BILLY BARKER 

by Greydon Moore


Ottawa, Canada
2005

@ 1968, 2005, Greydon Moore

Published by Commoners' Publishing
631 Tubman. (613) 421-0846
Ottawa Canada K1V 8L5

ISBN 0-88970-121-0







All rights reserved. This book may not be copied, or stored in any
information retrieval system, in whole or in part, without permission
in writing from the copyright owner.

Printed in Canada



AN ALLEGORY ON THE END OF THE PISCEAN ERA

      - Those ideas which were thought to make Billy Barker and its author
important are also at an end. The whole world, not the swimming individual,
is now the stage for the Aquarian Age. - Greydon Moore. 2005.


    
PART ONE

      On a balcony which overlooks San Francisco in the late
eighteen-sixties are two strange people. The woman stooping to wipe
her coffee table can be described with one word - nightmarish. Everything
about her is gross and grotesque. The overall effect is upped by heavy
makeup, weird dress, bizarre hairdo. Tom nervously brushes lint off his
faggotty clothes. He is a San Francisco actor who specializes in the
style of the well-made play.

      A large crucifix six feet high dominates one wall of the apartment.
The head of the image looks out to the balcony. Trappings of the apartment
are unpredictable. Colors are gaudy and bright, concentrating in the
bright greens and orange. The furnishings are highly ornate being made
of wrought iron. The artificiality of this home is blighted partially by
a giant philodendron plant which grows hungrily almost to the ceiling
near the door, plus a box of red geraniums on the balcony.

      These two low beasts of humanity are Billy Barker's family. They
wait now for the arrival of Billy and Mary his wife. Meanwhile the mother
occupies herself with her regular housework, working her routine so
perfunctorily that it seems to have a beat, a rhythm of its own.

      The Mother:  Nice that they're going to make him a judge. Billy's
a good man. A little odd, perhaps, you know, hard to understand, But
ideal for Mary. Lucky lucky Mary ... (trying it at different pitches)
Lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky ...

      Tom:  (Peering over the balcony) Mother, you should come and
see the seagulls out there. They're such beautiful birds. One should feel
inspired by their grace and freedom, I suppose, One shat in my eye as I
was coming home this afternoon. I hate them. Such crude toilet training.

      The Mother:  What on earth is keeping those darling children of
mine. It's almost time ... it's almost time ... (eating a jar of
grapes before picking up again her rhythm of housecleaning, advancing
now upon the giant philodendron by the front door).

      Tom:  Mother, Billy and Mary will NEVER get here in time.
(Suddenly he turns to face his mother) If they don't arrive soon I'll
have to leave house for the theatre and miss supper. But I feel good
tonight, liberated, I'm going to have a great performance.

      (The mother is polishing each leaf of the philodendron with
a milk dampened cloth.) Now WHAT do you think could be keeping
them - think - think - tock tock tick tick - (clicking her tongue).

      Do you think he's making love to her again? Do you think they could
be at this very second in the ecstasy ... ugh! (repulsed).

      (A seagull has dropped out of the sky, seems to hang in space out
just beyond the balcony, peering oddly straight into the parlor. When Tom
turns, confronting the gull head-on, with a startled screech it lifts and
soars away) (Continuing) ... but for a man whose past is as
vague as Billy's, I suppose he could be capable of anything. Born
illegitimate, you know...

     (Suddenly the mother freezes. She presses her fingers to her
temples. In this medianistic pose she cries) Stop! Beats! Yes, yes
I hear them coming ...

      Do you think he's beating Mary, mother? Cousin Thurlow told me
privately of that gentleman named De Sade who used to hang his girlfriends
by their toes and try them that way. And called it consciousness. Do
you think Billy's having his troubles right now trying to expand his
consciousness by seducing Mary as he's wriggling and screaming against
her hot, steamy, upside-down body?

      The tea will get hot. They should come for tea when the tea is
not hot. They should come for cold tea, properly. (Running to the
balcony and peering over the edge to see if they are coming) Ohhhh
it's such a long way down ... it makes me feel disGUSting, makes me
feel like I'm swallowing myself, from the top of the head, inward
... suuuuuuuuuucckkkkkk!

      What is it that makes Billy so special, and yet so terrifying, mother?

      (Turning her big eyes on him) Special?

      I've studied that man from afar and I've watched him perform. Do you want
to know what MY considered opinion is, I think he's too good to be true.
Remember at the wedding what I said to dearest Mary? Watch that man ... watch
him closely with your wary morning glory eyes. He's strange, off, something
different, he's too good to be true. He says that even as a boy they used to
tell him he was too good to be true. And now he's saying: oh boo hoo, oh boo hoo
- I'm so full of life! Oh alas, Tom, what am I going to DO. I am so full of
life, yet they won't hear me ...

      (The mother has been dancing on her feet again, fairly leaping in the
fervor of her housework from one part of the room to another. Her thick legs,
exaggerated in their ugliness by the light terry cloth shift which swings about
her knees, make dull but hurried thuds through the room. Fussing with her plants
now she moves from the balcony to the table to the front door and back to the
balcony carrying her plants) Do you like - like them - do you - like the - do
you like the plants better ... better this way ... or that way ...

      I like them better the way they were in the first place. See those
children playing down in the park? ... the teenaged sons and daughters of our
illustrious and illumined aristocratic families? WELLL the other day I was
telling Billy how nice it is to see such clean-cut and healthy boys and girls
for a change. And HE got that haunted look in his eyes, and said, yeah, half of
them are already alcoholics. I don't know whether I like that remark or not. It
reflects on our good breeding.

      (The famous actor rubs the genital that seems to weigh heavily in his
tight pants, then spits angrily over the side of the balcony. In turning
accidentally he knocks to the floor the cleaning cloth left behind on the ornate
coffee table which has a glass top. Instantly the mother has pounced on the
cloth, like an ever watchful vulture, throws it over the side. With gusto that
is almost hideous she begins to manipulate the geranium plants, pruning them,
moving the box from one poor location to another).

      The Mother:  I think the plants should be thrown out altogether. Beastly
inconsiderate things. They put oxygen into the air, and too much oxygen is bad
for the brain.

      Tom:  Yep, Billy's a strange combination, a strange flower. But we'll fix
him soon enough, won't we, mother? You and I. I want you to have a flower.
(Picking a flower which he puts in her hair) I want you to have my bath ready in
twenty minutes. Don't forget the salts, Mother. I'm glad we're able to give
Billy this rich full life of ours. He should learn to keep his opinions to
himself. He had nothing, you know, before he seduced Mary into marrying him.
Yesterday morning, at breakfast no less, he asked me if I knew what the term
'aesthetic man' meant, then smiled that maddening smile of his because he KNEW I
didn't know what he meant. But we'll fix him soon enough, won't we, Mother, you
and I .?.

      (There is a sudden commotion at the entranceway, with much giggling and
snickering.) Mary laughs brightly out in the hallway. Her laugh is exceedingly
rich and exciting for those who enjoy life. Billy Barker now bursts through the
door, with Mary right behind. Mary, playing the game, has her hands in his back
pockets, trying to hold him back. Mary is young, vivacious, with blond hair like
the summer sun. This is how Billy sees her at this period of his crisis. She
radiates, possessing no apparent hardness, contradiction, or searing spirit.
This is a thrilling woman who, if so desiring, could arouse even the blackest
hearts of man. Her husban? Billy Barker is a noble figure, tall with all the
right charisma, in his late twenties. He has recently formed a strong bond with
Hardial but has not yet entered the struggle. He is vaguely aware at this time
of the death and absurdities of his life with Mary, even so, he still ignores
the messages and accepts this life without questioning.

      The Mother:  (performing her ritual) Children, How nice.

      Yes, how nice ... (says Billy, hanging his loose coat in the hallway).

      The Mother:  Watch your dirty boots ... out! out! outside! There, that's a
good boy. Now Billy, will you come here, will you throw those plants over the
balcony ... (and warning him with a great rolling of her vulgar eyes) ... watch
out for those children down there.

      Billy eyes her with faint amusement.

      Tom, suddenly launching himself from the sofa:  Mary, how lovely you look
... Mother see see ...

      Stepping into the room Billy says: Sorry we're late, we've just come from
the tailors. So, what do you think of my tweed suit?

      Tom:  It stinks.

      Billy:  Oh, it does, does it? My, my, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
please regard how the EMPEROR'S new clothes speak for themselves!

      The Mother speaks:  Now isn't that a shame, the tea is almost hot. We
simply can't have the tea hot. We must have tea cold, properly. (Filling teacups
on the dining room table) Do you really like Tom's clothes, Billy? Oh they're SO
expressive for an actor. I mean, I helped him select them and that's important
... hot! ... how terrible. (She leaves the room).

      Tom, suddenly turning to Billy:  You don't like me very much. (Tom never
looks directly at Billy's eyes, only at his body, or at the wall behind).

      Billy:  Awwwww don't go away mad ... just go away ... tell him Mary.

      Billy, you DON'T like my brother very much, do you.

      He doesn't like ME very much.

      Tom:  What do you mean, telling Lu-Ellen that I am 'sensuous man'. I am an
actor, one of the best in San Francisco. Don't ever forget it.

      Billy, please. You simply have to give Tom the proper chance. How many
times must I ASK you. He's sensitive, and he IS my brother. And I'd like you to
show a little more respect for other people from now on ... I know Tom has one
or two peculiar ideas, but after all he is still human.

      Human! Good Lord - He's god, spelled backwards, with a capital D.

      (Tom, of all incredible things, has been staring intently at the wall)
Shhhhh ... quiet! ... what's that funny noise ...?

