Monday, December 26, 2005


Boxing day. I am not boxing. A am waiting. Waiting for some people to arrive. So to fill in the waiting time I checked the blogs. No new blogs. No new comments. Blog it all. Where are all the dovetale bloggers? Must've been busy shopping, wrapping presents, baking, visiting, Christmas caroling, etc.etc.

Slowly, slowly the days are getting longer. Not noticable yet, but we know. The days are lenghtening. The year is coming to an end. 2006 waiting at the threshold.

Oh, by the way, wanna know where the word threshold comes from? In earlier days the floor of poor people's houses was dirt. Hence the saying, "dirt poor." Wealthy people had slate floors. Slippery when wet. They would spread thresh (straw) on the floor to keep their footing. The thresh would keep slipping out of the door and they'd keep on adding more thresh. Then someone thought of placing a piece of wood in the entrance to keep the thresh from slipping out. Hence the saying "threshold".

One of my favourites is: In early days at bath time, one hot tub was filled. Father got to go in first to wash. Then the sons and any other men. Then mother and children. Babies came last. By that time the water was so dirty that you could loose someone in it. Hence the saying, "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater."

I have more. But I will spare you those for now. Enough education for one boxing day. I like language and am always interested in origins. For the Dutch language I have a book that traces all the folkhabits, histories, etc. from way back, to the words and phrases we use. I have not been able to find such a book for the English language. Except a page in a newsletter, recently, where I have been quoting from here.

Don't anyone get too drunk parting with the old year, collapsing into the new. Make sensible (Ha, how boring!) resolutions over turkey soup and turkey sandwiches. Before you know it the sun will shine again.


Monday, December 12, 2005

Spilling the books, er... beans... or whatever...

A few postings back, M@ blamed the stupid snow (as opposed to the smart snow) for his not making it to a DoveTale Writer's group editing session. Well, it was indeed pretty nasty weather--

But then in the middle of his posting, he tantalized us with an announcement he had intended to make that night, but that he couldn't (because of the stupid snow, I gather) and we'd have to wait until better weather to hear it.

Okay, fellow bloggers and bloggettes, I'm going to spill the beans (where the hell did that expression ever orginate??? Meaning to tell a secret?), and ask M@ to tell us more...

M@ heard the good news (as opposed to bad news) that his military novel is getting published this spring (when all the snow is gone, I presume...).

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

forgotten? fairy tale

I sent this fairy tale to Leslie in an e-mail. I learned that most people I know are not familiar with this beautiful Hans Christian Anderson's tale. So I retold it in short in mainly my own words. Thought you all may like it.The Little Match Girl is from a very poor home way back in Industrial Britain. There isn't a mother anymore, and the father makes the children make flowers and then they are sent out on the street to sell the flowers and matches. The Little Match Girl has only slippers with wholes in it on her feet that are too big. They were her mother's. She walks the busy streets and barely escapes a collision between a motor car and a horse and buggy. She loses one slipper and has to go on bare feet in the snow. It is close to New years. She doesn't sell anything. The stores are full of goodies. Well dressed people shop. They don't even see her. She is cold and hungry. She doesn't dare to go home. Her father will hit her for not bringing home money. She finds herself a spot in the corner of buildings to sit down for a spell. She looks at the matches and wonders if she dares to light one. She does. In the warm flame she sees a hot stove and stretches out her feet to warm them. The match goes out, taking the vision away. She strikes anothe match. The wall across from her becomes transparent and a table set with festive foods is laid out for her, making her tummy rumble. The scene disappears, when the match goes out. She strikes another one, and a beautiful Christmas tree, full colourful decorations and blazing candles appears before her feasting eyes. When the match goes out, the lights are the stars in the night sky. One of the stars is falling. Her grandmother, who died, and who she had loved so very much, had told her that when a star falls. someone dies and goes to God. She then strikes a handfull of matches. Her Grandmother appears with stretched out arms. She looks in her beautiful, loving face and remembers all the good times they had together. The grandmother lovingly takes the Little match girl in her arms and they soar in a halo of light and joy, far above the earth to where there was no more cold and hunger and no pain for they were with God. The next morning people on the street find the dead body of the Little Match Girl frozen, with a smile still on her face. They saw the burned matches and said, "She must have tried to warm herself." But no one imagined what beautiful visions she had seen, nor in what glory she had entered with her grandmother in the New Year.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Stupid snow.

