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Colin MacWhirter									1186 words 3644 av du Musée #21						©2001 Colin MacWhirter Montréal, Québec Canada H3G 2C9 514-288-9135 rosa@generation.net

Interior by Colin MacWhirter

Reassembling the salvaged woodwork of a tiny turn-of-the-century chapel condemned after the 1989 earthquake, Porter Duncan has created a San Francisco high-rise sanctuary.... Arched oak paneling forms a Gothic colonnade in the entrance hall, lightened by a sky-blue ceiling. Two stained glass windows color the living room with scenes of John the Baptist and Lazarus arisen from the dead. They were the only windows to survive the quake and did so, miraculously, entirely undamaged. Two other treasures rescued from the quake, a pair of hymn boards, flank the doorway to Duncan’s butler’s room.

Design & Decoration, Mar ‘99

There was almost no sound in the apartment... but a bristling, brushing sound. The sound of Erickson polishing a pair of black boots. Now they’re perfect for this evening. Erickson put the polishing supplies back in their designated bright red tool box, put the tool box back on the shelf of his work closet, next to the iron and the starch bottle – Mr. Duncan liked his collars crisp. There was little else to do for now. He laid the selected suit out on the bed with a choice of two neckties beside and noiselessly walked to the kitchen to finish making a pre-outing snack: two mushroom and chicken liver tarts. The tarts in the oven, he could open the letter from his mother. He still hadn’t decided whether his mother was senile or merely eccentric. Nothing to do with the red whirly handwriting on the envelope nor the offhand elliptical return address: Erickson, Carlyle, Sask. It was that she persisted, in spite of his frequent corrections, in imagining him as an executive assistant. Sometimes he thought she might be mocking him, not taking his position seriously. Certainly, she couldn’t understand that, for him, southern Saskatchewan was bland disorder. But neither her ignorance, if that’s what it was, nor any taunting could displace him from his well-fitting niche. My dear Derek, he read, I imagine you’re well, as always. I’ve found it a bit windy for my liking recently, giving me a bit of a sniffle, but M. Keller assures me Spring is on the way – he can tell from the way his cattle are lowing, I expect. Of course, I never did pay enough attention to such points of animal husbandry. How are you faring with that Mr. Duncan of yours? Why don’t you let somebody else take over some of the paperwork you’re always smothering in so you can visit for a week? We’ll borrow your uncle and his car and drive out to the Cypress Hills. Well, I’ll be off – mending the screen door – Spring brings flies. Drop me a note. Love, Mom. He folded the letter into its envelope and placed it next to several others in the drawer of his bed-side table.

The apartment door had closed behind Mr. Duncan and his footfalls echoed down the hall to the dining room. Erickson poured a glass of wine, placed it next to the plate of tarts on the table. Mr. Duncan sat, pulling the napkin from its coiled silver ring. As Mr. Duncan ate, Erickson provided a selection of newspapers, turned up the lighting slightly and refilled the wine glass – his movements circling smoothly round those of Mr. Duncan so that the two men performed a wordless choreography. This was not design but mutual proprioception, the fruit of habit and two neatly compatible demeanors. So another two hours passed without more than a word between them as Mr. Duncan undressed, groomed himself and dressed – Erickson helping him, fixing his collar, for example. As he closed the heavy dark door behind Mr. Duncan, Erickson saw again the reflection of his employer in the antique bedroom mirror. Mr. Duncan reviewing his own appearance, unmindful of Erickson’s alert gaze. The image hung over him for a minute or two as he sat in the kitchen to eat his own supper of greens, an avocado and rice. Mr. Duncan didn’t approve of vegetarianism, considering it an affectation. He scanned the Examiner, with his fork occasionally clinking against the plate.

It was late in the party, a gathering of thirty or so friends Porter Duncan had come to know through his interest in art and collecting – he didn’t have work friends. It was late in the party, a time when certain voices boomed loudly over the music, over others nearly hushed. Porter, who drank steadily but without apparent drunkenness, was deep in conversation with the only person present he’d never met before, someone he’d been warned against. “She’ll eat you alive, Porter. Don’t worry about it. And don’t think of asking her out for ‘coffee’.” He found this sort of advice insulting, not helpful. Anyway, it hardly mattered because they found each other anyway. He thought her original and delightful. Obviously, she’d been told something about him because she was grilling him about his work as a civil engineer – he was quite happy to fill her in. Then she changed her tack. “I understand you have a live-in manservant or whatever. What’s the deal with that?” “Erickson is indispensable. He makes my life possible. He maintains the order I require to function. In return, I provide for him.” “You couldn’t just live together, pool resources. Instead, it’s two men living intimately together with this unbreachable economic barrier.” “Well, of course it’s not just economics. I depend on his judgment – ” “Like, ‘which tie should I wear...?’” “He has excellent taste, sartorially.” And on it went for a while, till they were both clear there were no more corners worth exploring. And so ended the threat.

Though, returning home, her words – it could only have been the aftereffects of liquor – her words, echoing in his mind, accompanied memories of Erickson coming to him, of Erickson’s well-tailored letter in response to the ad in the paper. He found himself wondering, how indeed would a man make his way from the Canadian prairies to the Bay and deliver himself into an uncommon and presumably doubt-inspiring employment? It was not a question to which he had an answer. He was simply glad of the outcome.

