interior views
images of minor suffering. me, in a 9th floor condo, with a windowed wall that stretches across the entire length of the eastern edge of the house, opening onto a view of the St. Laurent. The river as an extension of the house. soft light at dusk and the ivory furnishings. i've invited myself over for tea and been welcomed with full table settings and spiced chicken and vegetable-tossed salad and the fine china. tea to follow (of the pomegranate variety). i've come into this setting, inhabited by a british astronaut with puffy eyes and a religious vigor, and his vogue-reading, leopard print-decorated, wheelchaired wife. he had a dream, the scientist, that an angel appeared in the middle of the road in front of a car he was driving. plunging his sword into the earth, the apparition cuts the road in half and says "you work for me now." the astronaut was fired that day. this is but one story that welcomes us into their world. interrupted, later, by ziggy, the canadian vacuum cleaner salesperson who offers a brief pitch in the space between dinner and dessert. in the quiet, pleasant moments before the racism.
the arab women, she says with such stinging hatred, trying to swim in their burqas.
the vietnamese stealing directorship positions.
the francophones expelling anglophones from their jobs.
the cultures of violence brought in from across the sea.
oh, how she missed the quebec of "non-violence," of non-acceptance, of christmas-on-display.
"we will lose all of this," she says as tears swell up below the surface.
and i fold my napkin gently onto the table, clean up the remaining teacups and tartes aux fruits. i kiss her cheek, i kiss his, and take the elevator down 9 levels, back into this quebec that's changed under her watch, wondering exactly how one can could challenge her bigotry, her old-time method of engaging modernity. she'd fooled us all with her banter of welcome and sympathy and love for the down-and-out, on display in the front pew, to the right of the organ.
i need to dance on the ashes of all that noxious energy.
the arab women, she says with such stinging hatred, trying to swim in their burqas.
the vietnamese stealing directorship positions.
the francophones expelling anglophones from their jobs.
the cultures of violence brought in from across the sea.
oh, how she missed the quebec of "non-violence," of non-acceptance, of christmas-on-display.
"we will lose all of this," she says as tears swell up below the surface.
and i fold my napkin gently onto the table, clean up the remaining teacups and tartes aux fruits. i kiss her cheek, i kiss his, and take the elevator down 9 levels, back into this quebec that's changed under her watch, wondering exactly how one can could challenge her bigotry, her old-time method of engaging modernity. she'd fooled us all with her banter of welcome and sympathy and love for the down-and-out, on display in the front pew, to the right of the organ.
i need to dance on the ashes of all that noxious energy.
posted by jordan at 12:50 PM
2 Comments:
never could trust no woman dressed in leopard print.
-you know who
I have to agree with you know who. It should have been obvious from the start, surely there must have been clues.
Spiced chicken sounds quite good.
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