      (Mary, at the mirror, fixing her hair): What funny noise?

      Billy:  (Like a dog, baying to the moon) Awwoooo ... it is the howling of
your consciousness -

      Tom:  I hear a strange noise ... the walls are coming in...

      (Just then the door from the bedroom flies open and the mother enters,
stopping before Mary to look enraptured up into her face). Oh she has such an
innocent face.

      Tom:  Ah yes, a beautiful innocent face. How nice. A beautiful face never
hurt anyone.

      Billy:  Every day in the courtrooms I see beautiful innocent faces
committing crimes against humanity. Every day I listen to their innocent faces
and I see their lies and deceptions. It's an innocent face with a black heart,
that's what fills me with horror.

      Do you love me?

      (The question is Mary's, to which Billy teasingly makes a grand
announcement) And now for the big news ... Sunday, August 29 exactly one year
ago today was my wedding day and I can't live without Mary. Yes I love you very
much Mary. Without your love I'd probably die, flake off, wither on the vine,
blow off on the harvest wind ...

      Tom:  Well I can't see that it matters whether or not a man has
conviction. Now take me for instance, I'm not one to inquire indiscriminately
into CRAP like aesthetic truths or a man's motives ... I'm a down to earth actor
... I'm a realist who goes by the rule of ...

      Billy, cutting in:  You're a bloody faggot.

      Mother:  (Like a rifle shot) What!

      (A heavy silence).

      Tom:  And I suppose you're the epitome of ... of ...

      Billy:  (a simple statement) Yes I am.

      Mother, something must be done about this man. He doesn't fit. His very
presence in our house is a mockery of good taste. (Mollifying him) Tom, Tom,
good brother Tom, how you have misunderstood me, HOW could I possibly threaten
you, or mother, or the hypocrites at court, or anybody ...

      Tom:  (as Billy goes to put an arm around his shoulder) Don't-you-touch-me
(revulsed).

      (Surprised, Billy with a mood of false gaiety, tries to regain some
dignity by interjecting) It's too bad you haven't had a chance to meet Hardial.
I think it would be a good idea if we could all get together for dinner this
week, then we can meet each other properly.

      (While he talks Billy casually gives the crucifix on the wall a gentle
nudge, which tips it off balance. The figure executes a slow, almost deliberate
roll, hangs upside-down with its head only a few inches from the floor, and
quivers oddly. The most incredible thing is that no one seems to notice it but
Billy)

      Mother:  Dinner? When?

      Billy:  Tomorrow night. Here, at your place. I figure around six o'clock
should be a good o'clock.

      Mary:  (suddenly erupting) Arrrggggue ... I can't make it. Oh gee Billy
I'm awfully sorry but I can't go into details right now. You understand, don't
you? ... Madame Yaaz down the hill, she promised to create my new hairstyling
for Mavis' party Saturday night. I'm very lucky because EVERYbody wants her.
(Noticing his face) Oh you CAN come to the party, darling? ... don't hurt me,
you can come ... can't you?

      Oh god, the whole thing is beginning to fill me with apprehension. Mary,
yesterday Hardial said an amazing thing. He said that all my life I have been
manipulated ...

      You'd better come if you value your life! Famous or not we want you. Some
of Mavis' girlfriends want to meet you - the illustrious Billy Barker, Mary's
Billy Barker, that's what they're saying. Anyway, tomorrow mother and I have to
go across the hill and we won't be back until Saturday. Well, don't look so
pained, darling. Sleeping alone won't kill you. Mother, I've married a greedy
lion, but at heart my Billy is just an insatiable little brat.

      Billy:  (wounded) You bloody liar.

      (Hot) No one calls me a liar.

      Tom:  (sarcastically) tsk ... tsk ... tsk ... love.

      Mother:  Oh for god's sake you've given me a headache, (agitated, she
suddenly grabs one of the geranium plants and flings it over the balcony) ...
lucky Mary ... lucky lucky lucky lucky ...

      Tom:  Whatever do you waste your time, and our time, with such ... waste,
as this Hardial man or whatever he is. Frankly I don't even think he exists.

      Billy:  How little you understand Tom. How poor you are. Hardial is a
chemist, a philosopher, and a poet. But what does it matter? I give my love, my
guts, my humanity to Hardial.

      Mother:  Tom is right. Tom is not poor. I hear such nasty stories ...
dirty ... they're talking about you and Hardial ...

      Awww come on you people give Hardial a chance. You're just like relentless
beasts, vultures (gestures) vultch ... vultch... vultch What are you? ... You
say nothing. You know nothing, You feel nothing. What are you? Vegetables?

      Tom:  I deeply resent that remark.

      Mary:  He came back. The significant thing is he came back from someplace
to see Billy, he came back. He came to see ...

      Tom:  Billy:

      Back, Mary? Back.

      What difference does it make. He's here. He's visiting ... (at Tom)
(angrily) Look, asshole, if you smirk once more I'll... Man what a bizarre
family! fantastic ... god! Hardial was out visiting friends in Louisiana. When
he got well enough to travel he left Louisiana and came straight here just to
see me. You know why? Because I had become 'alive' to him. He loved me. And that
alone makes me feel I'm still worth something in this miserable life. Did you
know there are people who worship this man. There are others who hate his guts.


    
PART TWO

      November by the zodiac.

      It is a strange place to find the woman, moving up the single rutted
street of a worn town, to turn at last directly into the doorway of the one
wooden hotel.

      She strides defiantly into his room. The man softened lies unshaven and
unwashed. He is sprawled on his back across the unmade bed, clad only in his
undershorts. His clothes and his few other possessions are flung through the
room.

      Crossing to peer down at the sleeping figure, Mary, in an odd gesture of
feeling, sadly passes her hand over the length of his near-nude body without
touching him. Then her face turns hard. It is unfortunate that she is so
attractive for she wears her beauty loudly which tends to degrade her in the
environment of this cheap hotel room. Her clothes with their bizarrely sparking
colors, are fashionable even in San Francisco. Her hair is now darker, her
clothes however are quite clean, and her upswept hairstyle takes an hour to put
in place.

      As for Billy Barker, who was last seen seven months ago in San Francisco,
his youthful face has become a mirror of the strange despair that is surely
destroying him.

      Now Mary begins to move angrily through the room, examining it with
calculated contempt. She finds the letters on the dresser and begins to look
through them, finding only a couple of bills of currency which she quietly slips
into her blouse. She examines the letters again, this time more carefully.
Finally in silent fury she throws them on the floor. She now turns to his few
belongings, picking them up one at a time, She picks up his boot, smells it -
disgust. She finds his dirty pants in a heap under the?chair and smells the
crotch - again disgust. In disgust she starts to cram his dirty clothes into the
wastebasket, then gives it up.

      Crossing suddenly to the door, she opens it, and slams it with a
resounding crash.

      Billy:  (violently sitting up in bed) What in hell. What the hell are you
doing here!

      (First condemning the room with her eyes, then him) Mother would have a
fit! ... mother would JUST have a fit! (They stare oddly at each other).

      Whew, it smells like a pig sty in here. Oh boy what mother would say —

      What are you doing here!

      Why Billy, darling, whatever happened to your brand new exclusively
tailored tweed suit. (Crumpled on the chair is a ragged suit coat. The pants she
has already stuffed in the wastebasket. She takes the suit coat to the window to
examine it.) Why darling you've been rolling in the gutter, haven't you. How
delightful. Have you been drinking darling?

      (Grabbing the jacket) Shut up. (on the bedside table is a half bottle of
cheap alcohol. She sees it and takes it and holds it sideways in the light, as
if to look for fingerprints) You know I don't drink.

      Oh?

      I have nothing to say to you. Leave me alone.

      (As Billy fumbles into his pants) (tauntingly) Why Billy darling you're
not dressed yet for the opera. Oh don't TELL me we're going to become sensitive
again. Haven't we already had enough? Look at you - a tramp, a bum, unshaven and
stinking, just like your foul smelling friend Hardial. (A sudden note of
hysteria) Don't look at me like that -

      (With infinite patience) Mary, please, enough. You've done a terrible
thing in following me here. Please go.

      Go! Go! are you out of your mind? It's only seven o'clock. It's not even
time for our hot tea. Some like it HOT, you know. You know. (Crossing to the
chair she flings his suit coat to the floor and plants herself in the chair. She
stares rigidly ahead, on the verge of tears, she may at any moment start bawling
like a child).

      (He studies her silent crying in the chair) Drink?

      Where are the letters?

      There are none.

      You are my husband and I have pursued you for seven miserable months. At
least you could have answered one of my letters.

      Please go.

      But, Billy, what exactly do you want?

      But how can I think of wanting when ten different people want me to be ten
different things? Isn't it simply enough that I want to be left alone and I want
to be what I am? (When she regards him - silent and intractable) You've taken
just about everything I've got. Do you want more? Have you so much avarice? Here
- (taking a six-inch knife from the dresser and deliberately opening his fly,
pulling out his genitals) - here, why don't you take my sex organs too and be
done with it. Here (offering her the knife) you want them so badly, take them,
and go away.

      (Smiling suddenly) Billy that was very good, yes, you're really coming
along very nicely. (Then in sudden defence) Well how do you think I felt. Him
coming to the house all the time and shouting about the people he met, and
accusing them of being so WRETCHedly ignorant. Masturbation! OH that vulgar
word! And he'd call them masturbators, and sit there drinking our best whiskey,
moaning about them. I came home one night, and he was there, throwing my best
cut glass pieces into the fireplace. (With scorn) Oh it was SO sweet, he wanted
to hear the different sounds of the glass shattering in the fireplace.

      (By now he realizes that she isn't going to leave willingly. There is a
futility in his subdued voice) What do you want?

