The tumblr for Matthew Harris, a Toronto-based writer.
Question: can anyone recommend their favorite tumblrs and twitters that feature great fiction/creative writing? Anything particularly inventive and interesting, and that engages deeply with the form? I already know my favorites, but I’m working on a presentation for a conference, and would appreciate as many examples and suggestions as possible. Thanks!
Hey Hank,
Things are just nuts here. It’s hard to write a novel and live a life! There’s so many dishes to do, so many people to not upset, etc. And once you start writing something where every word counts, its hard to imagine words not mattering. Its hard to write as if it were talk, cause it ain’t. Talk is glamour, and I need more glamour in all the shit I do.
For instance, “Love is a Stranger.” I don’t know if glamour is something we are supposed to feel is valuable - but simply because we can ask that question, simply because it seems vulnerable to a criticism of unseriousness, does it seem valuable. There’s a Philip Roth quote somewhere that says that we can’t always care about the important things - something something and that’s why there’s baseball. I don’t give a fig about baseball, so I’ll substitute it for glamour. Glamour is magic. It’s the feeling that something is out-of-this world beautiful but only for this exact-and-almost-gone moment. It’s a wisp of cigarette smoke, it’s the taste of lipstick, it’s the high of cocaine.
There are probably more glamourous songs, but this one seems close to ideal: it’s a drum machine that purrs like a car and synths that gurgle more atmosphere than melody. Annie Lennox sings from a winter alleyway, only accompanied with her own distant, and slightly regretful, echos. And love! That awful spoken-word bit in the middle does a better job of summarizing love because it hits bizarre, clunky notes (“totally cool” “like a zombieeeeeee”). Love has never not been clunky.
I have to go. I want to hear more about how you are doing when you get the chance. We haven’t heard from you in awhile. I hope everything is good!
Love, J.
Email to a Gay Teen Astronaut
Hey Hank. I hope you are okay. I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I think everyone tried their best. They sent ships, they threw money. They knew they couldn’t save everyone. It’s just terrible that you were one of the ones left adrift. And you shouldn’t lose hope. They’re going to try again, probably. They just have to get the funding through Congress. But there’s been so much bipartisan bullshit! It’s really, really terrible.
I miss you. I think everyone has. You should keep strong. I know it’s irritating, but at times like this, it’s probably best for us to focus on the positive things. You’re exploring space! I mean, who wouldn’t want to do that? And you have everything you need, what with the Banti tree and everything. You even have that new kitten! What are you going to call him?
Like I said, I’ll just try to be normal with you. I think that’s what you need. Well, tell me what you need. But until you do, I’m just going to be normal.
Have you heard this Adele song, “Someone Like You”? You might not have. But it’s been huge here. Everyone cries when they listen to it. (Please don’t cry!)
Personally, I hate it. But I hate it for dumb reasons, I realize. It’s just a ballad. I guess I hate it for the reasons that people like “just” ballads. It’s the whole story around Adele – the mythology. That she is some genius that is cutting through all of the artificiality and bullshit of the music industry. It’s the sort of story that people who don’t listen to pop music like to tell themselves. “The reason I don’t like pop music today is not because I have no time to listen to it, it is because it is not good.” (These are the same people who say that listening to Britney or Katy or Ke$ha is a “guilty pleasure” – the only person who values their guilt is them, I suppose.)
What’s further annoying is that Adele does have worth as an artist. It’s just that her fans are not the ones who can explain it. Her persona has this 60s vibe. She’s some emblem of “classic good music.” But her actual sound is much more contemporary. Sure, her voice is cracked and whiskey-soaked. It’s just that, if anything, Adele sounds most like Mariah Carey in “Without You,” with all of the warbly melisma. I like Carey, but I don’t think we’re supposed to think she’s authentic. (Dusty undersang when necessary. She also kept her notes bright and tidy.)
The piano is also odd for a sixties gal. The sixties had more swing and bounce. This piano sounds like some Philip Glass score. There’s melancholy in its mechanical repetition. And her lyrics are pure trash. Adorably bland teenage trash. It’s all very weird and new and not “classic” at all, really. Why do people ignore this?
