I've been back in Stratford for a couple of hours now. My visit to my parents turned out to be very nice. Generally visits with them are quite exhausting, but not this time. Yes I brought my laundry as usual, as well as my grocery list. But what didn't happen was the offers of my mom to do basically everything for me. I realize that the offers are made out of love, but I am an adult after all and can do things for myself. Perhaps gentle winds of change are blowing at my folks' place. I truly appreciate using their washer and dryer, and their car to run around London and do my errands. Cool. And I still appreciate mom's care packages. They really help this cash-starved writer out. But the nicest part happened as my dad dropped me off at my place.
"When are you coming again?" He asked.
"The week after next," I replied.
"Good. It will be nice to see you."
He helped bring my groceries and clean laundry to the elevator, and he was off back to London.
Yes. It was a nice visit.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A Visit With My Parents
I love my parents. They're great. They've seen me commit countless stupidities, and still they haven't disowned me. You see, I can be a bit too much to handle sometimes. It's just me. I don't purposely go out to be an idiot, but life happens and idiocy does too.
I had a nice chat about nothing in particular with my dad on the way from Stratford to London: it's about 72km one way. No sooner had I walked in the door than mom asks if I'm hungry. I look thin. I really should eat something. I told her no, that I ate before dad picked me up. She wouldn't give... I have a secret weapon in this kind of situation. It's called Winners & Homesense. I said we should go. All thoughts of food evaporated and we went window shopping. That's kind of it: just another ordinary day. I'm taking a break from writing until tomorrow evening. I'm still not happy with the ending to "Storm Drain". If anyone reads this... make your way to that short, short story and let me know how the ending feels to you.
I had a nice chat about nothing in particular with my dad on the way from Stratford to London: it's about 72km one way. No sooner had I walked in the door than mom asks if I'm hungry. I look thin. I really should eat something. I told her no, that I ate before dad picked me up. She wouldn't give... I have a secret weapon in this kind of situation. It's called Winners & Homesense. I said we should go. All thoughts of food evaporated and we went window shopping. That's kind of it: just another ordinary day. I'm taking a break from writing until tomorrow evening. I'm still not happy with the ending to "Storm Drain". If anyone reads this... make your way to that short, short story and let me know how the ending feels to you.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Storm Drain
Storm Drain
By: Gaspar Bartko
Copyright Gaspar Bartko 2009
In Honour of My Mother’s Birthday.
I had that dream again.
It was raining and I was sitting in a large old open-ended cardboard packing box. Even though I had dragged the box under the cover of a bridge to get away from the rain, it offered little shelter. The downspout from a storm drain channelled the water from the bridge deck above me and sent it falling in a spraying torrent on and around the box making it seem it was raining harder than it really was. I couldn’t move out of the wet. I just sat there in a trance looking over the miles of sodden summer grass and scrub that grew on the flood plain of the river.
Everything was sopping wet: the sky, the ground, the cardboard cube around me. The humidity penetrated everywhere and I was a passive sponge, soaking it all in. My hair, once blond, platinum blond from summer sun when I was a small boy, was grey. It was matted and plastered to my skull from the dampness and slid its unwashed, greasy way down to my shoulders. It parted over my face revealing skin that had the ashen, jaundiced pallor of the terminally ill or the terminally drunk.
I was wearing layers of shirts made of navy-green flannel, pants of industrial polyester twill, and somebody else’s old shoes. Everything was pilled and torn and damp. There was no fresh newness about my clothes for everything was gathered from dumpsters and the reject piles at the back of the Goodwill store. Over the years the layers of cloth had moulded themselves to my form. Time, sweat and accumulated filth had reinforced them making them surprisingly stiff and strong. The clothes had become my armour and my prison: keeping others out and keeping me in.
I had no family to speak of. We had drifted apart. I hadn’t had contact with any relatives or friends in years. I just had memories of sensations of what it was like to be in someone else’s company. Sometimes, though, while dumpster diving for clothes, or waiting apathetically in a soup-kitchen line, a passing voice would penetrate the shifting layers of my consciousness and trigger a moment of clarity. A fleeting and vivid memory would become tantalizingly real.