I don't know if anyone else made it to the gathering tonight. (What is the term for DT nights? Circle? Meeting? Hippie Commune?) But I didn't. And I'm bloody annoyed.

I developed a fear of driving on snow a few years ago. Three hours of unpredictable spinning out on the highway will do that to a fella, apparently. The upshot is that I tend to limit my travel when conditions are white and six-pointed. Thus I bailed on tonights, er, you know.

But I'm annoyed because I've got something good this time. The last couple of times -- yeah, the reception was pretty positive (and I'm relieved and gratified at that, lemme tellya). But this time, oh, the chapter I was gonna bring... up till now, the novel's been tension and furrowed brows and such. Kind of a mafia-themed Jane Austen, at best. Without the humour. Or romance. But chapter three! This is the action. Bang! Zing! Biff! It's all in there. Definitely the goods and without question the stuff to give the troops.

And since everyone was so positive about the first couple of chapters, I figured this one would be a real winner. No way anyone would put down the book after this chapter. All midnight oil stocks, previously hoarded for an emergency, would be expended in the interest &c.

Hot stuff, I tells ya.

Plus, plus, I had a major announcement. Of a writing/publishing nature. See? The snow has not only denied this group the heart-racing palpitation of a gripping, driving story, but also the [melo]drama of a writer's life! Because, as all writers know full well, there's nothing as interesting as what a writer's doing! Especially (if not exclusively) what oneself is doing!

So there you have it. Snow, I curse thee. I give thee a minimum of one, and a natural maximum of two, figs. I spit in thine eye and cetera.

Come May, this kind of thing won't bug me any more. Not for months.


Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Steve Martin on Writing

On Monday, the National Post had an article by/about Steve Martin in which he gives some advice about writing. Quotes are taken from an article which appears in the latest issue of Creative Screenwriting magazine. These are compared with quotes from "Writing is Easy" which appeared in The New Yorker's 1996 fiction issue. Here are a few:

On Inspiration:
As I write this, for example, I am sitting comfortably in my rose garden and typing on my new computer. Each rose represents a story, so I'm never at a loss for what to type. I just look deep into the heart of the rose, read its story, and then write it down.
2005: Sometimes you just sit down and start, as I did with L.A. Story. I like the idea of just sitting down and having vague ideas. Sometimes vague ideas create very original, surprising ideas.

On Writer's Block:
Writer's block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol.
2005: Whenever I'm stuck I just do not write. I believe in a subconscious process, that on a subconscious level your mind is still working on it.

On Editing:
Sometimes the delete key is your best friend.
2005: You'll see more clearly what needs to be cut if you just lose that emotional connection to the moment of creativity.

On Borrowing:
Go to an already published novel and find a sentence that you absolutely adore. Copy it down in your manuscript. Usually, that sentence will lead you to another sentence, and pretty soon your own ideas will start to flow.
2005: Years ago I copied down a quote that came from a studio script reader who was analyzing a script. She wrote this line -- "by leaving out the occasional narrative step, the authors hook your interest and avoid the kind of point-blank exposition that so easily deadens interest." I thought that line was great.

Larry Keiler

Friday, November 18, 2005

Another trip to Emerg

Chest pains. 911. Sirens. Kitchen full of police, firemen, EMS workers in black uniforms, big bags of medical gear on the kitchen floor, iv's in Bob's arm, blood on the floor, wrappers and syringes left in the blood. Bob's face is pale, but his eyes are alert, watching everything going on around him. That's Bob for you, trying to experience everything no matter how bad. Grist for the mill of consciousness. Maybe for the mill of writing. Freefalling, writing without a parachute, going into the unknown, into the next experience, not knowing what will happen at the hospital or what he will write next. Until it happens. Living in the moment.

