DRY GUILLOTINE

DRY GUILLOTINEIn my childhood, "Verdun," meant madness.Bars on the windows, cages around the intellect.Time was a poor keeper of souls, it seems, wore out all buta fragment of my memories. Musical, poetic. The sounds of clay chinabeing dropped on the floor. Fierce Celts with a gift for the muse inkeeping with their love of lyricism and war.Driving by 999 Queen in Toronto accompanies a lot of the above.A cuckoo bin by any calculation and a reference not meant to bepejorative. A subject so clothed in solemnity only irreverent"kidding," can hope to disarm its grasp. Still, the truth must be told.In university, no one shrinked from whispering the ultimate fate--a stint in Sydenham or a trip down the road to Cedar Springs.Delightful euphemisms, the names reminiscent of sonorous rivers,tree lined groves, peach blossoms across Georgia springs. OrOphelia's funeral oration wherein Polonius rightfully alludes to hersudden falling away amid laughing brooks.I am reminded of Charrière's desperate attempt to stay sane on Iledu Diâble, the cutting edge of his dry guillotine--his mind's fabricgiving way to the slightest irritation. In the present, the chant ofa crowd's "jump, jump," to the would be suicide. Then there is themost foreboding type of all dementia, the collective sort. A strengththrough joy movement of the Hitler camp with society's manyinstitutions set up along the spit and polish order of the Reich.Indeed, if we think of it, we all have a deep knowledge of madness;days when the centre is about to break alongside the pit. Days whenwars on the periphery take hold, colours appear different.As a child, madness was watching Ichabod Crane in cartoon formoutrace the Headless Horseman. In Sleepy Hollow trying to putdown the panic in himself. Ichabod, the peaceful school master,driven to the edge. At war with himself but trying to reassure thatsame self the plodding sound of approaching hooves was only dried,bullrush stems hitting against his head.Madness is more than Van Gogh offering an ear; Druid priestsgarnishing oak trees in a British forest or plaintive Gauguinabandoning his family at 34, mid-stream in a successful career. Itprobably stands behind half the men on skid row, beckons like awelcome friend before turning fiend and consuming impulse to abag lady.The close relation between the creative impulse and "letting go."Between the arts and wide eyed eccentricity. Between wanting to befree. And knowing. Hearing if you go on like that you'll end up onthe Lakeshore. Another pretty euphemism. A dangerous truth leftlike an upturned rock for someone to trip on in another garden.The farthest away anyone can be.[40]

In my childhood, "Verdun," meant madness.Bars on the windows, cages around the intellect.Time was a poor keeper of souls, it seems, wore out all buta fragment of my memories. Musical, poetic. The sounds of clay chinabeing dropped on the floor. Fierce Celts with a gift for the muse inkeeping with their love of lyricism and war.Driving by 999 Queen in Toronto accompanies a lot of the above.A cuckoo bin by any calculation and a reference not meant to bepejorative. A subject so clothed in solemnity only irreverent"kidding," can hope to disarm its grasp. Still, the truth must be told.In university, no one shrinked from whispering the ultimate fate--a stint in Sydenham or a trip down the road to Cedar Springs.Delightful euphemisms, the names reminiscent of sonorous rivers,tree lined groves, peach blossoms across Georgia springs. OrOphelia's funeral oration wherein Polonius rightfully alludes to hersudden falling away amid laughing brooks.I am reminded of Charrière's desperate attempt to stay sane on Iledu Diâble, the cutting edge of his dry guillotine--his mind's fabricgiving way to the slightest irritation. In the present, the chant ofa crowd's "jump, jump," to the would be suicide. Then there is themost foreboding type of all dementia, the collective sort. A strengththrough joy movement of the Hitler camp with society's manyinstitutions set up along the spit and polish order of the Reich.Indeed, if we think of it, we all have a deep knowledge of madness;days when the centre is about to break alongside the pit. Days whenwars on the periphery take hold, colours appear different.As a child, madness was watching Ichabod Crane in cartoon formoutrace the Headless Horseman. In Sleepy Hollow trying to putdown the panic in himself. Ichabod, the peaceful school master,driven to the edge. At war with himself but trying to reassure thatsame self the plodding sound of approaching hooves was only dried,bullrush stems hitting against his head.Madness is more than Van Gogh offering an ear; Druid priestsgarnishing oak trees in a British forest or plaintive Gauguinabandoning his family at 34, mid-stream in a successful career. Itprobably stands behind half the men on skid row, beckons like awelcome friend before turning fiend and consuming impulse to abag lady.The close relation between the creative impulse and "letting go."Between the arts and wide eyed eccentricity. Between wanting to befree. And knowing. Hearing if you go on like that you'll end up onthe Lakeshore. Another pretty euphemism. A dangerous truth leftlike an upturned rock for someone to trip on in another garden.The farthest away anyone can be.[40]

