Character sketches

Photo: view from the Trafalgar Building, Robert Howson's studio, Oct. 16.

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"Hi Bill, how's it going?" he called to me. Friendly smile.

I shrank at the sight of it. Gave him a friendly nod in return. Then I pretended to look at the case of jewellery, one-of-a-kind chains of ornate beads and polished stones under glass, pale bulbs highlighting their places on pedestals. A cowl of panic.

Danny knew right away it was someone from my distant past, who knew me as Bill. His name was Brian, and he was undeterred by my reticence. He walked over and spoke to me again. It turned out—actually I knew this at once: that he was displaying his work in the art festival. We had come to the Barber Gallery. Photographers, painters, woodworkers and textile artists filled the second and third floors.

Brian had taken black-and-white photography and distorted it. Lovely really: angels contorted in agony, people blending with Jesus hanging on the wall, shadows and veils, light languishing in darkness. It was the Christian life I knew: struggling on nails, a beleaguered existence surrounded by enemies, ridicule, sins tearing at our flesh.

Last time I spoke to you eight years ago, you said, "My heart bleeds," then turned and walked away. No one would speak to me in those days, none of the old friends, the Christian families I broke bread with.

Brian was one of my old pastors. I introduced him to Danny. We exchanged conversation. All about photography. He listened intently to my boyfriend.

Finally I said, "Your work is very interesting, Brian. It's good to see you again." And we shook hands.

Sometimes reality lies and fiction tells the truth. That very night I went to the -bar and started writing character sketches for my novel. I drew threads from the stories of people I knew, but nothing recognizable. Going into these histories of things that shaped the people I knew, I found pools of terror. Sometimes the pain of other people's lives is too much to bear. I want to run away, fingers in my ears, screaming.

That someone would touch her there, in front of everyone, and not even her parents would reproach him.

Yesterday I called Marian's school to tell them I will attend parents' day this Saturday. I want to meet her teachers, for the first time in six years. I emailed my ex-wife to tell her I would be there.

That was fine. But something I hadn't counted on: the grandparents will be there, two people I had sincerely hoped I would never see again. Hasn't that woman killed herself yet? The one who told my 12-year-old daughter she's embarrassing herself, that she looks like a dominatrix.

Sometimes it seems my story has already been lived. The past feels more outrageous than anything that could happen to me now. And yet life keeps pulling me in for another incestuous embrace. The villains arise, I catch a glimpse of reddish hair in the field hockey crowd of the future. Eyes flashing, words cutting. I will not hear, must not entertain.

I go my way and do my work. My daughters' lives keep drawing me to a crossroads. Once upon a time I would run away from the pain. But now the players are re-entering from the wings, and I take my seat to watch. I am not a coward.

At the square table in the -bar, dim light, loud music from the next room, a pint of cider near at hand, I let my pen flow across the page. It is threading out blood again, all over the lines. I start doodling, drawing circles and eyes, sigils and figments, anything to avoid the agony of plunging into this novel.

But the victory is in finding one's own feet can stand on this page of fiction. Being honest, I look inside and see how I too was a player. The truth goes deeper than even I can imagine. There are no villains.

I dip a chicken finger into the plum sauce.

An old acquaintance comes by: Laura. She's now a theatre reviewer for the Stratford Beacon-Herald. She tells me it doesn't bother her that she has stopped writing poetry and fiction. She no longer battles her inner critic. All she wants is to have enough money to pay her rent and live her life.

For a moment I envy her.

"It's enough to be happy with what we do," I say.

Addendum: cults

I know how addicts feel. Years later they might one day crave the feeling of relief from a cigarette or a glass of liquor.

In a cult you are addicted to belonging. You're not an individual, and your mind feels safe in its communal way of thinking. You can count on others to tell you how to handle any circumstance.

Breaking away is like a birth, learning to breathe for the first time.

Years later you meet someone at the grocery store or at an art show, and it reminds you how alone you are. There's no question of going back, but from the bottom of your solitude you feel a tug of insecurity. You crave belonging.

A cult denies your individuality. To recover from its control, you must embrace both your self-identity and its attached loneliness. You have no one to answer all the questions for you. You have to make your own decisions. Being a human means being separate from other people. We may share profound intimacy, but the healthy soul recognizes boundaries between itself and others, and knows it must trust ultimately in its own resources.

Dodging rain in downtown Guelph (Tuesday evening special)

While touring artist studios in downtown Guelph on Saturday, Danny and I dodged rain and hail. Finally the sun came out and set brilliantly in a clear sky. Here are five photos I shot.

A view of St. George's Anglican Church:





We got lost trying to escape from a suite in the Guelph centre mall, and ended up in this back alley. Rain was still running from the gutters as the sun came out.




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