Anyway, I thought I’d send it to you cause even though I hate hearing it, you will probably like it. Every gay boy here seems to like it. I keep hearing dance remixes in clubs. Which sometimes sounds like an attempt at desecration. But I guess that only applies if it is some sort of authentic, holy thing, or that dance music is somehow its opposite. So maybe the dance remixers are the only people who understand this song, and that’s why it can be worth a million gay teenage tears.
I’ll end there. I have to finish painting the living room! We’ve spent weeks doing it, but you know I’m terrible at finishing things on schedule. I hope you are doing well, all alone. We still think of you all the time, and I’m sure they’ll bring you back soon. Till we speak again, stay strong. Please don’t cry! I know you can make it.
Love, J.
1. 90% of people I tell this fact to don’t care much. This is true even for people I would think would normally be supportive and interested (family, close friends, fellow writers). And maybe they shouldn’t? I don’t have any hard facts, but I suspect a short list of reasons are the following:
2. The most difficult part about writing a novel is knowing that these people likely won’t care much later. I can hope for a wide audience when I have completed the work, but it is unlikely to happen. Imagining the opposite is to be delusional. Not that I shouldn’t try. But let’s be honest here. How many first novels did you read last year?
3. What this means is that at almost every moment, my brain is telling me, “THIS IS THE WORST PIECE OF CRAP IN THE WORLD, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? NO ONE CARES. NO ONE WILL CARE. WHY DID YOU WRITE THAT SENTENCE? YOU KNOW THAT SENTENCE IS THE UGLIEST SENTENCE EVER WRITTEN, RIGHT?” And so on. So at every moment, I have to close all of the firefox tabs and ignore the screaming in my ear and just keep writing. Anyone who writes a novel or book has basically run a marathon. I find it difficult to hate even terrible books now. How could I hate a terrible marathon runner?
4. I can only write a book about something I care deeply about. Everything else seems dull after two weeks.
5. Actually, the best thing to write about are the things I’m most afraid of.
6. And I can’t try to sound smart. I can’t prove anything. Anything I think is smart will seem dumb after a week or two. The only things that seem fresh after a few weeks are close observations and precisely described problems.
7. Trying to be avant-garde always falls apart whenever I consciously try to do it. But the avant-garde naturally arises whenever I try to capture my inner craziness.
8. I can only ever think about the next tiny step. Whenever the issue of whether I’m going to get this published comes up, I have an anxiety attack. There are so many things that need to be fixed before I can even get to that stage. I can only ever think about the next tiny step ahead of me.
9. It’s okay if I don’t get this published. I would love to, but finishing is more important than getting published.
10. Writing every morning is important. Even if it’s an awful, flat-footed sentence. I used to think that writing every day is optional, and it really isn’t. My novel has to be above 60,000 words. It is impossible to write that in some inspired burst one day. If I write 500 words a day - an optimistic number - it will take me 120 days to get to 60,000 words. Four months. Any non-writing days thrown in there simply makes the task that much more difficult.
11. Everything else gets thrown out the window. Exercise? Don’t have time. Tumblr? What’s that? Friends? I remember those! Thankfully I’m writing in the winter, so my non-writing options are limited.
12. My only real guideline is to keep things fun and exciting for myself. If I’m getting bored, I have a feeling my potential readers will too.
13. Consequently, when things are going well, this novel-writing thing is the best fucking thing in the world.
The Dirtbombs - “Good Life”
On Monday, the partner of a good friend of mine, Gord, died. He had leukemia. He was pretty young. Forty-one is too young to die, isn’t it? Any age is too young, but fighting cancer for five years is a special form of shittiness.
I didn’t know Gord that well. He was quiet, and although I have been friends with his partner Nicole for close to a decade, I didn’t see Nicole much while they dated and lived together. I chatted with Nicole through email every day. We kept up with each other’s life through quick jokes and complaints. And we’d see each other off and on. But nothing like the drunken epic nights we’d wasted together in our early bookstore days.
I also suspected that Gord didn’t like me. He was quiet, and he was a music nerd and he took the things he liked very seriously. He even said it, over and over, “Seriously?” He worked in the audio department of the CBC, and I guessed he thought my dance-y, disco taste in music was terrible. He seemed to laugh dismissively at everything he thought was dumb or tired, and he liked punk and hardcore. I did the math.
