... The Jesus Years


Spain.  Barcelona.  2002.  
       

Hung.  With headache in front of glorious La Sagrada Família, the amazing Gothic forever-in-progress that rendered this one dazed and depressed in city so beautiful as Barcelona to up and give Gaudí himself appreciating situations of lost thought amongst rude tourists. 

This is me, the contrast speaking.  This is me, the Jesus Years talking - all thirty-three of them.

We were, of course, no longer romantically involved, barely friends by the time we alit just north of Paris to switch airports.  X and I grabbed the shuttle from Charles de Gaulle to Orly with a whisper and a grunt, travelled a dreary ride in the March rain from one outskirt to another, never the once catching glimpse of the Eiffel Tower; we jumped a plane headed for Spain, took off and still never saw the grand old landmark.  Paris truly is reserved for lovers.

And a note tacked to the corkboard in our kitchen, just prior to that trip: “I promise you Spain and friendship, nothing else.” 

One of us had been into the vino and grown a little brave with paper and pen.  I could lie and say that X was the roommate in question, maybe even try to pass off someone other than Darth Vader as Luke Skywalker’s real father, but my bitter days are behind me; only just removed from when left to sit rather quietly at one of those outdoor cafés Europe is so famous for, trying my very best Spanish to order an orange juice and their bocadillo of bread with something hearty stuffed inside.  Once apart from X, my life had been reduced to a series of poorly pronounced foreign nouns and misused verbs.  Now separate hostel from her, I could have been persuaded to divulge that the chick in The Crying Game is really a guy.  But no longer now; as I’ve stated, this is recognition of that recent entry into the Jesus Years, the chronological time in life that it all came to a head for not so old JC - he did manage a brief comeback, but words to that effect never to leave my mouth.

I know nada about religion, merely bits of trivia.

Jesus was 33 when he got whacked.  Sorry.  Also: zumo de naranja is orange juice, chock-full of vitamin C and quite useful in cases of hangovers; jamón be their ham.  I tell all of this for that’s what the nice waitress brought to me at the café I speak of, that which I ate while staring up at the magnificent towers of the church, “Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus” written in red of their upper reaches; below, at street level, a construction barrier around the perpetual cranes had been spray-tagged in English: SKATE OR DIE.  Wonderful.  I smiled, showed my native tongue.  Thought of home.

Chapter 2:  Canada.  Ottawa.  In the Before.


I was dancing around within the lovely of a Before, playing with her real name on my open tongue.  Stopping only brief to scratch myself.  “Oh just go ahead and kiss me.”  But why, why then and there on the corner of Elgin and Somerset - my Centretown my Ottawa.  “You’re scratching your nose.  Don’t you know that you’re supposed to just go ahead and kiss me?”  Fair enough, I leaned over, planted a wet one on my girl’s superstition.  She accepted, told us to hold very still together.

Her left eyebrow then did flutter and thus grazed the left of mine twice, maybe more.  Beautiful, I brought the corners of my eyes up and smiled.

“Butterfly kisses - from me to you, Henry.”  Said with her hands.

And if it matters, I mean really matters, it was a Tuesday, around noon on one of our joint days off.  Sometime in that early August of particular; and I could very well go on and describe that Before and believe that there will be a someday when I am again capable of watching couple’s porn, or even the simple display of people holding hands.  Me, to be quite happy enough to flick on the old boob tube and watch HBO, comfortable with the feeling that someone has been following me around with a hidden camera, stealing dialogue of the everyday that happens to those boyfriend and girlfriend amongst us.  Eventually, a very tiny kiss will deign to either forgive or embrace Spain for the manner with which it has rendered me tongue to cheek with those unfortunate victims of fire and their permanent tears, those lucky enough to survive an accident …that minute percentage that crawls miraculous out of the wreckage of a plane crash - daring to ever even turn on newscast again, go to certain cinema with the forever awareness that scene might very well surprise remembrance. 

Perhaps.  And yes, nuts to experience and this hair shirt that I leave unbuttoned most Now nights.