On the evening of Tuesday, May 29th,
I had a pleasantly warm ride along College to the Church of St Stephen in
fields. What fields? Were they the magnetic fields? What was St Stephen doing
in the fields? I’d thought it had something to do with St Stephen doing the old
evangelical mind-fuck on farm workers, but apparently they call churches “in
the fields” because of their location when they are built. In this case it was
literally built in a field, which at that time in 1857, stretched all the way
to University College. Imagine that! That must mean that all of those computer
stores at College and Spadina were also in the same field at the same time,
along with the 7-11 on the corner. So why isn’t it called “The 7-11 in the
Fields”?
After
entering the church I talked with Laboni about the land acknowledgement that
she recites before Shab-e She’r begins. In it she mentions the meaning of the
name “Toronto”, but only gives one, even though scholars don’t all agree that
it comes from “Tkaronto”, meaning “the place where trees stand in the water”.
Of the ones that think Toronto comes from “Tkaronto”, not all of them agree
that what is now the city of Toronto is the original place where the trees
stood in the water but rather a settlement further north of here, which later
moved south and kept the name. Laboni said she’d look into it and thanked me
for my feedback. Sometimes though when people thank me for my feedback it
really means “leave me alone”.
Jeannine Pitas was
sitting in the front row with Bänoo Zan. Jeannine used to be a Shab-e She’r volunteer but then a few
years ago she moved to Iowa for work and so she only gets up here about once a
year. Bänoo got up and gave me
something slightly more substantial than an air hug. Jeannine told me that
she’d be the photographer for the night and wondered if it would be okay to
take my picture. I told her head on would be best because profile accentuates
my fat belly too much. She commented that I write funny captions for the photos
and cited the one she’d taken of Sydney White and I chatting. Sydney had maid
the claim that Lady Diana had been pregnant at the time of her death but that
the Rothschild banking family control the British government and the royal
family through the banks and they would not allow the world to find out that the
future king’s ex-wife was going to have a “Muslim baby”. Jeannine was surprised
that I had actually been quoting parts of our conversation. She’d thought that
I’d made it up. I told her that the part that I’d made up was my response,
which I’d only thought of later, and that was, “Gee, I didn’t know that babies
were religious!”
Bänoo went to the mic and
announced that if anyone wants to sign up for the open stage we should give her
our names. I asked, “If I give you my name, what am I going to use?” She answered,
“You can use mine.”
Tom Hamilton was in
the sacristy playing Shenandoah or some Scottish air on his violin and then he
moved on to even sleepier and sadder pieces. This was the first time I’d ever
seen him at Shab-e She’r, but it made sense because I’ve seen him everywhere
else.
Tom Smarda arrived
and instead of greeting me he tried to hand me a pamphlet about an online
petition to shut down the Pickering Nuclear power plant. I told him that I
wouldn’t be signing it.
We started at 19:08
with the land acknowledgement. It might have been a coincidence unrelated to my
earlier conversation with Laboni but she stumbled over her mentions of Toronto
and Tkaronto.
Bänoo said this was the 63rd
event since Shab-e She’r started in November of 2012. She repeated that the
goal is to bring together diverse communities because otherwise people in each
of those communities will run their own events and the groups will remain
separate.
There were several
former features in the audience and Bänoo asked them all to raise their hands, saying of one of them, “We
have a legend in the house: Lillian Allen!”
Bänoo gave a special
introduction for Jeannine Pitas to kick off the open mic, telling us how
Jeannine used to volunteer for Shab-e She’r but had to leave Canada to work. Bänoo urged Canadian employers
to not let people like Jeannine slip away from our country.
Jeannine’s poem was
called “Macondo” after the fictional village of Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s novel, “One Hundred Years of Solitude”- “Once
a village lost its memory … The people hung two signs to remind themselves of
the facts … They tried to take photographs of god … Priests walked across the
sky … Sometimes a war broke out … Sometimes a man faced a firing squad and
survived … I imagine them rising each morning … I am trying to work as they did
… I am trying not to be surprised when a child becomes a feather … before I
lose both name and face.”
Nordine
Storm said, “Boom boom boom … A quickie … Blue in the hips … Blue in the lips …
Techno funk to save our nation … She governs how we address others … Boom boom
boom.”
Yavar
Qadri read – “Flames of the … burning leaves … in the breezy gardens … each
pile tended by one … promptly put in the pot …”
Yavar’s
second poem was “In the Warmth” – “Warmth is such a simple thing … It’s
something he can share with whomsoever he wished … Small moments of happiness …
ready to smother pain … Complete the happiness chain.”