But one day, when I was crossing the street outside the CBC, taking photos for a blog, he saw me crossing and this huge smile leapt across his face. His leukemia had recently gone into remission and he was back at work and he said, “Hey Matthew, how’s it going!” I was so shocked by this unexpected friendliness from someone I suspected quasi-disliked me that I nearly stepped into a car’s path. Safe on the sidewalk, we had a friendly conversation. It was sweeter for adding to the day’s sunshine. And maybe sweetened more because Gord was in the commuting rush of perfectly normal people heading home.
Nicole and Gord had a child. They named her Frances, or Frankie. Last summer, our friend Andrew decided to bring over East Indian roti to their house to visit the little family. I hadn’t seen her yet, so I took it as my chance. Just a fact: when other parents say their child is cute, they are wrong. Frankie is adorable. Frankie sat in my lap, her little blue eyes looking exactly like her father’s, staring up at me and with her grip, tested my finger.
Later, we went into the living room and Gord began playing us records. Nicole told me how happy she was with Frankie. Gord played Congotronics and the Dirtbombs “Good Life.” He had been quiet during the meal, but he was excited by the music, showing us his box sets, the vinyl covers. “The Dirtbombs did a cover of their favorite Detroit house and techno songs,” he said as I flipped through the album’s photos. He smiled as if the world had played him an expertly played joke. “I think this one is really good.”
We discussed the situation. Gord’s cancer had come back; he was planning on getting a bone marrow transplant in the fall. But everyone was optimistic, or maybe I was just hoping they were. “They’ve actually found two matches,” Nicole said. When I was leaving, Gord seemed so energized by the visit that he was up and pacing the floor. I was too.
Gord and Nicole waved from their second floor deck while their downstairs neighbour angrily cleaned his barbecue. I got on my bike, smiling to myself that I could be a small part of their life. It was reassuring to have places like this where I am welcome to hold a baby; welcome to hear some good music.
A recent post on the mysteriously popular Thought Catalog has been about the nature of audience: that blogging has Given People What They Want. The intention was good. Flaming sux they said, which ya know, anyone with half a brain is okay with. And I agree that blogging is giving people what they want, somewhat. Call me a doubting techno-optimist. I think technology is generally good, even as it creates ever newer and more bizarre problems.
I incoherently tackled one of the main problems in a previous post: the problem of urgency on the Internet. We all know that the newest post in the tumblr/twitter/Facebook feed is the most valuable - which, of course, is how conversations work. (It’s funny that no one really talks about how print isn’t dying - it’s actually growing as it takes over a portion of our orality. Think of how often lol is printed and not actually loled.)
Tl;dr is a cliche; complaining about it is just as much of a cliche. But I’m a long-form writer. And while other people may view this sort of thing as academic - something that will sort itself out. I have to try to figure out how the fuck to get someone to read something I’ve written that is longer than 300 words and is not non-fiction. Who is my audience? Why would anyone care about what I’m doing?
The issue is, at bottom: how and when do people read? Long-form written narratives require time. Part of the original reason people read novels was to cultivate a sense of solitude amid timelessness. I read to feel that I have an eternity to spend doing something that is enjoyable. Like going for a walk, the pleasure in novel-reading (for me) is the illusion that time no longer exists (even as the novel hurries me along its own narrative).
This is not compatible with how reading is generally performed on the Internet. When there is a sense that something new (and by definition, better) is waiting behind the next refresh, what point is there to trying to read something long?
The Internet is turning our lives into shareable bits. That is its function: to pass information from one node to another. So it is gradually privileging our social side. But one of the thrills of the offline world is its privacy. Like listening to an album on vinyl, reading a novel in print means that the experience is (mostly) unshareable. And while many of the best moments of my life have been in the company of other people, many of the parts that have defined me as an individual have been experienced in solitude and contemplation.
While this is true for me, I wonder how true it is for others. Do other people just get tired of reading in their off hours, having exhausted their use of language online? Do other people only want to remain plugged in, forever socially available to other people? Do other people not feel that their most private thoughts are their most cherished thoughts?