MANGROVESHow do you survivein the mangrove swamps--amid the twitchings of fetid water& water lice thick as baby tears?How, with all the wallow of thick muckmaking suction noises and the teams in relayssearching nightly with baited hounds, do you pull free?Your bamboo pole knows every ploybut is a slender craft ill-equippedto sparring blows from every quarter,the undergrowth necessitates.The closeness of the clammy nightheaved about like so much rotting fruit will drawthe ants . . . devouring like that abundance of cold, yellow eyes--the firefly swarms that mock your heavy steel machete arm.Across the drift of darknessand the insect lifeyou bat in swarms,the ultimate danger is not in the cayman giantor his reptilian cousin named of copper wire,the Anaconda; or even mindless holes, thick blackooze that throttles a victim . . . but the two legged form coming,searching . . . a spectre on hind quarters with a bolo knife steppingfree of that beaded circle, the inner camp.[41]

How do you survivein the mangrove swamps--amid the twitchings of fetid water& water lice thick as baby tears?How, with all the wallow of thick muckmaking suction noises and the teams in relayssearching nightly with baited hounds, do you pull free?Your bamboo pole knows every ploybut is a slender craft ill-equippedto sparring blows from every quarter,the undergrowth necessitates.The closeness of the clammy nightheaved about like so much rotting fruit will drawthe ants . . . devouring like that abundance of cold, yellow eyes--the firefly swarms that mock your heavy steel machete arm.Across the drift of darknessand the insect lifeyou bat in swarms,the ultimate danger is not in the cayman giantor his reptilian cousin named of copper wire,the Anaconda; or even mindless holes, thick blackooze that throttles a victim . . . but the two legged form coming,searching . . . a spectre on hind quarters with a bolo knife steppingfree of that beaded circle, the inner camp.[41]

PONDICHERRYChess pieces resting upon the jade mantle piecesee sampans move quietlythru warm night,rich bundles of bougainvillaea crowd market squareswhere deck chairs extendto the Persian Gulf.Leisured gentlemenfinger walking canes,hold eyelids thick as goblets,sharp tridents beside private lairs.Skin in puffy whiteness bulges underlamp's white glare, becomes copra gatheredmiles from Pondicherry, sesameoil in rotting casks.And the Indian heat, closing with certitudeakin to the trance of the snake charmer,holds his flute poised with the Bengali lancerriding a slow crop over the prostrate polo ball.[42]

Chess pieces resting upon the jade mantle piecesee sampans move quietlythru warm night,rich bundles of bougainvillaea crowd market squareswhere deck chairs extendto the Persian Gulf.Leisured gentlemenfinger walking canes,hold eyelids thick as goblets,sharp tridents beside private lairs.Skin in puffy whiteness bulges underlamp's white glare, becomes copra gatheredmiles from Pondicherry, sesameoil in rotting casks.And the Indian heat, closing with certitudeakin to the trance of the snake charmer,holds his flute poised with the Bengali lancerriding a slow crop over the prostrate polo ball.[42]

