The Bloody Doors Off

I was bullied in high school.

For two years.

His name was Peter.

I dunno what I ever did to elicit his wrath.

And I don’t remember much of how he bullied me. Just that he did.

Started in grade nine.

In grade ten, walking the halls between classes.

I was headed in one direction, Peter coming opposite.

He smashed the books out of my hands and onto the linoleum floor.

I’d had enough.

“ENOUGH!” I remember screaming that at him.

Before launching myself into a fight I had no chance of winning.

And I was on the ground faster than you can say Rumpelstiltskin.

But I didn’t give up.

Even after teachers pulled us apart.

I continued on to my Science class, like nothing had happened.

“Is Paul Koster in class?” crackled the public address system. “Please send him to the office.”

I got suspended for fighting. Three days.

Peter got worse, I think.

He never bothered me again.

Why do I bring this up?

I’m worried my boy is being bullied at school. He says no, but he’s adamant that he wants to change schools.

With a month left until he heads to high school.

No principal/trustee would sign off on switching, even two months ago when he first brought it up.

Even if he’s not being bullied, he is most definitely a teenager with raging hormones and no one to hit.

I remember how that felt.

I’d do anything to ease him through the coming years.

I feel helpless.

Welcome to parenthood.

I’m somewhat impulsive.

I jump at opportunities when presented.

And work out the logistics after.

And I’m a sucker for the long-shot.

(Ask Mollie. She’s sat beside me for hours upon hours playing Blackjack.)

They were only accepting 15 applications this year.

Less than a third of those spots were outside of the Indigenous/Equity-seeking categories. They take precedence.

Like I said, a long-shot.

But man, I love to gamble.

So, back on March 15th, I applied to the St. John’s Shorts Festival this September in Eastern Canada.

I knew the show I’d take.

Snow Angels.

It’s a no-brainer. It runs just shy of 15 minutes (you can have a maximum of 30 minutes), and it’s a two-hander. Part of their Covid Protocols state that the company can be no larger than 10, including the writer, director, etc. Same actors, Sofia and Lucy. As I said, no-brainer.

Oh, did I mention this is a LIVE festival, and NOT virtual?

And did I mention how much of a long-shot this was?

Obviously, you can guess the outcome.

We got in.

I told Marlo. Her first response:

“I guess we’re going to Newfoundland.”

(Reason no. 427 why I love her.)

So yeah. The ladies are already talking about a road trip.

And I need to set up a GoFundMe to cover their travel and accommodations.

This has been quite the year. Kentwood Players produced State of Independence out of Los Angeles, Last Call will run as part of the Rogue Theater Festival in the U.S., and now. I’m going to Newfoundland.

1. In The Stand, why did Stephen King send a bunch of characters to New Vegas (essentially to their deaths), only to have a deus ex machina take care of Randall Flagg?
2. How the hell did Doug Ford get to be Premier of Ontario? Who honestly thought that was a good idea? Do they still believe in that asshat?
3. Where did Dr. Pepper get their doctorate?
4. Is Dr. Pepper non-binary?
5. Why call it Dr. Pepper if there’s no pepper in the cola?
6. Am I beating this Dr. Pepper thing to death?
7. Will there be a 10^th question in this list?
8. Is it only acceptable to play more cowbell on Don’t Fear the Reaper? Did cowbell stocks rise when the song hit the charts?
9. Why am I writing this?

This is my quest,
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless,
No matter how far.

To fight for the right
Without question or pause,
To be willing to march
Into hell for a heavenly cause.

And I know if I’ll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I’m laid to my rest

The Impossible Dream, lyrics © Helena Music Company, Andrew Scott Music, Helena Music Corp.

I feel like I’m tilting at windmills.

That’s not to say. I’m not.

Looking for a story that doesn’t want to be told.

Not yet, anyway.

I’m worried the increase in my anti-depressant medication will kill the creative drive.

But I’ve been increasing for the past two weeks and well, the blog’s been pretty active.

So this disproves that theory.

And it’s not like I don’t have a creative project on the go right now.

But it’s not writing. That’s where I get the most joy.

Typing as my muses communicate.

I miss them.

Come home.

Soon.

it’s amazing how fast my mood can turn.

hopefully it’s just hunger.

had a really good day today; up too early (what else is new), socially-distanced with family (for one person, it’d been more than a year), picked up a friend in our bubble for a visit.

and now i’m feeling that scratch on the back of my head.

trying to take hold.

no.

not tonight.

today was a good day.

and it’s not over.

though fireworks are gonna start soon enough, and that’s bound to grate on my nerves tonight.

i should think about dinner.

Companion to our demons
They will dance and we will play
With chairs, candles and cloth
Making darkness in the day
It will be easy to look in or out
Upstream or down without a thought

Sarah McLaughlin, Fumbling Towards Ecstacy

False alarm. Thought I had a blog post.

I know, I’m disappointed too.

The next one could be enormous, though.

Or it might be a ‘current mood’-linked video.

I dunno.

Really thought I had something brewing.

It’s quiet, with the boy at his father’s.

I’m playing tunes on Spotify; Marlo is singing along while cleaning out her fountain pens.

Just had an interesting moment.