In other words: what are people doing when they aren’t online? By definition, it’s almost impossible to ask this. Not that people don’t talk about their IRL lives online. But the parts that really matter to this understanding - the private parts that people can’t talk about online because they are too precious to share as a shareable nugget - are the parts that the online will never pay much attention to (and therefore, essentially not exist).
This has probably already been discussed and described more cogently and thoroughly by someone else online. But it’s just blather to say: cross my fingers that my work resonates with the unshareable parts of my readers.
Part Two: Every Time I Sing This Song I Think of Henry Kissinger (Part One here)
I AM MILDLY STONED FROM SHH STEVE’S STASH SHH BUT THIS SONG MAKES NO SENSE WHAT THE HELL IS A MUSKRAT I AM AWARE OF KISSINGER BUT A MUSKRAT IS SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY I AM FUCKING FUCKED IF I WOULD WANT TO HAVE A MUSKRAT TO LOVE I CAN’T EVEN GET A GIRL AND I’M ACTUALLY FOURTEEN BUT A MUSKRAT IS TAKING IT TOO WAY FAR.
YOU KIND OF HAVE TO WONDER ABOUT PEOPLE FROM LIKE THE SEVENTIES THE QUESTION OF THE DAY IS WERE THEY ALL CRAZY? I KNOW THEY WERE ALL DOING LSD TO FIX THEIR MARRIAGE PROBLEMS BUT DOES ACID MAKE YOU WANT TO FUCK BARN ANIMALS CAN ANYONE EXPLAIN THIS TO ME? I WILL PAY YOU EVERYTHING TO EXPLAIN IT TO ME EVEN THE PIZZA MONEY MY MOM LEFT ME BEFORE SHE WENT OUT WITH “DARREN LORD ASSWIPE” AS I ENJOY SHOUTING TO HIS FUCKING AWFUL TOYOTA AS THEY DRIVE TO THE KEG OR WHATEVER “ELEGANT” SHIT THEY ARE CHOWING ON.
OMG ARE THOSE THE SOUNDS OF A FUCKING MUSKRAT FARTING IN A SWAMP? WAS THIS SHIT NORMAL? ARE OLD PEOPLE AWARE OF THEIR LAMENESS OR IS IT LIKE A FUCKING LAME CLOUD THAT ONLY TEENS CAN SEE? LIKE MY FRIEND STEVE’S MOMS IS TOTALLY JAZZED ABOUT HER NEW HAIRCUT BUT IT IS COMPLETELY ONE THAT WAS FASHIONABLE ON JAMIE LEE CURTIS’S CUNT BEFORE I WAS BORN. NOT THAT I WOULDN’T MIND TAPPING THAT “ELEGANT” JL CUNT AT SOME POINT HEY STEVE HOPE YOU ARE READING THIS I’M GOING TO KISSINGER YOUR MOM’S ASS.
I HAVE A FEELING THAT MY FATHER WAS THE ONLY PERSON WHO WAS NOT LAME IN YE OLD TIMEZ WHEN THEY NAMED BANDS FUCKING CAPTAIN AND TENILLE LIKE THEY WERE A BRAND OF FISH STICKS OR SOMETHING. I FEEL SO DUMB FOR SELLING SOME OF HIS VINYL FOR POT A FEW WEEKS AGO IT WAS ALL QUALITY STUFF I CAN ALMOST HEAR THE LED ZEPPLIN NOW. YAH YAH I’M GOING TO REGRET THE VINYL LOSS WHATEVER I CAN DOWNLOAD EVERYTHING IN TEN SECONDS EVEN FLAC SO WHO CARES ABOUT A BUNCH OF RECORDS? (AT LEAST MY “HOW DO YOU WORK THE TV” MOTHER UNDERSTANDS THE *NEED* FOR HIGH SPEED CAUSE OF HER GROSS PLENTYOFFISH PROFILE) YOU’D THINK THIS WERE THE SEVENTIES WHEN PEOPLE GOT RATIONED LIKE FIVE RECORDS A YEAR. FUCK NO WONDER C&T WERE BIG BECAUSE IF YOU ACCIDENTALLY BOUGHT THIS SHIT AND IT WAS 20% OF THE MUSIC YOU HEARD THAT YEAR YOU’D WANT ALL YOUR FRIENDS TO SUFFER TOO.
