It Was Hard Not to Cry a Little

           

            On Sunday I packed up my guitar, printed up a few things that Paul Valliere had emailed me, and headed for the Native Canadian Centre on Spadina, north of Bloor. I hadn’t been there for thirty years. I used to go back in the 80s because my girlfriend at the time, Whitefeather, often went there to see social workers or to hang out when she wasn’t drinking. On a few occasions I participated in ceremonies there, such as dancing in a circle to the drum. I remember attending an AA meeting once in which a Native guy was doing a testimonial and telling us about the humorous way his parents used to argue. His father would say to his mother, “The only way you ever got me was because you used Indian magic on me!” to which she would reply, “The only Indian magic I ever used on you was between my legs!” When they’re not making bad puns, the humour native people tend to prefer is pretty risqué.

            When I arrived, Paul’s daughter Alison was there, setting up a table. I was introduced to three of Paul’s pre-adoption brothers of the Valyear family. They confirmed for me my thought that Vayear must be an Anglicization of Valliere. Valliere probably should also have an accent grave to make it Vallière.

            I found a seat on the right side of the centre aisle at the front and started tuning my guitar. Kathleen Zinck came, as well as Ursula and Cad Gold Jr. Paul’s daughter Rosalind arrived with her daughter, Otayo. She seemed pretty sad for obvious reasons, but she held herself together for the most part to officiate over the event. She introduced me to her Native elder at York, Philip Cote, who told me, “You look familiar! Have you ever posed for art classes?” It turns out that he drew me at OCADU when he was a student in the 80s and then when he returned to finish his degree in the 90s. I said to Rosalind, “He’s seen me naked, and you haven’t!” She said, “My father just entered the room!”

            As the event began Rosalind introduced Philip, who started things off with a Lakota Cree prayer and then did a smudge ceremony with a braided rope of bundled herbs. I could definitely smell sage and it had a pleasant aroma. He walked around with it and waved it around everyone’s heads and chests. The idea is that the smoke connects everyone in the room so they will be on the same psychological and emotional page for the event. Philip said beforehand that if anyone didn’t want to be smudged they didn’t have to be. I was pretty sure I knew one person that would refuse, and sure enough, Cad waved Philip away. Cad was the only one in the room that didn’t want to be connected.

            Rosalind did a tearful tribute to her father while reading some of his poetry and excerpts from his Maritime road diary written this past summer.

            Next, Paul’s daughter Alison came to the microphone. She had two pieces she had wanted to do, but couldn’t hold herself together to read the first, so her mother read it for her. Then with both Rosalind and her mother holding her on either side, Alison read in a wavering voice a poem she’d written for her dad. I think the whole audience was probably crying at that point.

            Then Paul’s son Daniel got up and talked about how his father had helped him get started in the chimney business and how he was always there for him. He was weeping before he was done as well.

            Rosalind then called up Paul’s poetry mentor and friend, Jack Livesley, who was the only one that didn’t tear up but nonetheless gave a heartfelt tribute. He said that they had a running joke between them in which Paul would say, “When I grow up I wanna be like you!” and to which Jack would reply, “I haven’t grown up yet because I want to be like you!”

            Paul’s ex-girlfriend, Vickie, who had met back in the 90s, also gave a tribute. Although they had not been lovers for years, they had still remained friends.

            Rosalind’s daughter, a gorgeous child of about six, was lifted twice during the evening to the microphone because she wanted to sing a song about world peace in a language that I didn’t recognize, but it might have been in a Native tongue.

            Rosalind said that there would be a chance for more people to get up and read something, but first they would eat. She said that, in the Native tradition, elders are served by younger people, so she suggested that those under fifty should bring a plate of food to someone that is over fifty before they get a plate for themselves. A young woman that was there with Paul’s neighbour, Dave, offered to serve me, but I told her I had to go to the washroom first. When I came back though, no one offered, so I went to the unattended beverage table and drank some cranberry juice. Maybe it was a compliment that no one else offered to serve me. Perhaps I don’t look like I’m over fifty. Cad and I spoke to Paul’s friends, Star Spider and her husband, Ben Badger. Star is probably in her thirties and dresses with a flamboyant Punk aesthetic. Her running shoes, for example, had multiple wings coming out from the ankles. We tried a drink with conifer leaves floating in it and it tasted like something one would spread on an infection. Cad liked the way Ben was dressed, but Star said she was responsible for his couture.

            After the meal, we sat down for the open stage portion of the event. Kathleen Zinck read a poem for Paul, as did Star Spider. Star’s poem, “The Last Dreamer”, included the lines “a future so green your appendix is rediscovered, and the verdant taste of chlorophyll traces a winding garden path through the dark corners of your mind … “I feel safer knowing you’re out there,” you once told me, and I said I felt the same about you. I mean it still …”

            A few other people read things of Paul’s.

            I was the last person up on the open stage. I performed my song “The Next State of Grace”, and though I screwed up the chords coming out of the instrumental, the group seemed to find it moving.

“Well I’m sitting here cooking in the stew of the street,

I’m the part that won’t ever get stirred

And as I am boiling I drink my own broth

And bend noodles to the shape of these words

Oh when oh when will I ever learn?

I can’t get to heaven with wheels that don’t turn

I’ve got no ambition and that’s a disgrace

Guess I’ll sit here and wait for the next state of grace.

Well I’m dug down so deep in the trench of my heart

I can’t seem to climb back out again

And my voice is so distant it can hardly be heard

By the women who pass in the rain

Oh when oh when will I ever learn?

I can’t drive a girl home with wheels that don’t turn

I’m buried with pride when I try to save face

Guess I’ll sit here and wait for the next state of grace.