      I want you to become my proper husband again. I want you to come back home
to San Francisco where you belong. Properly.

      That's impossible.

      Shit.

      Please, Mary, it hurts ... it hurts ... you don't know how your presence
here is killing me ... please go.

      Well aren't we the magnificent tower of torn soul. And just what do you
think we women do, when our husbands walk out and leave us laughing it up with
the hags in San Francisco. I don't mean to get banal and prosaic at a time like
this, our big dramatic moment together, but, yes, mother was right, yes she was,
didn't she say it ... didn't she say it...

      Oh yes ... your mother ... the bag of Baghdad ...

      (Smiling - smirking more - lewdly from the side of her mouth, having
enjoyed the pun) Very good pun ...

      But don't you see, all of this is nothing. Tomorrow I'm leaving for
Horsefly, and then that will be the last you'll ever see of me.

      What! Again! Haven't you yet learned your lesson? Now don't tell me,
surely you don't mean ... oh darling oh no don't tell me you're going to find us
a pot of gold? Oh Billy how beautiful ... (laughing) ... how beautiful!

      (So he contemplates her in dead silence. What else can he do).

      Billy I was crushed, I was - to use your word - 'horrified' when you left
me like that, I mean, didn't we build something nice together, All you said was
'I'm going to join the gold rush.' You didn't even say sorry.

      Why not? Why not the gold rush? Do you think for one minute I like this?
(indicates the room) Did you think, for instance, I like standing rooted in
vigorous masturbation in that court room defending those ethical monsters of San
Francisco, because they could PAY me?

      But what about ME? It wasn't easy coming all that way eighteen hundred
miles looking for you. The Cariboo Trail is pretty hard on a woman, you know.
Man, I mean I even walked over the top of a mountain, over seventy miles, in
bare feet, with blisters, looking for my husband.

      Tough titty.

      How can you be so MEAN! If only you knew how much - (she turns and butts
her cigarette in the ashtray on the dresser) - I've suffered because of you, I
can't STAND pain. Or sleeping like a common whore in those cheap hotels. Ugh,
and those UGLY squaws, if they're not drunk, they're ... ugh how horrible. And
what about when I fell off my horse and cut my head open - look, look! ... see
the monstrosity! (scar) - oh I can't THINK of the indignities I've suffered in
the last seven months because of you. (On the verge of tears) I was so mortified
when you left. (She pauses) You should hear what they're whispering about you
back in San Francisco ...

      Billy? ... Billy?

      What do I care what those cocks and robbers say.

      Then what about ME.

      But don't you see, Mary, how can I go back? Even the thoughts torment me
night and day. What will I go back to?

      There's nothing more I want. I had nothing with you ... what have I left
to lose ... one two button my shoe ... three four close the door ...

      Oh for heaven's sake stop acting as if you were ten years old. Gold! Billy
how can you be so blind. You can't go off to the wilderness like Lothario to the
rescue simply to find gold.

      And who told you? Alex did it. He got over four hundred thousand bucks.

      Right here at Boston Bar.

      Lover, I can't believe this is really you. Look at your face. Look at your
eyes, LOOK AT THEM! (At this cue quietly he goes to the mirror and sadly
contemplates himself, but suddenly he recoils in horror at the spectre which
appears suddenly in the mirror).

      No - no - no - (Visibly shaken, he staggers to the liquor bottle and
drinks deeply).

      I'm sorry. But you know you're really not the martyr type. Let's face it,
you're too soft and flabby - I should know. You're acting like a bigger fool
than I ever gave you credit for. Congratulations. Mother and Tom were certainly
right this time...

      All right, if this is your desire, then I'm sorry, you are striving for
death. I've tried to be kind to you, but you've asked for it. Well Mary, get
ready, here comes the first killing. What a wonderful trio of horrors you three
make, you and your mother and Tom. Selfish, egocentric, each of you. Greedy.
Hopelessly unaware ... you know, I looked at myself in the mirror exactly seven
months ago. That was not my face. That body you manipulated and the clothes it
wore and the ridiculously bad lawyer it called itself, and the money, the
prestige, it belonged to someone else. It was enslaved sensuously figure and
flesh by you and your mother. And by San Francisco. And ... and ... And I have
so much life inside of me, and, oh what's the use. I cried, Mary.

      Oh dear, how sad, have you died again Billy? Oh I'm so sad. - my sweet
agonizing cancer of my life ... go, please. You told me he willed a TREE to
death. Billy? ... I mean ... I mean ... oh shit.

      ... he used to sing to me, I have a pain in my heart, I have a pain in my
heart! Again and again he used to sing it, and I used to smile and listen amused
to his strange high pitched voice.

      And finally I began to wonder why he sang it so persistently. Then one day
I began to bleed for you. And then it was so simple, I had a pain in my heart
too. Let me confront you with some truths about yourself. Just be quiet and let
me finish. You're a vain, deluded woman who has no real concept of love - you've
been misled hopelessly by your own terrible mistakes:  you've become enslaved by
your genital irritation - your genital itch is driving you nuts! No ... let me
finish ... you saw me at Lu-ellen's party that first night and you liked my
guts, decided to seduce me on the very spot, and even so, I played along with
your cheap trick. You than took it upon yourself to talk me out of philosophical
pursuits, 'philosophical cherries' you called them, and talked me into taking up
law - 'the honourable profession!' Well, then, after profaning my mind and
character, you wanted to profane my body too. So I submitted to your insatiable
appetites, I tip-toed up and down, up and down dark hallways of your mansion in
the middle of the night, getting my cock ready. God I die when I see evil
glitter come into your eyes and hear you groaning and know that soon I will die
again, for all you want is leg-thrashing grinding sex. You want to be ravished
until there's no more music to it. Yet you can't be satisfied. B?t it was love,
you cried. Oh you were so happy! - I don't want that kind of proffering, from
you or anybody. I want something else.

      You can't throw up your wife and just walk out on your career over one
man. (To herself) Oh HOW am I going to make him stop -? Billy what kind of an
utter fool is going to rush off into strange country without money and without
friends or without hope or experience ... to find something that isn't even
there.

      But what else can a man do? I, you, we still have to live our whole
lifetimes together, even though I will try to escape your sight and your
contamination. That's pain, that's suffering, that's what life is ... I still
love you Mary, but what can I do? that is life ... soon even the wedding gifts
go rusty, And then ... (A pause).

      Why don't you come off it. Hardial was a bum. How can you possibly believe
that such a pervert, a homosexual, crude ignorant man could possibly be good, as
you say he is?

      Leave me alone! Leave me alone! ... leave me alone.

      Did you know Hardial used to come into our house during the night and sit
there at our kitchen table, all night, yes breaking my best glasses, and writing
his ridiculous poetry.

      God must you remind me ... (regaining his self composure) He was the one
beauty of my life, Hardial. I remember one morning, I lay in bed and I could
hear birds sing at sunrise and the sun was hot at my window. You were away
again, visiting mother. Hardial was downstairs at the kitchen table, big, like
the ghost of awareness, talking to himself, writing poetry aloud. It was such a
crazy thing to be doing at that hour, but it was so human. And I wanted to go to
him, but I didn't feel like getting out of bed. Later when I came downstairs, in
protest he'd stuck my boots and shoes in a row like symbolic soldiers all across
the front of our house, on the spikes of our eaves. And left a beautiful yellow
hyacinth glowing from the keyhole, So I wrote a poem for Hardial: 'as I awoke
this morning, Hardial was gone, and there were shoes on the spikes of the eaves
and a yellow flower in the keyhole, Thank you for putting the flowers on the
eaves. The shoe in the keyhole has wilted in the noonday sun!'

      It stinks. It doesn't even make sense.

      Yes it is beautiful. But you can't understand. (He hesitates, groping for
the right words to explain) (then) We shared something, Hardial and I, we loved
each other, humanly. He was 'alive' for me and I was 'alive' for him. And that
poem is something you and I could never share. We have no poetry. Don't you see,
Mary, you're like an old woman with withered tits who is viciously clinging to
the remnants of your fading looks, and you know, you clutch so desperately and
tenaciously that your tits become everything you possess and you become that
ugliness You know what? you're a woman who is very conscious of her own
ugliness.

      Well you should talk What about that hot little tete à tete MAN
relationship between you and that ... Hardial.

      (Livid with passion) (shaking) You ugly - don't you profane – oh god don't
you EVER talk that way -

      Billy how can you torture yourself like this. Billy look at me ...
(gently) Look at me, I'm your wife. We used to be so happy before Hardial came,
Billy look at me,

      You're dead. Gone. My sweet dearly beloved agonizing cancer of my life,
get out. Leave me alone. Go. (She sits in stony silence, contemplating him
unemotionally. When after a few minutes she has not moved, he lies back on the
bed) Okay, Mary, what do you want?

      I want you ... back.

      That's impossible. There's nothing left to go back to.

      Billy what am I going to do with you. You bad little boy, I need you. I
love you. Is that what you want me to say? I love you? I love you? If that's
what you want I'll say it darling, I'll say anything, Oh darling how can you be
so cruel, oh I can't live without you, I'll die without you, I'll expire, faint,
wither on the vine, blow away in the first puff of the winter wind - or the
harvest moon - or whatever the hell it was -

      - (softly but desperately) Stop it Mary, You're much too ugly for such
humiliation.

      I don't love you anymore.

      (He shrugs)

      (A new tack) I'm sorry ...

      Yeah yeah of course you're sorry. Look what you did to Hardial. You're
like a great beast greedy greedy picking away licking the very guts out of me.
GET OUT!