SHIT MY MOTHER HAS CHANGED THE CHILDSAFE SETTINGS ON THE NETWORK AGAIN. FORTUNATELY SHE ALWAYS CHANGES THE PASSWORD TO SOMETHING RELATED TO HIS DEATH WHICH MAKES IT PRETTY EASY FOR ME TO GUESS. LIKE NOVEMBER OR ST MARYS. I KNOW I KNOW I DON’T EVEN WANT TO ASK WHY SHE’S TUNING INTO THAT FREQUENCY OF FUCKING EMO. SOMETIMES IT’S OFTEN JUST A SWEAR WORD LIKE MOTHERFUCKER WHICH IS IRONIC CONSIDERING WHAT SHE IS TRYING TO STOP ME FROM DOING. ONCE IT WAS LORAZEPAM AND I WAS LIKE LOL MOM TRY HARDER GUESS WHAT I STEAL TO GET THROUGH MY FUCKING MATH CLASS.
ON SECOND THOUGHT I WILL MOST DEFINITELY ORDER SOME PIZZA WITH THIS CASH. THIS POT HAS OPENED MY EYES TO THE SOUNDS OF MY STOMACH. IT KIND OF SOUNDS LIKE MUSKRAT FARTS ACTUALLY. THIS STRAIN OF POT DOES REALLY PLAY ON THOSE LED ZEPPLIN EMOTIONS THAT COME SWEEPING IN FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE. I TOTALLY REMEMBER HEARING THIS MUSKRAT SONG IN THE CAR WITH MY PARENTS AND I KEPT WANTING TO BE SICK BECAUSE I WAS READING X-MEN COMICS AS WE DROVE AND I GUESS I WAS A SHITTY LITTLE LAME BOY BACK THEN BECAUSE I REMEMBER WANTING THIS SONG REALLY BADLY AND MY DAD SAID WE HAD IT BACK AT THE HOUSE. BUT I GUESS I WANTED IT LIKE RIGHT THEN CAUSE I TOTALLY VOMITED. IT’S SO DUMB I JUST REALLY NEEDED THIS SONG. I BELIEVE THAT IS THE LAST TIME I HAVE VOMITED OVER MUSIC BUT I WOULD NOT LIKE TO BET ON IT BECAUSE WHO KNOWS I PLAN TO BE DRUNK ALL THE TIME AS SOON AS I CAN DRIVE.
OH SHIT GUESS WHAT THE PASSWORD IS MUSKRATLOVE. AND NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT I TOTALLY MIGHT HAVE ACCIDENTALLY TOTALLY SOLD MY DADS MUSKRAT LOVE ALBUM FOR SOME POT.
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOPS. SORRY MOMS I REALLY DIDN’T KNOW. I KNOW I GIVE YOU A HARD TIME BUT I’M NOT SUCH A TERRIBLE GUY AFTER ALL AND MAYBE WE CAN PRETEND THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN.
OH SHIT ME THIS IS OBVSLY THE WORST MUSIC I’VE EVER HEARD BUT THAT WASN’T A VERY KISSINGER MOVE.
Part One: I Never Found Anyone Who Fulfilled My Needs
Although it is clear to the greatest number of people that this is a song of Infinite Beauty and First-Class Showmanship, I have found myself over these many years been distressed by the emotions that are stashed in its heart of hearts. I am talking about of course the frightening words “I decided long ago NEVER to walk in ANYONES SHADOW” and “I live as I believe” and this is the number one reason this Great Country is crumbling to its knees. This selfishness and anger toward our elders is leading us away from the path of righteousness.
I have lived in this Great Country for over fifty-four years in four States and in each one I have only found a falling away of values, and a rapid inflation of iniquity. My neighbour, Henry Lewis, a man of great physical beauty to be sure has even taken licentious ideas about me. He looks at me when I ask him not to bang the garbage cans together, and I am bothered by his eyes’ verboseness. After that, it is guaranteed I will not settle my thoughts down enough to enjoy the Biggest Loser. It does arouse me to be sure but these are times for Manhood and Strength because our President needs our support against the liars.
