Flirt: The Interviews by Lorna Jackson Page A
Authors: Lorna Jackson
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Short Stories, Language Arts & Disciplines, Short Stories (Single Author), Communication Studies
Ads: Link
ones. I see the story of a garden in those hands, maybe the hint of guitar chords.
âI was flown to a psychiatric ward down-island and told by the mayor who was also the doctor to stay put until I could be more service to the community. He may have meant this kindly. I took my guitar. I fell there, too, this time for a shrubby yet handsome older alcoholic from Port Alice who claimed he was there because his wife, when she didnât find satisfaction with him, enjoyed an intimate relationship on the kitchen floor with their willing German shepherd. I kissed that man on the beach, truant from my room, the ward. The nurses were fed up with me. My doctor said, of course. Itâs all about your father leaving you . More James Taylor in the afternoon as I began to come around to pleasantness: âShower the People.â Some difficult chords. And soon, back to the city, to a band, the bars, the road.
I canât begin to tell you about my relationship with music and how it broke my heart. I believed I could be original, an innovator and instead played the Eagles and Creedence Clearwater Revival in every dive joint from Port Moody to Prince George for the better part of a decade. In my head, I heard the tone clusters and eight part chords of Benjamin Britten, I heard his War Requiem and da Vittoriaâs clean melodies and gradual harmonies and wanted their complexity in the verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, verse, chorus of country music. Emmylou showed promise, but I was in the bars. My voice a broken record. The crowd an empty glass. My hands too small and inept on the nightâs high strings.
âYou drank.
âI did.
âChrist, who wouldnât?
âAnd then that music died and me, too, just about. But it wasnât jazz and I wasnât a miracle so no one thought much about the misery of it: the music gone, Thurber left to live in another landscape, the men all old and stoned and hot for the next chick singer. It wasnât jazz. It was tawdry and simplistic country, no room for improvâs antidote, no need for it really. So no one cared when I lost it and gave up.
âYeah, but here you are, what? Twenty years later? And you have a dog?
âYes.
âAnd?
âI have a dog, yes.
âAnd?
âThe dog was his dog.
âHis?
âYes. The most recent, the fifteen-year his . The dog was his and then he found another woman â younger, happier, better breed, no art â and now itâs my dog, our daughterâs dog. He came to me and said, âIâm in a relationship with her. I want out.â
âLike a dog at the door.
âYes, desperate to piss or for the ecstasy of chasing squirrels, maybe both.
âWell. What are we whole or beautiful or good for but to be absolutely broken? to quote that wisest Webb . Youâll be whole again, maybe even broken if youâre lucky.
âOur daughter plays horn, you see, trumpet. And her mouth is full of it, her hands automatic in their lust for her instrument. I see her smirk on stage as she flaunts the fedora and the rhythm and its partnering blues. I love that look. She goes to the bright side of the road and then hurtles back to the dark end of our street. Charlie Parker floats down the stairs from her room. His dog trembles with the sound of music. A dachshund.
âLike E.B White.
âLike Wayne Gretzky.
âStill, a hound.
âMore terrier than hound. Separation anxiety, no road sense, angry at new lambs, dominant and hard on the cat. She tunnels under the covers at night and I wake with heat against the small of my back and believe heâs still beside me, silent as our last years together. At night I dream of Buddy Boldenâs form, his mouth. The weight of a hockey playerâs kind hand on my wrist. My father laughing at a cocktail party and saying, âIâm back.â I dream of happy young men with scarred jaws and eyes who desire older women in the new sexual order
âI was flown to a psychiatric ward down-island and told by the mayor who was also the doctor to stay put until I could be more service to the community. He may have meant this kindly. I took my guitar. I fell there, too, this time for a shrubby yet handsome older alcoholic from Port Alice who claimed he was there because his wife, when she didnât find satisfaction with him, enjoyed an intimate relationship on the kitchen floor with their willing German shepherd. I kissed that man on the beach, truant from my room, the ward. The nurses were fed up with me. My doctor said, of course. Itâs all about your father leaving you . More James Taylor in the afternoon as I began to come around to pleasantness: âShower the People.â Some difficult chords. And soon, back to the city, to a band, the bars, the road.
I canât begin to tell you about my relationship with music and how it broke my heart. I believed I could be original, an innovator and instead played the Eagles and Creedence Clearwater Revival in every dive joint from Port Moody to Prince George for the better part of a decade. In my head, I heard the tone clusters and eight part chords of Benjamin Britten, I heard his War Requiem and da Vittoriaâs clean melodies and gradual harmonies and wanted their complexity in the verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, verse, chorus of country music. Emmylou showed promise, but I was in the bars. My voice a broken record. The crowd an empty glass. My hands too small and inept on the nightâs high strings.
âYou drank.
âI did.
âChrist, who wouldnât?
âAnd then that music died and me, too, just about. But it wasnât jazz and I wasnât a miracle so no one thought much about the misery of it: the music gone, Thurber left to live in another landscape, the men all old and stoned and hot for the next chick singer. It wasnât jazz. It was tawdry and simplistic country, no room for improvâs antidote, no need for it really. So no one cared when I lost it and gave up.
âYeah, but here you are, what? Twenty years later? And you have a dog?
âYes.
âAnd?
âI have a dog, yes.
âAnd?
âThe dog was his dog.
âHis?
âYes. The most recent, the fifteen-year his . The dog was his and then he found another woman â younger, happier, better breed, no art â and now itâs my dog, our daughterâs dog. He came to me and said, âIâm in a relationship with her. I want out.â
âLike a dog at the door.
âYes, desperate to piss or for the ecstasy of chasing squirrels, maybe both.
âWell. What are we whole or beautiful or good for but to be absolutely broken? to quote that wisest Webb . Youâll be whole again, maybe even broken if youâre lucky.
âOur daughter plays horn, you see, trumpet. And her mouth is full of it, her hands automatic in their lust for her instrument. I see her smirk on stage as she flaunts the fedora and the rhythm and its partnering blues. I love that look. She goes to the bright side of the road and then hurtles back to the dark end of our street. Charlie Parker floats down the stairs from her room. His dog trembles with the sound of music. A dachshund.
âLike E.B White.
âLike Wayne Gretzky.
âStill, a hound.
âMore terrier than hound. Separation anxiety, no road sense, angry at new lambs, dominant and hard on the cat. She tunnels under the covers at night and I wake with heat against the small of my back and believe heâs still beside me, silent as our last years together. At night I dream of Buddy Boldenâs form, his mouth. The weight of a hockey playerâs kind hand on my wrist. My father laughing at a cocktail party and saying, âIâm back.â I dream of happy young men with scarred jaws and eyes who desire older women in the new sexual order
Similar Books
