Thursday August 22, 2019
Freeing The Creative Spirit
I don’t take the shot, but I aim. I hold the gun in shaking hands. I smell cement, rain, pine needles. I remember how my father used to smoke a bong in the morning and leave it on the table. I remember how my father’s wife, Ursula, used to dump the bong water in the toilet and when I’d go to pee I’d see the strange colour, smell the strange smell. I smoked my first joint when I was ten. My father rolled it. Now, I hold this gun in my hands and I’ve never felt so big and so small. Time is the great kaleidoscope. My father’s voice in my ear, “DO it.” Ursula died of breast cancer last November. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry.