I think I believe that great evils are only committed by those who believe adamantly and firmly in the inevitability of their own particular, individual reality.
A quote from my favourite short story writer, Jorge Luis Borges:
“Whosoever would undertake some atrocious enterprise should act as if it were already accomplished, should impose upon himself a future as irrevocable as the past.”
- “The Garden of Forking Paths,” from Ficciones
1 year agoI like Channel Five,
its pleasant glow, engaging at daytime—quick, vivid, bright—
and a warm immersion of soothing semi-inspiration at night.
I turn sometimes to Channel Six, mostly in late evening,
but it’s all image, no words, silent picture, one dimension.
Channel Four and Nine? Seven and Two?
Boring. I ignore them, flip past,
not beholden as so many.
No: I like Channel Five.
On Channel Five I watch and listen closely, follow each
word carefully,
almost obsessively,
to find the hidden gems, those things I look for when I watch the TV box.
I call it meaning.
Sometimes when I listen—and I mean really listen—
they seem to say “Turn to Channel Three,” which is interesting,
because that isn’t their channel. It’s someone else’s.
Once I gave in and turned to Channel Three,
noticed immediately it required far too much.
Channel Three has a big red sign in the right corner,
bright white it says “Pay attention,” and the homeless speak,
the boring and stupid chatter, the lonely regale.
One show was a woman crying. Red eyes, puckered cheeks and sobs.
“Pay attention.” I watched her heaving shoulders and thought,
“She looks familiar. I may have passed her today,”
and I turned back to Channel Five.
I sit like God sits, here in myself (deep in
my self)—sit as God sits in sadness, sits in
anger, fear and pain, a great mass of feeling,
in the oh-so-big. And I wade through
the oh-so-big: we swim together, me and him,
and he holds my hand when I drown, though
I notice only drowning, not his hands.
It’s funny, that. Real funny. And these funny
moments buzz like bumble bees, when I can only
laugh at that former burden borne, and the
oh-so-big seems oh-so-small; and then
I praise him, praise him for the no-problems,
the silly me, forget myself (my self) and
no longer sit but run-run like God runs.
The India sky is dark you see (I know,
I’ve been)—dark when clouds rush over,
solar lamps a-blinking, flicking on, one
by one; and when the rains (oh Lord,
the rains!)—when they come, they come
a-bursting, liquid diamonds, large and
bright as eyes in winking moonlight.
And Romance is the India Sky, the promise
of tremendous beauty, tremulous glory;
and when it falls it fills the ground which
drinks it up like living waters (is it water?);
and me?—I drink it up like water too, giggle
and take out my bucket, let it fill up to the brim.
And I don’t see, for the India sky is very dark.
In the morning, on the couch with a cup of coffee and a book: all is right with the world.
Could I ask for any more?
2 years agoJonathan Wright is now, officially, a money maker.
That’s right friends, Mssr Wright has crossed over from the obscure poverty that is the starving artist to the gastronomical (yes, gastronomical) enormity that is being a paid writer. He dared the trek and indeed did make it to the end—and with $400 dollars to boot! The cheque is in the mail, winging its way over from the land of snow and bugs (Winnipeg) to grace his humble mailbox in all its shining glory.
Imagine it, folks. Me!—paid to write!
I’m going to buy myself a jet-plane!
2 years agoI received an e-mail two days ago from Geez Magazine saying that I was being “seriously considered for publication” in their upcoming Spring issue. Having just been rejected from another “serious consideration” for one of my poems, this came as both welcome and awesome news.
The theme for the issue is the “Daringly Awkward Sermon” and mine was about an experience I had in downtown Vancouver a few years ago (see “holy” below, or comment at the bottom for me to send you the full article).
Anyhow, they said that they would post the nominees for the cash prizes on their blog (http://geezblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/17/nominees-for-awkward-sermon-contest/#more-77) sometime on Thursday (i.e. yesterday), and since there were going to be 30 published sermons and only three winners, I knew that the nominees would definitely be published.
So I waited until Thursday morning and checked the blog. Nothing. Checked again a half hour later. Nothing. Checked again fifteen minutes after that, all the while steaming at the ears, boiling over with a terrible, righteous impatience. Still nothing.
