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George Anderson |
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studied meetings 1 listening to Black Sabbath one afternoon - the power is cut & the vinyl glides to a halt outside the sky is unusually clear- no apparent clues which link up, to make sense of it all- I hear Nino upstairs screeching repeatedly in Italian, a blasphemous phrase which loosely translated (I later learn) means something like- may the Pope's cock bleed forever! I rev up the bike & head east along Rue St Jacques towards the City to unravel what I can discover about what has happened- the tenements of St. Henri the park where I first read Dostoyevsky the black marble statue of a famous Quebecois fascist strongman Groulx blur by the air sucking up & into my helmet buoying my head alert along the hard, death-filled bitumen I veer into Dawson College just before Atwater where I'll soon start- it is a sprawling complex of converted office spaces littered with long-haired refugees from the excesses of capitalism there is a buzz - an unfathomable sense of being free from the limitless rules, the bullshit curriculum the social posturing of high school It is 1974. out on the lawn I observe her enter the Selby Building again & again she is wearing jeans & a w stitched with flowers around the collar each time she pushes the door open more aggressively more frantic whirling through a void You looking for someone? I ask curiously 2 I first notice her on a bus to the Vanier Campus in Montreal East she sits & chats with a friend at the front of the bus opposite the driver I love her long black hair it seems alive like snakes or blackened branches reaching out for something she smiles to leave & disappears in portions as she treads down the stairs the next week at the exact time I sit in her spot at the front of the bus the door pneumatically opens & there she is- dangling at the bottom of the steps she sits with her friend squeezing in right next to me I smile & ask: Are you interested in poetry? 3 as an historian I have a summer job of restoring & recataloguing the brittle journals of Acadians dying of starvation on the Bay of Fundy near Morden in Nova Scotia in 1755 I love to visit Old Montreal- Notre Dame Church the street artists & musicians the famous fountain of Jacques Cartier across the street from the Greater Life Building when one day I saw her eating her lunch glancing downwards her enormous breasts glistening- my blood cooking in its own juices the next day at the approximate time I sit in her spot pretending to munch on a salad sandwich on brown bread she sits next to me I ask: What's your conception of reality? my cock hardening |