E.T. … D.O.A.

Ed Naha had a funny column that was featured irregularly in Sci-Fi magazines like Heavy Metal in the 80’s, here he writes “… novelizations I’d like to see in my Christmas stocking this year.

E.T. … D.O.A.

By Mickey Spillane

ET

He was short and lean and mean and green … and stuck in a clothes closet. He pressed his body again the wall. If felt good to the touch. He glanced around him. He was surrounded by dolls. Not the kind of dolls he was used to hanging around, either. These ones were stuffed with sawdust and probably wouldn’t survive a quick round of Hide the Tentacle without losing an arm or a leg, or a Made in Taiwan tag.

He strained his head to listen for the Earth woman called “Mommy” outside. He would have strained his ears but his kind didn’t have them. His kind never did. Sensing that big Mommy was gone, he flat-footed it out of the closet and across the room.

That’s when he spotted them.

They were round and shiny and chocolate.

Without thinking, he grabbed one. It felt good to his touch. Besides that, it melted in his mouth and not in his tendril.

The room began to spin around him. The shock of recognition hit him hard. He had wandered into a set left over from Poltergeist.

Dinner with Colette

Inevitably you find yourself pondering about if you had a dinner party, who you would invite.  I’ve decided that meeting Colette would be most satisfying.  French novelist and performer Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette [1873-1954] lived through an amazing time of change from wars, slavery, suffrage to the emergence of technology which would change everything from manufacturing and domestic labour to the exploration of outer space.   Colette was also ahead of her time, a confident precocious human who explored her, and women’s in general, sexuality through writing, performance art and in relationships with men and women.  What dinner conversation would be had with this amazing person.

Source: Moulin Rouge Tectum Publishers /       Moulin Rouge Private Collection

Source: Moulin Rouge Tectum Publishers /Moulin Rouge Private Collection

Chéri and Gigi, both books written by Colette, and later adapted into movies respectively with actresses, Michelle Pfeiffer and Leslie Caron, are fascinating looks at social Culture, love, wealth, women and youth.  In the case of Chéri, Pfeiffer plays an aging courtesan in a mad love affair with a young man called Chéri [dear].  In Gigi, Caron plays a girl on the cusp of womanhood navigating family pressure to abandon hope of romantic love for security as a courtesan.  I’ve always wondered what Colette would have to say about the adaptation of her novel, Gigi, into a musical.  There are lots of prostitution movies that are either gritty or become romantic comedies like Disney’s Pretty Woman, but the movie Gigi always made me feel uncomfortable particularly with what became a beloved song sung by Maurice Chevalier, Thank Heaven for Little Girls.

Spoiler Alert.  One interesting note is that in the Chéri novel, the final act shows the young lover leaving the courtesan because she has “aged”, but in the Chéri movie the novel and it’s sequel [Fin de Chéri ] are merged.  The courtesan ends the affair when Chéri’s to be married, but sometime later he returns to the courtesan who while she says she loves him, it’s too late, she’s turned into an old woman and she asks him to leave permanently.

In the movie a narrator says Chéri leaves feeling relieved, but later understands that he loves only the courtesan and he reacts by killing himself?!?  There must be more to it than that and I am longing to read the books AND grill Colette over a hot Cassoulet and wine from the Madiran region or maybe an inky Cahors.

If you could invite someone, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would it be?

 

 

What the Heart Wants

The heart wants what the heart wants and I wanted you so badly.

In your face I saw my future unfold.

All things fall away when you are safe.

You are not a friend, nor a lover

two things that gravity pulls to me.

You are a teacher of life’s

joy and pain.

Never mine, always yours

as my mother taught me.

Time does pass and I will go.

Know that you are loved , son of my heart.

Teen Crushes and the Undiscovered Gyrl

Image

Cover Art by Ellie Manos Source: Soundcloud

I met up with a friend last night for drinks and learned that her daughter is now producing films in, where else, L.A.  One of the things I am looking forward to upon the release of her film, Undiscovered Gyrl, is the original music on it from several young female musicians.  Maybe the writer-director, Allison Burnett, couldn’t afford to pay for the rights of songs from established bands, but in any case he held a contest.  This brilliant idea led to the introduction of new talent including Niki Black.  Her song, Until You’re Mine, struck me immediately of a time when as a 15 year old I suffered relentlessly from a crush on a boy who did not return my affections.