I would remember a particularly special time in Czechoslovakia where I was born, and spent the first eight years of my life. It was August and I could feel the heat of the blazing summer sun trying to penetrate the cool shade of the immensely tired and old apricot tree under which I sat. The tree grew in the middle of my grandparents’ dirt back yard and, as all ancient things, surprised everyone as it managed to renew itself each spring, and bear sweet fruit each summer. I was facing away from the house under that comforting tree, as it shaded my impossibly blond head from the sun. I was hugging my legs tightly against my chest with my chin resting on my little-boy knees. My eyes were staring trance-like into the infinity of the potato fields that were the outer boundaries of my universe.
My mother’s voice softly sang to me from seemingly far away.
“Gaško, kde si?”
I heard her footsteps coming lightly, dustily near. The dry airy sound gradually drew me back to my childhood present, now past, the nearer she came. Closer and closer. Finally she was beside me.
“Tu si moj mily.”
All was soft and warm as she knelt closely by and wrapped her arms around me. The sounds of the small world of my grandparents’ yard slowly came to me: crickets chirping, hens clucking, the dog barking at the other end of the yard.
An eerie awareness dawned in my little-boy eyes, as I sat wrapped in my mother’s arms under the apricot tree. And across the Atlantic, sitting in an enveloping and sopping cardboard mess, the same awareness dawned in my homeless eyes: past meets future meets past.
“Mamichka kde si?” I called out from the sodden box.
There was no reassuring answer to be heard in the rainy gloom.
Future meets present.
I awoke with a sweat-drenched jolt.
“Mother where are you?”
By: Gaspar Bartko
Copyright Gaspar Bartko 2009
In Honour of My Mother’s Birthday.
I had that dream again.
It was raining and I was sitting in a large old open-ended cardboard packing box. Even though I had dragged the box under the cover of a bridge to get away from the rain, it offered little shelter. The downspout from a storm drain channelled the water from the bridge deck above me and sent it falling in a spraying torrent on and around the box making it seem it was raining harder than it really was. I couldn’t move out of the wet. I just sat there in a trance looking over the miles of sodden summer grass and scrub that grew on the flood plain of the river.
Everything was sopping wet: the sky, the ground, the cardboard cube around me. The humidity penetrated everywhere and I was a passive sponge, soaking it all in. My hair, once blond, platinum blond from summer sun when I was a small boy, was grey. It was matted and plastered to my skull from the dampness and slid its unwashed, greasy way down to my shoulders. It parted over my face revealing skin that had the ashen, jaundiced pallor of the terminally ill or the terminally drunk.
I was wearing layers of shirts made of navy-green flannel, pants of industrial polyester twill, and somebody else’s old shoes. Everything was pilled and torn and damp. There was no fresh newness about my clothes for everything was gathered from dumpsters and the reject piles at the back of the Goodwill store. Over the years the layers of cloth had moulded themselves to my form. Time, sweat and accumulated filth had reinforced them making them surprisingly stiff and strong. The clothes had become my armour and my prison: keeping others out and keeping me in.
I had no family to speak of. We had drifted apart. I hadn’t had contact with any relatives or friends in years. I just had memories of sensations of what it was like to be in someone else’s company. Sometimes, though, while dumpster diving for clothes, or waiting apathetically in a soup-kitchen line, a passing voice would penetrate the shifting layers of my consciousness and trigger a moment of clarity. A fleeting and vivid memory would become tantalizingly real.
I would remember a particularly special time in Czechoslovakia where I was born, and spent the first eight years of my life. It was August and I could feel the heat of the blazing summer sun trying to penetrate the cool shade of the immensely tired and old apricot tree under which I sat. The tree grew in the middle of my grandparents’ dirt back yard and, as all ancient things, surprised everyone as it managed to renew itself each spring, and bear sweet fruit each summer. I was facing away from the house under that comforting tree, as it shaded my impossibly blond head from the sun. I was hugging my legs tightly against my chest with my chin resting on my little-boy knees. My eyes were staring trance-like into the infinity of the potato fields that were the outer boundaries of my universe.
My mother’s voice softly sang to me from seemingly far away.
“Gaško, kde si?”