THE CLEARING THAT IS THE TREES"They know they are going to the filth of numbers and laws,to the games anyone can play, and the work without fruit."LorcaI want to go walking in troubled marsheswhere cold gray coves leave off the mindand the scent of rushes twist the windas fall covers dungeons of angry sparrows.I want to go quickly to troubled marshes,hear the squeak of brackish watersover crocks of sponge bubbles crabbingtheir surface.I desire stands of dead brushto wave in grave solemnity,whimpering little housesoff forest glades to flickerout lamps withlarge dogs poised on verandahslike stone gargoyles.I want to handle anguish as ifit were an interesting baubleplucked from the shallows,a curious snail with ritual markingsor a mauve shellfishcaught in swift eddiesas the tide goes out.I want to examine canker introspectionas a peevish child mightfaint tracings on an old stonelodged in the most forgottencorner of a graveyard;sample its wondersfingering the many indentationswith more than slight aweor hear the crashing of wavesfar off from the physical restraintof the marsh or this forgottenburial plot so near an angry sea.Then, awaken as if from a dream,rub troubled memories from my eyesbut never the brainfor on winter nights just beforeretiring as the wind stirs packetsof snow or the moon is chasedby skeletal hounds along Gretal trees,there will come the realizationanother day is thruwith another night to pilot awayfresh brush & rubblebefore emerging, at night's end,from the clearing that isthe trees.[43]

"They know they are going to the filth of numbers and laws,to the games anyone can play, and the work without fruit."LorcaI want to go walking in troubled marsheswhere cold gray coves leave off the mindand the scent of rushes twist the windas fall covers dungeons of angry sparrows.I want to go quickly to troubled marshes,hear the squeak of brackish watersover crocks of sponge bubbles crabbingtheir surface.I desire stands of dead brushto wave in grave solemnity,whimpering little housesoff forest glades to flickerout lamps withlarge dogs poised on verandahslike stone gargoyles.I want to handle anguish as ifit were an interesting baubleplucked from the shallows,a curious snail with ritual markingsor a mauve shellfishcaught in swift eddiesas the tide goes out.I want to examine canker introspectionas a peevish child mightfaint tracings on an old stonelodged in the most forgottencorner of a graveyard;sample its wondersfingering the many indentationswith more than slight aweor hear the crashing of wavesfar off from the physical restraintof the marsh or this forgottenburial plot so near an angry sea.Then, awaken as if from a dream,rub troubled memories from my eyesbut never the brainfor on winter nights just beforeretiring as the wind stirs packetsof snow or the moon is chasedby skeletal hounds along Gretal trees,there will come the realizationanother day is thruwith another night to pilot awayfresh brush & rubblebefore emerging, at night's end,from the clearing that isthe trees.[43]

HUMBOLDT'S CURRENTCresta roja wine--colour ofarterial blood,vena cava ofthe alcoholic soul.And seeing bottles bobin mainstreams of men's bloodto pistol whip their reddened eyes,Humboldt's current becomes a rash of drinking,a map that charts more bloody lies.The thirst that passethall human understanding,(an alternate Biblical rendering)certainly body heat surpassesVulcan's bellowsadding new faces to Delirium Tremens.[44]

Cresta roja wine--colour ofarterial blood,vena cava ofthe alcoholic soul.And seeing bottles bobin mainstreams of men's bloodto pistol whip their reddened eyes,Humboldt's current becomes a rash of drinking,a map that charts more bloody lies.The thirst that passethall human understanding,(an alternate Biblical rendering)certainly body heat surpassesVulcan's bellowsadding new faces to Delirium Tremens.[44]

THE GINGHAM DREAM UTTERANCEAs I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels toalert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches fromevery bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded withemerald marks.A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silverbellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled fromrambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue dartingin an upturned fish's tail.An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eiselfish decorates a steeper, coral garden.Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocenceof this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit sliversof rich eggs.After a fashion, onyx enamours pearl and pearl ivory as cays andatolls are swept to the wiggle of sun's dance on white sand. Eel-likeislands are only pomegranates undigested by the moon.The amber breath of growing leaves is rich dark coffee stolen as ina smile.Almond drink is refreshing as the tips of cloven hooves to the driedearth.One might hesitate to watch firm nipples being given as broaches toa king but the sandpiper is a river barge commanding slow access tothe next water.Near barely lit lamps alongside make-shift beds, a woman with oliveskin prepares her toilet.Hatchet brown birds beseech her with brittle songs stolen fromone wing.A cathedral bowl lies overturned in the warm twilight of loverskneeling before the growing strength of day.Stone stars are flattened by the glare of sun and shell encrustedbeaches bear a passing resemblance to chalices strung around anavuncular stretch of land.Perhaps in the hunted meadow near red spined caterpillars feedingnear the larvae of the elephant hawkmoth, a cistern will open theearth and drink as a thirsty spoon.[45]