He was not the first crush I had, nor the last as I was a bit boy crazy.  Out of curiosity I looked up this same boy at age 21 and *shudder* after meeting him briefly was very happy that I had let that crush go.

Do you have a favourite crush song or movie?

The Ward – a Fictionalized True Story

It was 6:30 a.m. as I washed my face and heard a faint warble.  For the two weeks  leading to Halloween night my iphone had been beeping non-stop with requests from Spider-Man to Doctor Who.  In a Pavlovian response, I scanned the media for meaning.  One stood out.  No Caller ID arriving at 3:00 a.m.

I hate those calls, when all you can think is that somebody died.

The message was from my son.  He was incoherent.  Blubbering that he had fucked up.  I’d never heard him blubber before, but then he was calling from the psych ward at St. Joe’s Hospital.  I was thinking, hoping, maybe he’d finally hit rock bottom.   I know that sounds callous coming from a mother, but sometimes rock bottom can be the place from which your children can rise fully formed.

Driving my SmartCar with Lake Ontario’s bright sparkling water conflicting my day, I realized that I wasn’t panicked.  I could no longer remember, though, if that calm was part of my personality or whether I was like a triage nurse who’d seen it all.

There was a lot of comfort in the fact that my son had called and not the Hospital.  He was alive and I was grateful, but still I had that sour metallic taste in my mouth.  An emotional knee jerk reaction.  Not because he was in trouble, but because I’d been here before with another family member.

You might be thinking, oh maybe mental illness runs in her family, but neither of these ward members are genetically related to me.  After miscarriage and infertility, I’d hoped to give Darwin a good fight.  There was a time when my sisters and I laughed thinking my adoption of children would improve our family DNA, like replacing our flat Scottish bottoms with a real bouncy round derriere gene.

We stopped laughing so much after the deaths of our father, mother and sister.  Half of us were gone and there was no stopping the trajectory of  stomach Cancer in our family.   My goals had changed since the average lifespan in my family was now 57 years.   I just wanted to see my kids grown up and happy.

Emergency was quiet and orderly.  The occasional voice of a wailing child rose and fell with the opening of the pneumatic door into the Juvenile Room.   As I stood behind the yellow line I thought about getting a coffee, but did not want to miss my turn.  Finally with the mention of my son’s name the sliding glass doors opened from the waiting room into the treatment areas.  My reluctant feet knew their way past the thread bare curtained rooms where knees were stitched and bones were set to the heavy door separating the crazies from the almost crazy.

The door had a window.  I did not look in, but leaned against the wall, hand paused above the buzzer.  The last time I was here I made a choice to leave alone.  The memory of the small shocked face of my daughter getting smaller in that same window as I walked away, is difficult.   For seven years that face, that memory, had me chained to hopes and dreams shattered by alcohol and drugs and what comes with it.

What was I committing myself to by walking through this door again? I was alone physically and emotionally with the indecision of loving my son and potentially threatening my own well being.

I pressed the buzzer.  The staff and two beefy security barely glanced up.  Who would though, I’m the tiny WASP blonde grandma.  Not much of a threat.

The control room dominated this ward.  There were no privacy curtains only small locked treatment rooms, a bathroom and a bank of seats.  My 23 year old son was sitting on an orange chair fatigued to the pallor of a 40 year old Bay Street broker with too much credit and no self control.   I let him ramble through a bizarre tale of over-drinking with friends to the point of paranoia.  A mad run, through the neighbourhood he grew up in, from someone who was trying to “kill him”, ending up crouching inside the local convenience store.

He said he’d called out for help, but the store clerk had disappeared, increasing his paranoia that he was in danger.  The next thing he remembered was breaking through a plate glass window only to be faced with a squad of armed officers.   I’m thinking, what was he on to get that crazy and thank god the clerk hightailed it out to call the Police.

Toronto’s finest took him to the Hospital and not the Drunk Tank.  Miracle One.  After a series of tests, the Doctor let him call me, but he said he was terrified that I wouldn’t show.  His father thought we should leave him here to toughen him up.  I wasn’t sure yet what I wanted to do.