I have also lost the ability to write letters, which to me are further signs of the End of Things. I once wrote long letters to my Aunt that were filled with the precisely elegant exact turns of phrase to delight her soul. But now my pen is stopped up like a toilet, and I find myself roaming the fields behind my house beheading the dandelions with my foot. Even the birds are dying in the river. It helps me to try to recreate the exact conditions of my Parents cupboards. They were filled row upon row with soup cans with red labels zipped tight. There were six cans on the bottom row and never more than three cans in the row above but this altered with our savings or my Mother’s Everchanging Moods.
Henry Lewis showed me his Penis as well. Or what I thought was his penis between the slats of the picket fence. He pulled it out of his shorts. This is the iniquity of which the world is growing coarser, and moving away from the eternal joy of my childhood ages. This “shadow” that Ms Houston believes you cannot walk in is the “shadow” I encounter every day in my brain’s eye. I think this “shadow” is the struggle we all have with our souls in order to follow the path my mother in her wisdom flicked into me with her Spatula. It is the one my Aunt tries daily to pull me from with her many and bothersome phone calls about my “recurring thoughts.”
You should not worry about me, I have scared Henry Lewis away from his iniquity and roared at him “You do not have love in your heart of hearts! Please do not step onto my half of our shared walkway!” Which distressed him a great deal as we enjoyed drinking our long way out of sorrows together in his very Well-Equipped basement bar. (Henry Lewis is a Bachelor and often wears shorts.) But I think he knows that he has the upper hand for his look still has power over my very soul, right to the tingling edges of my toes. He is a strong man, almost as Strong as our First Black President.
I of course watched the inauguration as a Proud American of our First Black President with Henry Lewis and I secretly cried in his washroom as it has a fan to cover the sounds of your tears. It was a thing of Beauty much like this song and the visuals, which also make one cry. It gives you HOPE that endless INJUSTICES will be righted and the people WHO HAVE SUFFERED will find peace and forgiveness.
So though I cannot support Ms Houston’s desire for freedom and ruination of all that is good and honourable about this Great Country, I am always delighted by this song whenever I can catch it on the radio, perhaps in the car or even at the barber shop. Which is why it is music and not I suppose God, who does not make you feel 2 different things at the same time. It is a good reminder of times gone by when everything was beautiful and there was not a cancer on this country’s breathing face. My Mother of course did not like this type of music but she had little patience for weakness.
And like all timeless classics this song can make your foot involuntarily bounce and want to join the happiness of yourself to others. This can include but is not limited to iniquitous next door neighbours who perhaps have waited long enough and deserve our forgiveness and maybe even after these frosty weeks a Friendly Embrace.
I’ve written 33,000 words so far! I need another 20,000, but things are going o-kay as long as I pretend the deadline of the end of the year for the completion of my first draft isn’t rushing upward to smack me in the face. It’s hard for me to choose something to excerpt because I’m at the point in the novel where everything is tied to everything else, and pulling a piece out is like ripping out someone’s intestines and then hoping to order it in some sort of display of coherent beauty on a chopping board or bedspread. But here’s something I’ve written. Please remember these innards are still bleeding softly, and they are baby intestines, fetal intestines, not fully formed; so don’t be too harsh in your judgements as you pick through them and notice all the shit that is inevitably spilling out.
We spent the evening generally avoiding one another. Cam was drunk and he and Josh were sloppily making out in a Muskoka chair while the mosquitos flung themselves against the moths in the porch light. There were beer bottles like bowling pins along the patio ledge. Ainsley was reading more fashion magazines and taking pictures of dresses with her phone while Joel mussed her hair. He clacked through the satellite channels on the TV. Richard’s room was the only one on the second floor, and I could hear him flicking lights on and off and, occasionally, the gunshot creak of his bed as he sat on it. I smoked the roach that someone had left in an ashtray, and passing by Cam and Josh, wandered down to the lake. It was calm and still, the lake surface, like velour out to its other side where someone from that enormous mansion had spilled its baseball-stadium white krieg lights on it. Where the water touched the beach, I could see – in the weak reach of our porchlight - the tiny quivering of its surface as water dippers barely disturbed it by running across and the occasional burp of oxygen from the tadpoles sleeping among the weeds.