      I didn't come eighteen hundred miles to be thrown out by my husband. I'll
stay until you come to your senses.

      You won't do what I ask, you won't listen. Get out. By god I'll fix you
...

      Don't you dare touch me - (Mary is rigid with impotent anger. Before she.
can speak, Billy, pushed past endurance by her madness, with all the meanness of
revenge for the past seven months of hell existence, he cruelly, solidly,
deliberately delivers a blow into her face. And even as she staggers aback,
stunned, to the door, he has taken her and shoved her mightily through the door.
Now he paces the room, obviously tortured by the intensity of his emotion,
squeezed in the grip of some incomprehensible despair).

      (Raging on the verge of tears) What else can a man do when his wife is
dead ... she is dead ...

      Mary tries the door from the outside, finds it locked, makes a half plea
to Billy, then gives it up. With a queer sob she turns and runs into the street.


    
PART THREE

      Picture the whole metaphysical experience; a small campfire with two men -
one Billy Barker of San Francisco. And the dark night smelling of forest.
Moonglow is gone, there is no moon. The stars in the mountain air are a smear of
galaxies and a billion winking lights.

      Shapes and things have filled the night with madness. Mountains which have
grown out of the ponderous still of the night move in heavy shapes out of
existential awareness beyond the shadows of the fire. The evergreens are
screaming, reaching in from the outer rim of shadows almost to the fire.

      Near at hand is the bright sound of a creek. The creek runs downhill over
rocks, cold, clear, teeming with water babies, stones tolling in the water; it
gurgles gold! gold! - the sound of his desire; the sound is very close indeed.
Instead of a mighty creek it could be a mere trickle of water oozing like tears
out of the ferns on the side of the mountain and splashing noisily over the
fern-covered rocks down towards the campsite. It doesn't really matter. Only the
whole metaphysical experience really counts.

      He is neither lost nor won - the man crouching by the fire is neither old
nor young. Polling the fire, he now adds a couple of pieces of wood. Now sitting
on his haunches, he waits quietly. Of a sudden the hiss and spit of the fire are
interrupted by the other man urinating heavily in the nearby creek. There is
nothing subtle about it. The sound fills the whole night and goes on like it
will never stop. When suddenly Billy explodes with laughter, rocking back on his
haunches and slapping his thighs, Graham calls out:  Hey, what's so cockbustin'
funny, man?

      You! Well bravo! You are magnificent! Hah hah what fantastic penis
strength (the 'r' of strength is rolled for emphasis) Yes, Graham, even the
moose and racoons were suitably impressed.

      (Silence in the bushes) (Then, cautiously) What do you mean, 'penis
strength'?

      But my friend why do you have to prove your masculinity? And you use such
crude, obvious tricks, I can see that you're a man.

      (Finished, Graham comes crashing lightly into the fire circle where Billy
chuckling still, leans on his knees gently blowing life into the smouldering
fire).

      - What do you mean? prove my masculinity ... I ain't tryin' t' prove
nothin!

      Oh but you are. Billy knows. Look at you blush. You're not very subtle,
you know. You went to that creek over there and you deliberately pissed with the
strength of a horse, hoping Billy was all ears, and when it began to sound like
a horse, then, you see, you proved something. But you're going about it all
wrong. There are better tests. When I was a boy of nine and ten in the orphanage
we used to tie strings around rocks and hang these from the ends of our cocks,
and practice.

      (A long silence) What a funny guy you are. (Again a pause) I can't figure
you out at all. (Again hesitation) I mean, sometimes I believe you and sometimes
... I can't ... man yer strange ...

     But why? I have been most completely sincere with you. The problem is that
the same old problem still haunts you, you still aren't listening. Yer'
different tonight. Yu' SOUND different. I can't figure it.

      Maybe so. Could be the metaphysics of the night. I've been thinking of
Hardial.

      (At the mention of the dreaded name, Graham hastily withdraws, fumbles for
a few desperate seconds with the billy can on the fire. Then he drags the whisky
flask out of his bedroll. Coming to sit near Billy, he says brightly):  Hey,
remember that thing you said when we were pannin' up the creek today, I bin
thinkin' 'bout what you said, 'bout him an' the dead tree. (Graham shakes his
head loosely and laughs to himself).

      Billy:  - one night I came into his room, it was very late. Hardial was
still there, still awake, watering a miniature cherry tree, a tree I'd given him
two weeks before as a joke, a present for his birthday. Now the tree had wilted.
It was barely alive. He sensed right away why I looked so puzzled. No no, he
said, you do not understand! ... the tree is not dying! I am willing it to
death! When I questioned him, he said the tree had strength; "when I need
energy, I absorb the strength of that tree", he said. But why WILL such a
beautiful tree to death, I asked. Why not? he said, soon I will grow a better
one in my mind.

      All this time you bin talking 'bout Hardial, Billy, an' you ain't never
explained, what happened to him ... you ain't never told me what happened to him
... like how come he ain't here, huh ...

      (An explosive, almost insane laugh in the night. A wind starts up in the
trees. Still laughing, sort of, Billy slips into the shadows and comes back with
an armload of firewood) ... to see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a
wildflower; hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour -
but you wouldn't understand such eternity ... no. (Laying wood on the fire)
You're too wrapped up in your own hysterical rush for recognition, or gold, or
sex, or whatever it is you crave from life. Graham, what do you CRAVE out of
life?

      Gold, I guess, first thing off.

      (Still chuckling to himself) Where's Hardial ... hah ha ha hideous,
hideous, hideous. (Then) Listen to the sound of the night Graham. Listen to it.
In all my life I have never heard the wind in the trees or heard water running
downhill over rocks, or the night singing. I surprise myself, Graham, I never
knew I could feel so much poetry. Where I come from we don't have time for life,
only for making reputations, and money, piles of money.

      Did yu' know I ache for you, man.

      What?

      I mean yer exciting. I don't see what's so funny.

      Oh come on Graham Maximy, you're making a profanity of love. (Suddenly
angry) Why? Why? are you so bloody weak! Are YOU trying to kill me too? How many
times have I tried to make you understand!

      Hell, I thought me n' you were buddies. Ain't that why you asked me t' be
yer partner? I seen yu, I seen yu watching me in Horse Fly with those soft eyes
of yours. Why d' yu think I came t' this asshole of the world, so's we could, so
you ... well so what! we ain't never goin' t' find gold up here ... I like yu
... out here who's gonna know, huh? we're all alone out here ... just you 'n me
... who's gonna know?

      But Graham what more can I do than love you? (Amused) You flatter me. I
think this is hilariously funny. You. Hah hah hah ... yep, I'm jest a faggoty
li'l ol' honeydew teenage target, that's me. (Then) I'm genuinely sorry for the
way things are working out for you. But that's what life is. We have no money,
my wife stole what little I had. But we still have our bare fists. So, now, we
either stay and strike it rich together, or ... leave it at that, okay?

      (For a long while they sit lost in thought, the hiss of the fire, all the
emotions there, their thoughts filling the night with images)

      Billy:  Soft you! A word or two before you go. Know you ... by that
strange beast, humanity?

      Fer christ sake ...!

      Never mind. Never mind. I can't make you change your mind ...

      Nope. I'm gettin' out, first thing, crack of dawn tomorrow.

      Why?

      I told yu, there ain't no gold. I know more'n you do 'bout prospectin' an'
things so that finishes it. No more talk.

      How can you be so BLIND Graham. Have I misjudged you so badly? After you
came 150 miles over the mountains carrying such a dismal load up from Horse Fly
you want to quit! Remember how you strived to walk before me. Remember the day
we got here, you were already pitching camp before I could begin to unload my
pack, I thought then you might have the necessary strength. I thought, ahah -
now there's a boy who has the guts to confront life, Now you want to destroy
yourself. It doesn't make sense. You've seen the perfect layout of our creek.
Listen to the creek, forget your pith and fireball sex and listen to it. It's
telling you man, there's gold here alright, a fortune in gold. Listen to the
water murmur, we're going to strike it rich, richer beyond our wildest
imaginings ...

      It's fools gold! It's fool's gold. Old Chief Buckles, he's a prospector
bin lookin' these parts for 35 years and if he says there ain't no gold then
there AIN'T nothing here, Man! face up to realities ...

      (Interrupting softly) No no you don't understand, reality is anything I
want to make it.

      Aw come off it, I'm jest a kid 19 years old, but there's some things I
know, and one of 'em is yer wastin' yer time searchin' the creek fer something
that don't exist.

      Graham! Graham! You haven't listened. You haven't heard me. That is the
whole bloody trouble. We're not going to look in the creek. The gold is under
it. We simply have to dig a little, we have to work a little harder. You'll see
tomorrow, we'll start our shaft right about where ...

      (Hysterically) I can't I can't I can't ... I can't stand it anymore You're
killin' me, Every second I stay here is killin' me, I want to eat agin, I want
whisky. Look! Look! (The flask is empty) I hear yer voice, I smell you. You take
my hand 'n say, 'n say:  Graham, come here ... WILL YOU COME HERE! (imitating
Billy, dramatically) and you show me yer fool's gold lyin' there in yer god
damned pan, Man! I mean I lie awake nights thinkin' 'bout yer body, I want to
get down and blow. Shit.

      (With infinite compassion) Shhhhhh ... Graham ... come over here. Look,
Look. (They go to the forest edge where Billy points to the vague shapes of
evergreens, A moon now glimmers over the mountain tops across the gorge) There
are my ghosts. The forests are filled with ghosts. Can you not feel it. Can't
you hear them groaning in the trees? Come here Graham ... look at the hoary
ghosts, they are all out there, waiting, They are the ghosts of my past hiding
in the future, while the present goes on tormenting my life,

      Cut it out (Trying to edge away from Billy, back to the campfire) Yer
crazy, with all yer ghost stuff ...