I sat back finally in the chair.  A small Asian woman walked the perimeter of the ward, I thought like a mouse retracing it’s steps, sure that they’ve missed an opening or a morsel of food.

I was sad.  Like my daughter, my son had narrowly escaped accidental death more than once.  What was the universal meaning in this?  I rubbed my face, thinking about what to say.

I wanted to understand what happened, so I queried like Agatha Christie.  Was someone angry at you?  How much did you drink?  Did you mix it with pot?  Who else was there?

I could see truths skirting around the edges of my son’s eyes, but impairment is subjective.  He could be mixing up days of drinking with fears rising like hallucinations.  One tiny piece of information could put the story together for me or break my heart.  I’m glad he doesn’t tell me everything.  Mothers shouldn’t know everything.

A young man with dark hair and dark eyes, who had been lying on a gurney, arm over his eyes, rises.   Boredom, curiosity, or maybe even hope drive him into the bathroom and then to sit beside us.  Shock still in a blue gown, listening to the murmurings of a Mother and son.  Where is his mother, I think.

A smell was now making it’s memory or rather demanding recognition from me.  Not like death, or illness or even hospital disinfectant which were all now in my 54 year old life’s repertoire.   I couldn’t put my finger on it, till I thought, it’s neither pleasant or unpleasant.  It’s just there, like something deciding.

The woman passed again, her competency and speed increasing as her hands stretched out, tracing the contours of the wall.  The kind of person who you would appreciate filling your 7:45 a.m. Timmy’s order.

Having made no progress with understanding my son’s story I went to the nurse’s desk.  I’m that typical Canadian.  Waiting politely to be acknowledged.  Sure that there is something more important than myself  that is keeping them.  The woman now stands beside me and says in no particular direction, “I’d like my toothbrush now.”

The nurse says, “The Doctor will be right with you. ”  I wonder how he knows that.  The phone didn’t ring.  Is it some magical telepathy developed by psych room staff only.  The woman’s voice says confidently,  “I’d like my toothbrush and a change of clothes.”  She is almost standing on my toes, like we could merge into one person to make us bigger, more impressive.  Almost an afterthought, she says, “I’m ready to go home now.”

As they negotiate her surrender, I retreat.  An orderly has offered a tray to my son and myself.  We both take one and I realize that I can’t, being celiac, eat anything on the tray.   My son’s tray of all beige food also stays untouched.  “Why do you take it if you don’t want it.”, I say knowing that we are both food snobs and it is my fault.

Dark Boy asks if he can have the food and says he and the woman are here voluntarily.   He is waiting for us to share the story.  My son is amiable and gentle as they chat.  With this incongruency, I have to stand and stretch.

A man, who looks like all the other staff except for a clipboard, crosses to us.  The Doctor.  After small talk about how my son got here he says,  like I should know, “So you see, he really shouldn’t be here at all.”  “He’s alright to go with you,” he continues as a question.

I am confused, but not really.  He’s asking if I have any concerns about my son’s mental health.  Anything that would necessitate a Doctor enacting the health act which states that my son could be kept if proven to be of danger to himself or others.

The forced practice of the staff to ignore unreasonable requests has the   woman now screaming at everyone and no one.  I shake my head, “No, he’s fine to come home.”  I am not lying, but with only the violent insanity of my daughter seven years ago to compare him to, he is fine.

I stand, but the Doctor has his hand on my arm.  “We found something”, he says.  I sit.

The woman flies by muttering, “I want my toothbrush.  I want to go.  I want …”, then the door to the bathroom slams and the screaming turns to wailing.  On the exact opposite side to the Juvenile ward where the toddler screams, the irony about the fragility of human beings is not lost on me.ColinDrMac

My son is now perfectly quiet, like a sharp intake of breath before you blow out a candle.  “We did an x-ray of his head and found a dark spot on his brain.”  I am thinking, why did they do an head x-ray of drunk boy-man?  Miracle Two.

“I think it’s a brain bleed, but I want to consult with St Michael’s.”,  he offers.  “Is this spot in his brain related to his strange behaviour?”,  I blurt.  I’m ashamed now, but for a nanosecond, part of me was desperate that my son isn’t an addict, spoiled or poorly raised.

