The Days Read online

  Where brown bread was concerned, Doris Grant said, “If you love your husbands, keep them away from white bread. If you don’t love them, cyanide is quicker but bleached bread is just as certain, and no questions asked.” She said loaves of white bread should be dropped over Germany.

  Think of Doris Grant while the bombs of bad news continue to fall on our heads.

  Secretary Day

  Pushing upwards means wanting to dance where you’re not supposed to.

  Perseverance means wearing your secretary suit like a legend in your own time.

  You’re kidding? means there is seldom joy in filing.

  Top means work is cry-worthy but extraordinary.

  Bottom means departure towards small things as a keeper of secrets.

  Sixth place means it feels like God rather than you who is making a fortune being successful.

  Fifth place means a banana suit for the off-hours.

  Fourth place means a hallowed task and a singing mouth.

  Third place means your body is like a devoted goat.

  Second place means it feels like a journey of bodily insides.

  First place means it furthers one to wear the gorilla mask.

  No blame means everyone is written into your story for a reason but you will never know how the story ends.

  Gordon Lightfoot Day

  Oh, this day is tough. It finds me in my older years sitting at my desk. As usual, I’ve been clawing at ways to keep the universe exciting. One way I’ve found is to heed the words of Clint Eastwood: “Never let the old man in.” Or in my case, the old woman. Another is to listen to Gordon Lightfoot’s songs again, the ones about moving on. Altering their meaning a little. I hope he doesn’t mind. So that moving on can also mean not getting stale. Not letting the dust settle.

  It’s Supposed to Be a Fun Deal

  Everyone’s so nervous these days. Not me. I’ve been wearing my party clothes all week. On Thursday evening I’m hosting a tap-water gala!

  Though Hillary says hosting a gala during a time of austerity and normalized decline is a weird thing to do. And Mother says one should be careful of tap water. And David says I look like the Second Coming in my long white apron.

  But I wonder. Are we not about to have a keen new perspective on things? For example, the fifth of May has been declared National Prayer Day across the United States of America.

  Vibe

  When I saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, I was, like, meh? Because I’d seen the picture a million times. On jigsaw puzzles, posters. So it was, like, I waited in line for this?

  In every picture she’s wearing the same dress. She has no eyebrows or eyelashes. Her hair lies flat on her head. She’s sat on the same chair for five hundred years and still doesn’t know when her husband, the silk merchant, will return from China. Off-picture, her mother-in-law’s bleating about the lack of beer in the larder. The roof’s sprung a leak. The servant girl is pregnant again. The second plague pandemic is happening. Millions are infected or dead. A lucky few struggle to find a last safe corner for humanity.

  There are so many things like that you’ve seen so many times before.

  Ritardando

  When you wake up on the morning of July 2 you will be looking, as usual, for that deep, great, plus-size model of life. You won’t find it. Instead, you will find a day that is situated at the exact midpoint of the year.

  This balancing of the year always occurs at noon. If you want the second half of the year to carry on in much the same way as the first half did, that is, with you alive and kicking, then you will need to do some balancing of your own. The easiest way is to straddle a teeter-totter for a few minutes, one in a park, or one of your own making.

  This balancing is called a ritardando, a sacred pause in the flow of things. Failure to pause and balance could result in your feeling like you don’t even belong here.

  Interestingly, even though the second half of the year doesn’t yet exist, it still weighs as much as the first half. Mixing existence and non-existence together like that is a feature of the arcane law called Cheat and Transformation, by the way.

  Also of note: July 2 is World UFO Day. Expect to watch the skies this night. There are bad things out there, and they are close.

  Annual Day

  Annual Day happens once a year and it is never good. This year the date is March 2.

  As usual, you will attempt to ease its passing but this will be futile. Nothing will help. Not playing Madama Butterfly in the morning with the windows open. Not making yourself feel glad about the clouds.

  By afternoon you will be sitting over tea like a chalk statue with blank eyes, thinking: Today existence is something to subsist in, breathe, vegetate, and be converted to.

  Then you will lie down and face the wall.

  Later, even the stars will look dull.

  How We Live

  At any moment a fog bank of evil intentions can appear. Knowing this, we traffic in distractions.

  I wear a candelabra on my head, or drink wine holding the glass with my toes, or do a thing with my grandmother’s flapper beads. This seems to help.

  You go around wearing a false head, one of a giant seagull. Just because we live near the beach.

  And we attend many festivals to keep ourselves buoyed, the latest one being in celebration of large numbers: Sixty thousand real estate agents in the City of Toronto!

  But mostly we get pissed, start a fight, and get bounced from the tea shop.

  Today’s Letter

  It’s a beautiful life we have, but sometimes not so much.

  There’s Aiden. We had to accept his building cars. He’s says he’s an artist now who only cares about what he’s creating. He’ll cut up your car without asking.