Eleven hours in Emerg. Blood tests. Doctors hustling from bed to bed. Girl with allergic reaction, pumped full of benadryl, very sleepy. Man having chest pains in the next cubicle. Man two cubicles down, more chest pains.

Three level 1 emergencies come in by ambulance.

It's a bad day, one nurse says to the other. We can't even take breaks, says a third.

A white haired woman in Room 1 cannot be revived. The chaplain comes, stands outside the room. No family is with her. She lies on a gurney, intubated, body covered with a white sheet. Face not covered. Yet.

They rush another woman in, a younger woman with smoke inhalation, throat coated with soot, burns on her chest. She moans and says many words in a strange language. Later she is quiet. Wheeled off to ICU.

The last level 1 is an older man. He is unconscious. Also wheeled off to ICU.

The walls in Emerg are blue and green. Pale colours, meant to soothe. They should be magenta, or fuscia, or purple or canary yellow. Something to lift the spirits. To breathe life into the patients who are losing theirs.

Bob's blue hospital gown has a number printed on the front. All I can think of everytime I look at the number is PRISONER.

I ask Bob if he'd like me to buy him a magazine. But Bob needs nothing. No book, no hobby. He is fascinated by every beep on the monitor, by his latest blood pressure reading, by the stories unfolding around him. When something interesting is happening that he can't see, I am his emissary. He sends me out to snoop around, come back and tell him what they are doing to the patient in bed 4.

I need to keep busy. Co-pilot stress syndrome. I resolve to bring my laptop next time. And my needlepoint. And a book. And a backrest for the horrid chair that I remember from last time. And the time before. And the time before that. I will pack a little kit bag, like pregnant women do, and keep it in my closet so I will just have to pick it up and go out the door the next time the ambulance comes for Bob.

Bob is in Bed 7. It his first time in Bed 7. Maybe it's a sign. Seven is a lucky number, I tell him. He doesn't hear me, the oxygen makes too much noise. And the monitor is beeping again.

I sit on the horrid chair and contemplate. Emerg... is that like emerging? Feels more like freefalling. Or maybe a bit of both.



Took some time to try the blog out. Still don't get the hang of the whole process. It's like trying to learn a new language. Mostly I run out of time and patience to stick with it. Read Leslie's story about sailing and feminism on the screen, yesterday.Good story. But you know what? Again I realize that I do not enjoy reading from the screen as much as reading from hard copy. Even with what I write myself. I have to print out what I have written before I can truly judge my work, get the real feel of it. So far I still feel an alien in the world of blogging. Where did that word originate, anyway. Where is it made up from. First I thought it was an invention from Larry Keiler. / Beautiful sun-up this morning. Pastel streaked sky and paling full moon over icing sugared world. Have a good day everyone.


Friday, November 04, 2005

The Great Failure

I've just read Natalie Goldberg's latest memoir, The Great Failure. My Unexpected Path to Truth, and I'm wrestling with what I think about it. My gut reaction is to say, "Nat - someday someone's gonna write a book about YOU, somebody you love. They're gonna sit down and put that pen to paper in some little cafe, just like you've instructed, and not lift that pen up until it all comes out, all those first thoughts - how you've injured them in some way, they'll write it as truth. What's THAT gonna feel like, Nat? And you can't respond, 'cause the book is in print, it's out there in the world."