I heard her footsteps coming lightly, dustily near. The dry airy sound gradually drew me back to my childhood present, now past, the nearer she came. Closer and closer. Finally she was beside me.
“Tu si moj mily.”
All was soft and warm as she knelt closely by and wrapped her arms around me. The sounds of the small world of my grandparents’ yard slowly came to me: crickets chirping, hens clucking, the dog barking at the other end of the yard.
An eerie awareness dawned in my little-boy eyes, as I sat wrapped in my mother’s arms under the apricot tree. And across the Atlantic, sitting in an enveloping and sopping cardboard mess, the same awareness dawned in my homeless eyes: past meets future meets past.
“Mamichka kde si?” I called out from the sodden box.
There was no reassuring answer to be heard in the rainy gloom.
Future meets present.
I awoke with a sweat-drenched jolt.
“Mother where are you?”
It's like being in Vancouver
I woke up this morning in a bit of a fog. I managed to down some coffee, which on an empty stomach is not a good idea. I looked outside and saw nothing but low clouds and rain. Man it reminds me so much of winters in Vancouver: depressing. However, I'll soldier on and finish editing mom's birthday short story and see what I come up with.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Trials and Tribulations: self-editing is hell
I finally got off my duff at about 3:00 pm today to have a second look at a short, very short, story I'm writing for my mother as a birthday gift. Why don't I buy her something? Probably because I'm as poor as a church mouse, and would rather eat.
I formatted the story in triple space to make it easier to write in my comments and such. Holy s--t, I had so many deletions and rephrasings that I deleted the whole thing and re-wrote it from scratch. And I'm glad I did too. The new version reads much better (I tend toward melodramatic overwriting)and it makes much more sense structurally. I'll post it once it's done. Wish me luck in finishin by Dec 10th.
I formatted the story in triple space to make it easier to write in my comments and such. Holy s--t, I had so many deletions and rephrasings that I deleted the whole thing and re-wrote it from scratch. And I'm glad I did too. The new version reads much better (I tend toward melodramatic overwriting)and it makes much more sense structurally. I'll post it once it's done. Wish me luck in finishin by Dec 10th.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Putting Out The Fire With Gasoline
Putting Out The Fire With Gasoline
By: Gaspar Bartko
© Gaspar Bartko 2009
“Sell! What else can I sell?”
The question burned rubber as it raced around in my brain.
“Jesus Christ, just another hundred bucks and I’ll be fine. Fuck! What else is there?”
I desperately rifled through my stuff again to hunt down anything that I thought might be of value.
I inwardly cheered as I pounced on my antique Tiffany cigarette case. It was 14kt gold-lined sterling silver. I didn’t care that it wasn’t mine in the first place - I had pilfered it over 30 years ago from a guy I lived with in Montreal: my supposed boyfriend, Jacques, who at any given time was either too drunk to stand, or too busy fucking everybody else but me.
“Thanks for the good times, pal.”
I figured I deserved that little trinket for services rendered and it seemed appropriate to get some cash for it.
“But shit, is it enough? How much can I get for it? There’s no market for stuff like THIS in this sleepy town. Christ, does anyone here even know what Tiffany’s is?”
More stuff. I had to get more stuff. Something, anything to pawn. I needed more money. I scanned the room frantically. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it on top of my dresser: a black leather presentation box embossed with a silver disk. My watch.
“Yeah, that has to be worth something.”
It was a gorgeous Movado my brother, Tony, had given me for Christmas back in 2005. He had blown me away with it.
It had been a dazzling mid-September afternoon: a perfect West-Coast day. The temperature had hovered around the low 20s and with the sun low in the sky the soft light lent its golden glow to everything it touched. We were driving to his place on Harwood Street, right smack dab in the middle of Vancouver’s gay West End. Yes, my brother, a straight guy was living in the middle of 60-thousand fags. At some point during the drive I casually mentioned to him how I was slowly, very slowly saving up for a Movado.