There was another Muskoka chair on the dock – it shouldn’t have been left there – and the canoe was jostling against the deck as I sat down in it. The stars were above, doing their insane speckled stars thing, and I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my iPod and chose something to listen to. Something deep and liquid, a remix of a remix of a remix, something anonymous and ecstatic. As I pressed play, I looked up at the sky and I felt like its entire crsytallized weight was dragging me upward with the synthetic glowing sounds from the track, exploding and expanding my brain. The water around me looked wild and frightful, meters of black, breathless death, cozying up to our shore. And what was I looking at between the stars?
I stood up, my mind whirling out of sync with itself, but my body making the small necessary steps to get back to the house. When I got to the bottom of the deck stairs, the porchlight turned off. I fumbled up them and tripped on the last one and actually crawled to the porch door. I saw the TV turn off, and Ainsely and Joel head down the short hall to their room. It seemed like everything was receeding out of my control. I got up and stepped into the living room. It was dark. All I could see was the clock set to the wrong time, 7:21 am, and the light above the stove showing the grease stains from our pancakes, and the light leaking downstairs from Richard’s room. In my ears, the music had reached a hymn-like crescendo of machine noises.
I climbed the stairs, looking for some additional chapter, some way to end this night that seemed satisfying. I got up to the room and the light was coming from a bedside table. Richard was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with a library book scrunched open his chest. He turned his head toward me. The book was Walter Benjamin’s Illuminations. He mouthed something, but I couldn’t hear it because of the kaleidoscopic shimmering in my ears. I pulled my earphones out.
“What?” I said.
I was just at Tim Hortons. For those people who aren’t Canadians, and who therefore aren’t currently living next to, above or inside a Tim Hortons, these restaurants are basically like Dunkin’ Donuts, but with effin’ delicious baked goods, so-so sandwiches and bizarrely flavoured but addictive coffee.
Anyway, there was this dude there. And this dude was tall with a scraggly yellow beard and he had his black hoodie’s hood up. He had a silent, short girlfriend. She wore a black trenchcoat and had too many bangs and she was ordering for him. (She ordered nothing for herself.) After receiving his drink, he walked away. I went up to the cashier to place my order. That’s when he first shouted back at the cashier his amazing demand: “What the fuck is this? This isn’t a hot smoothie! Where is my hot smoothie?”
He slammed the drink on the counter. “This is like a chocolate espresso. Don’t you even know what a hot smoothie is?” The cashier stepped back and opened her mouth and closed her mouth. “I asked for a hot smoothie. Where’s my fucking hot smoothie! I always get a hot smoothie when I go to Tim Hortons!” The cashier picked up the drink and went to the back to discuss the situation with the manager.
“Where the fuck is my hot smoothie?” the guy said to me, as if I too understood what it was like not to get a hot smoothie. But I didn’t, because like the cashier, I had never heard of a hot smoothie before. What is a hot smoothie? Is it just some juice heated up? Or is it like a hot milkshake? Is it an unfortunate brown colour? Or an unfortunate non-brown colour? What colour, hot, would be better than brown for a drink? Pink? Red? Green? In fact, the more he talked about hot smoothies, and the more he swore about hot smoothies, the more I began to picture some drink composed of every hot wrong liquid possible.
“Sir, we don’t have hot smoothies here,” the cashier finally said when she returned. And he shouted back: “Well, give me back my fucking money then! I only want a fucking hot smoothie!” And while the cashier, hands shaking, went to get him his money, I looked over at his girlfriend. She hadn’t said a word, and she hadn’t tried to restrain her boyfriend, as if she knew what he was like when he didn’t get his hot smoothies. I looked at her eyes flicking from side to side as he rapped on the counter, waiting for his money back. And I wondered: maybe she’s frightened because she’s the one who normally gives him all the hot smoothies he needs.
The cashier gave him his money and the couple left, with the guy shouting, “Fucking bullshit no hot smoothies!” to the dining area. On the walk home, I kept repeating the phrase hot smoothie, hot smoothie, hot smoothie to myself. It was sort of magical - I can see why he kept repeating it. Hot smoothie, hot smoothie, hot smoothie. The name had become gigantic, resonant, powerful. Hot smoothie, hot smoothie, hot smoothie. Dirty or pure, sweet or poisonous - whatever it was, I think I sort of needed a hot smoothie now. Who, after all, can resist a hot smoothie?