I'm not sure if the writer should publicly "lay bare" the people they've known intimately - whether that's a sexual intimacy or the intimacy that comes from deep friendship or sharing common space, common ground. I'm not sure everything's fair game when it comes to first- person writing, nor am I sure I buy into the viewpoint that publishing what you are confronting through your writing is necessarily a bravery. I guess what I'm struggling with is the following: Because you are engaged in the process of explaining yourself to yourself, which in a sense is the first act of memoir, does that mean there are no boundaries? The ego, after all (and I use ego without negative connotions, the "I" perspective, not as egotistical), sees reality pretty much through his or her own "eye/I." Where does that leave the subject - the "he or she" who did this to me? And when you have an audience as big as Natalie Goldberg's - wow. That's public crucifixion - perhaps even crucifiction - since it is personal perspective.

The book is very well written (sometimes I can hear Natalie's voice putting herself through her writing exercises - and I mean that literally, I've listened to her audiotapes). But sheesh, I just wonder about the role of love in it all, and compassion, and trust, whether it is fair and write/right to do what's she's done.

In a way, she is at the cutting edge of "boomer-dom." She's written a memoir about what the huge demographic is now experiencing, the death of their parents- whether figurative or literal father/mother figures. It is how she handles this figurative father that I question in particular, although I have questions about her actual father, too. In her first book, she sets her Buddhist teacher on a pedestal. In this book, she takes him off.

As the writer, Natalie edits. There are parts where I want to say to her, okay Nat, let's explore HERE. Dig deeper into your own motivation and shortcomings, you've hinted at them. Like when she acknowledges with regret that her former husband, at the young age of thirty, faced the death of his parents alone because she was at the buddhist centre, doing zazen - sitting meditation - literally hours at a time. Days on end. That, to me, was internal bravery on Nat's part, to see that about herself. I wanted more there...

This isn't all theoretical to me - much of my recent writing is from the first-person perspective. So the struggle is real.

Saturday, October 29, 2005


Snoopy types: It was a dark and stormy night.....

I have had some great outings on dark , moody days. I have missed the sun lately. The sun has snuck out now and then in the past couple of weeks but not when I had an opportunity to see it.

I have tried lying on the beach because this is supposed to be appealing. Umm, for me its not. Dang, someday someone has to explain lying, laying, lie, and laid to me. There is something about a chicken and an egg. Never mind, to continue…

I don’t get soaking up the sun on a beach. Then again, I don’t get meditation. My mind is a meat eater, a real carnivore.

At last Monday’s general committee of the City of Cambridge Council a well-known developer appeared as a delegation. In front of council and forty of the general public he described Mr. Bob Paul as ruthless. This was the joke all day on Tuesday and continued all through the week. Now the gentleman that called me ruthless, I admire very much. His description of my actions was an honest opinion. An accurate one too I think.

But it adds to a myth, a myth that I encourage. Now the gentleman in question, lets call him John. Why?… because his name is John. He is a man of action. John doesn’t wish to be told that things can’t be done. That is a waste of his time. If you wish to speak with him come armed with solutions and not problems. He is a good man with a wonderful heart. People don’t get him. I do.

John isn’t a sun soaker. There is nothing wrong with being a sun soaker. He ain’t one and I ain’t one.

There is the diver and the dive. One is an action and the other is a person. When I coached diving I ‘d tell the diver how they might improve their dive. I would praise the attempt and give constructive advice. This is the way we learn. When I bring writing to the editing circle, I thrive on opinions on how I may correct and improve my writing. And I soak up being the centre of attention for a few minutes. Last editing circle… blew me away. Everyone’s writing and the story telling was mesmerizing. I comment on story because honestly I am a poor editor. I would not be the type you wish to proof read. And comments on my writing... well I am not there to soak up the sun… Any attention to my writing is sunshine


Monday, October 24, 2005


niagara falling
leaves falling
czars falling
angels falling
dominoes falling
walls falling
stars falling
trees falling
pillars falling
hopes falling
wishes falling
like niagara leaves czars angels dominoes walls stars trees pillars hopes wishes
have I forgotten any
will I remember when wishes fall like niagara
when niagara falls like leaves
when leaves fall like czars
like angels
like dominoes
like walls
behind stars
behind trees
behind pillars
beyond hopes
above wishes

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Further on freefalling...

Leslie said....