I was forced to go to work, one hand longingly trailing behind me toward my keyboard as I left my room and dragged myself out the front door.
I got home at around 10:00PM and they still hadn’t posted. I was in a fury! They said “Thursday”! They are based in Winnapeg, so by 10PM our time, it was FRIDAY! “Who do they think they are?!” I shouted to the heavens, both fists shaking, body quaking, tears rolling down my face and onto my heaving chest. (Ed. Some hyperbole added here.)
As you can see, I survived until the next morning. I had to drive my sister to school, so I got up early, at 7:00, and checked, supposing that they would make up for their terrible mistake with an early post. Alas, they did not.
I got home after dropping off my sister. I had a coffee. I did my “business.” I checked again. There it was. They posted it. My heart was now beating wildly. I decided to do the whole thing like in a poker game, a slow turn of each card (or nominee in this case, reading each one, scrolling down with infinite patience).
First was a woman named Leslie Barnwell. Not me. Next, Chris Hoke. Still not me.
My heart’s going faster now. I might explode.
Next, Brenda Melles. It is with a sense of glee that I realize the alphabetical order. If I was chosen at all, I would be the last.
At last, it came. Slow scroll past a Schreiber and a Smith and there I was: Jonathan Wright from West Vancouver, BC with his sermon “Holy.”
“Hells ya,” I said, for irony.
If you are my friend, you will buy this issue.
Cheers all,
Jon
2 years agoJessie went, out and up,
up and out, beyond herself,
among the lilies, branches,
twigs, scattered all across the ground;
and so she sat and sat and sat
and as she sat, her God, He spoke,
but similarly as He had before.
Still she listened—listened close—and
heard what He had to say;
but when He closed His little speech,
she gathered up, hands beside,
and lifted till she stood up high.
She brushed her skirt, she smoothed her hair,
and spoke her words unto the air,
saying thus:
Oh God, she said,
oh God be not.
Please say, oh God, that You are not,
or You are more—
that’s OK too—
more than I can understand,
more than me, my nighttime voice,
a solemn whisper in the dark
that beats me bloody without mercy,
strangles sound, holds silence close;
but instead be quiet light,
quiet light or morning peace
or speckled stars so far beyond,
against response, all weight, all burden-bringing
angry judgement, condescending
fear that haunts me as a ghost,
void of meaning or too full,
a demon of a stainèd past.
This she said, and she was silent.
Would He reply to such rude words?
rife with scorn and indignation?
So, to close—though we don’t know—
I will surmise she felt a touch,
a something different, different something,
Godly dirt, angel dust,
holy pollen in the air?
For she sneezed, and sneezed again,
and lo! she heard a whispered sound
that spoke her name in different tones and
“Bless you” said the Godly voice,
and she wiped her nose.
I have just finished a new story, titled “Norphel,” which is set in a region of Northern India called Ladakh, high up in the Himalayas (the place where all my Joybells children came from). I won’t tell you what it’s about, but I will say that I have never spent so long on a short story—which could mean it’s either excellent or awful (or neither, I suppose). You’ll have to find out for yourself.
Anyway, I have decided that the internet (including blogdom) is not a very good venue for story reading, so if you want a copy of my story, write a comment at the bottom of this message (including your e-mail), and I’ll send it right over.
Cheers!
Jon
I’m on a bus. The electric poles sticking out of the top scrape along in their efficient way, but I don’t notice them—the earbuds in my ears drown out sound effectively. My eyes are open though: a man, older than his age prescribes, stumbles onto the bus, probably drunk or high. Row upon row of advertisements stare down upon me like amateur demons, failures at temptation. A woman with a little girl huddled close on her lap strokes her daughter’s long brown hair. Men and women in various states of health, wealth and disrepair gather together for a brief moment of their lives to journey, each to their own separate destination signified with the individual’s pull on the yellow cord. Personally: I just want to get home.
—-
This story will be published in the Spring edition of Geez Magazine (http://www.geezmagazine.org/), so I’m taking most of it down in copyright fear (haha). They should have the article up on their website sometime soon.
Jon
2 years ago