As I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels toalert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches fromevery bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded withemerald marks.A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silverbellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled fromrambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue dartingin an upturned fish's tail.An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eiselfish decorates a steeper, coral garden.Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocenceof this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit sliversof rich eggs.After a fashion, onyx enamours pearl and pearl ivory as cays andatolls are swept to the wiggle of sun's dance on white sand. Eel-likeislands are only pomegranates undigested by the moon.The amber breath of growing leaves is rich dark coffee stolen as ina smile.Almond drink is refreshing as the tips of cloven hooves to the driedearth.One might hesitate to watch firm nipples being given as broaches toa king but the sandpiper is a river barge commanding slow access tothe next water.Near barely lit lamps alongside make-shift beds, a woman with oliveskin prepares her toilet.Hatchet brown birds beseech her with brittle songs stolen fromone wing.A cathedral bowl lies overturned in the warm twilight of loverskneeling before the growing strength of day.Stone stars are flattened by the glare of sun and shell encrustedbeaches bear a passing resemblance to chalices strung around anavuncular stretch of land.Perhaps in the hunted meadow near red spined caterpillars feedingnear the larvae of the elephant hawkmoth, a cistern will open theearth and drink as a thirsty spoon.[45]

JUNIPER TREESSitting as Buddha on a chocolate juniper--the theme of madnessthirty cinnamon centresOphelia squares;Brunelleschi floating down a fallen riveron nougats, perhaps onyx pears.The sleek eyes of a cat stare floodlit topaz,ocelot rings round her burning mask.And sipping dry wineBeaujolais, decantered Anjouwith iron doors not Ghiberti's fashioning but sweet meadows wavingfresh, summer grass.And I at the garnet Buddha box--a cold winter day pledging choicespale, juniper treethe carnival log egging up thick cordial;the inlaid satin box hovering about silent, apple wedgea child's fantasy, orgeat or bordeaux,lactose fudge, bon appétitsyrupy taste of Burgundy cherry.The axe ring of squirting tissuewith drone of passing feetup finger stairsuntil the rustle of clothcrosses the turquoise box,clamours almond clustersinto the courtyard cafe.[46]

Sitting as Buddha on a chocolate juniper--the theme of madnessthirty cinnamon centresOphelia squares;Brunelleschi floating down a fallen riveron nougats, perhaps onyx pears.The sleek eyes of a cat stare floodlit topaz,ocelot rings round her burning mask.And sipping dry wineBeaujolais, decantered Anjouwith iron doors not Ghiberti's fashioning but sweet meadows wavingfresh, summer grass.And I at the garnet Buddha box--a cold winter day pledging choicespale, juniper treethe carnival log egging up thick cordial;the inlaid satin box hovering about silent, apple wedgea child's fantasy, orgeat or bordeaux,lactose fudge, bon appétitsyrupy taste of Burgundy cherry.The axe ring of squirting tissuewith drone of passing feetup finger stairsuntil the rustle of clothcrosses the turquoise box,clamours almond clustersinto the courtyard cafe.[46]

DISTEMPERLooking into the glassy crucifix of water.slits of rock form stigmata across creviced limestone--green pools with an occasional fish passingair bubbles to the topthe eerie night crumbling under shafts of starlightwith the smell of hemlock pods & cedar bringingnard and precious stone withincrowns of natural thorn--this body of muskeg pressed ontoaromatic herbs then borne awayalong the road to a wooded Calvary andthe sense of Christin that light at dawn.[47]

Looking into the glassy crucifix of water.slits of rock form stigmata across creviced limestone--green pools with an occasional fish passingair bubbles to the topthe eerie night crumbling under shafts of starlightwith the smell of hemlock pods & cedar bringingnard and precious stone withincrowns of natural thorn--this body of muskeg pressed ontoaromatic herbs then borne awayalong the road to a wooded Calvary andthe sense of Christin that light at dawn.[47]