I am not quite so excited about going fearward as Bobby Bacon but I think there is wisdom to it. I also hope to experience some of the exhilaration Marianne mentioned without having to actually jump out of a plane. I am much too cowardly for that. Brian was very brave. I wish I had known him. By the way for those who are interested, you can visit Barbara's website at

Of boats and poetry...

Why are some days like this and others not? Today, poetry is everywhere. I actually hear the words spoken aloud in my head when I walk the dog, when I clean the kitchen, when I bid for yet another kayak on eBay.

For Netty and Dianne and Janet when they come kayaking with me next summer, I tell myself when I justify the eBay bidding, four kayaks and a canoe already in the garage, and then a poem speaks in my head about it, a "kayaks in the garage" poem.

You can never have too many boats, kayakers are fond of saying. Other kayakers understand immediately. Non-kayakers just look at you as if you're nuts, an "Imelda Marcos" with too many shoes. Not a bad analogy, shoes and boats. You wear a kayak, rather than ride in it like other boats. There are different boats for different occasions, different weather and water conditions, different levels of expertise. You wouldn't wear sandals in the snow in winter, although sandals are perfect for the beach in summer. I don't want my friends to tip in the Grand River, nor to have to lug a 50 pound boat up and then off my car and to the launch point. The little eBay kayak, brand new and located in my hometown so I don't have to pay shipping, will be just the right fit.

It is a wet cold October day. Drearily ordinary in many ways. Yet poems speak in my head in loud whispers. I actually hear the words. Everything is a poem, and it is exhilarating. You can never have too many poems, a poet might very well say. And kayakers would understand...


Thursday, October 20, 2005

Freefalling in Fall

I am about to Freefall!

Barbara Turner-Vesselago was one of the speakers at CanWrite in June. I had the pleasure of hearing her session and was impressed. She talked very little; mostly she read examples of what students in her Freefall writing courses have written. Some of the writing was memorable, all of it was compelling and all of it rang true. Freefall Writing is a little like the Wild Mind writing of Natalie Goldberg but different too. Freefall writing can be broken down into four basic decisions:

1) I will write down what comes up for me
2) I won't change anything
3) I will give all the sensuous detail
4) I will go where the energy is, i.e. go "fearward"

Barbara teaches Freefall Writing workshops around the world. She also offers on-line sessions. In one format, a general subject is suggested (like 'write about a scene from childhood with a specific smell attached to it') and the writer Freefall writes about it once a month. This material is not submitted to or reviewed by Barbara. In another format, called a Correspondence Course, a general subject is suggested once a week for eight weeks and the writer submits up to 16 pages to Barbara for editing and comments.

Holding my breath regarding the time and monetary commitment, I have just signed up for Barbara's correspondence course which starts next week. I will be freefalling for the rest of the fall, until mid-December.

You may hear some Freefall writing of mine in future, we'll see. Wish me luck!


Mavis Gallant's Advice to Short Story Readers

Stories are not chapters of novels. They should not be read one after another, as if they were meant to follow along. Read one. Shut the book. Read something else. Stories can wait.

Larry's Advice to Short Story Writers

Wear platform shoes.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Waiting for Guffman

by Bob Paul (whoops smiles)

"Waiting for Guffman" is a movie. This type of gentle humour appeals to me. This is by the same people who did "This is Spinal Tap".

The humour is similar to the blogs Lunchbucket Larry writes. If you read this Larry and you have a moment can you provide us with a link to your site. Sorry, I have not taken the time to really figure out how this site works. Now, I am off track. Where was I?

The thought process started with one of Larry's blogs. A band with some sort of reputation comes to Octoberfest and all of sudden Larry's band becomes the second fiddle sorta speak.

For whatever reason I was raised with a strong feeling that no one is better; not because of reputation, title, money or position. I am not better than anyone nor is anyone better than me. A common theme in Frank McCourt's childhood was that the King or Queen of England still has the same toilet needs as us mere mortals.