Lee
Papart read “Clothes Line June 1982” – “Mom stood next to the silo … A
thoughtless wind blew her dress above her knees …”
From Norman Allan – “She played with the devil’s pudding … No closure.”
From Norman Allan – “She played with the devil’s pudding … No closure.”
I got
up and announced that my poem was called “Aging in Your Direction”. Tom asked
me to repeat it and then said he’d thought I’d said something about an erection.
I told him, “That’s in there too!”
From my poem- “Innocence as
sin / when this interesting / is a non
Participation / in clumsiness /
far inside / where it rests / and can exist / in devastation / where we’re
surrounded / by a nature / that constricts us / like a python / made of coiled
/ religious scripture / on top of the smoke chain / of Ba-bye-lon / and you
remind me / of gravity / because I am aging / in your direction / Let’s go for
broke / and be binary” I looked over at Tom to deliver the line “so I can die /
with an erection / and you can fill me / with a p-o-u-r excuse / for the
emptiness / of the hang woman’s noose”.
My
piece seemed to go over well.
Bänoo announced that the next
performer had come all the way from Newfoundland. She said, “Please welcome
Wendi!” I thought to myself, “Wendi? I know a Wendi from Newfoundland! Could it
be Wendi Smallwood?”
It
was Wendi Smallwood! From Wendi’s poem – “My mother cleaned the toilet with
Pinesol … resin thick … disinfecting … rubber gloved … pouring it undehydrated
… cushioning … nostrils flared … fingers smudging spit … hand dipping, swirling
… toboggan … body rigid … elbow bent back … flushed.”
It
was time for the first feature, Gianna Patriarca, but in introducing her Bänoo began reading the bio for
the second feature Thunderclaw Robinson. She’d gotten the bios mixed up because
Thunderclaw had originally been scheduled to go first but Gianna had decided
that because of her age she might not have as much energy if she went up later,
so they switched.
Gianna
said, “This is the first time I’ve ever been on an altar! Jesus!” She meant
that in the Catholicism in which she was raised one would not use the altar as
a stage. St Stephen in the Fields though is an Anglican church.
Gianna
told us, “I want to do spoken word, that stuff that they do, but I’m old! I’m
going to try because John Dryden said that writers should both enlighten and
entertain.”
Gianna
recited “Returning” from memory – “In the 60s we came in swarms / like summer
bees /smelling of something strange / wearing the last moist kiss /of our own
sky … I was one of them / tucked away below the sea line / on the bottom floor
of a ship / that swelled and ached / for thirteen days / our bellies emptied
into the Atlantic / until the ship finally vomited / on the shores of Halifax /
there where the arms and legs / of my doll fell apart into the sea / finding
their way back over the waves …” When she finished she commented, “Not so good,
eh?” There was loud applause.
“I’ll
stick to reading!” Gianna recounted how when she was a schoolteacher she once
asked her students, “What is a poet?” One boy called out, “I know! It’s someone
who can’t write sentences!”
Her
next poem was “For Grandma, in Bed, Waiting”- “Your arms are the wrong colour …
Pain … never smiles … Your face contradicts everything … How could 91 years not
have bruised … You have come to the end of your journey … There’s something
between us … I come, I sit by your bed … I am in awe ... You take me to your
century.”
Gianna
told us that she wrote book years ago called “Daughters for Sale”. Her
six-year-old daughter at the time asked, “Mommy, are you selling me?”
From
“Loreta, la calda” - “They won't talk about sex / They talk about everything
else ... It embarrasses them / as if their children / were all announcements by
Gabriel … I had my legs wide open / as well as my eyes ... I was so
beautiful...” Gianna finished that last sentence in Italian and then continued,
“You think I'm vulgar ... Only death is vulgar.”
I
remembered this poem from many years ago when Gianna featured for The Art Bar
reading series when it was at The Imperial Pub and I also recalled the English
translation for the Italian line. I was about to shout out a request for her to
give the translation when she gave it, “I was so beautiful he didn't know where
to stick it”.
From
“Two Fat Girls” - “In the 1970s / we walked St Clair Avenue / from Dufferin to
Lansdowne … as if we owned it … and that one treasured café / where we spent
our street life / sipping cappuccino before they were cool … we walked the
Avenue in our three-inch heels / like models on a runway / with our skirts
split at the back … You with the perfect breasts and me the tall one … ‘Hey
Susie baby, sleep with me tonight!’ … They could only have us with their eyes.”