  And Anthony. We had to understand and respect his choice. If he wants to go to Tibet or Nepal on some kind of spiritual journey that’s his business, even if he is an atheist.

  And Ben. He was on TV overcoming his demons, and reaching out and seeing the supreme love over the whole world. All Praise to the Lord for that.

  Otherwise, it’s the same old same old.

  Ed made twenty-four in cribbage.

  We put the cat down.

  Darla says her baby’s a real private person.

  Mother’s Advice

  Never listen to anyone who says that clowns are stupid and you should become a venture capitalist.

  Never look for deep structure in a bowl of oatmeal.

  Avoid chomping on gum. If you substituted mashed potatoes, would you find chomping acceptable?

  Search out people to laugh with when things become unhinged.

  Stay alert. The road is in a hurry.

  And remember, if you are not in the red playroom of pleasure with some naked flesh in your face, the experience of an afternoon is much like that of any other afternoon.

  It is always fun until someone pokes an eye out.

  Father’s Advice

  If you’re looking for a phrase guaranteed to ruin a first date, say, “I know this sounds crazy, but I think I’m falling in love with you.” Likewise, never take a date to couple’s therapy. And when your special day rolls around, never say, “It’s my birthday, I can kill a kid!”

  It is better to ignore the bass beats in life and dance instead to fragments of rhythms. It will make you look like you’re having an epileptic seizure, but so what? Like Frank Zappa, you will be saying, “Oh, this is the great new way!”

  And each day you should ask yourself: Have I checked for infectious diseases? Played the banjo? Breathed mindfully. Known which mouthwash causes cancer?

  Because this is it, the community of fleeting moments. And it’s true, the real story is even more incredulous than the one you tell yourself.

  The Sailor’s Advice

  Learn to navigate your days. Never set your course by the moon. Pay attention to the stars. Lean into the wind.

  Remember, there is always the swift pace of passing years. You will feel this acutely
while trying to grab the day by its throat.

  Grit your jaw.

  Steady as she goes.

  Grandma’s Prophesy

  There will be violence, there will be sex, there will be brothels in every town.

  Waves of tears will continue to flow; death will remain a timeless character. For the vast majority of people this controversy will never go away.

  The generational differences between the young and the old, however, will remain a source of amusement.

  Brad and Angie will call it quits. They love each other intensely but want other things out of life.

  You, on the other hand, will never get everything you want. Your father will continue to take his helping of wives. Pay attention! Your mother will continue to shovel snow.

  Advice Ancient and Modern

  To ensure that a change in life or in love will be good, the ancient advice is to throw hot stones against the door where you are living. Besides providing you with temporary good luck, this action will also cause all liquids in the vicinity to flow more freely. Rivers will become fast flowing; heavy rain will be unleashed from suddenly ashen skies; your blood will quicken its course through your body, causing your face to flush, your muscles to strengthen, and your energy level to soar.

  You will need this energy. Because along with good luck comes bad luck, often in the form of malevolent spirits that will tamper with your liquid moments, causing your thoughts to become like rooms filled with landmines, causing gleefulness to vanish, dread to be restored.

  The modern advice says there are several strenuous things you must do to ensure that bad luck doesn’t gain the upper hand, but so far we don’t quite know what these strenuous things might be.

  Perhaps there’s a list somewhere.

  Maybe you can find it.

  Or figure one out.

  The only advice I know is to wear yellow and hold your breath.

  Vibe

  You’re only as good as your last YouTube video.

  2

  How Nice Was My Reply?*

  Did it make you feel singular, weird, beautiful, and primal?

  Did it make you believe you were going down the right road?

  Did it make you forget the eternal questions: Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing here?

  Was it as nice as a mother confessing to a radio psychiatrist that her teenage son has an obsession with cat characters?

  Did it make you feel, Oh my God, I am amazing?

  Was it like, Oh man, do I admit this? I have always wanted to wear an Elvis jumpsuit?

  Did it make it easy for you to integrate back into reality?

  Was it like a pie-eating contest? The first mouthfuls are tasty but now you’re sick of it?

  Was it army-booted, shave-headed, and pierced in places people are talking about?

  Did it make you wonder if you are not just a collection of microbes, or a fat-chance physiological system?

  Was it more like, I wish your stupid morning had drowned in a puddle?

  Was it more like, the edible garbage is out back in the alley?

  *Automated reply from online retail store after complaint was answered.

  Deep End

  You’ve been on a Jack Kerouac fantasy trip for years, looking to become the next keeper of imagination’s flame.

  First stop – the abandoned Zen motel in Mesa, Arizona, where you filmed yourself reading by the light of your emptied mind. After that it was any small town with an audience. You had a collection of one thousand haiku-like novels to hustle, each one not more than twenty-five words long. You couldn’t help asking anyone who came by, “Don’t you just love the cover?”