      Shhh ... (drawing him even closer to the edge of the forest) (addressing
the screaming shadows) ahah now I see you, you sneaky fellow! Come over here
Graham, I want you to meet my father. Hello hot pants. Are you looking for my
mother? She's out in the streets, in the snow, giving birth to Billy Barker Oh!
hello there sister superior insensate. Oh, ahem, a thousand pardons, Tom, I am
indeed sorry, I didn't mean to dethrone you, an honest man's mistake, I say,
hey, there goes Mary the monster. Hi sweetie poo what are YOU doing in the
bushes?

      Graham:  (Cupping his hands and making a ghostly sound) Wanting
yooooooooooo ...

      Graham was that you?

      Hah hah I'm over here Billy come an' get me, come an' get me hah hah ...

      Oh you silly ass don't you know anything!

      I'm leavin' first thing, crack of dawn tomorrow.

      Billy:  I figure we should sink the shaft ... (pacing out a circle near
the fire) here! Loose overburden ... the slight depression ... yes, yes
(mulling) this spot should do nicely ... go away! ghosts - boo!

      (The spot is directly under Graham's sleeping bag).

      (Meanwhile Graham draws his bedroll over to the fire, settles into it then
indifferently watches Billy diligently measuring out his mine, pacing back and
forth, back and forth).

      Whatfer yu lookin' gold, Billy?

      But what else can a man do. To fight - I used to think ... I surely don't
know.

      (Sleepily) Night ... Billy ... Barker.

      (The ponderous grue of the night closes in upon the campsite. The ghosts
whisper and scurry through the dark and silent trees, silhouetted by a stark
moon. The background chatter of frogs and crickets and the creek burbling in the
distance seems to grow closer, louder. The fire is dying. All is still. Billy
suddenly leaps to his feet frantically brushing his body).

      Ants! Boy ... (brushing majestically) nothing like ants crawling around in
your undershirt to keep you thrashing. (Throwing a few logs on the fire he blows
on it until the flames leap. Brightly) Brrr ... bloody cold. I feel so bloody
strange. Creepy out here so far from everything, with those shadows. Boo! ... GO
AWAY! ... LEAVE ME ALONE! (Sitting on his heels) Bark! Bark! their jaws do
spark! humanity's coming to town! (Pause) I can't sleep. Hey are you asleep yet?
(spoken to Graham).

      (A silence).

      Hey! Graham! Have you fallen asleep on me, you bad boy. Then wake up.
Let's go for a long walk ... WILL YOU GET UP! (kicking Graham's bedroll).

      Fer christ's sake, let me sleep ... C'mon c'mon what kind of a man are
you. On our very last night together you want to sleep. C'mon you are obligated
to talk. (Kicks Graham hard) WE ARE GOING TO TALK!

      (Billy's body has begun to shake imperceptibly).

      (Reluctantly Graham tugs his bedroll closer to the fire. He sits upright
with his roll wrapped around his shoulders. He says nothing. He does nothing.
Only stares resentfully into the fire).

      Billy:  My messages have been clearly precise. It's you! It's you! who
masturbate. How poor you are, all of you, blind without reason, knowing nothing
but opinions, filling your wine glass minds with meaningless desires, aching for
self, how little you understand. Yet, why do you want to annihilate me, why? I
am innocent. You want me to take off my pants and go do a dance before your eyes
- don't you see how you make me suffer? (With rage now because in reply Graham,
looking somehow significantly insignificant huddled by the fire only picks his
nose and spits onto the red coals, making the coals go pop) Well all RIGHT, sit
there silent and dumb - destroy yourself! Dam you dam you! - all of it! So
you've come for the harvest, have you? Well bravo! man of stone! - no no, not
strength you fool; granite! Inert, Graham, like a vegetable. And I can't even
pity you anymore, because pity is so devastating.

      (There is no reply to this).

      Did I ever tell you about Hardial? By the time he was eight his family
gave up trying to understand him. Except his mother who never stopped trying.
Even when the children of the village blamed him for their hideous crimes, only
his mother went straight to the jail and passionately denied his guilt. Because
he was her son. She loved him. But still you don't understand. You're too
stupid, Dead. If I give you forty dollars, we're friends, right? What if I give
you love, instead. I had a friend once...

      I had a pretty good friend once, him 'n me were buddies at the Yale strike
an' came in together on a small claim on the river and it paid us a livin' for
awhile. Then dried up on us. My buddy took off while I was still scratchin'
around Yale fer pickin's. We ain't buddies no more.

      There's so much you could learn, Graham. Forget the booze and the gold,
what does it matter? Life is much more important. Life is ... I remember one
evening in San Francisco, the ocean water was clear and warm, the tide was in
further than I'd ever seen it before. It washed up hard against the banks of the
cliffs, and Hardial and I rolled up our pant cuffs and climbed over the rocks
and driftwood and waded knee deep in our shoes and socks, walking along the
beach. It was beautiful. Later Hardial and I sat alone on the sand cliffs a
little distance apart drying our feet in the friendly sand, watching the sunset
scream its horizons across the sky, just l?ke the color of this fire, the whole
sky was screaming sunset, We sat locked in time for a long time saying nothing,
yet acutely aware of each other's presence, what was there to say? I'll never
forget that warm glow; yet, till later, we walked the hills in the
night-hysteria of the city ignoring the squalor of drunks and the whiskey voiced
women wailing for their demon lovers, we ignored all this, and instead talked of
our relationship. Here we were, two grown men of profession, behaving like silly
uninhibited children singing and lancing in joy along the street in our bare
feet under the Elm trees. Even when Mary passed by in her carriage, rattling the
windows disapprovingly, I didn't mind. The moon was greener and brighter than
I'd eve? seen it before Hardial quietly said:  there's the man in the moon. I
looked, and there he was laughing at me. For the first time in my life I saw him
then, I remember how I felt at that moment, keen, so full of awareness -I could
see! I could see! Oh I laughed with the inner knowledge of so many beauties.
Yet, in a funny sort of way I was horribly lonely, because I thought all of a
sudden about my life with Mary and as a lawyer and judge and realized suddenly
how barren was my life, "Ah that's life; that's what life IS, Hardial said to
me. "Life is infinite pain. And pain is suffering," Too bad he wasn't a woman.
Too bad we could never have been lovers. Go?, I used to look into his fantastic
face and see the incredible humanity of his face and think to myself I loved
him. I even compared him to ... Graham? ... Graham? ... (No response) ... I see
you've destroyed yourself utterly by falling asleep again.

      (Again there is no response, Suddenly Billy grabs the bedroll and shakes
Graham violently out of it).

      Graham:  Fuck off asshole I'll ram your teeth down yer buggerin' throat
...

      (Screaming) I .. am ... talking ... to  ... you ...

      (They confront each other intently for a moment - a strange kind of
confrontation).

      All right, Billy, all right ...

      See ... always my problem ... always same dead fish.

      Mothers hanging up in the air. Graham, come here, look, see the stars ...
the moon Graham, look at it, the man in the moon, look, look, he is smiling ...
aw what's the use. You're dead inside, all of you, the Graham Maximy's, the
Tom's, the Mary's, you're all dead. So much mackerel. Okay, let's kick the dirt
on the fire. Why don't we blow out the fire like good little boys and go
beddy-bys Take a nice deep breath with our lungsy wungsies and go nightie
nightems, and get up nice and early for the big day. Hello day! Hello trees!
Hello birds! ... here comes Graham Maximy back from destiny, back to Horse Fly
to challenge the thieves of consciousness, buddy...

      (Although Graham is the indistinct figure, huddled there, a sorry figure
indeed, his sobs come like rifle shots barking in the night)

      (After a pregnant pause) Graham ... I'm sorry. (Again a pause) Honest, I
didn't mean to shame you. I didn't know you were going to cry ...

      DON'T YOU TOUCH ME!

      (Anguished, Graham begins to remake his bedroll. He accidentally nudges
the fire With an almost audible groan it splits apart, showing a face wracked in
agony, and from out of the centre the sparks leap skyward like streaming worms
to become entangled in the branches of the trees, to dance and play there until
the wind catches them and blows them fitfully, and slowly, out of sight. Only
the cherry glow of the fire is left).

      Billy:  Hardial was an Aryan Indian from the Punjab state. Tall, Slow
moving. Quiet Very quiet. We talked often, staying together late into the night
smoking, drinking scotch whisky. He told me about his boyhood in India. He used
to sit under the banyan tree, his hair falling like black flax about his
shoulders, and watch the other children of the village run down into the
marketplace to steal pomegranates, or torment the cows drinking at the village
fountain. How sad these children were, he said. So mean. So unaware. They even
threw pomegranates at him while he sat there under his tree, and taunted him,
called him names, like the messiah. While the parents, wielding their mighty
cocks, wondered why this strange boy wasn't taken to the authorities and
treated. And Hardial would sit and weep, the tears falling into his palms,
burning holes in his flesh ... his passion burned in his mind so deeply. He wept
at what they were doing to themselves. It was the children he suffered for,
because they had so LITTLE in life, and he had so much. The time he came back
from Louisiana to see me, I realized ?ow simple it was, we were all the
children. Mean. I ached to possess Hardial's awareness of life. I wanted his
strength and humility, knowing that soon, in time, given sufficient preparation,
I could evolve beyond even the pain. Then, then, Graham, I could have grown to
love even the warriors. But I didn't have the strength. (For several seconds he
stares, rigidly, directly into the fire) Damn her! Damn her!

