Summer memories

One of my earliest memories of Lake Fletcher was a nightmare I had sleeping in the bottom bunk of Joyce MacKenzie's cabin. I must have been three or four. I dreamt that a sprite (it looked like tinkerbell but was evil as an electric shock set loose from its socket) went zooming around the space between my bed and the top bunk. I reached out and snatched it, but the thing sputtered in my hand like a sparkler and prickled until I let it go with a static crackle.

I woke to such utter darkness that waving my hand in front of my face I saw nothing. That is the only time I ever remember being afraid of the dark.

As a boy I was also terrified of the deep water and leaches. One summer at least, I refused to swim in the lake.

But I have always liked the smell of gasoline. It used to remind me of riding in Neil MacEwan's motor boat.

Now I love the silent nights with stars spread on black velvet. And I love plunging into that nectar sweet living lake more than anything else in the world. You have to work yourself up to it.

The poetry reading

Pines near the covered bridge, this afternoon

Another photo posted in iamthelorax (pines).

Two photos posted in texture (lichen and more pines).

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Several weeks ago after spending a weekend in Nacogdoches, Texas, with his sweetie, mattycub asked why I live in a place like Guelph, population 107,000, when I could easily live in Toronto, 75 minutes away. He probably wasn't expecting such a long answer. In fact I've given it a lot of thought over the years. Chances are I'll move elsewhere someday. But I really love Guelph, and it has many things going for it I never expect to find anywhere else, some of which you can read in my reply.

But one story was too long to tell in a comment. It was an incident that warmed my heart to this city, particularly to the artists here. So I will take a few minutes now to relate it.

Guelph has a large community of visual artists, musicians and performance artists. A studio tour runs every October, and the Guelph Arts Festival usually coincides with it.

In 1998 I had made friends with a couple of local poets who sadly have moved away since then. One of them was Laura, who worked at Wyndham Art Supply downtown. For the festival that year Laura was organized a poetry reading, and invited me to participate. I chose six or seven of my favourite poems. I don't write much homoerotic poetry, but one of my favourites is "Bathhouse lovers." I decided to throw caution to the wind and read it to an audience. It contains one or two shocking images, but it about looking anonymously for connection and affection more than sex.

I was the first to read. I barely knew anyone in the audience except Laura. It went amazingly well. It was a new experience, but felt I had come into my element. I knew my words and had confidence in the feelings behind them. Afterwards various people came over and complimented my work.

One was a straight guy I had met once or twice before, an artist who tends bar in one of the local establishments: "I especially liked the one about the bathhouse," he said.

He wasn't alone. "Bathhouse lovers" turned out to be most people's favourite. That's an exotic experience to most straight people, and yet they could relate to the universal needs and desires the poem expressed.

Laura left Guelph a few months later, but the following year Tammy Ratcliffe organized the poetry reading. She is another artist.

Since "Bathhouse lovers" had gone over so well, I decided to read several other poems on the same theme. They were erotic portraits of men I had seen or met. Once again, none of the images were especially graphic, but the context was clearly described.

That year the reading was held at Diana's Restaurant, a favourite hangout for local artisans. The reading drew an audience of some 30 people, mostly artists, musicians and writers. I hardly knew anyone except Tammy and her husband Chris. Part of the dining room had been cordoned off for the event and signs were posted to clearly indicate to other guests that a reading would be going on that evening. When it came my turn, I went up to the microphone and started reading. I went into the world of my words, passionately absorbed. So I didn't notice a disturbance at the back of the audience.

A woman dining at the far end of the restaurant came forward and starting lecturing someone who looked like an organizer but wasn't. I don't know what was said, but it must have gone something like this: "The nerve! I come here to enjoy dinner and I have to listen to this immoral garbage. Can't you stop him?"

Then the woman returned to her table. The young artist who had received the diatribe told the emcee what had happened, then they sat and listened to the rest of my poems. When I finished, the emcee came forward to introduce the next reader. She was fuming. She bent close to the microphone and spoke in a voice that boomed across the dining room.

"People have no idea how hard it is to get a good venue where local poets can present their work to an appreciative audience. We have many talented writers in Guelph, and ought to be proud of their diverse experiences and voices. It takes great courage for someone like Van to stand here and share their writing with us. We cannot afford to bow to censorship that tells us which artistic expressions are appropriate and which are not."

Then the whole audience applauded. I still didn't know what had happened. The emcee sat down beside me and explained, reassuring me that Diana's owners would be sympathetic, so I hadn't offended anyone who mattered. Afterwards every single member of that audience came and spoke to me, saying how much they enjoyed my reading, and not to be discouraged by what had happened.

That is one of the reasons I love Guelph.




The Speed River and Gordon Street bridge viewed from McCrae Street bridge (named after poet Colonel John McCrae, who was born a few paces away).