NIGHT WINDSThey made us sit alphabetically in rows.Green oranges are sprayed systematicallyin volcanic soil near pummelled surf.One stood to answer questions,was called after the surname,requested permission for trivials.Outrigger canoes with barnacles in tow splashmenacingly near coral reefs. Under a lazy orange-ripplemoon halfing itself between stages of growth,night winds taunt puffish clouds.[48]

They made us sit alphabetically in rows.Green oranges are sprayed systematicallyin volcanic soil near pummelled surf.One stood to answer questions,was called after the surname,requested permission for trivials.Outrigger canoes with barnacles in tow splashmenacingly near coral reefs. Under a lazy orange-ripplemoon halfing itself between stages of growth,night winds taunt puffish clouds.[48]

AMHERST ISLANDIn winter, you werea flash of light,tundra againstArctic floorWarm breathstirred yrsummer's breastand I sawwindblown hairthe colour of kelptransfixthe lavender printof a scalp strewnshoreLater,tiny bitsfroma calico dressbecame domiciled wingsoff butterflies,miniature bitternsever more shadowystrewn across the Barrens,an unbridled strength from thatFaraway isle released to orchestrate sunlightamongst all colonies that flower--a statuesque Red Admiral,Banded Purple,feckless Commaall aswirl to thepipes of a Devil's Paintbrush,stranded drumfish, sage,and tubercular ragwort[49]

In winter, you werea flash of light,tundra againstArctic floorWarm breathstirred yrsummer's breastand I sawwindblown hairthe colour of kelptransfixthe lavender printof a scalp strewnshoreLater,tiny bitsfroma calico dressbecame domiciled wingsoff butterflies,miniature bitternsever more shadowystrewn across the Barrens,an unbridled strength from thatFaraway isle released to orchestrate sunlightamongst all colonies that flower--a statuesque Red Admiral,Banded Purple,feckless Commaall aswirl to thepipes of a Devil's Paintbrush,stranded drumfish, sage,and tubercular ragwort[49]

ANCIENT OF DAYSIt's Epsom but could pass for Epping,New Forest or Dumbarton Wood.There's ivy of the thickestEnglish sort not commonlyfound in America; sprigsgrowing across open groundmantling it.Shiny to the eye, soft encirclingthe touch, I am reminded of blue waters,green grass Blake's Ancient of Days:an old man's beard stepping from the trees,Spanish Moss so unearthly it covers asouthern forest.There are tendrils in herbal potions of unbroken lips that moveacross both dew and clover.I see Druids reciting psalms, weaving ivy along garlandsof oak, the incantation set before a British lake--briar baskets carrying the trusting dead;food offerings transversing the waters.The ivy calls to mind all these things,just a sprig held tightly yet aromatic beyond imagining,my timorous English settlers seen thru a spate of leavesclutching their holly on Roanoke island.[50]

It's Epsom but could pass for Epping,New Forest or Dumbarton Wood.There's ivy of the thickestEnglish sort not commonlyfound in America; sprigsgrowing across open groundmantling it.Shiny to the eye, soft encirclingthe touch, I am reminded of blue waters,green grass Blake's Ancient of Days:an old man's beard stepping from the trees,Spanish Moss so unearthly it covers asouthern forest.There are tendrils in herbal potions of unbroken lips that moveacross both dew and clover.I see Druids reciting psalms, weaving ivy along garlandsof oak, the incantation set before a British lake--briar baskets carrying the trusting dead;food offerings transversing the waters.The ivy calls to mind all these things,just a sprig held tightly yet aromatic beyond imagining,my timorous English settlers seen thru a spate of leavesclutching their holly on Roanoke island.[50]

Constantly DeliberationForeword Page[51]

The Drunken BoatForeword Page[52]

BiographyPrevious titles by Paul Cameron Brown include fiction, poetry,chapbooks, illustrations and broadsheets by a number of Canadianand American presses.". . . A master at evoking mood and atmosphere" The LondonFree Press". . . Beguiling writing indeed" The Canadian Author and BookmanThe End

Previous titles by Paul Cameron Brown include fiction, poetry,chapbooks, illustrations and broadsheets by a number of Canadianand American presses.". . . A master at evoking mood and atmosphere" The LondonFree Press". . . Beguiling writing indeed" The Canadian Author and BookmanThe End

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