Gianna
shared with us that she taught elementary school for thirty years and “I
survived the little buggers! Teaching children gives you an identity.”
From
a poem about being a teacher – “Olivia’s mom dropped her off early again … She is
small and dark … her jacket needing a good wash … I opened the window and
called her over … Her smile is hesitant … I pray she has no allergies.”
From
“My Name is Giovanna Berta” – “I get my names / from my two uncles … One died
of the clap /the other a bullet // Grandpa / was a communist / with a dent in
his skull / from the great war … My father was … a prisoner of war / in
Sardinia / with the Americans who had food / he learned to cook their meals …
for more than a year … Mamma was sixteen / when the Germans sent her / out,
pail in hand / to fetch water … the air raids … the shrapnel has left scars … I
was born … before the evacuation … contradictions / in my blood.”
Gianna
told us that her mother, who was her biggest fan, died a few months ago. She said
she would read something about her but not too much because she would break
down.
From
“It is Time to Be Old” – “It is time … to be pushing grandchildren in park
swings … Unrealized dreams essentially necessary in the end … I will pack up the shoes … but the
photographs are still proof that everything happened.”
Gianna
shared that her mother was a widow for 35years and that her final illness
lasted ten days.
From
Gianna’s last poem – “More than any other month, January defines darkness … the
breath of January seeps in … She seems smaller today … Her mind is clearer than
this January day … Her body has turned against her … but her brain won’t
abandon her.”
The
first poem that Gianna did, the one she knew by heart was by far her strongest
poem with the images of the emigrants vomiting on the ship and being vomited by
the ship and especially the part about the doll breaking up on arrival and
floating back to Italy were extremely moving and powerful. Generally it is only
the poems drawn from her personal experience that inspire higher quality works,
such as “Two Fat Girls”. For the most part her poems that are inspired by the
experiences of other women don’t achieve much of a poetic grip, with the
exception of “Loreta la calda”, but even there she creates an awkwardness by
relegating the most interesting English line, “he didn’t know where to stick
it” to an afterword, replaced in the poem with the original Italian, which
throws the reader off.
We
took a break and I went to the washroom. On the way back I looked for Wendi
Smallwood, whom I hadn’t seen since she left for Newfoundland many years ago,
although we became friends on Facebook a few years after that. We met and came
to know each other from both working as art models at various studios and schools
around Toronto.
I saw her walking
towards me and we embraced. We chatted for a while and then she went to the
washroom. Just after she left me, Jovan approached me and told me that the poem
that I’d read was the best he’d ever heard from me though he added that they
are all good. He said he would be looking forward to hearing what I brought
next time. I told him that it would probably be one of my translations from the
French of stories by Boris Vian. Jovan said he’s not good at writing stories. I
told him that I’m a better poet than a storywriter but I’d rather read stories
than poems and so I keep writing them.
I talked with Tom
S and Tom H. Tom S asked Tom H to accompany him during his open mic spot and he
agreed. Tom S told him the chords he’d be playing but Tom H said he didn’t need
to know the chords. He declared that people are way too caught up in the
knowledge of music. I added, “They can’t see the music for the keys”.
Bänoo announced that the next
Shab-e She’r would be on June 26.
The warm-up for
the second feature was Tom Smarda, which took him by surprise because he’s
usually the last performer of the night. Tom Hamilton was onstage as well,
waiting to back him up while Tom struggled to get the two microphones in
position for his voice and guitar. Tom Hamilton said he wouldn’t be using a mic
and then he asked if Lillian Allen was still there. When Lillian came over, Tom
asked her if she remembered what Clifton Joseph used to say, “I don’t need a
mic, cause I can shout!” Oddly though, Tom imitated Clifton with a slight US
southern accent, even though Clifton Joseph is Jamaican.
Tom’s song was
complimentary to the pamphlets he’d been handing out earlier – “Renewable is
doable … We’d like to share some facts … $100 million in savings in a year … Shut
down nuclear … Shut down Pickering, no need for bickering… Now’s the time to
act … Let’s be speaking of the risk of leaking, affecting millions of us …
Cleaner water power from Quebec at low cost and the infrastructure’s already
there …”
I don’t know if
Tom is right about the economic argument. If the Pickering plant supports 7,600
jobs a year then those jobs wouldn’t be transferred to a hydro operation if the
nuclear plant is shut down. Ontario Power Generation says that keeping it open
until 2024 will add $12.3 billion to Ontario’s gross domestic product. While it
might be cheaper to buy electricity from Quebec there would be an initial large
expense in the billions to upgrade Ontario’s transmission infrastructure. The
risk of an accident jeopardizing public or worker safety is very low and the
Pickering plant has to be shut down permanently in six years anyway.