I have too much fucking information, now thinking about my mother who survived skin cancer and a brain aneurysm only to die in her sleep from a heart attack at age 67.  Her best friend, Joan, was supposed to meet her for an early supper and she didn’t show.  Joan told us girls that she didn’t suffer.  That she was curled on her side in that way that she sleeps which is so familiar to me.  Was so familiar to us.

I didn’t wait for the Doctor to answer.  Instead, with my palm on my son’s back, I open that heavy steel door with the tempered glass and we walk out together.  Miracle Three.

 

Mothers

I live in a family with many different mothers.  Among us, inter-generationally and internationally, adoptees who are now mothers and mothers and through birth, death, divorce or adoption.

I could share the story about my long road to motherhood and my sense of meaning and purpose in being a mother.  If I did share this, however, it’s likely to trigger someone somewhere to feel bad about themselves and perhaps rage at me.

It seems that this is a standard occurrence for just about anything today.   A commercial about a mom and a dad negates two gays parenting.  An ad with an Asian on the left and a Black on the right of a White causes an self esteem issues.  The choice to sponsor a blogger with a hajib headscarf is called political pandering.  Witches stricken from Halloween so society doesn’t equate Wicca with evil women on brooms.  The term biological mother becomes birth mother becomes natural mother becomes first mother, still it means mother or does it?

Myself included, when did we all get so fucking sensitive?  About everything.   So politically correct, especially in Canada, that one can hardly turn without fear of using the wrong term or offending someone and where we are legislating ourselves into oblivion.

A practitioner who works with troubled teens, that included one of mine for a time, gave me Viktor Frankl’s book, Man’s Search for Meaning.  Frankel was a doctor and holocaust survivor.  He questioned why some prisoners in the concentration camp he was in rose to the challenge of life while others, even once liberated, failed to thrive.  He observed, “…  There is nothing in the world, I venture to say, that so effectively helps one to survive even the worse conditions as the knowledge that there is a meaning in one’s life.”

The idea of finding meaning and purpose in life is daunting.  How does one finding meaning in life when we are so sure the even out basic rights are not in our control?  The step-parent with no child-raising experience is thrust into parenting rebellious teens.  The 15 year old who finds herself pregnant and her  mother making the decisions.  The 19 year old giving birth in a war torn country with no family and no social services.  The 30 year old who finds herself unable to maintain a pregnancy.  The boy, whose father remarries after being widowed, who can no longer remember his dead mother.  The father who feels himself alienated after divorce.  The 21 year old adoptee who finds his birth mother and doesn’t like her.  The adoptee who chooses not to search and gets flack from his adopted siblings.  The adoptee who thinks his life will turn around if he given his birth history, but even then finds he’s still angry and confused.

All want to label themselves as unique and call themselves down trodden.  If we are all down trodden on whose back shall we find true respite?

Frankl says, however, that while we have limited freedom with our circumstances, we do have ultimate freedom about how we react … how we take responsibility for ourselves.

He said that this choice [finding meaning] and action [finding purpose] for our suffering makes it an achievement rather than a tragedy.  How many people do you know like that, like Mother Theresa and the Dalai Lama?

I  believe that suffering does not end whether we choose to parent, to place for adoption, to seek an abortion or remain childless.   Even under great duress we still make a choice and  all actions have consequences.

I am neither a sinner or a saint because I worked and eventually became a mother.  I learned that my role as mother is precarious and subjective.  You do not need to be a perfect mother, nor your children’s first mother, but I learned that you are only a mother when someone calls you mother.

Suffering is not something we can just get over or move past.  Suffering is the universal human circumstance which we must make part of our everyday lives.  It may shape us, but it cannot decide for us who we are and how we will act.

“Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose.” Viktor Frankl

The Calf, a family history story of Northern Ireland

Jeremiah’s hand rested on the gate.  Was it the morning dew or sweat he felt on his palms?  He couldn’t see much.  He paused, listening to the rustle of cattle.  It was getting close to the time they would be liberated into the day, but the still dark confused them as did his presence.