In the work of Spinal Tap there is a gentle mocking. It is not mean but it is insiteful. Other such works is "Best of Show" and "Blowing in the Wind".

People in position and power lose their way sometimes in self importance. In my career I have always approached self important people with humour. I once attended a meeting with eight architects. They were all dressed in black. Now a better man than I would have ignored that. But I am no better so I teased them all through our meeting by talking about architects in black. The next meeting with them, there were fewer people dressed in black.

I need to mock myself on a regular basis otherwise my ego commits fraud on the world. I see this in the writing of Leslie Bamford and John Bolden where they tend to tease themselves more so than the other characters they write about. They can take the most mundane situations and make them laugh out loud funny.

Marianne Paul's mockery is a different style. One is swept away by intricate detail of a split second then BAM the bizarre. The so called truth, fact or fiction seems to be her major target.

Netty Meyer uses nature to mock daily living and our worries, while Christine teases herself through reflections on a maritime childhood. Shirley on the otherhand deals with the mean form of mockery and exposes bullies.

I have yet to read enough of Matt Binn's work to know where his sense of humour will take him. However Matt is a comic in real life. He has a keen eye which will find itself in his writing.

Writing isn't serious but can take on serious subjects. I liken writing to sand paintings of Buddhist monks. They spend hours doing these beautiful intricate designs then sweep them away. I liken writing to building of a sandcastle. If I make writing too important then nothing is put onto the page. It remains blank. This is where Waiting Guffman comes in. If we look carefully our pomp and circumtasnces is a never ending source of entertainment and fun.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Beam me up...

I have one of those old clunky cell phones - so old the battery plate fell off and I taped it back on - then the Scotch tape wouldn't do the job any more and finally, the phone died. So I figured I'd just go out and buy a new one. One of those thin spiffy models that look like "Beam me up, Scotty" devices. Maybe spend a half hour on the task. Yeah, right.

I use "Pay-As-You-Go" since I can't stand the idea of another monthly charge. I don't use the cell phone that often to justify it. And hey, I'm an email kinda person, just not on my telephone.

So I surf the web, and find a myriad of phone choices. I get rather excited when I see I can buy a phone for $19.99, but there's a catch - I must sign up for three years with a monthly plan and billing. Oh, sure, I can bundle it with my Hi-Speed Internet, and save a few bucks each month, but I don't wanna do that - all I want is a phone! Not a plan!

And then I read the fine print - that $19.99 is the price AFTER the mail-in rebates. I hate mail-in rebates. They never show up in my mailbox unless I chase them down by arguing with some faceless voice at the end of an 1-800 number. And then I read more of the website description - that $19.99 phone is, like, $300 if I use Pay-As-You-Go cards.

Okay, so I give up on the website - too many choices anyway and the FAQs never answer my specific questions. So I brave the traffic at Fisher-Hallman and Ottawa (most accidents per year at this crossroads) and get the cell phone spiel from the kid at the Source electronic store. I make a decision to buy a MuchMusic Pay-As-You-Go phone right there based on his pitch (why the hell would I want to download music?), and he says to me, absolutely straight faced, "We don't have any of those phones right now." Sends me to the Rogers Wireless store across the street.

I take my life in my hands and brave the Saturday afternoon traffic. A young woman explains all about the phones all over again, and the Blackberries too (just in case), but they require monthly plans (I can bundle it, she says cheerfully). Once again I choose the MuchMusic phone, and she says to me, "Oh, those are all sold out - go over to the Sources store across the street...." I mutter something about just being there, and she says, "Then try the Rogers store at the Highland Mall." Yeah, right.... that intersection is just as insane on a Saturday afternoon....

Well, I do finally get a new phone... went to my neighbourhood Rogers video store - some nerdy young girl (she told me this story about her father, and how he had this really old cell phone for the longest time, and taped the battery plate to the back of it....). Got me the phone I wanted, didn't try to sell me anything else, even did all the paper work for me. You know, I bet that nerdy kid writes poetry in her spare time. Damn good poetry too.

