Last Sit in Mirvish Village

            The last couple of mornings I’ve woken up later than usual. On Wednesday it was 5:22 and on Thursday 5:17. I seem to recall though that the same thing happened last spring after my university term ended. It’s not like I felt exhausted but it’s possible that on a psychological level I’m loosening my grip in relief.

            On Thursday morning I had my last job of the year, which was my last gig ever with the ladies of Studio 1181, which was their last session with any model, at least in that incarnation of the group. I told them that I was honoured to be their last model and they said that I’d been their choice.

            When I’d worked the there on the previous Tuesday, Helen had asked me to email her some of my poems, which I did the next day. When she arrived at the studio, she commented about my poetry, “Very interesting! You’re as neurotic as any Jew!” I said, “Maybe that can be my epitaph: ‘He was as neurotic as any Jew.’” I told her that my Jewish friends would get a kick out of that one. She said, “I’m surprised that no one has told you that before!” I pointed out that all poets are neurotic. A member whose name I don’t know, but who looks like my late Aunt Alice, opined that all North Americans are neurotic. I agreed that certainly compared to Europeans they are. She added that Australians aren’t neurotic either.

            When I sat down to have coffee with them, I noticed that there was a sign on the table saying, “Do not move this table”, and it suddenly occurred to me that the studio is full of signs like that. I mentioned my observation and the one that looks like Aunt Alice told me that they have a member that was not currently at the table who loves to post signs. That reminded me of an ex girlfriend who used to post messages to herself all over her apartment, especially on her bathroom mirror. “Alice” asked, “Did it work?” I answered, “I don’t think so. She was very neurotic!” That reminded me further of Al Frankin’s character, Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live and his Daily Affirmations that, “I’m gonna do a great show today, because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!” Jane said that she voted for Al Franken when he ran for the senate.

            When I’d finished posing I took some pictures of a few of the portraits by a couple of the members. When I told one of them that I might post the images on Facebook, she said it would be okay but not to post her name.

            Jane told me again, as she’d mentioned a few months ago that she would like to hire me privately some time to pose for a painting.

            Since I was downtown already and had some money in my pocket, I wanted to browse through all the downtown second-hand bookstores to see if I could find any of the books that I need for the second half of my Canadian Poetry course, starting in January. I already had in digital format Michael Ondaatje’s “The Complete Works of Billy the Kid” and Ann Carson’s “The Autobiography of Red”, but they wouldn’t work for in-class study because there’s no place to plug in my laptop in that particular classroom at University College.

            I went a little west on Bloor to Doug Miller Books, but it was a short visit. The guy told me that poetry people don’t sell their books because unlike fiction, one reads them again and again. I then went to BMV, between Brunswick and Spadina, where I did manage to pick up a slightly bent edition of Ondaatje’s Billy the Kid book. I think that’s the one book that was on the shelves of just about every bookstore I went to that day.

            Next I turned right and went a few blocks south on Spadina to overstuffed “Ten Editions” bookstore where the shelves go so high that there are ladders throughout the store so you can reach any books by authors whose last names start with the first five letters of the alphabet. The poetry in that store is in a back room with two aluminum ladders to fiddle with in narrow corridors with an uneven floor. I think that I found books by almost every single poet that we studied in the “70 Canadian Poets” anthology this fall. There were also lots of rare books of poems at reasonable prices that I might have picked up if I’d had the money.

            There was a couple there browsing that seemed to be in the business of buying books to resell. He seemed far more experienced than she in the business. She mentioned having found a book written by a famous Canadian political figure from the past but he told her that it’s surprisingly hard to sell even books written by early Canadian prime ministers. He said that books by US presidents are easy to sell.

            I didn’t find any of the books I was looking for, but I couldn’t resist purchasing a copy of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “A Coney Island of the Mind”, which brings back fond memories of my late friend Mike, who introduced me to the book in Vancouver back in 1979. I used to stand on the street and shout out some of the “Oral Messages” in the book, like “I Am Waiting”, “Junkman’s Obbligato”, “Autobiography”, “Christ Climbed Down”, “The Long Street”, “Meet Miss Subways” and my favourite, “Dog”” “The dog trots freely in the street and sees reality and the things he sees are bigger than himself and the things he sees are his reality, drunks in doorways, moons on trees. The dog trots freely thru the street and the things he sees are smaller than himself, fish on newsprint, ants in holes, chickens in Chinatown windows, their heads a block away …”

The quirky little old woman that owns the store was oblivious to me as she unpacked a cardboard box of books and stuffed them onto a shelf. I finally asked, “Can I buy this book?” She answered, “That’s what they’re on the shelves for!” She didn’t even go back behind the counter; since I had the exact $6.50 that the book cost, she just took it and gave me the book.

It was getting pretty cold and windy as I rode back up to Bloor and went a few blocks east to Willow Books, on the main floor of where Rochdale College used to be. The bearded, balded and indifferent guy behind the counter directed me to the poetry. Again, here were plenty of books by the poets we covered this autumn, but nothing that I needed for the winter and spring. He had the sound system tuned to Radio Canada though, and there was a show on that was playing a lot of the Quebecois music from the 70s that I used to hear on the radio when I lived in Montreal.

I rode to Yonge and south to ABC Books, but there was not much there. Further south, at Eliots, there was a larger selection of Canadian poetry, and so I spent quite a bit of time looking, but didn’t find anything I needed.

I turned right on College and rode west to “She Said Boom”, which is a very clean and organized store with a good selection and the woman behind the counter was playing some rare Surf music, but they didn’t have what I wanted.

My last stop on College on the way home was Sellers and Newel in Little Italy. Again, they have a pretty good selection, though their prices are quite a bit higher than “Ten Editions”. I found Anne Carson’s “Autobiography of Red” for $8.00. So after going through eight bookstores, over four and a half hours, I only ended up only with hard copies of the two books that I already have on my computer.

I stopped at Freshco to buy a few things on my way home.  I bought grapes, cinnamon-raisin bread, some chicken drumsticks that were on sale, some frozen French fries and some yogourt. I had also picked up six rolls of Sponge Towels for $4.99, but when I got to the cash, I didn’t have them. I must have put them down when getting something else. After purchasing my items I went back into the store to find the towels but I think one of the shelf stockers must have found it and put it back, so I got another package. The woman in front of me at the express checkout confused the cashier when she split her groceries into three parts and paid for each part separately.

I walked to my bike past a guy that seemed to be having a problem unlocking his, while his girlfriend was standing patiently nearby. When I got to my bike I saw that while I’d been inside, someone had stolen the red flasher that Nick Cushing had given me for my birthday earlier this year. I looked over at the guy trying to unlock the bike and saw that he was hitting it with something, while his girlfriend urged him not to get excited. When he moved to another bike I started to get a strong suspicion as to what happened to my flasher. He walked away in frustration. I think that there’s a strong possibility that he wanted to get a bike to sell for a fix.

When I got home I took my groceries upstairs and then went immediately over to the Dollarama to see if they had bike flashers, but they didn’t. I dug up one of my old red flashers and then went out to buy two CR2032 batteries to power it. That cost me seven dollars and change. Then I wired and electrical-taped it to the back of my bike.

            That night we had our first snow that stuck to the ground. Later I heard a whumping noise and some people exclaim, Whoah!” I looked and saw that a guy riding a small motorbike had wiped out as he was passing the entrance to the Dollarama parking lot. The salt trucks never seem to come out until after the first snow and never before.