Hello Out There!

Spiral Galaxy M66
Credit: Russell Croman

Hello out there! How are you?
Better yet, where, precisely, are you?
SETI is looking for you, NASA is
looking for you. For, you see, we
know you're out there. Why would
you, after all, not be out there?

We are here, in our immense little
Galaxy, a mere speck of gathered
matter in the vast, unknowable,
mysterious intriguing, finite/infinite
Universe. There, just a little to the
left, there we are...set your sights to
the Milky Way, we're there, circling
our sun. See us there, we're waving!

Wavering in insecurity simultaneously.
Our most famed astrophysicist warning
us there may be good reason not to
approach you too trustingly brings
conflict to our consuming curiosity.
Yet if we approach in peace, will you
not meet us reflecting identical resolve?

Ah, you are aware of the human
tribal-clan propensity to exclusionary
chauvinism, of the ready resort to
xenophobic suspicion lighting the
volatile torch of conflict. Your historians
have noted our proclivity to drench
our Earth with blood and eagerly harvest
the bitter fruit of unresolved despair.

 

 

Illusions, Delusions, Allusions

Civil War. Swinging their Soviet made weapons, a group of Chamounist militiamen block the crossroads into the Christian sector of Achrafieh. East Beirut, Lebanon. 1978.  Raymond Depardon / Magnum Photos

He had a habit of never wanting to pay the full freight for his reading material. So his large and growing library of books are mostly of second-hand vintage. Not that he isn't particular about the shape they're in. He will buy second-hand books only if they're in fairly pristine shape. He does have his standards. He has been known to relent, however, if he comes across a publication he recognizes as hard to come by, one that has been well leafed, but that he decides he must have.

I am the woman who
Made Khomeini laugh.
I am the woman who
Made Gheddafi and Kissinger cry.
I am the woman who
Made Deng Xiao Ping remove
The gigantic portraits of Marx
and Engels and Lenin and Stalin
from Tien An Men square.

The copy of Inshallah, the novel by Oriana Fallaci, was in prime shape. Clearly, whoever originally owned it had taken good care of it. That is a presumption that might of course not be the case. It might have been bought with the thoughtful intention of reading it, but placed on a shelf somewhere and forgotten, until someone got tired of looking at it, dusting it, and gave it up to a second-hand book shop. It might have represented a gift that was unappreciated; the giftee having no intention of reading it, and that might have preserved its appearance.

Whatever the case he was intrigued by the very concept of Oriana Fallaci having written novels. He 'knew' her only by reputation, as a bold, enterprisingly fearless journalist and interviewer. She would undertake to strive for interviews with dictators, tyrants, champions of justice, prisoners, activists, royalty, to question them audaciously and report in her own inimitable way on the results of those interviews. Her formidable reputation for honesty and clarity won her a large following.

She was granted interviews with reclusive personalities not given to permitting themselves to be interrogated and reported upon by others of her profession. Iran's revolutionary Ayatollah Khomeini, for example. She was given exclusive rights to publishing details that were withheld from others. She had always captured his imagination, a woman in her prime and beyond, once beautiful, obviously aware of her beauty and its effect on people, but utterly devoted to her craft of revealing the truth to her readers.

He thought he knew as much as there was to know about Lebanon, that once-proud country with its fabulous landscape and multifarious populations. As much as anyone living in the West might, acquainted through the electronic media with expatriate Lebanese whose unquestioned mastery of comedy or drama or literature gave them a wide audience. Of whom his parents were so proud.

And the sinister, dark side of the country with warring sectarian violence and brutal abductions and assassinations. Reading Fallaci's novel, was a revelation, an introduction to Gehenna-on-Earth. Little wonder, he thought, his parents refused to discuss the country. He was not more than one-quarter of the way through the novel, yet. Its bleak, dark message of failed humanity should not have bothered him as much as it did, but it did.

