Dream with Birds, Clouds and Water
I met my friend Roger Stille the dancer on an early August afternoon when Montreal had reached that peak summer moment of sultry-humid, close, airless stillness, when its streets are like fissures in a ripe persimmon about to burst.
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The Party at the End of the World
A shrewd November dusk de-illuminates an opaque door on rue de la Montagne near the corner of boulevard De Maisonneuve at the very heart of Montreal’s circulatory system. A Chinese gong sounds when you open the door and enter The Ten Thousand Things.
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The Triple-Headed God
A molten warmth engorged her veins. She saw six men bury her up to her waist in sand. She saw her lover’s face crumple and her husband’s fists bloody her head. She saw the opaline sea air, the sea pulsed like a great heart, Allahu Akbar.
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Margaret van Dyck Mon Amour
My friend, the Montreal painter and goth dandy Margaret van Dyck, didn’t seek fame, wealth, or power, she sought rapture.
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An Animal of No Significance
“They were too familiar to ignore, but too different to tolerate.”
“Who?”
“The Neanderthals.”
It was a typical Saturday night at the end of a typical week. Mo Basher, Deirdre Flowers and I recovered at the best table in our favourite café, The Ten Thousand Things. We ordered a second bottle of Chianti under the chequered light of the café’s massive wineglass chandelier.
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The Garden of Earthly Delights
“Don’t cut the broccoli like that.” “Haven’t you started the salad yet?” “You didn’t buy enough tomatoes.” “Can’t you do anything right?” “Get out of my way.” “What have you been doing all day?” “Stop asking me questions.” “Where’s your common sense?” Caroline Richmond-Lévesque terrorized her mother inside the kitchen . . .
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The Triggering Effect
They had equipped the room with cookies, colouring books, bubbles, Play-Doh, calming music, pillows, blankets and a video of frolicking puppies. They had sealed the windows and softened the lights. Students and staff members trained to deal with trauma stood in a row. The trauma coordinator glanced at her watch. No one spoke.
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There Is No God but God
The Pope wept.
His chief aide, Monsignor _________, had swept into his dining quarters with the news, his face as white as the watered silk cassock His Holiness had worn just minutes before.
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The Girl in the White Camisole
Escapes Death
The Festival International de Jazz de Montréal swoons into its downbeat. Like Easter Island monoliths, colossal holograms of Billie Holiday, Oscar Peterson, and Charlie Parker facade and sanctify entire city blocks. From rue Crescent to boulevard Saint-Laurent, tens of thousands cascade into the world’s largest jazz event, a Niagara of . . .