The
second feature was Thunderclaw Robinson.
He
recited his poetry without text but used his phone sometimes for reference.
From
his opening piece – “I need another dose of your medicine … Last time you
under-prescribed me … It’s you that I admire … Now because of circumstances I
can’t have … At least you won’t charge me for a carpet ride … Rapunzel’s hair
brush has been proven addictive … It doesn’t matter how much creativity I have
… I will knock on your door until your birthday … I keep coming back to the
edge of the water … Harmonies don’t appease the animals like they used to …
Temporary satisfaction … No focal point … On the edge of my chair … I’d rather
not do anything if I can’t feel you inside me … The crystals in my nerves can’t
absorb all of my wonders like they used to …”
Thunderclaw
told us that he didn’t know why he wrote that first poem.
From
his second poem – “My heart beats … I’d heard once … I slowed my breath, placed
my ear on her chest … There is an orchestra of machinery … for this one moment
… I exhale … I breathe again … as calm as the ocean is allowed to be … I play …
dark … explosion … my percussion section … used to taking things from each
other the wrong way … My muse will never be your muse …”
Thunderclaw
confessed that he would like his poems to not always be so slammy and his next
piece was an attempt at a non-slam poem – “I just want to know if I can love
you … I was an astronaut … I’m not even in your orbit …”
From
another poem – “She’s been waiting for me to grow into a better vision of
myself … Your favourite song … you never forget … the artist is telling you
they love you … My heart is a Valentines Day card on steroids … but she doesn’t
like poetry …”
Thunderclaw
told us that he belongs to the Toronto Youth Slam Team, which won the biggest
youth slam in North America. They are going to Texas for an international slam
and are looking for donations to pay for their flight.
From
another poem – “For two years you saved my life … I don’t feel like I ever
thanked you enough … when we met … I fell apart in your palm … The most
resilient floodgates … When you can’t see the cliff face and the valley below
is so tempting … You saved me … and helped me find my super powers … You gave
me back my pen …”
Another
– “I used to write you love poems … I guess it’s clichéd to say that I ran out
of ink … Someone else ended up with the last dance … A pessimist hiding in his
own ambition … I’ve been farming thunder … Someone tell god there aint no one
alone … I couldn’t hear the fact that you’d probably never let me back …”
Thunderclaw’s
last poem was “For Superman” – “What if Clark Kent can’t save the world or even
himself … What if Clark can’t leap buildings at a single … bound by Wonder
Woman’s rope … Heat vision won’t turn off … What if Clark Kent became a poet?”
Certainly
Thunderclaw Robinson’s most outstanding piece of the evening was the last one,
with it’s half rhyme of “Kent” and “can’t” and his use of the homograph “bound”
as in “leap” and “tied”. He needs though to study more poetry in order to see
how many clichés he uses in his work. He often falls into the formulaic slam
trap that simply saying meaningful things is enough, with no requirement to
innovate language. Certainly there is rhythmic triumph here and he knows how to
speak and deliver but there is very little that is new, even for slam poetry.
He says that he would like to write more non-slam poetry but to do that he
really needs the traditional foundations in order to learn how to break their
rules.
We
returned immediately to the open stage, starting with Susana Molinolo reading
“Victoria Park Avenue” – “Despite the busy sidewalk Mrs. T would play Monopoly with
us … While stirring soup her overworked wrist whistled … Lounging in a medicine
cabinet … perfume … I cradled the oval-bellied glass … slowly twisting the cap
… That was my first seduction.”
Terry
Trowbridge before reading his poem took a few minutes to tell us what is
happening with the CUPE strike of contract faculty, teaching assistants and
graduate assistants at York University. He said they were now in week 13 and
the university has only negotiated for one hour since February. I would add
that the administration considers their offer to be the best deal that any
university in Ontario has to offer.
Terry
told us that for anyone that was a teenager in the 90s, everything comes down
to Simpsons references. From “Ralph Wiggum’s Love Letter” – “I bend my wookie
thinking of you … It’s you I chew chew choose.”