I told him how I had carried a torch for that watch ever since I first saw it in a full-page ad in GQ Magazine 25 years ago: the “Museum” watch. Man it was beautiful. I never seriously thought I’d have one. It was a case of lost hope and lost cause, but, God, I wanted one. Unknown to me, the bugger went out the next day and bought me one. He kept that little secret for four months biding his time until the right moment to give it to me came along. That moment came one day during the Holidays when he dropped me off at my place in New Westminster. He grabbed my wrist just as I was getting out of the car and thrust a crinkly plastic bag in my hand.
“Here you go. Just a little something to remember this day by,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
I was trembling by the time I got up to my apartment. Was it what I hoped it was? The compact square bulkiness in the bag was about the right size. Oh please, God, don’t let it be just another package of good intentions. Tony’s track record of birthday and Christmas presents to me was questionable. There was that iridescent burgundy-green disco shirt in ’89, followed by a spectacular 150-piece tool set sometime later. Over the years I had learned to smile and open my eyes a little wider with mock anticipation as I unwrapped another one of his mystery gifts to me.
“Hey dude, thanks. This is great,” is what I’d been saying to him for the past I don’t know how many years.
I gently placed the box on top of the computer work station. It stayed there for three weeks. I went from hypomanic anticipation to deeply depressed disappointment and back again for days every time I glanced at the gift.
The phone rang one evening.
“Did you open it yet?” It was my brother.
“Uh, no,” I said sheepishly.
“What?” came back his crestfallen voice. “Aw, Jer, you gotta open it.”
I figured his anticipation of my reaction was probably on par with my trepidation. I caved. I cradled the phone in the crook of my neck and reached for the gift.
I can’t remember which jeweler’s wrappings enveloped the box in magic. Probably some place in Richmond Centre that catered to a wealthy Asian clientele. One thing I’ve got to say about my brother at that time. He made a ton of money, and he knew where to shop.
“Shit! It is, it is, it is…a Movado!”
I’m not sure if that was really me squealing like a little girl or if it was just my imagination. It didn’t matter. The fact was that I had wanted one of these beauties for so long and now there it was nestled in its leather case. The watch was stunning simplicity in stainless steel and 18k gold. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I had never owned anything so beautiful. I just stood there absolutely mesmerized by this work of art that my big brother had given me with all his heart.
“Thank you, Tony,” was all I said. I hope to this day it was enough.
A sudden awareness of traffic noises and people arguing instantly brought me back from memories past.
“I’ll give you sixty for the case, and forty for the watch,” said the snake behind the counter at the pawn shop. My heart caved in.
“I’ll take it,” I agreed robotically.
I knew there was no bargaining room. This was the last stop. I had reached my destination: a place called, “Desperation.” Yet somewhere deep in my mind an ember of pleasure began to glow. Its heat was the consummation of my hypomanic frenzy and frantic need. I was momentarily consumed by fire as soon as I touched the cash. But the feeling didn’t last. Pseudo-sexual as it was, there was very little afterglow. A little dejected, I put the money in my wallet and left the store.
Fifteen minutes later as I was on my way home, the race started up again. The stench of burning rubber filled my brain.
“Money! I need more fucking money!”
By: Gaspar Bartko
© Gaspar Bartko 2009
“Sell! What else can I sell?”
The question burned rubber as it raced around in my brain.
“Jesus Christ, just another hundred bucks and I’ll be fine. Fuck! What else is there?”
I desperately rifled through my stuff again to hunt down anything that I thought might be of value.
I inwardly cheered as I pounced on my antique Tiffany cigarette case. It was 14kt gold-lined sterling silver. I didn’t care that it wasn’t mine in the first place - I had pilfered it over 30 years ago from a guy I lived with in Montreal: my supposed boyfriend, Jacques, who at any given time was either too drunk to stand, or too busy fucking everybody else but me.
“Thanks for the good times, pal.”
I figured I deserved that little trinket for services rendered and it seemed appropriate to get some cash for it.
“But shit, is it enough? How much can I get for it? There’s no market for stuff like THIS in this sleepy town. Christ, does anyone here even know what Tiffany’s is?”
More stuff. I had to get more stuff. Something, anything to pawn. I needed more money. I scanned the room frantically. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it on top of my dresser: a black leather presentation box embossed with a silver disk. My watch.
“Yeah, that has to be worth something.”
It was a gorgeous Movado my brother, Tony, had given me for Christmas back in 2005. He had blown me away with it.