  Those lines you drew in the sand and thought would remain forever? Well, the tide just came in and washed everything away.

  Frog Chorus

  —Oliver declared his love for me while gazing at the stars, and this got me thinking: Who is Oliver, and how did he get into this story?

  —As ever, nature did not have command of the words needed to answer. There was just the cool moon and me with the heart of an oak and nothing to say.

  —I find consolation in the fact that tomorrow some of us will know where our next meal is coming from. And most of us will get caught up in that story, the one about suspense and survival.

  —All of this is foretold in the calendar of spectacular dreams, that tells us each day begins with, “Holy, there’s something going on here!” and ends with a goosebump factor.

  Not Every Day Will Be the Best Day of Your Life

  This is my story, yes. But I would also say, okay, I enjoy my food and life in general. And I always bounce back. I’m like a punching bag that gets pushed to the ground and pops up again. And all my power comes from my reasonable brain, something Manny Moss appreciates. There’s no lack of appreciation when it comes to Manny Moss.

  There’s a plot, right?

  Well, there’s a heady combination of bawdiness and some really good existential jokes.

  Nowadays the audience is very plot-literate so it’s hard to have unexplained events.

  Does it count that Manny Moss and I are flawlessly flawed but in a not-too-obvious way? That for years people thought we were having perfect moments when, in fact, many of those moments were sour?

  You decide.

  Well, we did our fair share of moping ...

  Ah, another Woody Allen movie. Lots of critics. No audience.

  We indulged in hysterics at the back of a movie house. Does that count? And one time Manny Moss pulled down his brother’s sweat pants at breakfast because his brother was over-staying his welcome. What about that?

  Never underestimate the public’s appetite for devilish plots.

  I think mine is more of a love story. It’s, like, if you can’t be together you’d rather call it a day. But then, other times, at night, I sing Nat King Cole songs in the alley, to no one, really ...

  Yes, well. Thank you. What’s your name?

  Marion.

  Thank you, Marion.

  It’s Like There’s a Wormhole in the Universe

  We have these things in common. Once we were young. Once the ordinary universe felt exciting and bittersweet. We were teen heroes battling teen villains. And every summer going to Midway Park beyond the highway. Remember the rides and stomping on mustard packets? I accidentally sprayed a girl’s white jeans with the yellow stuff.

  Back then it was a crazy stamina experience. We were like an early draft of a person, where they sketch out a skeleton and only later add on the details, like pigment, crow’s feet, worry lines.

  Like understanding the score.

  Now we weep easily. We’re troubled sometimes. We make mistakes. Now it’s “Do not ramble, eat your oatmeal.”

  What’s the difference between being seventy and eighty years old?

  Ten minutes, we say.

  Deaf Day

  I heard a deep high, I mean sigh.

  I had a mixed message instead of washed lettuce.

  History of the Kitchen Sink

  You call out the kitchen window, “Gerald, are you there?”

  When he doesn’t answer you return to the sink, the suds, and the stew pot. Your husband is missing again. Sitting in the fifth wheel with his sex books probably.

  Story

  Mimi, meanwhile, jumped into her white Miata and revved the engine. She was about to leave, I knew, for that place where superheroes communicate with each other in an abstract and poetic way.

  Punk Kitchen

  For some time now you’ve been wanting a Punk Kitchen. No one else has a Punk Kitchen and owning one, you believe, will raise your esteem in the eyes of your friends.

  To make this happen, to turn your kitchen into something anarchic, you’ve hired legendary punk artists Matthew Hollow and Hammer Lee. They’ve been working all morning on an installation but have taken a break to confer. They can’t figure out how to transplant the bindweed they’ve been growing on your bedroom carpet. The bindweed’s destined to c
over the kitchen walls. They are absolutely twisted in knots over this problem.

  You’ve been looking up the regulations in the Punk Handbook, hoping to help. Surprisingly, you’re finding the regulations exciting. They’re like a poem and a dream. There are so many points of entry. So many ways to dissemble meaning. You’re enchanted, which is something – as the owner of a Punk Kitchen – you know you should not be.

  The regulations say nothing about bindweed on kitchen walls, however. When you tell Matthew Hollow and Hammer Lee this, they both say, “The fuck.” And then Matthew Hollow takes a baseball bat to the fridge and Hammer Lee tears the cupboard doors off their hinges.

  You remain absorbed in the Punk Handbook. It contains many quotes to fall in love with. I have fond memories of floating down the Ganges on chunks of flesh, by Jello Biafra. It’s pretty hard to be artistic when you’re middle class, by Lisa “Suckdog” Carver.

  Day with Clouds

  A cloud shaped like a blind terrier with its mouth open floats across the sky towards a stick on the far side of an adjacent cloud. It’s a slow process taking ten minutes. By the time the terrier reaches the stick, the cloud has transformed into a breast and the dog is now biting the nipple.