And odd thing to happen, he couldn't understand why, when he'd originally leafed through the book carefully before committing to its purchase and he hadn't come across what had been inserted in it, until the packet fell out, last night. A kind of booklet, (Pictures to-day ... treasures to-morrow - Available at all Tamblyn Drug Stores: Tel-Vision Prints) as it were, with photographs fastened within it.

The pictures were old. He could see that immediately; black-and-white; hairstyles and clothing divulging their agedness. Reminding him of the old photographs in the family albums his parents had collected of people he had never met and never wanted to meet, but meaning something to his parents, obviously.

When he turned them over, the dates were there, place-names and peoples' names. Taken in 1952, at an RCAF base in Chatham, New Brunswick. And among the names of people, there, incredibly, was his own name, scrawled alongside the others. He quickly turned the photo over to more closely scrutinize the faces of three men standing, two women and two children in the foreground, kneeling.

He had no idea who they were, although there was a sense of familiarity, looking at them which he ascribed entirely to similar photos he'd seen in his parents' albums with war-time base housing in the background, and civilian personnel in the foreground. And there, labelling one of the middle-aged men, was his name.

Who were the photos representative of? How peculiar that an uncommon name like his was present in such an unlikely place. Related, he wondered...? Not likely, none of his people had ever been there to his knowledge, nor with the RCAF. He turned to the novel flyleaf, but the presumed name of the original owner had been too carefully blacked out.

 

ME, LAST YEAR; 29th Installment

At school on Monday, Diane and Donna were talking, all excited about what they were going to wear to Sally’s party. Sally wasn’t with us, but Laura was, and she didn’t look too happy. Funny; Sally still hasn’t come right out and asked us two Jennifers to go, and I feel kind of funny.

“Laura” I said, sitting beside her, before home room class started. “Did Sally ask you to her party? Like I mean, say she wanted you to come?”

“Yes, of course she did.” And then she seemed like she was just shutting up or something. Her mouth got thin and she didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t seem to want to look right at me.

“I guess then, she’s asked Donna and Diane too?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I see. She just hasn’t got around to saying anything to the rest of us, yet.”

“Maybe. I don’t know what her plans are, Jennifer.”

I looked for Sally and saw her over with the kids in the in-group and I was kind of surprised. She looked comfortable with them, like she belonged, and usually they didn’t like any of us around them, much. Laura saw me looking and she turned to me, and shrugged her shoulders. I wonder what that’s supposed to mean?

Mr. Henderson came in and we all got in our seats like we’re supposed to. There were new supplies in, and we were all supposed to get new pens and rulers and erasers. New paper supplies, too. As usual, Kerry got the job of handing out the new stuff. It kind of makes him feel Mr.Big, so Mr. Henderson thinks it’s good for him. Keeps him busy, too, and I guess he thinks he’s special to get the job and then wants to act special, because he always acts good for a while afterward. Only thing is, if he’s mad at someone he kind of forgets to give them as much paper as the other kids, or he gives them a leaky pen or a broken eraser. Sally’s always talking mean to him, so he kind of got her back this morning, and was she ever mad! Too bad.

Later, at lunch time, Mom noticed me picking at this thing I got on the middle of my hand, and she had a look. I guess she didn’t like what she saw, and neither do I now that I know what it is. She made an appointment for me to see Dr. Salivas after school, end of the week.

Tomorrow night there’s a concert put on by Larry’s early music group that plays on Saturday. Larry reminded us all at the dinner table. “That reminds me”, he said. “Brent’s parents can’t go, do you think we can pick him up and take him with us?”

“That kid never has a ride”, Daddy grumbled. “What the hell do his parents do all the time?”

“Come on Dear, it’s not so bad. We won’t have to go much out of our way to pick him up. He’s a nice boy, and we should be glad to do it.” Good old Mom.

I think I know why Dad’s not so eager to pick Brent up. Mom told him the other day that I have a crush on Brent. I was so mad I could have screamed. You should have seen the surprised look on Daddy’s face. You know, his little girl….!

“Is that true?” he asked, turning to me.

“Oh Daddy, don’t listen to Mom, she’s just kidding.”