Bänoo mentioned that Facebook
has a practice of bringing back older memories from a user’s timeline. She
shared that today Facebook reposted Bänoo’s announcement on May 29th, 2014 that she had just
become a Canadian citizen.
Jovan
Shadd read “Shareholders” – “Vestigial tales of revolution at birth … Our known
mythologies have been usurped … choking on the dead language that we have been
forced to speak.”
Sydney
White read two poems. From “To All My Friends Who Died Just Bringing Facts to
People” – “… and you bastards, I’m still standing … under the weight of mean
intent … Her spirit comes in freedom still … May courage be the last to die.”
From
“Warrior Woman” – “Last night I dreamt I was one of the Me Too … I was furious
… I sprang to my feet … I shouted after him … You call that a rape? Get back
here!” Then Sydney said defensively as if there’d been a negative reaction to
her second poem, though there hadn’t been as far as I could tell, “It’s black
humour!”
Anthony
was next. He sat down with his guitar. Tom Smarda, with his harmonica stood on
the left and Tom Hamilton with his violin was on the right. Anthony took quite
a while to tune even after Tom Hamilton told him it sounded good.
Before
he started singing, Anthony mumbled a few things, “Laneway church, basement
floor … audio visual … signature … never got past the age of seven …”
Singing
and playing – “So sad and lonely … There wasn’t one place I was never alone …
and I miss you … I just think that you’re pretty … You think you’re so pretty
and I just know that you’re pretty … and I miss you … I’m trying to tell you …
what I’m all about … get you to listen … You were always meant for me …”
Khalid
wore a hat and white shirt with a tie and carried a leather briefcase to the
podium at the right side of the stage. He did not open the briefcase so it was
merely a prop and he didn’t read anything but seemed to be making things up as
he went along and walked back and forth onstage a lot, sometimes pausing at the
podium on the left and sometimes at the one on the right.
Here’s
some of Khalid’s monologue- “What is a poem? A poem is an attempt to translate
silence … The word for freedom in Hebrew is hhofesh … I would like to take off
my hat but maybe this is a kipa …”
He
read “That Certain Something” – “You have to show me you’re literary … demoting
me from co-writer … The play he wanted to write was called … involuntary
subversion … Six days is all it takes to make a world but how long does it take
to write a poem … If you place a coin in your mouth you can secure passage on
the boat into the next life … I am a layman, which means that I cannot have
that je ne sais quoi … that I don’t know what … It’s Ramadan but instead of
giving food I’ll give a poem … There is no god but god … Muhammad is the
messenger of god …” Khalid then led people in a call and response. “When I say
freedom you say hhofesh” Then he did the same with “hureyah” the Arabic word
for freedom. “The idea of this poem is literalism and not religion … In order
to prevent misunderstandings, instead of saying ‘Free Palestine’ or ‘Free
Israel’ … free Jerusalem …” Singing the shahada in Arabic, then translating it
into various forms – “There is no truth but truth … Moses is the messenger of
god … Jesus is … I think I’m out of time.”
From
Nick Micelli’s poem – “The golden light way beyond the outer limit of my gaze …
My darkness where I draw clear crystal and water … all moving to … creativity.”
Cecilia
Tolley read “Relapse” – “How could I miss this … Lately you’ve been more wiry …
It became a different kind of blinded … You held me together … Your kitchen was
always filthy … I wish that you would clean up your hair … I can’t believe
you’ve been using for eight months now … I miss you.”
Bänoo introduced Kate Marshall
Flaherty in a way that didn’t exactly come out right, but we all knew what she
meant. She said Kate is one of the oldest volunteers of Shab-e She’r.
Kate
announced that last week she got the all clear after her cancer treatment.
With
some help from Tom Hamilton on violin, Kate read “Sprout” – “Post chemo … Like
that Grade 1 bead project … decorated Dixie Cup … something is growing on the
smooth garden of my scalp … baby fine … soothing to feel something growing … I
do not speak … warrior … I want to stand on this bald mountain top … waving my
flag in the wind.”
The
final open mic performer was Tom Hamilton, who drew our attention to his bow
tie and told us that he does not always dress like a cartoon character.
He
recounted that he used to be a writer in residence at a high school and the
students referred to him as “that 70s guy”.
He
read “I Came Down” – “I came down with your fever and a few irises … Laughing
at rush hour we took each other’s clothes and the day off … Running through
options, French doors … Fifty-fifty on rent … Dutch on our tickets to someone
else’s continent … We were staying in the inn as a couple for at least a couple
of nights … That marital probation that travel tends to be.”
