Columnists
Palimpsest – Seeking the Layers of Meaning in Life and the Game of Pool…
David Jure, Victoria
Volume 28 Issue 10, 11 & 12 | Posted: December 29, 2014
The day started with Webster and I at the James Joyce Bistro and Peacock Pool Room for a few friendly games. Unless he scratches on the eight-ball Webby usually beats me. My mind was beset with a million dramas and internal struggles and I was relieved when he scratched on the eight-ball in the first game.
Usually Webster, Pat Jamieson and I are together around the table bantering about religion, but Pat was not there to witness me missing sure shot after sure shot. Somewhat shaken, I took the bus home to new sherwood, as I call home these days, fixated on solving the age-old riddle, ‘You can’t win them all’.
The day started with Webster and I at the James Joyce Bistro and Peacock Pool Room for a few friendly games. Unless he scratches on the eight-ball Webby usually beats me. My mind was beset with a million dramas and internal struggles and I was relieved when he scratched on the eight-ball in the first game.
Usually Webster, Pat Jamieson and I are together around the table bantering about religion, but Pat was not there to witness me missing sure shot after sure shot. Somewhat shaken, I took the bus home to new sherwood, as I call home these days, fixated on solving the age-old riddle, ‘You can’t win them all’.
Still struggling with the nicotine dragon, every attempt at quitting has ended in failure. I’m thinking of bowing out of the race for the City of Victoria’s poet laureate as I don’t want the inevitable and concommitant attention to blow my cover as rebel angel first class.
All day, which was clear and sunny and cold, I wrestled with my demons, indulging in two baths, rooting for the winning hockey Habs, ingesting a delicious chicken noodle casserole, and reluctantly indulging in two short afternoon naps at the mercy of some pretty awful middle-of-the-road radio.
To paraphrase the Lion in Winter, to these aged eyes boy, that’s what losing looks like. Could I have played better pool? Indubitably. Bad luck comes in threes. I kept trying to contact healer Michael, who was having trouble keeping down food and water, to no avail.
Michael is too stubborn and sold on his inalienable Scottish rights to go willingly to the hospital, and I have to admire him for that. The Habs were leading three to one when I finally choked down two cups of coffee and found my mojo in the midst of a very compelling documentary about the battle of Bannockburn, where my direct ancestor Duncan would have fought.
I felt the return of the urge to fight and win, and made plans to ring Michael’s buzzer. I set off for Quadra and North Park Street by way of London Drugs, to buy rolling papers at the ‘Markup on Yates’, to stop, reflect, evaluate, as I call resting and having a coffee for a dollar. Life is supposed to be an adventure and is supposed to be all about the journey, but not always in my case.
THE MARKUP ON YATES
At The Markup, I recognized a young homeless man with a cat in his jacket and to my great surprise recognized him as a man I had interviewed some nine years ago, beaten down by life but not defeated and still living on the streets. Then it was my turn to be recognized. A friendly voice said David, it’s me Steve Castle.
I recognized the spiritual head of our old gang of young bohemians, Steve Castle, whom I had so much admired in the nineties for his savoir faire and fighting spirit. We chatted for five minutes and then he went off westerly to see a movie with his girlfriend.
Coffee in hand, I headed for Michael’s. Michael was not answering. I was beginning to wonder if he was alive or dead. Life is short and art is long, unless your name is Michaelangelo Bounarotti, in which case life is long and art is longer. I was at a loss to know what to expect next.
I meditated on having just exactly two dollars and fifty cents in my pocket, revulsion at the Sartre-esque Nausea I felt at finding myself downtown for the second time in one day.
The smell of pot wafted along Douglas Street and everywhere the homeless ruled the airwaves, along with sirens and catcalls. And so I found myself back at the James Joyce Bistro, having come full circle. A little wiser, with a glass neither half empty nor half full but turned once again into a glass darkly.
I peered at the waning will to win inside myself. The more I stay alive, the more real and wonderful is my own apartment, where I make the rules, (not very strict ones).
The more the Great World presides, with its excessive noise, chaos, crime and attention to retail strikes me as pure illusion, it is to be mostly ignored and forgotten. The inner truths at home are to be cherished and nurtured.
Knowing this finally at sixty, I have won the lottery, no matter how bad my pool shots are or how often or badly friend Webster defeats me.
Finally reaching my home near the park, I mused on the debate of the journey versus the arrival and turned on the television. Ridley Scott’s amazing epic Kingdom of Heaven was on and I thought I win at last. Heaven may equal haven, there may be no afterlife, no contest, no prowess to prove superiority, no Webster to kick my mortal behind.
David Jure has asked Santa Claus for a new pool cue this Christmas. Hope springs eternal.
David Jure, Victoria