It had been a dazzling mid-September afternoon: a perfect West-Coast day. The temperature had hovered around the low 20s and with the sun low in the sky the soft light lent its golden glow to everything it touched. We were driving to his place on Harwood Street, right smack dab in the middle of Vancouver’s gay West End. Yes, my brother, a straight guy was living in the middle of 60-thousand fags. At some point during the drive I casually mentioned to him how I was slowly, very slowly saving up for a Movado.
I told him how I had carried a torch for that watch ever since I first saw it in a full-page ad in GQ Magazine 25 years ago: the “Museum” watch. Man it was beautiful. I never seriously thought I’d have one. It was a case of lost hope and lost cause, but, God, I wanted one. Unknown to me, the bugger went out the next day and bought me one. He kept that little secret for four months biding his time until the right moment to give it to me came along. That moment came one day during the Holidays when he dropped me off at my place in New Westminster. He grabbed my wrist just as I was getting out of the car and thrust a crinkly plastic bag in my hand.
“Here you go. Just a little something to remember this day by,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
I was trembling by the time I got up to my apartment. Was it what I hoped it was? The compact square bulkiness in the bag was about the right size. Oh please, God, don’t let it be just another package of good intentions. Tony’s track record of birthday and Christmas presents to me was questionable. There was that iridescent burgundy-green disco shirt in ’89, followed by a spectacular 150-piece tool set sometime later. Over the years I had learned to smile and open my eyes a little wider with mock anticipation as I unwrapped another one of his mystery gifts to me.
“Hey dude, thanks. This is great,” is what I’d been saying to him for the past I don’t know how many years.
I gently placed the box on top of the computer work station. It stayed there for three weeks. I went from hypomanic anticipation to deeply depressed disappointment and back again for days every time I glanced at the gift.
The phone rang one evening.
“Did you open it yet?” It was my brother.
“Uh, no,” I said sheepishly.
“What?” came back his crestfallen voice. “Aw, Jer, you gotta open it.”
I figured his anticipation of my reaction was probably on par with my trepidation. I caved. I cradled the phone in the crook of my neck and reached for the gift.
I can’t remember which jeweler’s wrappings enveloped the box in magic. Probably some place in Richmond Centre that catered to a wealthy Asian clientele. One thing I’ve got to say about my brother at that time. He made a ton of money, and he knew where to shop.
“Shit! It is, it is, it is…a Movado!”
I’m not sure if that was really me squealing like a little girl or if it was just my imagination. It didn’t matter. The fact was that I had wanted one of these beauties for so long and now there it was nestled in its leather case. The watch was stunning simplicity in stainless steel and 18k gold. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I had never owned anything so beautiful. I just stood there absolutely mesmerized by this work of art that my big brother had given me with all his heart.
“Thank you, Tony,” was all I said. I hope to this day it was enough.
A sudden awareness of traffic noises and people arguing instantly brought me back from memories past.
“I’ll give you sixty for the case, and forty for the watch,” said the snake behind the counter at the pawn shop. My heart caved in.
“I’ll take it,” I agreed robotically.
I knew there was no bargaining room. This was the last stop. I had reached my destination: a place called, “Desperation.” Yet somewhere deep in my mind an ember of pleasure began to glow. Its heat was the consummation of my hypomanic frenzy and frantic need. I was momentarily consumed by fire as soon as I touched the cash. But the feeling didn’t last. Pseudo-sexual as it was, there was very little afterglow. A little dejected, I put the money in my wallet and left the store.
Fifteen minutes later as I was on my way home, the race started up again. The stench of burning rubber filled my brain.
“Money! I need more fucking money!”
$6.15 Feeds Two
It has been a busy day so I hope I get this right. Here's the one-time grocery purchase for the ingredients I've used.
Grocery List
900g bag of Fusili-type pasta......$1.59
796ml/20oz can of diced tomatoes...$1.30
700ml jar pasta sauce..............$1.59
400g pre-packaged shredded cheese..$7.50
1-head of broccolli................$1.70
1 med/lg carrot....................$0.30
0.4kg boneless pork loin chops.....$4.08
TOTAL.............................$18.06
What I Used
1/4 of the Fusili..................$1.02
1/2 can of tomatoes................$0.66
1/3 of the pasta sauce.............$0.53
1/10 of the packaged cheese........$0.75
1/2 of the broccoli................$0.85
1 whole carrot.....................$0.30
1/2 of the pork....................$2.04
Total..............................$5.62
Preparation
1. I put water in my vegetable steamer and set the water to a medium boil.
2. I put enough olive oil to thinly cover bottom of fry pan, set on medium.
3. I cut off the broccoli florets and put aside in a small bowl.
4. I cut the carrot into 3 sort of equal lengths.
5. I cut each length down the middle.
6. I cut the sliced carrot into 1/4" pieces and put aside with broccoli.
7. Slice pork loin chops into strips to suit your taste/mouth.
Cooking
1. Put veggies into steamer and cover with lid.
2. Put pork into pan, spreading evenly along bottom, cover with lid.
3. Check veggies for desired tenderness/crunchiness ratio.
4. Stir pork occasionally until cooked through.
5. Put cooked veggies aside and cover to keep warm.
6. Top-up veggie water and put on burner on hi.
7. Once pork is done put aside and cover to keep warm.
8. Put diced tomatoes and pasta sauce in pan used for pork, mix well, simmer on med-low.
8. Once veggie water is boiling add pasta and cook for 8 mins.
9. Once pasta is cooked,drain.
Serving
1. Divide pasta into equal portions and put on plate.
2. Put still-warm veggies on pasta, spreading them around a bit.
3. Divide pork into equal portions and put on top of veggies.
4. Divide cheese into equal portions and sprinkle top of pork/veggie mixture.
You're done.
Grocery List
900g bag of Fusili-type pasta......$1.59
796ml/20oz can of diced tomatoes...$1.30
700ml jar pasta sauce..............$1.59
400g pre-packaged shredded cheese..$7.50
1-head of broccolli................$1.70
1 med/lg carrot....................$0.30
0.4kg boneless pork loin chops.....$4.08
TOTAL.............................$18.06
What I Used
1/4 of the Fusili..................$1.02
1/2 can of tomatoes................$0.66
1/3 of the pasta sauce.............$0.53
1/10 of the packaged cheese........$0.75
1/2 of the broccoli................$0.85
1 whole carrot.....................$0.30
1/2 of the pork....................$2.04
Total..............................$5.62
Preparation
1. I put water in my vegetable steamer and set the water to a medium boil.
2. I put enough olive oil to thinly cover bottom of fry pan, set on medium.
3. I cut off the broccoli florets and put aside in a small bowl.
4. I cut the carrot into 3 sort of equal lengths.
5. I cut each length down the middle.
6. I cut the sliced carrot into 1/4" pieces and put aside with broccoli.
7. Slice pork loin chops into strips to suit your taste/mouth.
Cooking
1. Put veggies into steamer and cover with lid.
2. Put pork into pan, spreading evenly along bottom, cover with lid.
3. Check veggies for desired tenderness/crunchiness ratio.
4. Stir pork occasionally until cooked through.
5. Put cooked veggies aside and cover to keep warm.
6. Top-up veggie water and put on burner on hi.
7. Once pork is done put aside and cover to keep warm.
8. Put diced tomatoes and pasta sauce in pan used for pork, mix well, simmer on med-low.
8. Once veggie water is boiling add pasta and cook for 8 mins.
9. Once pasta is cooked,drain.
Serving
1. Divide pasta into equal portions and put on plate.
2. Put still-warm veggies on pasta, spreading them around a bit.
3. Divide pork into equal portions and put on top of veggies.
4. Divide cheese into equal portions and sprinkle top of pork/veggie mixture.
You're done.
Saturday Night's Dinner
This past Saturday night's dinner was a hit once again. My partner Dave said it was really, really good. I'd like to thank the Italian nation once again for inventing pasta, my mom for her lessons in frugality, and myself for having a culinary imagination.
The total cost: $5.62 for feeding TWO, after calculation. And we were really stuffed! The recipe is coming later today.
The total cost: $5.62 for feeding TWO, after calculation. And we were really stuffed! The recipe is coming later today.
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