I feel like I could get on my lovely little motorbike (although the term causes some consternation here) and take all the right turns until I find myself somewhere near Hoàng Hoa Thám, or Đội Cấn, or following the edge of West Lake. But I’ll just end up where I started. I don’t have a motorbike, that’s Herkimer St. down there, and that’s English I hear in the hall. There’s an ocean between us and I need a sweater, please. It’s cold. But my goodness I like the feeling of fabric on smooth skin. Sweat glands at rest!
I’m living in a nineteenth-century limestone home, a solitary and imposing icon of Hamilton’s former industrial capitalist glory, that was once surrounded by farmland of Ontario’s southwest. And to think it now houses a socialist, a feminist, an environmentalist!
I dreamt the other night that I was sitting in my living room having dinner with all the previous occupants. Our living room is sizable and its southernmost wall is lined with books on shelves that don’t match, masquerading like one of those paintings of silhouetted cityscapes. On this night, however, every square inch of space was filled with books glued by their spines to the wall.
I was shooting the shit with a collection of ghosts around my dining room table, but they didn’t even know I was there. I stood on the table and stomped my feet so all the grapes bounced out of the bowl and rolled off the edge, splat on the floor. Listen listen listen. I have something to say and it’s important, and what do you mean you don’t think it’s relevant? I screamed: Let me give my soliloquy! But I said nothing of substance, and was seized by the fear that this may forebode things to come, that I’m here to give too many soliloquies of little substance and by the end of four, five, six years I’m going to wonder where my fire went and to what end it was put.
For real though, we must have ghosts.