highway 11 was not divided, and businesses were more prosperous, being as they got traffic from both directions.  But, with increasing volume, the undivided highway became the site of many terrible crashes resulting from vehicles attempting to make left turns.  And so, the barriers went up.  I am sure that lives were saved, but sadly some of the highway businesses did not survive.

As to Haraview Burgers, my plan is to stop there once again, and, if no one is about, I will leave a prepared note to the owners, letting them know that I have written somewhat of a story about the place, and giving them my contact details in case they see fit to communicate.

Thanks for reading, and I will be sure to publish any updates as I receive them.

 

The affair

I feel possessed when you come ’round.
Vampire of my affections
that I save, unknowingly,
to cast, as pearls.
Lost upon you?
So nervous you are.
Just a touch makes a static spark,
and you jump back, mistrustful.
I hold out to you my right hand,
and slowly shutter my eyes
in token of obeisance.
I may, I think, know the art
that is needed to quiet your qualms.
A studied gentleness of touch.
An equal and opposite reaction
to your fickle withdrawals or to your nuzzlings.
As I stop my strokings,
your almond eyes register their displeasure.
I feel a petulant bite.

See you later, alligator.

No tuna for you tonight.

Mister M.

 

 

We mumbles,
yes we mumbles,
and oftentimes we screams.
Depends a lot on Mister “M”,
Director of our dreams.

We stumbles and we fumbles,
through the achy breaky pains.
And he always makes us stay inside,
excepting when it rains.

Now, quite a skimpy imp he is,
but never is he humble.
He Keeps us down and out of it,
no matter how we grumble.

He takes delight in malady
and worthiness a-crumble.
Remembrance of normality
has taken quite a tumble.

We hear that even Superman
could not defeat the imp.
We’ve got to learn to think again
to cure us of its gimp.

So, fight its stories drear and dark,
and give it no more place.
Unhappiness, his mortal mark,
may leave but little trace.

Skeletal

all the days of a life
in misery’s company
its dark bird upon the shoulder
visible to none but its host
but not in mirrors.
its hooks,
in the trapezius,
do not disturb much
unless rebellious thoughts foment.
it tells
what may say
what may think
what is self
until at last the Self cries
bring me the hydrogen winds of the bomb,
make vapour of my body
my love
and render my bones to the sun.

With this ring

This night, I am a sardine, riding the stuffed subway.  The atmosphere is a mix of hot salami breath, boozy exhalations, overboard perfume, and the intrusiveness of freshly smoked weed.  People pressing, gravelly coughs, wonky ringtones, shuffle shuffle shuffle.  No place for the anxious or the introverted or the healthy.   My brain buddy says to me, by way of consolation, There there.  At least you aren’t in India.  Or China, or London, or….  Yes, I have seen the photographs.  People squished against glass doors,  and professional train stuffers that won’t take no for an answer.  In this, my lifelong town, we haven’t come to that pass yet.

Hey, if you pass out, at least you won’t fall.
We careen through tunnels of semi dark.  On a curve, I am prodded by elbows and my foot is stepped upon by a hard heel.  In the jostling, I can’t tell whose, and no one says sorry excuse me or anything of the like.

From my forced vantagepoint, I fix on a pair of female hands but I cannot see their owner.  They rest upon her skirted lap, and, oddly, they don’t hold a phone.  She moves them in peculiar ways for a young person, cupping one hand within the other and rubbing slowly back and forth as if in arthritic pain.  Joining her hands, she then raises and lowers them in  seeming prayer or supplication.  Finally, she reaches into her pocket or purse, brings out a small circlet of paper, and slips it onto her ring finger.  I see that it’s a cigar band and I chuckle to myself, having seen this sort of thing in the movies where the boyfriend asks the girl to marry him but can’t afford a ring.

She plays with it for a few seconds, turning it round and round, then takes it off, as if to put it away.  She drops it on the floor, then quickly picks it up.  I glimpse a head of long straight tawny hair, and her young face in profile.  She sees me and I redden a bit, smiling sheepishly.  Apparently conscious of an audience now, she stops fidgeting.  One hand rests flat upon her knee, and the other is closed loosely in a fist.

With two more stops to go before I reach mine, I begin to sidle towards the doors, but stop for a moment as I draw close to her.  She’s unaware, I think, because she has her head down and is toying with the ring again.  Slips it back on once more, then looks straight ahead.  She sees me, and gives a Mona Lisa smile.  I feel like her decision’s been made, and I smile back.

The doors open and I push my way out onto the platform.  I stop for a second, thinking.
Yeah, I knew it.  I know it.  This girl, who is now a woman, I have seen before.  Her life of running away is no more, and I’m so happy.  Yeah, I’m happy.