      (The birds have taken up abode far back in the mountains where the sun
stirs. The sound drifts forward faint on the breath of wind. Nearby is the
creek. Far away a bear goes crashing through the woods, And two small figures
huddle by the fire; one of them Billy Barker of San Francisco)

      Billy:  How he hated my wife, She was the one woman in the world he hated.
When they met for the first time, his face grew dark. He got up and silently
left the room. I followed to see what had gone wrong, Hardial only said four
words to me, 'our words that changed my life and crushed her forever. He said,
that woman is dead. But, I cried, how is she dead? Mary is beautiful. She has
all the personality, family, good home, social prestige, all the amenities, I
was hurt. I couldn't comprehend his strange despair of his. But he only shook
his head grieving or me, saying I had been deceived by her physical deception.
'I looked deep into her eyes," he said. "I have looked into the eyes of death."
We never mentioned her name again. She was my wife.

      (Graham has gone to sleep again. Now Billy is alone, the ague ache already
upon him. In the brute force of the night is scream, too deep down and too far
back to be heard, but it is here striving before him nevertheless)

      Well, do you want me to tell you a little story? How I met Hardial? I came
to him one day as a 'living' experience. This was an expression I couldn't fully
understand until ten months ago ... ten months! ... One day we were alone in his
room at the boarding house. Suddenly he stiffened, an expression of unfathomable
pleasure yet agonizing pain came into his face. He staggered to his feet and
entered the bedroom shutting the door. After a moment I became apprehensive and
followed, found him lying on the bed drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted.
You see, he had just had a transcendental experience - while we'd been talking a
young girl who he'd last seen as a child in India, came into the room, 'living'
as it were, as real to him as you and I, and passed through the table and
advanced straight on into his body, entering him, literally becoming one with
his body and soul. It hurts ... it hurts ... he said, exhausted on the bed ...
you don't know what it's like! But the beautiful part was that I did know what
he meant because I've had similar experiences - dreams:  in our dreams, when the
ghosts come round to possess us. At such times I've awakened warmed and excited,
caught in ?he grue, remembering the dream. For days and sometimes weeks after I
am haunted by the person of that dream. But you don't know what its like when
you experience such a thing when you're fully awake as I am, Hardial said. It is
strong ... I keep telling you someday I will be killed by life. At the crucial
moment my whole body stopped so that child could enter me, I could not move. I
could not breathe. My body stopped a full thirty seconds. And it was so
beautiful, he kept murmuring, ecstasy, don't you see, now how can I ever forget
her? ... and yet, when it happens it is so excruciatingly painful. I am almost
annihilated by the terrible pain. Each time it is stronger ... Isn't it funny,
Graham, that this is how we became friends, by his terrible suffering. We'd met
at the university in San Francisco where he was taking his PhD in chemistry.
That same year he left for the eastern seaboard and I soon forgot him. But one
morning I came to him, stepped out of the cherry bushes, shook the fruit off my
body and seized him as he was walking through a garden in Louisiana, and entered
him, spiritually, in the same way that child had. Now I was 'alive' in him. But
the beauty of such ecstasy was almost too much for him, it almost annihilated
him. Then, when he recovered, he left his friends, came straight back to San
Francisco because now I was 'alive' in him. And that's when the tragedy began, I
can still hear his quiet voice saying:  we have so much beauty in ourselves, if
only we could let it out, Billy. And so much pain. And pain, my friend, pain is
living, alas that's what life IS. Suffering. And I would say yeah, huh huh,
wishing to hell he'd go home and leave me alone so I could make love to Mary,
because at first I never fully knew what he meant. But I know only too well what
he meant. Those 'living' experiences had been happening to him since early
childhood 'One day I am going to be killed by life' he kept telling me, shaking
his mighty fist; 'you will see, someday that pain is going to kill me! Do you
want to hear the cruellest joke life has ever played on a human being ... the
night my wife, Mary, the night she came to him in all her horror and tried to
enter him, that was the night ... that night he ... HE DIIIIIEED!


    
PART FOUR

The campsite has become a colossal wreck. Here, in the very trench of mountains
under the blue ointment of god's sky, is a fervour of desolation- Billy Barker's
mine shaft now dominates the hallowed ground where the fire once blew its cherry
worms into the treetops. It is not a large shaft being hardly four feet to a
side. A single man can hardly work in comfort at the bottom and two men would
find it impossible The hoist fits atop the open shaft and consists of a log and
home-made crank handle with about fifty feet of rope extended into the hole. The
ground for quite a distance is covered by mounds of gravel and spill. These are
the waste material from the shaft.

      Down the mountain trench some 50 feet from the shaft is the large creek
which slides swiftly along the slope, tumbling down through the gorge and out,
finally, onto a flatland which lies a mile distant around the bend. Except for
the occasional moose and racoon the forest seems empty, A chink chink of a pick
and shovel against loose gravel drifts out of the shaft.

      Billy:  (In the shaft) Ohhhhh, the seduction of the stench. I stink ...
therefore I am! Sniff sniff I smell Hottentot! I have a nose. But why not? I
smell like a man ... god it stinks down here I'm going to throw up in about two
minutes. (Now Billy pulls himself painfully out of the shaft, tumbles onto the
gravel, then leans exhausted against his castle. He is grubby, his old pants
have quite a bag to them, the crotch sagging almost to the knees. Mud cakes his
old and deformed boots. He scrapes what loose mud he can from his clothing and
takes a long pull on a decanter of water. Restless now, he surveys his empire,
looking first at the creek running downhill around the bend into the swamp, then
looking up, behind him, to the cleft there in the mountains).

      (In a few minutes he staggers down to the water's edge and there rinses
his face, beard, ears, eyeballs, neck, arse, what-have-you). Taking off his
boots he shakes them of loose gravel. Sniffs his underarm ... whew! In another
minute he has hoisted the bucket out of the shaft. But there is nothing to show
for his effort save a few crystals of iron pyrite clinking back and forth in the
bottom of his gold pan.

      Billy:  Son of a bitch! Bloody quiet quiet QUIET! Not even a whimper of
her hideous voice. (Pause) Pee-yeoo what a foul stench ... no sign ... not even
a glimmer, a wink, a whisper. How many tons have I moved for nothing? Ten tons,
twenty tons for nothing! That's the whole bloody trouble! Of course I'm not
doing this correctly at all, according to rules of Tom's profession I'm supposed
to stand here - thus, my hand on my breast - thus, and roll my scorching
eyeballs to a muted heaven while the raging outpourings of my tormented soul
roll heavily on into the bellows of time. Hey! ... you son of a bitch die!
You're supposed to die! ... (Quieter) Well hah hah hah on you Mary I'm much too
healthy. But what would you rather BE? Hardial cried; the agonized genius, or
the happy vegetable. (Overtaken by a brief spasm, suddenly he has a desperate
need to hear a human voice, any voice, his own even) - (as loud as he can)
Hoooowwwwmmm! ... MY DOG HAS FLEAS! (Down the shaft) Mary ... Hey ... can you
hear me down there. (Dead silence) Good. (For a few minutes he sits atop one of
the many piles of rubble, picking his nose. Suddenly he leaps to his feet) Holy
smokes I forgot what day it is. Sunday. Maybe. Saturday anyway. You're an
atheist Billy Barker, did you know that. Y'know how come? ... if you weren't an
atheist you would talk to your GOD at a time like this. Or if he wasn't around
at least you could call upon one of his unethical disciples for a little hoary
chit chat. But you Mr. William Stinky Barker who calls himself 'aesthetic' and
'aware' you are an atheist. (For lack of anything better to do he tosses a few
stones down his shaft. Finally he dumps out the bucket and pitches it back down
the shaft, the crank handle going squeak, squeak squeak... ).

      (In time, an old man climbing a near-invisible trail makes his way up to
the mine site. He is a prospector whose age is questionable for he SEEMS very
old. He is a native Indian of central British Columbia, who has prospected for
gold in these mountains and creeks, east of the Cariboo Trail, for many years).

      Chief Buckles: (Rapping the side of the shaft with his staff) Hey, Billy
Barker whatcha' watch out fer them gold for ...

      Billy:  (Overjoyed to see the chief) Hey ... hello old man... (bounding
out of the shaft) ... man it's good to see you again.

      (As if continuing another conversation from the past) Yep... (Stooping to
light his pipe) ... you gotta watch out fer her Billy.

      Sit down chief. Tell me about your trip to Horse Fly. Tell me about Horse
Fly. Did you see Graham?

     Listen me Billy ... see, this rich young cockbuster from south, he come
Horse Fly lookin' fer gold claim to buy up ... maybe ...

      I know that story already. You've told me that story already. Twice
already.

      I saw interestin' ting back up in them mountains. Ever see spoo-bor Billy?

      A what ... a spoo-bor?

      Them squirrels gather pine cones and eat them seeds, throw cones in big
pile. Them furry critters must be smart ... see ... always leave them cones in
the forest, in same place. Pretty soon she pile up ... big ... thirty feet
'cross maybe, twenty feet. Big spoo-bor.

      Ho ho Buckles I know what you're up to but you won't fool Billy with your
cheap trick. Now I have a question. What would YOU do?

      Yessir ... them squirrels ain't so dumb as them white man... they store
plenty seeds fer winter, it's them whisky jack's are lazy. Yep. Buggers not want
to gather own pine cones yessir much too smart. Squirrels them critters do the
work. Squirrels hide pine cones all over the place, bury em, stomp on em, dump
em on spoo-bor, hide em in hollow tree ... hard workin' ... like me. An' that
ol' whisky jack he comes a hungry lookin' where them pine cones. When he hungry
like me he head fer nearest tree. That squirrel in hole, he looks out, he sees
that whisky jack comin', boy oh boy then the fur and feathers fly ... the whisky
jack he comes barrelin' out thet hole with squirrel clamped to his leg. Yep,
thet squirrel smart man too. He wait till whisky jack flyin' over safe place,
like spoo-bor, then let go ... down he fall like bird - rrrrrrrrmmm - pink!