And my mind hangs above this emotional wreck

Like a scavenger looking for parts

And it lives in a mansion that’s built from the sweat

Of my tar paper third world heart

Oh when oh when will I ever learn

I’ll freeze here on Earth with a heart that can’t burn

So I’m biding my time here as fate’s welfare case

While I line up and wait for the next state of grace.”

            I finished with a poem that Paul had sent me by email. It wasn’t one of his own but it was one by Peter Handke that he said deeply moved him and I recognized it as the opening monologue from the Wim Wenders film, “Wings of Desire”, which I told them is one of my top five films of all time. I caught myself tearing up from time to time while I was reading it:

“When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging.
It wanted the stream to be a river
the river a torrent
and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child
It didn't know it was a child.
Everything was full of life, and all life was one.

When the child was a child
It had no opinions about anything.
It had no habits.
It sat cross-legged, took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair
and didn't make a face when photographed.

When the child was a child
it was the time of these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Isn't life under the sun just a dream?
Isn't what I see, hear and smell
only the illusion of a world before the world?
Does evil actually exist,
and are there people who are really evil?
How can it be that I, who am I,
didn't exist before I came to be
and that someday
the one who I am
will no longer be the one I am?

When the child was a child
it choked on spinach, peas, rice pudding
and on steamed cauliflower.
Now it eats all of those
and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child
it once woke up in a strange bed
and now it does so time and time again.
Many people seemed beautiful then
and now only a few, if it's lucky.
It had a precise picture of Paradise
and now it can only guess at it.
It could not conceive of nothingness
and today it shudders at the idea.

When the child was a child
it played with enthusiasm
and now
it gets equally excited
but only when it concerns
its work.

When the child was a child
berries fell into its hand as only berries do
and they still do now.
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw
and they still do now.
On every mountaintop it had a longing
for yet a higher mountain.
And in each city it had a longing
for yet a bigger city.
And it is still that way.
It reached for the cherries in the treetop
with the elation it still feels today.
It was shy with all strangers
and it still is.
It awaited the first snow
and it still waits that way.

When the child was a child
it threw a stick into a tree like a lance,
and it still quivers there today.”

            Before closing things down though, a couple of Paul’s nephews came up to the mic. One of them, who had a black eye that he said he’d got recently from being punched by about eight guys, read an email that he’d received recently from Paul. The other, a headbanger with long wavy blond hair and a short beard, said something about Paul being the most awesome uncle a guy could have.

            Kathleen told me that some of them were going for a drink and asked if I’d like to join them. I invited Cad as well, so Kathleen, Vickie (Paul’s ex girlfriend), Ursula, Jack Cad and myself all went looking for a pub. I realized while unlocking my bike, that I’d forgotten my gloves, so I caught up with them and asked what pub they were going to. They decided on the Madison, which was pretty much next door, so I said I’d meet them there. I couldn’t find the entrance on Spadina so I rode around the block to Madison Avenue and went in. I looked through every one of the many rooms on both floors, but couldn’t find them. I was starting to think they’d ditched me when I went back into a room I’d checked before and they were just arriving. Ursula explained that it’s very slow walking with an elderly man that uses a cane. 

            I had a pint of Tankhouse, Cad had a glass of ice water and everyone else shared a bottle of wine. We discussed Paul’s last days and the health complaints he’d been experiencing, such as stomach pains and panic attacks. All I knew was that he told me in a hoarse voice on the Tuesday before he died that he wasn’t feeling well. His mind had been as sharp as ever and he seemed glad that I called and was looking forward to our next get together. Ursula and Vickie said that if his doctor had read the symptoms properly he would have sent him to the hospital and he might still be alive. There are really only a couple of natural things that could cause someone to suddenly die in their chair. It would have to have been either a heart attack or an aneurysm.

            Vickie told me about the couple of times that Paul had taken her to my reading series. She said it wasn’t her thing because everyone at the Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy looked so depressed. I remember that Jack had come as well a couple of times. I don’t think that Paul knew Ursula or Kathleen back then.

            Cad was sitting a couple of table lengths away from us because the only available seats were stools, which weren’t as comfortable as the seat at the edge of a booth that he’d taken. Ursula started trying to direct people to all move their things and slide over to make room for Cad. I suggested that maybe she should first ask Cad if he wants to move before she got everyone else to move. After Jack, Vickie and Kathleen had all moved their coats and things and slid over, Cad reluctantly moved to the far end of our group, next to Kathleen. I laughed and commented that after all that effort and trouble, Cad was only one meter closer than he had been in the first place. Cad agreed that it wasn’t much closer and Ursula did not feel that her crowd control skills for the sake of unity were much appreciated.

            I also clashed a bit with Ursula on the subject of the police. She declared that there are some good cops while I interjected that her assertion was absolutely false. I said that it’s in police DNA to be an asshole. She said that her grandfather had been a policeman and he was a wonderful man. I said that good actions are meaningless and that even when police officers don’t commit atrocities themselves, every one of them will justify or dismiss the actions of the others. I’ve never heard a single cop, for example, stand up and argue that handcuffing fourteen-year-old children is wrong. They will go to whatever lengths that are allowed to them, plus a little more, to protect the property of the rich.

            Ursula left before the rest of us. I think she was going to the ceremony to commemorate the Montreal Polytechnique massacre at Philosophers Walk.

            Vickie said goodbye at the corner of Madison and Bloor, then walked back to St George to make her way back to Pickering.

            Kathleen lingered at Spadina and Bloor to see Jack onto the shuttle bus.

            Cad and I walked to Christie where he realized that he couldn’t continue to Ossington to catch his bus because the subway station wasn’t open. He said that he would head back to Bathurst but first he was going to rest. As I got on my bike he told me “I’m gonna sit on this bench and talk to Paul.”