We’re listening to a song from Sigur Ros. I can’t even begin to try and spell the name of it (aside from “Untitled #4”) and Marlo and I have totally different memories associated with it. I know the song from Vanilla Sky (loved that film) but for her, it’s my short play, Snow Angels.

(Sure, why not plug it. I think it’s a damned fine script, and Lucy and Sofia act the hell out of it.)

And I may have submitted Snow Angels to the St. John’s Shorts festival on the east coast. Performed live. The chances are slim-to-none that we’ll get in (Indigenous and equity-seeking arts are given priority, and all others get a shot at the last-third of the open slots; this year, because of Covid, while they plan to go live, they are only accepting 15 companies. Total.)

The draw is Tuesday.

I was never an athletic kid.

Could barely skate worth a damn.

The first time I tried skateboarding, I fell backwards and hit the heel of my right foot onto the pavement.

Chipped a bone.

Doctor said I’d walk with a limp the rest of my life.

(Shows what he knows. I may have foot issues, but they’re related to Plantar Fasciitis.)

My mom thought I was faking an injury to get out of going to school that Friday. (I remember Linda Carter’s Wonder Woman was on television that night, and it was a Thursday. I can barely remember what I ate for dinner three nights ago, but this is burned into my memory.) Anyway, she felt sheepish when the doctor confirmed the injury.

I was walking on it within days.

Yeah.

I played baseball as a kid. Sponsored/run by our local church, St. Rose of Lima. (This is important to remember.)

My best friend Doug was on the same team, coached by his father.

I was never an athletic kid.

So I played right field.

If you hit the ball to me, chances are you had an extra base hit.

Except the one time.

Crack of the bat.

Never saw the ball coming my way.

Yet I reached up with my glove (I’m a south paw) and boom. Caught the fuckin’ thing.

Again, never saw it coming.

Lots I never see coming.

I digress.

When I was 16, maybe 17, I approached the league about coaching. They put me on a team as an assistant coach.

Some of the best times of my life.

The next year, I got to coach my own team. I remember being in the church basement, going over the kids’ applications, basically drafting our teams. There was one kid I’d worked with the year before, arm like a cannon, could switch hit. I told a little white lie that he was a bit of a handful, to get him on my team.

My dad jumped in as my assistant coach. He let me lead the team. Practices, games, setting the line-up.

I don’t think we won that year. But we all got trophies anyway.

But the two biggest things I remember:

1. One of the parents gave me a gift at the end of the season. A silver pen. As thanks for helping their son out of his shell. Apparently he’d been quite an introvert before playing ball.
2. That kid with the arm? I ran into him a few years later at the bowling alley arcade (again, this I remember) and he thanked me for believing in him. He’d continued to pitch in the league as he got older. Something tells me he could’ve gone to school on a scholarship if he wanted. (But this I don’t know. I’m speculating.)

I’m reminded of all this as I watch the Blue Jays get tarred by the Rays this afternoon.

Ya know. If Coltrane were into playing baseball, and wanted to join a league, I’d be willing to come out of “retirement” and coach again…

It’s stuck in my head. Supplanted The Devil’s Eye.

I think I’m creating a soundtrack. For a story I haven’t written or even know what it is.

Apparently it’s a formal trip down memory lane tonight.

Was just reminded of the one year, for my birthday, I was taken (by rickshaw) to a jazz club on Adelaide (or was it Wellington? No, Adelaide).

Junior Mance was on the piano that night. The man was amazing. And he would hum along as he played. I bought the CD; you could hear his humming on it as well.

Unfortunately, I can’t remember who it was I went with. I wanna say Suzi, but can’t be sure.

I’m obviously in a mood to write.

There may be more tonight.

I’m a click-whore.

I find myself checking the stats for this blog, to see if anyone’s reading.

Not that I get a sense of pride or satisfaction when I see the results.

But it’s knowing. That I’m not.

Alone.

In this thing.

No one deserves. To be alone.

Heavy memory time.

I was relating to my friend Scott, who lost his wife at the end of 2020, my own loss.

When my mother died.

She and my step-father were at the laundromat that morning. I think it was a Wednesday. I remember the date.

October 5th.

Kevin called me just after 8:30 that morning. Relayed the news. That she was transported to hospital in Newmarket (or Aurora?) and was in intensive care. He said he was driving up and would keep me posted.

I demanded he pick me up as well.

He did.

Wayne and Donna were on vacation, south of the U.S. (I can’t remember the actual location.) But I was able to reach them after we got to the hospital. Larry couldn’t understand why I needed to make that call. I had to include them. Prepare them. Make a connection.

That we weren’t going through this alone.

I remember the doctor, a tall fellow, came in with a grief counsellor. They said she wasn’t expected to make it, and we needed to come say goodbye.

But before we did.

A nurse entered and informed us she’d had another heart attack, and they couldn’t revive her.

We still went in to say goodbye.

I’ll never forget the pained look that remained on her face; eyes wide, staring into oblivion, mouth contorted in a silent scream.

It haunts me.

But with time…

My take-away was.

Memories may suck, and they hurt, but in a really fucked up way.

It keeps them alive in our hearts.

And we’re never alone.

Damn. I used to have video of her doing the Gangnam Style dance. I need to search my phone and see if I still have it.

ETA: Found a pic.