Hey! Where You All?

Larry sez:

I'm wondering why nobody else has posted on this blankity blog? I hope it ain't cuz y'all think it needs to be some sort of polished little gem of cosmic insight? An insight joke would be just as good, eh?

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Mr. Nobody...and friends

By: Larry Keiler

Now that I've tested, here's my little rant...not exactly about writing...more about fame and non-fame and how conditions change moment to moment.

Do you have any idea what it's like to be one minute, "the show", where everybody's paying attention and you are the main event and people love you and think you are "awesome", a word which everybody seems to use these days? And the next minute you are Mr. Nobody. Nobody listens. Nobody pays attention. Everybody ignores you. 'Cuz you're not the one they came to see. But still, you have to be there, put on your show, make nice, be a pro, do your thing, be just as awesome as you always were except that nobody cares.

That's what it's like doing these off-night shows at the #1 Party Place in Lunchbucket during Oktoberfest. Everybody, including management, falls over the "stars", the hot new stallion in the stall, feeds 'em apples and sugar cubes, while us Mr. Nobody Workhorses get nuttin' but stale oats and a smack upside the head.

A perfect example is one of the headliners from last night, Aaron Pritchett. Up and coming country star. Of course, I'm biased. But my impression of him and his band was that they were awesomely ordinary. Well, that's not quite true. The band was good. Great guitar players. But the songs were undistinguished. And Pritchett, the apparent star, was, to me, just an ordinary singer.

Ah! Enough ranting. It was a country crowd. They don't know from Ein Prosit, even though I taught them, and still they managed to sit on their hands and stare at us goggle-eyed as if we were the ones out of place. Somebody famous said, "You can always tell a country crowd, you just can't tell 'em much."

Testing, testing, eins, zwei, drei

Hello everyone. Just testing the water.

Signed: Larry

Monday, October 10, 2005

Something Good - Jumping Off The Train Bridge

By Bob Paul

That is my first thought of each day. And each day something good does happen. Sixteen hours of the day can go poorly and then in one brief moment something good happens. That one good moment makes the whole struggle worth it.

I wrote a short story “Suddenly Quiet” based on best friends of mine that have died. The story is about Brian and Irene. They meet in the middle of a train bridge high above the Ottawa River. I jumped off that bridge many years ago. Brian persuaded me to jump, which I recorded in the book “Sandcastle Memories.” It has been fictionalized but I can’t decipher between fiction and fact anymore. I write in third person and assume the role of David.

Brian had made him laugh and had pushed David to his very limits of perception.
They had walked along the railway bridge that crossed the Ottawa River. David, a stickler for rules, had protested that they were trespassing on railway property. Every time he mentioned it, Brian would roar with laughter.

“David, outside of my job, I just have one rule, and that rule is passion and compassion.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, look out there. See this?” Brian pointed out from the bridge.” This is where we are.”

David looked in the direction Brian was pointing.

“Do you see it?” Brian asked.

“See, what?”

“Christ almighty, David. You are so fucking desperate for solitude. Have you ever in your life ever opened yourself up to anyone or anything?”

David felt his anger rise, but he quickly subdued it, not allowing his friend to get under his skin. Staring blankly out over the river he had no idea what Brian wanted..

“Aw, man! Would you at least do this for me? Close your eyes. What do you feel?” Brian asked.

David closed his eyes. “I feel the breeze on my face and hands.”

“Good, we have established that you do feel. Now open your eyes and describe what you see.”

“The Ottawa River,” David said.

“Is that all?

“Sure.” David shrugged his shoulders.

“You know what I see out there? Images of something real, true, ecstatic, blissful, revealing, wondrous, magical, and divine. Water stretching for miles. Gulls hanging on puffs of air. And do you know what else?”

David shrugged again.

“I see the face of God!” With that statement, Brian walked away.

So Brian yeah, my buddy and my best friend died in a sailing accident near Kingston Ontario in 1991.