      (Billy and the old Indian lean together against the shaft and laugh
unrestrained. Unfortunately the laughter eventually dries up, leaving nothing
behind. Taking his time the old man gropes in his pants pocket for a tiny tin
whistle which, incredibly, he blows. It makes no sound).

      Buckles:  Mule Anna she wander off someplace no good ... meybe three days
ago ... two meybe ... I blow whistle meybe she come back. (He blows again. Again
no sound).

      Billy:  Can you whistle with your fingers? (He tries but fails) I used to
be able to. Hey, can you roll your r's ... I can't do that, either ... boys at
the orphanage used to call me trench mouth because I couldn't roll my r's, yep,
those thieves of consciousness made me feel guilty and inadequate alright ...
drrrr ... drrr ... drrr ... dam! ... drrr ... drrrr. Can't do it - see Buckles
why they condemned me!

     (Intently confronting this unusual white man) You good man Billy. No
understand what you say, what you do here, But you good good fella. But look.
But look See how my hands have toughened. I'm not used to hard work and man,
it's beautiful to be so tough. Down in limbo where I come from we're all too
busy with whatever it is we crave out of life to look after ourselves properly.
But that's not important anymore. Here, feel my calluses.

      Sure tough ... strong.

      You know what I enjoy most of all out here in this isolation? My hands.
The ability to use my hands. Look at the scars! Four weeks ago these scars were
blisters, and the blisters got blisters, and the second blisters infected,
festered, and soon I gazed upon the bones of my rotting hands And I scraped the
dirt off the bones, and went right on digging. But my hands have toughened along
nicely now at twenty knots.

      Man like you, I figer' he should dig here (gestures ahead to the
mountains) ... here ... (gestures to the east) ... here ... (north) ... but not
dig here Only fool's gold here Billy. I bin prospectin' this creek long time,
long long time, before you born, a long time. I never seen gold Billy, Only
fool's gold.

      (Shrugs) Maybe. (Shrugs) Maybe, (Suddenly angry) Oh anguish ... anguish
... why does everybody ARGUE with me! (Pushing Chief Buckles to the edge of the
clearing) You see the mountain here? this creek which comes out of it? Last
spring when I stood here and watched the runoff roar down this gorge moving huge
boulders and tons of gravel in the torrent - remember, we stood right on the
bank down there by the whirlpool and listened to the screams of the boulders
smashing together underwater like rifle shots. Is this not the same water system
which feeds all the gold creeks from here to Horse Fly? I think the mother
lode's back there in the mountains. I think gold has been washing down here for
centuries, gathering in the crotch of this trough. But - aha - not in the creek
itself, where you and the others have looked - no, no, its down below
underground where the original creek bed lies. You assholes in Horse Fly can't
see past the end of your purple wriggling noses. I'm tired of being criticized
and laughed at by people who won't listen. Last week I found a few flakes in the
pan. I can SEE it. Isn't that enough?

      You good man Billy. (Buckles has lifted his pack sack to his back and
retaken his staff, ready to go on his way).

      Maybe. I'll keep a look out for the thieves who stole your mule.

      You good good man.

      (Before the old man has crossed the clearing Billy suddenly calls him
back. Opening his stores Billy takes out a half empty sack of corn meal, dumps
most of it into another sack which he gives to chief Buckles, saying):  Here,
old man, take this, you need it more than I do. (The old man then labours with
his staff on up the trail, is finally gone. Weary, Billy returns the corn meal
to stores. Hardly ANYthing is left. Meanwhile a strange kind of shudder is
creeping upon him, and in the instant he turns to his shaft he is transformed
into a fantastic figure by the weird rhythm. In a moment it passes away,
unnoticed).

      (He climbs back down the shaft to do what he must do. Meanwhile, the sky
begins to change - begins to fill with strange shapes which gradually become a
sea of transparent bubbles, seething and growing in a sky of blue, green, and
yellow colors).

      (Billy stops digging. A moment of incoherent muttering follows. Suddenly
he comes bursting out of the shaft, cranks up the bucket and spills it onto the
ground. Without even going to the water for a wash he can see scattered dozens
of nuggets. They are big. There is no fantastic response - just a giggle. Calmly
he picks the nuggets from the gravel. At last he takes what black sand remains
in his pan to the creek, returns forthwith with a layer of flakes in his burning
palm, carefully pours the gold into a leather pouch).

      Fantastic ... fantastic ... its mine ... mine ... well come out and sniff
your rosegarden, NOW Mrs. Peabody. (Dances a jig) Yahoo! ... (Shouting down the
shaft, shaking his mighty fist in defiance) Gold! I knew you were down there ...
you cheat, you liar ... you mother fucker. I want jewels and diamonds, power ...
beautiful women to fill my life - everything. I want them to listen to me ...
(wearily he collapses against the shaft) (softly) I want Hardial. I'm a miner
forty niner and I've lost my Hardial. But Billy, you too? even you, ye gods not
you too Billy not you too ... (laments) dead these twelve months ... arrgghh let
me not think on it. (Then, singing a nameless tune) I have a pain in my heart
... I have a pain in my heart ... in my heart I have a pain ... (again talking)
Gold! Gold! So I have found you. Dig dig dig dig - bark bark! - now THERE'S a
sound to remember! t'was the sound of her hideous voice. Alas she did have a
beautiful voice. What did Hardial mean, Mary tried to seduce him? 'That woman
came into my room and threatened me' he said. I looked at her wriggling face.
Mary, I said, what kind of a man am I if I permit such a sacrilege!! (Laughing
as if he were Hardial) Hah hah hah hah ... and later Mary said:  'Well all
RIGHT! So I DID go to his room. I asked him, I pleaded with him, to leave my
husband alone!

      (At this Billy becomes restless again. He takes off his shirt and rinses
it in the creek, waving the shirt merrily in the air to dry it, in the end puts
it on wet) (Shouting loudly) Hey is anyone out there? Are you out there god?
Good, then you won't mind if I take off this dirty underwear. (Going nude to the
creek he washes both his pants and his ridiculous underwear. In the sky the
seething bubbles have been changing again, gradually becoming different shades
of red, yellow, orange, clamouring loudly across the zodiac of the mind)
(Suddenly) Why am I here? Why have I left my homeland and come to this
God-forsaken place? All my life I have been manipulated. As a boy and as an
adult people have tried to manipulate me, telling me to do this, I should do
that. Nobody ever came to ask what I wanted, see how they BLED me! ... she even
manipulated me out of my virginity. (Suddenly overwhelmed again by the need to
hear his own voice) (Raging) I am William Anchile Barker, 29 last April, I had a
mother who wouldn't love me... father ... was born a bastard in the streets of a
bitter cold winter, was raised in an orphanage, married once, wife sterile no
kids yet. Goal-oriented, enslaved with position, money, debts, the whole
catastrophe. (Falsetto) And now my death... what ghastly fashions Lu-ellen wore
to the ho-hum, opera tonight. The person who rescued me from all this death was
Indian. As a boy he used to sit under the banyan tree in his homeland and dream
about becoming a man. This boy had guts. Determination. Yet he was tyrannized by
my wife, by her family, friends, thrown out of houses, forced to live in pig
sties and cheap hotels. He was avoided, spat on, bludgeoned day and night by San
Francisco, charged with cheap tricks, lies, slander, greed, sexual pervert,
academic washout, homosexual, insanity. One night he came to me wounde?, stabbed
to the core by their cheap tricks and hatred. He said 'I shall go crazy when I
see them that way, how they want to masturbate themselves! We staggered together
under the moon, and I saw his tortured eyes glitter and ached at what my people
had done. That man could have saved humanity. That man could have taught the
world how to love. Hey mountains, hey trees, (opening his shirt) Hey buggie
boos, c'mon, come here, let me tell you about the men who horrified Hardial. Let
me tell you about all the Graham Maximy's and the Tom's and Mary's ... let me
tell you about Billy Barker of Bellows:  This kind of a man is no good. His
entire life he spends arguing about navels - if I die in Nazareth the law says,
I shall be buried in Nazareth. If I die in Samaria, they will bury me in
Samaria. But! - aha! - if I die exactly half way in between! here is a serious
dilemma, where shall I be burie?? And if I am to be buried, WHO SHALL BURY ME?
Suppose I haven't died yet; if they are to carry me across the plains and subdue
me at all before the barking dogs get to me is it because the boundry line for
such decision passes through my heart, or my genitals? Poor Graham, if only he
could have transcended his clap trap, if only he could have become a man. Am I
such a man? Am I wishy washy? Am I a coward who runs away persecuted and torn by
life? I have strength. I have guts. If there is a god out there let him come out
and confront me so that I can fight him with my bare fists. Or make me into a
vegetable so that I can screw women sensuously. Oh horror I hear the barking
dogs coming - back off! back off you f'king vultures stay away from me! Hardial
oh god they all want to profane our humanity.


    
PART FIVE

      Nothing is the same. Where trees in abundance once blew their messages
into the forest an entire city has sprung into sight. There is nothing subtle
about it. His city practically fills the trench. It follows the creek for
three quarters of a mile down the hill and blankets the mountainside with
tents and shacks almost to the summits.

      The creek, much altered now, is hardly more than a trickle down the
ravine, through the tailings. Both banks are covered with shafts, wooden sluice
boxes, mounds of tailings, and other labours. While at the uppermost and where
it all started is Billy Barker's abandoned mineshaft, smelling of weather.

