The Ghazal Rhymes

            On Thursday I found time to get a little more tidying up done than usual. When I consider myself behind on writing I tend to only get around to essential cleaning tasks such as cleaning my dishes, my kitchen counter and the top of my stove. After that I only pick up what clutter is actually going to impede my quotidian activities. Since I was all caught up with writing I was able to put away a lot of books and papers that have been piling up from school.

            A little after noon I took my bicycle to Bike Pirates to address the subtle knocking feeling I’ve had when riding since I put the new rim on last Saturday. There was no one in the shop when I walked in and at first I couldn’t even see a volunteer anywhere. But Dennis was in the back. Actually, I can’t recall a single time when I’ve been to Bike Pirates and Dennis hasn’t been there. I can’t say that about any of the other volunteers. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he sleeps there.

            The first thing he said when he pulled on the chain of my bike was, “There’s your problem!” He took out the chain measurer and found that its end fit between the links so that meant that I needed a new chain. He took a big bolt cutter and severed my chain, and then I pulled it out. He took the new chain out of the box and handed me the master link, which was by itself sealed up in a little blue plastic package and said, “Do not use this!” I asked, “If it’s the master link, why shouldn’t I use it?” He told me he’d said, “Do not lose it!” I confirmed that that made a lot more sense than, “Don’t use it.”

            After the new chain was on, the problem with shifting my chain to the first gear wheel was still there. Then Dennis pulled on the gear cable and said, “There’s your problem right there!”  He said the cable was loose, which I could see that it was. He told me to loosen the bolt and to take up the slack and then tighten the bolt.

            At this point a late middle-aged woman with either a Chinese or Vietnamese accent came in with a bike that had a homemade wooden carrier on the back. I think she had a flat back tire.

            I was having problems figuring out where to run the cable under the little bracket that the bolt held on in such a way that it would hold the cable firm, but Dennis was busy with the woman. He told her, “Look, I know your brother made that carrier for you but you’ve got to get rid of it! It makes it too hard to work on your bike!” She argued, “But I need it!” He told her, “We have carriers here you can put on! You’ve gotta get rid of this fuckin thing or else I’m not gonna work on your bike next time!” It’s interesting that in her case he didn’t get her to do it herself with guidance. I don’t know why. Maybe he’s had frustrating experiences in the past trying to teach her.

            I managed to tighten the cable, but when I tried the gearshift I couldn’t get the chain to climb to the bigger wheels.

            Dennis fixed her tire and she told him she would be leaving a donation at the front because they do such good work.

            When Dennis got back to check my cable it was loose again. There’s a hard to see groove near the place where the bracket hooks downward that I hadn’t set the cable inside. Dennis got the cable tightened up, but the problem with the derailer still persisted.

            Finally he adjusted the limiter and it worked.

            The hand degreasing cleanser they have smells like bedbugs to me. Dennis disagreed though he admitted that he has no sense of smell, so I may be right. We traded bedbug stories, as apparently he’s had them too.

            The chain cost twelve dollars, but since I only had fifteen in cash. That’s all I gave in total.

            I rode my bike up O’Hara to test it out. It seemed to ride pretty smoothly after the repairs. I had only work a sweatshirt and a scarf and no gloves, and it was already pretty cold, but suddenly the wind whipped down and kicked up a lot of snow as it also knocked a flower pot with a big flowering plant that was on display in front of the variety store across O’Hara. I hurried to the shelter of home.

            Shortly after that I got a call from Cy Strom, asking if I could work at Artist’s 25 that night. Of course I could, but within an hour there was another little snow storm, and even though the bike ride to Dundas and Brock is very short, I was dreading it and anticipating that I might have to walk my bike all the way there.

            I took a little siesta, I did a French grammar exercise on the infinitif and I spent some time continuing to organize my library as the storm continued outside. I don’t think we’ve had this much snow this early for quite a while. It is still autumn, after all.

            At 18:00 I started bundling up for the first time of the season, with sweat pants serving as long underwear tucked into one pair of socks then another pair of socks on top of those into which I tucked my trouser legs, a sweatshirt under a long sleeved button down shirt, a long scarf under my hoody and a shorter one on top, then my motorcycle jacket all zipped up. I was warm enough when I ventured out. The going up O’Hara and then across Maple Grove was precarious, but easier than expected. I always imagine the worst and so I’m always pleasantly surprised when things turn out better than expected. The only problem I had on the way up Brock was that the only smooth driving was in the center of the right hand lane and there were cars behind me making me nervous. I saw some bicycle tracks to my right and so I moved over, but then that lane came up against some piles of snow that I couldn’t get through and I slipped slightly, though just tilting to land easily on my left foot and then to wait for the cars behind me to pass so I could veer back into the center. It usually takes me four minutes to ride up to Artist’s 25. I doubt if the snow held me back by more than a minute.

            I punched the code to get into the building but the studio was still locked, so I read some more of “The Complete Works of Billy the Kid”. I like the dark poems about flowers. I think maybe Ondaatje has asthma.

            Cy arrived and let me into the studio, but said he was going out to the Portuguese bakery and offered to buy me a coffee. That was nice.

            I guess because of the weather no one else showed up to draw, so it was just Cy and me there. We got started late because he wanted to eat a sandwich. We chatted for a while as I was sitting on the stage and suddenly I noticed that he was drawing me, so I stayed in that position. We chatted for the whole session on various topics. Cy said he didn’t mind and even preferred me to talk because it added energy to the drawing or something like that. We talked about my courses, theories of art that I studied in Aesthetics, George Elliot Clarke and George Grant. Cy doesn’t seem to think much of Justin Trudeau. She said that when Fidel Castro died Justin should have left the politics out of his tribute to Castro. If he’d only talked about Castro in terms of being a family friend then he could have gone to Cuba for the funeral.

            Near the end of the session, Banoo Zan arrived. Cy gave her a synopsis of all we’d been talking about. I chatted with both of them for half an hour after I’d finished working. We discussed the difference between genre and style. I said that I think that genre is more like language while style is how the language is expressed. That led us to poetry because I’d mentioned that the Persian poetry form of the ghazal is probably a genre. Banoo explained some things that George Elliot Clarke hadn’t mentioned about the ghazal. I was surprised to hear that her pronounce it “Guzzale” when George had insisted several times that it sounds more like “guzzle”. I would think that Banoo, being Persian and speaking Persian would know better than George. I was also glad to learn that it has rhyme. She said that English is a language not conducive to rhyme. I said that the problem with rhyme is that people don’t know how to approach it and that a good rhyme is like the perfect murder: it has to look like an accident. People make the mistake of bending the meaning of a poem in order to find a rhyme. Banoo thinks that some people get stuck from trying to rhyme while others get stuck from trying not to rhyme. She said that people try too hard to follow the rules and they lose touch. I agreed that having too much knowledge about one’s field can inhibit creativity and that what poets and artists need to be is rebels.

            I told Banoo that I’m working on getting George to have our Canadian Poetry class convene at Shab-e She’r maybe on the last Tuesday of March. He could perhaps switch our discussion of Peerbaye with Riccio, since Giovanna Riccio is almost always at Shab-e She’r. We would have time for a short discussion of “Strong Bread” and then head over there to meet her. Or maybe that shouldn’t be the focus, but just cover both books the week before and then just meet at the St Stephen in the Fields Anglican church on College Street. Banoo said that the minister of the church told her that no one should worry about using strong language even though the readings will be right in the main part of the church where services are held. Apparently the minister is a writer herself. I haven’t set foot in an Anglican church for decades.