“Am I Dear?” Mom said sweetly. Oh, sometimes she’s just miserable. “Isn’t that why you’re so eager to be around whenever Larry has him over? Is that why you always listen in on their telephone conversations, because I’m kidding? Oh yes, I know you do.”

“Well so what, so what!” I yelled, feeling like crying. It’s so unfair, it’s not anybody’s business.

“So what indeed”, Mom said. “I happen to think it’s perfectly natural, so why are you so upset?”

“I don’t know! No one would ever look at me anyhow, I’m so stupid and fat and everything!”

“Why, that’s not true at all, Jen. You’re just as pretty as any of your friends, even if I am your mother. And I told you that’s just baby fat, you’ll lose it.” And she turned to Dad who kept watching me all the time like I was a strange fish, or something he was trying to catch. “Don’t you agree, Dear?”

“Of course you’re pretty, Jen. And even I’ve noticed that you’ve lost a bit of your chubbiness. In fact, you’re beginning to look quite the young lady, so stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“It’s her age, Dear”, Mom murmured to him softly, but I heard her. My age again, crap!

Since then, Dad’s been suspicious of Brent and whenever he’s around Dad watches to see what I’m doing. If I’m hanging around, like, or like that. What a drag!

“What do you think?” Dad asked, turning to me. “should we pick beautiful Brent up and take him with us?” Lanky Larry was howling, laughing his fool head off, and my baby brother wasn't behaving any more civilized, yowling right along with Big Brother.

“Do whatever you like, Father", I said, trying to sound like I really didn’t care.

“I suppose we will, particularly if there’s no other way he can get there. There’s something about that boy … I don’t know, he just seems supercilious.”

“So what if he acts silly sometimes”, I said, because I think it’s unfair that Daddy has to find fault with Brent just because he’s mad at him because of me.

“Silly? Who said anything about silly?” Dad said. And I was confused. “He’s anything but silly. In fact, he’s very bright, I admit it. But there’s an air about him that turns me off.”

“Didn’t you say he was silly?” I asked Dad.

“No, Dear”, Mom said, laughing. And so was Larry, but Brian not so much; he looked as puzzled as me. I hate it when someone laughs at me when I don’t understand something. It’s just not fair, and it’s not nice, either.

“Supercilious means someone who thinks he’s rather superior.”

“Oh … I thought it meant extra-silly. You know, super-silly. Oh, I’m so stupid!” But, I thought to myself, it’s a real good word, if I could only remember it, to describe precious Larry, too.

“No, you’re not at all stupid. It’s just that sometimes we tend to use words you don’t yet know. You do have a good vocabulary, you certainly read enough to help your command of English grow. Don’t feel so self-critical.” Even though Mom said that I know she thinks I’m stupid sometimes. She doesn’t want me to get down in the dumps, that’s all.

And it’s clear to me that Larry is very concerned about me too, since he breathed “stupid!” at me, when no one was looking. Count on him. 

 

 

Willing Myself To Waken

 

Another night of one of those haunted, haunting dreams. Not my idea of a dream, it is a nightmare from which I cannot escape. There are just so many versions of the same frightening prospect of being lost, not being able to find my way home. Much worse, being separated from my life-companion, searching for him desperately, and only finding him when I finally wake up. Rescued from another nightmare.

I read too many of those personal accounts of dreadful acts that people commit against one another. When the human psyche goes berserk. But that's only part of it. My husband also has similar disturbing dreams. Where he cannot find his way home, despite his anxious determination to come home to me. It's all that travelling he had to do throughout his working life, he tells me. It's the memory of loneliness, of impersonal hotel rooms and foreign destinations.

For me, it's more that when he travelled I yearned to hear from him, to feel him close again beside me. He was always good about that. No matter where he was, halfway across the world, he would telephone me, and that was comforting. He would come home from his workplace appearing quieter than usual. That should have tipped me off to a forthcoming trip, but it always surprised me when he finally explained he would be off again.