      Running parallel to the creek is the only street in the city. There is a
second thoroughfare, a trail which crosses the creek on a makeshift bridge and
services the other side. Elsewhere are paths which thread here and there up the
sides of the ravine through the close quartered tents. From the back of the
chinaman's shack built on the upper end of the street, a large picture window
opens onto the street, which is a wagon road with deep ruts filled with trickles
of water from the September rain. The window is actually an eye into another
reality, for practically the whole of Barkerville strives into view from this
window. Here on the street are the government assay offices, the noisy saloons,
the wooden hotel, the whore house, the steeple of St. Savior's Anglican Church,
and the small figure of Mary, her hands folded in her coat, slipping along the
nits of the soggy street up the gradual slope towards the shack.

      There is no answer when she knocks on the back door. Is he here, she asks;
is THIS the place? She knocks again, hesitates, then enters to find him in a
fitful sleep lying on a dirty cot. His blanket has fallen in a heap on the
floor. Not quite certain anymore Mary paces the room for a few minutes. She has
lost both her hard exterior and her sensuous glamour. She is almost gentle.
Cautiously so as not to disturb him she fixes the blanket over his legs, then
prepares for a long wait. After a minute she cries out in horror:

      O look at you! (In deep sorrow) My god what have they done to you. Billy:
(Rousing at her voice; his body alive with convulsions) It hurts ... it hurts
...
      Mary:  (Pained) Good God I can hardly bear to look at you...

      Mary ... Mary ... - please - the pain is killing me and I can't stop it...

      (Billy wraps the blanket tightly around his body so that only his terrible
face peers out at her. He lies on the cold cot in the cold room close to the
window. There is no glass in the window, the floor beneath the sash is stained
from continual rain and the harsh weather).

      (At this moment an enormous cornish water wheel which straddles the creek
some quarter mile distant, slowly and ponderously begins to turn and the men
under it run back and forth, shouting, trying to control it. Even at this
distance its stiffness is audible as a high pitched shrieking).

      Mary:  (Confused) What's happened to you!

      1 don't know.

      What's brought you to be living in a place like this?

      (No answer)

      (Becoming scared) Where's your wealth. What are you doing (gesturing to
the bare walls) holed up in the back room of the Chinese laundry?

      (Again nothing but his terrifying stare).

      Where's your gold?

      I gave it away.

      (With an embarrassed laugh) Oh dear, this isn't what I expected at all. In
San Francisco you've become almost a legend. Everybody keeps talking about Billy
Barker, like you were some kind of god. You're supposed to have discovered so
much gold here, everybody getting rich. But ... this! (Gestures to what is
before their eyes) Even the city is different from what I expected. I expected
to find something big. Spectacular. The newspapers in San Francisco said
Barkerville was the largest city west of Chicago and North of San Francisco. But
a city of tents a whole city of shacks and TENTS! Oh it's vile. (Then) Isn't it
funny, I can just HEAR how Tom and mother would be criticising you if they were
here and saw you this way. Funny, how I'm beginning to understand certain things
about Hardial after all this time. You were right, I was always ugly. When you
punched me in the face in that hotel room, I wasn't hurt or humiliated, I was
enraged. I hated you, ohhhhhhhh how I HATED you.

      Hate, Mary? Hate? And I loved you.

      (Quietly) Don't worry everything's going to be alright. (Re-arranging his
blanket to make him more comfortable.) Oh dear -I didn't want Hardial to die, I
only wanted him to leave you alone. Oh I feel so lost. What are we going to do,
Billy? We can't go on teasing each other indefinitely. You belong in a proper
home, with me, I have nothing anymore, except you. Where can I go? Billy please
come back to San Francisco with me?

      (Billy looks at her incredulously. There is both the grotesque yet strange
kind of certainty in his strange sounding voice) With my mighty bare fists I
made Barkerville. Shhhhh ... can you not hear it, the bums and whores and the
wrecks of men, out there, screaming? I gave away ... I gave away ... (he can't
pronounce the word. Instead he utters) anybody who asked for gold I gave them
money. I even gave gold to Graham because he was sick inside and dying, and all
they did was hang him for being a vagrant on the streets of Barkerville and
throw my pouch of gold back in my face in contempt,, contempt, for a man who
gave away money. (Throwing off the blanket and struggling to his feet) And I
withered and cracked and my eyes went black and my face split open wet and dark
and dripping and there, inside, were all your wriggling faces, laughing,
manipulating me ... (laughing suddenly, hideously) hah ha ahaaaa haaaaaa ...
look at me ... can't you see ... you people think I am immortal ... that I am a
god ... THIS IS MY IMMORTALITYYYYYYYY ...


    
EPILOGUE

It is Billy Barker's weeping hour but the ghost is crying. Billy is alone in the
street. He has no shoes or decent clothing. His pants are tied with a piece of
stained rope. Spread about him on the wooden sidewalk are his pitifully few
belongings. This grinning creature is trying in his state of confusion to stuff
these fragments into his rucksack - an accounting of his life so to speak, but
they keep falling from his terrible hands. He is ignorant of the life around
him; existing as it were near death only to pack his rucksack. Because his
breathing is so effected he makes grunting noises due to his constant seizures.
Frequently he collapses in a wave of nausea brought on by his condition only to
rouse himself to resume trying to pack his rucksack.

      Partially obliterated in the shadows, Mary watches in slow horror from a
doorway. Some boys come running from behind the chinaman's. They are playing
with gold nuggets, throwing them into the air and catching them on the run, One
of the boys drops his nugget, which accidentally rolls under Billy's feet. The
boy, about nine or ten years old, tries to reach between Billy's legs for the
nugget but Billy sitting on the edge of the sidewalk does not see him and
continues to pack his rucksack. Finally the boy looks up into Billy's face:

      Hey gimmie my nugget, yu dumb son of a bitch.

      All the boys laugh, and rush off, leaving Billy alone with his task.

     The bubbles have begun to materialize in the sky over Barkerville, they
seethe in a slow - shifting panoply of green, red, and orange colors that seem
to drift forward, then recede, then grow again, to fade finally into the
infinity of the mind.

      There in the street a figure of Hardial begins to form, soon it towers
over him an image of enormous beauty and strength filling the whole street, it
seems, waiting for Billy. Grinning still, Billy suddenly sees the image moving
slowly away from him down the street. Now with his rucksack packed he struggles
to his feet and starts, with his infinite capacity for suffering pain, to
stagger after Hardial. But the ghost vanishes. Alone all of a sudden, what more
can he do but cry - lifting his hands high over his head and screaming - because
now he has lost even the capacity for feeling pain:

      Oh hhhh Goddddd agonyyyyyyy

      And now Mary suddenly comes forward, sharply out of depth, yet knowing
already that it is too late for him. The echoes of his last cry gone, the
strange figure stands there in the street, turning this way, that way, not
knowing which way to go, his hands crossed futilely in front of his genitals,
the urine dribbling in spurts down his leg. Beginning to weep, the spastic
gradually succumbs to the great beast in him until his distorted cries become
agonized wracks.

      On a day late in October, late in the afternoon, a woman puts her arm
around a shivering spastic and leads him gently along the rutted street, out of
Barkerville. It is beginning to snow. She has put stockings on his feet and her
coat over his shoulders. After a long time she says:

      Yes, we're going home Billy. There, that's a good boy, keep trying ... cry
Billy ...

      He is smiling.


AT THE START OF THE AQUARIAN AGE

      Just to say why Greydon Moore is an important and necessary broadcast
on the Vancouver frequency. First thing is his phenomenal versatility a
neo-Renaissance cool. In an era of specialties, including the poet (rigid) poet,
Greydon bangs his head against an amazing variety of walls. Began as drummer on
the Vancouver scene in the early sixties, gigging with jazz musicians such as
Don Thompson who became bass player in John Handy's awesome quintet. He has
acted; a lead part as defence council in the award winning CBC Festival
production of ‘How To Break A Quarterhorse. As character extra he turned up
alongside Rita Tushingham for a scene in The Trap. He was editor of the
Artisan at UBC the year it was good. Lately Greydon has uncovered intriguing
relationships between many fundamental constants in physics, like pi, the speed
of light, particle mass-energy, gravity; speculations which have mind-blown a
good number of people, (impact with regard to the concrete value of poetic
intuition qua Goethe, qua Bergson). A brief period as publicity assistant for
the Playhouse Theatre Company (1965). Then a year with a film producer who had
contracts to produce major films on the west coast, tho these prospects failed
when local financiers failed to provide operating capital to start productions.

      Greydon has read poetry in many places, most recently on the pop folk-rock
scene at both the Retinal Circus and the Bistro, bringing poetry to the
population; and best of all, has published two volumes of richest poetry, Themes
From the Morning Mist (1965), and Form (with C.D.N. Elsted 1967). On
the academic side he has spoken at three UBC symposiums in the past two years.

      Greydon is this intellectually omnivorous not because of any pretensions
anyone who knows him will tell you what an extremely unassuming person he is. On
the contrary, it is because he lacks any kind of personal provincial vanity that
he opens his mind to so many things considered beyond the poet’s province,
things which many poets would drop like radioactive material. Consequently, his
poetry is more expansive, more universal, like the poetry of Kenneth Patchen, or
Cris Elsted which Greydon grooves on deeply. With this work, his first novel, he
adds another constellation to his universe.

      Greydon was born in Montreal in 1939. He will die, we hope, in Vancouver
but some time far removed on the continuum.

     -Roy Starrs


-FINISHED


 rhaestarr@yahoo.com