With quiet exaggeration, he closed the latch, pushing cattle aside.  Even in the dim light he knew the outline of his yearling and slipped the rope over the bull’s thick neck .  He trusted that his familiar scent would prompt the bull to cooperate.

Back through the crush Jeremiah felt the cows and other yearlings part for him.  It was a hopeful sign considering his hammering heart, but he wasn’t safe yet.

He tried not to think about the disappointment of his mother and sisters.   John, his older brother, would understand and smooth things over.   He was the one everyone listened to.   Especially their father when he was on the stony path not knowing whether to forgive or to strap the children.

John explained their father like it meant sense to him, but for Jeremiah it didn’t ever make sense.  It was either the strap or not the strap.  John said their father was an uneasy survivor.  Their parents living through two wars, through the promise and then the terror of workhouses and reforms.  So-called reforms between Catholics and Protestants where all paid the price for the aristocratic and political rhetoric.

After fifty long years their grandparents had finally found peace, prosperity and community, but only briefly.  In 1845, the potato famine wiped out their income and their food supply.  Most of the family starved to death and it was only luck and the kindness of strangers that had kept their father Thomas, and his younger brother, William, alive.

By 1850, Thomas had developed a keen knack for raising cattle and for keeping the peace.  The local landlord, when she bothered to show up, came to reply upon him to quell arguments as cattle pastured unfettered in Armagh county.  After a time,  Thomas’ one bull, ten cows and a small plot of pasture became a thriving farm.   Thomas wasn’t greedy and as his herd prospered, so too did Ballyworkan benefit as a community.

A soft light now came from their small white-washed cottage.   Their mother would be starting the fire to make his father’s tea.  Porridge with butter would come soon after for the four sisters, for John and for him.  It was Friday, so his father would also be expecting an egg.   Fire, he said, to fuel the long walk ahead of them to Poynt Pass and onto Markethill,

but Jeremiah wouldn’t be going tomorrow.  He put his head down and willed hims

elf not to run, as if that might stop him from being spotted.   It was one day short of July and he was glad.  Any earlier and the roads would have been deeply rutted and mucky making his journey slow.  He was sure that if his father caught him now he’d lose his resolve.

He thought only briefly about his sisters, except for Jane.   The girls who shared a room were silly and would be too busy cheeping and grooming to notice his absence.  Jane he would miss.   She wasn’t yet bouncing about like his other sisters of marriageable age, who were more worried about boys and ribbons.  In the past he could always count on her to share the chores so there would be time to fish in the Cusher, watching the lazy current and thinking big thoughts about nothing.

The sun was rising now, casting a pink orange glow and making the mist rise from the ground.  Jeremiah’s heart was no longer hammering, but a steady leap, like the excitement he felt about his future.

The previous years replayed.  Jeremiah remembered being grateful for the penny tossed by his father to spend on toys or candy, but that time was past.  Replaced by the elation at standing beside his father and John at the previous fall market.  Boys were expected to drive the herd for the eight hours to Poynt Pass, but once the cattle were corralled the men took care of the negotiations.   He had stood among them for the first time.  Then his father had given him a calf saying it was his responsibility.  Jeremiah raised it with care watching his father and brother, not quite able to see, but anticipating with pride, his future as a cattleman.

He was almost at his destination knowing that his absence from the family home would now be obvious.  His father would file away his anger till just the right moment.  Jeremiah hated the waiting game.

John, however, always managed to deflect punishment, or rather what their father called “corrections.”   John whose head was cool and smart,  ready to take over the family farm, while Jeremiah slaved into the future, landless.

“He has no right to take it to market.”, he said.  “I raised it.  It’s my seed bull.  My future.”   His thoughts, however gruffly appearing in his head, were shadowed by doubt and the echo of this father’s laughter.   “No son.  It was experience you needed, not the bull.  It goes to market tomorrow with the rest.”, and the conversation was over just like that.

The sun had risen quicker than he remembered as if time was urging him forward.  He blinked stupidly in the light, the bull bumping his back with a tipped horn reminding him it was both their breakfast times.  Jeremiah hadn’t noticed passing the other cottages that lined the road of Harcourt’s Hill.  Had the neighbour’s seen him pass, he wondered.