To places throughout the length and breadth of Canada, in the United States, Mexico, Japan, Great Britain, Ireland, China. At first I thought how utterly privileged he is to travel like that and see the world, and I had to scold myself if I ever remotely revealed to him my sense of apprehension. I made a deliberate attempt to be pleased for him. And when he returned from one of those weeks-long trips, I'd listen carefully to his perceptions and experiences.

Travel by proxy. What had seemed exciting and romantic early on in his career, became a dreary re-occurrence. Some deep-seated fear must have lodged itself in the depths of my being, in some dark and secret place where it is dredged up from time to time, transformed to one of those impossible dreams. Last night's was not quite typical but then not quite atypical.

We were young again, young parents of a family of three pre-adolescent children. We had travelled somewhere for a holiday; not an exotic vacation, since at that time we did not stray all that far from home, although I've no idea where, in the dream, we were. Suddenly, my husband was somewhere else, not with us, he had told me he had somewhere he must go to, and would soon return. But he did not, and I was left with the children in some strange place.

Where I suddenly became alerted to the fact that the small town or village in which we had ensconced ourselves for our temporary stay, was bristling with people hostile to our presence. Men, women and children, all were alert to our presence, and demonstrated unmistakably ill intentions toward us. I gathered the children and we began our swift exodus from the town, but we were followed by irate people.

They threatened to kill us, all of us. I thought surely, my husband would appear, take charge of things, defuse this peculiar threatening situation, but he did not. We fled, and the throngs followed. We sought refuge in a house in the surrounding countryside and the people there behaved no differently, and seemed prepared to kill us there and then.

There were two children in the house, besides my own; one a toddler with a bonnet and a frilly dress. I scooped her up, said I would do to her what they planned to do to me and my children, and suddenly the situation changed. We were permitted to leave, refusing to leave the child, taking her with us. We wandered about, looking for a safe haven, looking for my husband.

Then we were confronted with the mob again and leading them was the family whose child I had abducted. To demonstrate quite how serious I was, I threatened to bash the child's head against the wall of a nearby house, and the crowd became very still, no longer belching bellicose abuse. I thought to myself, we would escape, we would be re-united with my husband, and I would retain the child, and raise her as our own.

Again, the crowd followed and confronted us with vicious intent. As so often happens when I have a nightmare that I cannot escape from, I awoke. Aware in my drowsy state of the content of my dream, willing myself not to resume the nightmarish dream if I fell asleep, and despite that, when I fell asleep a few moments later, the dream resumed. In the dream I was acutely aware that I could escape by willing myself to awaken.

And I did. 

 

 

The Known World

 

How can it be plausible that people
can discover functional merit and purpose
in preying upon others in the curse of humanity's
propensity to the practise of slavery? That African
tribal chiefs sought profit by selling their rival
clans - men, women and children as livestock
to be herded into caravans by Arab traders or
to European slavers to die agonizing disease-
afflicted deaths, their frail black lifeless bodies
strewn upon the deep seas as fish fodder.

An ancient, hateful tradition predating
written memory, where the victors triumphed
with the processions of shackled, miserable
vanquished, the conquest of humanity, the dire
misery of hopeless enslavement, the generations
born into inhuman bondage, their lives borne out
in witness to the celebration of the free, the
mourning of those imprisoned in serfdom, no
purpose but to serve a remorseless master.

A man whose daunting philosophical genius
awed with the elegance of his intellect, but was yet
a slave, subject to the imperious whims and commands
of his moral, creative, cerebral inferiors themselves
impervious to the degradation and misery they
sustained. The harvest of human bodies for
righteous duty to those who presumed it right and
proper to prosper from their purposeful enslavement
has stained humanity throughout the shameful ages.

As it does to the present, where the indigent
and the vulnerable, the young, the fragile and the
unprotected are abducted and violated. there is no
universal conscience, no inborn genetic code to
instinctively cause aversion, no god of divinely
merciful dimensions to demand the cessation and the
release of the indentured denied their equal portion of
humanity's dignity, purpose and freedoms.