Looking out at the appalling, huge sky, Adele considered again her son’s peculiar little life, while she gripped – maybe a little too firmly – one of his letters in her hand. She understood something of his loathing for this landscape, she found it austere and suspected he found it vertiginous. But she could see he’d grown up convinced of the superiority of urban society. She could see he believed in the rightness of caste and clearly he was content to keep his place attending the Brahmins. It was, maybe, an inverted chivalry. Certainly, he’d been a fussy child, fastidious really, and now he, himself, fulfilled his rule: a place for everything... The tone of his letter suggested he was hurt, he didn’t seem to appreciate her sense of irony, but she couldn’t help teasing him. Doing so diverted her from the feeling of disappointment.

Now that Mr. Duncan had returned, comfort returned. The bed-side clock said three a.m. Peace in the secular chapel, the sanctified penthouse.

The End

hightened CDN nationalism in the face of utterly colonised reality [false] nationalist struggles

‘ethical’ investing?

Eduardo’s ‘treatments’ - not performances... or performance as treatment/therapy [something authentic in this treatment...] confessional aspect - E tells stories, but client relates personal info - shrink-like

amidst resurgence of land claims, etc. Native [+other] cultural reclamation movements, attempt to distort memory to undermine genesis of such movements

dispossessed Rise rise(s) like froth

the drug -  memory - reclaimed - badé - recreated

memorial land claims new avatar of badé

drug affects some cultural element of badé? ie. something unexpected

Lose this Skin Sweet Bird of Time and Change (lyrics?) [Bird with Memory] Ibis? viz. Brewer’s Rise Guerrilla Masala The colonised memory

stark Brazil - Poland

Eduardo in Calgary befriends hustlers, et al. their [under]world becomes his milieu [the domestic/service sector]

the drug underworldﬁ the drug -  rumours of memory chemical gasoline           gas [slang for a drug]?

mimesis [mnemonic] transmnemonic mutamnemonic Â hndbk psychoactive m. akin to tranq? narc?, etc. psychodelics harmine? sodium pentathol? gated/walled communities, enclaves hired/professional shoppers, etc.

the wealthy ride horseback into town from their estates

Eduardo’s memories and the drug - dual scene?

the contours of this landscape the topology ofÿ topography of⁄

scene: Eduardo buys a radio - listens to news, etc.

chapter titles as stepping stones

year 550 [ie. 2042] - since predator came [W. Churchill] powers and prospects memory hole chapter: memory rises

sparrows descend like falling leaves like rotten fruit dropping from trees

she reserves her immodesty for things that aren’t true

hearing him/her wheeze like the wind high up in the trees

I’ve learned how to wait. - Nelson?

Nelson felt betrayed by Eduardo but in that part of his mind he visited with trepidation he felt, in fact, he’d failed Eddie. Eddie feels he’s betrayed/let down Nelson but had no choice. Â All this sprang from Horner estate execution of poacher? [in mutual flashback]

where did Eddie meet the drunk? what circumstances? [deep time]

spots of evidence

Eddie in Calgary - with series of ‘my’ incidents with closeted gay scene? invited by Glenn[Gerry]

corrosive corroded memory consumption of mind/memory mnemonophage mnemonomutator remaker reshaper  transfigure alter contortion contorted legacy-heritage a claim social contortions

Badé drug---memory

ruled - memory ﬁ platform for exercising of rights rulers - ‘memory’ ﬁ altered to limit exercising of rights tradition - badé ﬁ sexual orientation ﬁ social role [gender-linked] - cultural legacy invention - ‘badé’ ﬁ sexual orientation ﬁ a social role to be improvised/recreated - new cultural form

memory alteration         ‘badé’ invention [dissent] ÿ		ÿ memory +badé tradition [malleable]

characters + places ‘Dale’ - pipe - medecine bag + come-on		Stephen? the house - iced in - couch and bikes

spy hill

personal memory ﬁ collective memory - through photos, storytelling, etc.

histories having been swept aside by events/elites: native, gay, badé, class, etc.

being in Calgary gives rise to badé role in new form there’s someone in Calgary to provide oral history?

O Fortune, changeable as the moon, you are always either improving or deteriorating. Detestable life at one moments thwarts and at another mockingly indulges the mind's desire, melting away both poverty and power like ice.

for the record: Eduardo’s dad came to Ontario from Central America to pick strawberries in 		one of those typically exploitative seasonal agricultural jobs - met his mom [ ~ McIntosh] and they ended up in Buckhorn.

with poverty comes fear; with wealth... paranoia.

trees like barbed wire

It’s the charming wealthy bugger who comments [to Eduardo]: “the poor have their fear... and the wealthy have paranoia,” because he is utterly confident [this is the transformation taking place in Calgary – where wealth is mistaken for sophistication – from insecure wealth to unaffected, confident wealth – ie. not self-justifying]

Narrative via Nelson refers to “Eduardo”; via Eduardo, “Eddie” more distant					more familiar/intimate

Game Culture