A small house stood on the right, but he knew it would be empty.  He rounded the back to the shed with the chickens pecking and pigs rooting contentedly.  The sheep and cows already at pasture.  Another hand on the gate that he looked down to see with some surprise that it was a man’s hand.  Calloused and red rough.  A hand with experience.  His hand.

His uncle William raised his own in welcome, his eyes only half masking the merriment Jeremiah knew he was getting from seeing his nephew at his door step.   Jeremiah did not know how his uncle, as a bachelor, managed to work the farm alone.  More importantly, how he had afforded his own land.  Even with all these questions and naivety, Jeremiah was reassured that it was possible.

Jeremiah Pentland in front of his cottage in Ballyworkan, Portadown, Armagh County, Northern Ireland

Jeremiah Pentland in front of his cottage in Ballyworkan, Portadown, Armagh County, Northern Ireland

John said that their father lost his own childhood protecting Will from the harshness and responsibilities he’d endured.  “That’s why Dad seems so mixed”, John said, “His enjoyment of life put on hold to make sure William thrived, but then,” and John winked, “… Will turned out to be a little too mirthful”. They had both smiled remembering the practical jokes and the mouth harp Uncle Will constantly played.  They liked how it drove their father crazy.

Will and Jeremiah did not need to talk.   Conversation about Thomas was long questioned without an answer, his stoicism as set as Will’s humour.  They set about the day’s chores, his stomach rumbling with hunger and anxiety.   Yet, the sun set and there was no knock on the door and Will said he could stay on as long as he worked.

Out of character the next day’s promise was of summer sun, instead of rain.  The mood was light as they, with a day’s rations and a bedroll, left for market ~ the bull calf safely away in Will’s shed.  The cattle, a much smaller herd than Thomas’, walked on ahead beside the river with only the occasional correction to stay on track.  Jeremiah’s courage rose and fell in waves getting sharper as they neared the market.

He’d never noticed before, well, maybe he had and not acknowledged it, but his father was holding court.  Men leaning in on his words and the not so private exchange of flasks.  The rest of his family was still at home.  His sister’s would have preferred the social opportunity of the July 1st market, but his mother would only visit in September when the supply of goods bordered on extravagant.   Jeremiah felt a moment of family pride and then his father’s body changed direction, all the while smiling and slapping backs.

He tried to busy himself, but found his Uncle propelling him towards the court of Thomas.  “This is what you’re here for.  Isn’t it?”, Will questioned.  While Jeremiah’s desire drove one side, inexperience drove the other so that his body looked twisted as the two sets of brothers  greeted each other.   It seemed that everyone turned to watch as if the news of his defection had preceded like brush fire.

Thomas looked from Will to Jeremiah and then behind them.  No calf.   Jeremiah was trembling with the effort to control he knew not what.  Was it rage or fear?  Maybe the two were indistinguishable.

He forced his eyes up and saw his father with a rare small smile playing about his lips.   “Well, Jeremiah Pentland, ” his father said, “That was brass-neck thing you pulled.  I’m sure your Uncle will appreciate the extra hand on his farm.”  Some might have looked for the sarcasm in that remark, but for Jeremiah it only meant no strap ever again.  That would have been enough for him, but the lesson learned came from his father turning back to say, “It’s a fine bull son.” and with that he nodded to Will and turned back to the other cattlemen.

Author’s Notes:   The original family story related to me was that Jeremiah took a calf and walked down the road to his Uncle’s farm.  The facts are that our great-grandfather inherited land from his bachelor uncle William, while John, his older brother, inherited land from their father, Thomas.  Jeremiah married Dinah Morrow, whom he called his Treasure.  Of the eight children they raised, two sons migrated to Canada in the 1930’s.  Jeremiah’s farm was eventually purchased with glee by Tommy Flavel whose family also raised cattle in Ballyworkan and who sat at Jeremiah’s knee while he played the Mouth Harp.  Tommy, in his late seventies, hosted my cousin Evelyn, my sister and I on a walk through our ancestral lands which included, yep, cattle.  Except for that which is bog, next to the Brackagh Moss Nature Reserve, all the pasture land is slowly being urbanized by the City of Portadown.

Thanks to my cousins Evelyn Harper and Ivan Pentland for relaying the story of Jeremiah for me to embellish and share.