All is chance, geography, fortune, good or ill. And it
is a decidedly ill wind that lights the embers of human
avarice, ambition and pitiless aspiration to assemble the
users, abusers and the soul plunderers toward the purpose
of hegemonic upheavals, the spoliation of children,
the harsh domination of the defenceless. 

 

 

Simply Put: Why?

 

A three-lettered query, simple in its
surface innocence, but complex in its
need to know, nuanced with an underlay
of demand on the sensibilities. Acutely,
humanly needful of thoughtful introspection
and response. Why, he asks, the sentence
forwarded for contemplation, comprised
of a single word. The most meaningful
plaint in human communication, but
sans context, an arcane conundrum.

There is an inhuman distance of vast
geography separating us, yet our connection
is managed through the ether, permitting
those faceless, voiceless masses of which we
are two, to meet. Brief contact, one mind
reaching another, past language, culture and
history to find a common human interest.
You grope for those to share your search
for meaning, and there am I, responding.

No, your malady is not mine, but my
emotional grasp of its life-destructive
powers require no great stretch of the
imagination; humans are imbued with the
capacity to care for the plight of an
unfortunate stranger. Call it empathy,
compassion, a remote tenderness of
vision and responsibility as an uncomplicated
gesture, person-to person, unseen, unmet.

Your language is not my language, so it
must require quite the effort, a huge
difficulty for you to marshall your thoughts,
transcribe and send them on their way through
the miracle of telecommunications circling the
atmosphere, tickling our awareness of one
another. Messages of enquiry, attempting
to solve the riddle of the deeply rooted
covenant of the spirit, to respond to need.

Your insistent need to know: But why, then?
resonates and saddens, it does not elevate
the discourse because you will not accept
the simple act of humanity, obsessed by a
response you will not dredge from me,
invested yet with the belief that good exists
somewhere deep within, and sometimes
we must defer to that impulsive instinct.

 

 

Season of Mourning

 

It is an unspoken covenant between
grandmother and granddaughter, the
daily after-school call, born no doubt of
their intimate history when in the first
decade of her young life it was grandma's
arms that enveloped her after school.
Distance has made the invisible silken
strand of connection - tender yet strong
as a spider's skein - no less compelling.

Watcha doing? elicits the identical
quotidian refrain: not much. But it is
intensely cold, windy, damp and so did
you wear your winter boots and jacket?
represents another facet of the formula
of this relationship. Nope, the laconic,
expected response. And the vital news of
the post-school snack emerges: a pomegranate.

That mysterious Eastern fruit, its amazing
structured, celled interior surfeit with
faceted ruby jewels like those in a treasure
chest discovered in the fabled caves of
Ali Baba. These glistening sweet jewels to
be consumed, not worn in brilliant splendour,
arrayed upon the white, swan-like necks of
beautiful Harem girls. Careful you don't
squirt your eye, grandmother urges.

Damn! granddaughter informs, just squirted
my eye. Language, chides grandmother.
Then in the silence asks do you know the
Greek legend of the pomegranate? Have you
met Demeter, the goddess of the harvest and
her daughter Persephone? Do you know where
the seasons come from? Have you studied
Greek mythology in your school curricula?

To the last query: yes, some, in drama class.
To the previous: no clue, as they claim in
teen vernacular. But you can ask about
vampires, we know about them, grandma.

Grandma sets about enlightening her child
in the delights of tragedy and mystery, grandeur
and petulance, power, esteem and comedy, all
residing in the arcane minutiae of a folk
panoply of gods, their overweening pride,
bumptiously covert antics, vain jealousies and
curiously oppressive sexual adventures.

How an abduction of a beloved daughter
led to a grieving mother and a deadly chilled
season of mourning, when no flowers bloomed,
no crops grew, dark wailing veils hung from
trees and the brows of mothers alike, and all
life was suspended in unappeasable grief. The
redemption of compassion that would bring
spring back to the world, and the single seed
of a pomegranate that consigned a daughter to
dark Hades and a coldly possessive yet loved
husband to satisfy both life and death.