Bänoo decided to read a poem to
finish the night – “John … 23 … from China … You don’t bring lunch … After two
months you can’t answer the question, ‘How are you today?’ … Like gods of
yesterday they are withdrawing your love … I see this is not new to you … I
wish you could read this one day to see that someone saw.”
I
chatted again with Tom Smarda and Tom Hamilton. Tom H made the absurd claim
that all mental illness is caused by an absence of positive social connections.
Certainly have such relationships are better for the mentally ill than toxic
ones, but when someone is in such an extreme manic state that they feel they
could step off of the top of a high building and fly around the city, it isn’t
because they lack the right kind of friends. The brain is a physical organ that
gets sick just like any other part of the body.
Tom
H told told me that he liked my poem and he liked what he’s heard me do over
the years at Fat Albert’s, then he added, “There’s definitely a place for your
stuff.” What an odd compliment. You could say as well that there’s a place for
cockroaches in our ecosystem. One could claim there’s a place for everything
and so telling someone that something they’ve worked hard on just has “a place”
is like no praise at all.
I
left the church, but on my way to my bike I heard Wendi Smallwood, who was
outside smoking, call to me. We spent at least half an hour getting caught up.
She said she was in Toronto for a few reasons. She said something about doing a
one-woman show called Resurrecting Mary as part of Women From the Future at the
Factory Theatre from June 21-24. She also said something about representing
Newfoundland at the ACTRA conference in Toronto and that they paid for her trip
and her hotel, even though she’s staying at her son’s place.
She
told me that getting work on television in Newfoundland is very difficult
because the production company that handles The Republic of Doyle, instead of
using local actors actually brings in actors from the mainland and hires vocal
coaches for them so they’ll sound like local actors.
Our
conversation got interrupted by someone in the street that was arguing with a
short guy with a beard and glasses that was standing on the sidewalk with Bänoo, Laboni and Cy. The
street person didn’t like the fact that the short guy was speaking to him in a
monotone. Then he asked them all for change. Laboni offered him the rest of her
bag of chips but he said he was cautious about being poisoned. The short guy
said he’d give him some money put first he would have to listen to him. I don’t
think the guy realized he was beyond listening.
Wendi
walked east with Bänoo and Cy.
She’ll be in town for another month though.
I
went home, had a late dinner and watched two episodes of The Many Loves of
Dobie Gillis.
The
first story had the second appearance of Zelda Gilroy. She is still obsessed
with Dobie and he is still obsessed with avoiding her, but when she offers him
free food he follows her home to have dinner with her family. She has five
sisters, no brothers and a father who is constantly concerned with money. But
after Zelda tells her father she is going to marry Dobie, Dobie disappears.
Dobie decides the only way to get Zelda out of his hair is to make her
attractive to other boys and so he spreads a rumour that her family has just
struck it rich and that they are getting a swimming pool. The rumour works so
well that Zelda’s father gets a loan from the bank and really does build a pool
and Zelda does become popular with the boys. But then the bank finds out it was
only a rumour and they repossess the pool, so Zelda goes back to chasing Dobie.
The
second story begins with Thalia (Tuesday Weld) telling Dobie she hates him
because she loves him. Then she explains that her father spent a lot of money
to pay for her braces to give her a beautiful smile and asks, “How can I use
beautiful expensive teeth like these to capture a pauper like you? It’s
ridiculous! The bait is worth more than the fish!” So Thalia breaks up with
Dobie. But the next day at school an attractive, rich and quirky student
arrives in Dobie’s class wearing a mink stole. She just goes by the name
Whitney because she says she has to make an impression fast due to the fact
that she lacks security. She immediately picks Dobie to be her boyfriend
because she can tell by his face that he has no guile and won’t betray her. But
suddenly Thalia, seeing this other girl’s interest in Dobie, suddenly wants him
back. Once she has him back she tries to figure out a way to make him worth the
effort so she tries to teach him logic but gives up in frustration and breaks
up with him again. But the next day when he offers himself to Whitney, Thalia
wants Dobie back again. She tries once again to try to teach Dobie to think and
this time succeeds but the first thing he does with his newfound logic is dump
Thalia. Then he goes to Whitney and offers himself but she rejects him because
now that he can think he will not be good for her security. She chooses Maynard
instead because he promises that he will never think.
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