Who knew, and what happened?
What happened was that he was also somewhat of an outlaw hell-raiser, highly opinionated, and a general thorn in the side of anything or anyone that represented an attitude of habitual closed-minded bureaucracy. He also had a wicked (and erudite) sense of humour. An often bad combination in the workaday world. He apparently was fired as a radio broadcaster when he closed the weather report with: ‘It’s hot, Charlie!’ The phrase ‘a hot Charlie’ was popularly known stateside as used by GIs in the Vietnam jungle to describe taking a big stinking shit. The powers that be were not amused. It was likely not his first (or only) transgression on or off the air.
I came into contact with Michael in Vancouver sometime in the mid-seventies. He was teaching a night school class in creative writing at a local high school. I had no idea who he was, other than a teacher. He was boyishly charming, energetic and cheerful, with a mischievous grin. As he handed out a thick stack of what and who every wannabe writer should read, he lit up a thin cigar and mentioned off-handedly that it might also be a good idea to read something of his, if only to gain some insight into him as a writer. The classes were fun and informative; provocative, even. I read his books. His work was definitely outside the usual fare provided by (at least my) high school education system, and a welcome change. Even when his poems were set in nature, they defied the usual ‘blissful and bucolic’ and were instead imbued with an urban perspective and sensibility: gritty, intelligent, philosophical, metaphorical. “I persist in a little fabric between me and the world,” he wrote. His fiction included much bending and blending of genres, something I wasn’t very familiar with at the time.
On the second to last week, as class began, he was summoned outside by the janitor, who told him that he had discovered crushed butts on the floor several times, had deduced that it was him that was responsible, and that there was absolutely no smoking allowed in the school, or on school property. Michael took offense and replied that this was a class for adults and that adults were free to make their own decisions. The janitor wouldn’t back down and continued to cite policy, which further infuriated Michael, who finally grabbed his gear and roared out of the building. That was that, as they say. Class over, course over. Turned out he’d already burned his bridges when it came to teaching at the University level, and it was only through a friend that he got this gig. I gather the friend was unable to help further.
My last meeting with Michael was at his house in Surrey, to pick up some material of mine he’d been going over to comment on before the janitor debacle. The first thing I noticed were stacks and stacks of Pepsi cases in the kitchen, filled with bottles, either empty or full, depending. ‘Don’t mind those,’ he said. ‘I gave up the booze, so.’ He motioned with a hand. That was it, as far as offering an explanation.
I heard later through a writer-friend of mine that her husband managed to get Michael a job as a prison security guard in Burnaby, where he himself worked. Rather ironic, I thought, given his penchant for bucking authority. Apparently, he managed to last 17 years and even wrote a book about his experience, so maybe it wasn’t so ironic after all. Maybe somewhere deep down inside he needed something with strict rules and regulations to calm him, to satisfy him, or maybe he just liked to hang out with the real bad-ass outlaw types, as opposed to literary outlaws, I don’t know.
The years slipped past and recently I saw his name in a used anthology titled Ground Works: Avant-Garde For Thee, edited by Christian Bök and Margaret Atwood. I recalled those few times I’d met him. Recalled his sense of humour, his energy, his love of literature, and his generosity to share his considerable knowledge and offer straight honest feedback to folks like me, eager, but totally naïve when it came to the art and craft of writing. I decided to Google him to see what he was up to. That’s when I discovered he’d died. Nothing in the press that I’d seen. Nothing in the professional newsletters that I received. Nothing through the various social media or grapevines, which I don’t belong to, but seem to reach me as a rule anyway.
I’ve heard that if even one person complains about a book on a school library shelf in Canada, that book is immediately removed, quietly, discreetly, not censored, no, simply undefended (why raise a fuss?), ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ I think this is what happened to Michael. Having kicked against the pricks, the pricks (as is so often the case), eventually won out. He was routinely removed from the shelf, to remain unstudied, unheralded, unremembered.
Too bad, so sad.
Well, nothing else to do except read the piece in the anthology, a fragment (terrific) from a larger piece titled, And Two Per Cent Zero. Nothing else to do except write my own piece, an erasure, a fragment lifted from a fragment (fittingly), as a tribute and a reminder of someone who inspired and assisted me in my own growth as a writer, for better or worse.
Cheers, Michael!
erasure: and two percent zero
for
J. Michael Yates
Never learn to
swim.
It only prolongs
the drowning.
no
question whether I should protest this damming of the water
drawn
by no moon whatsoever, a tide is rising
the
diminutive light collides with the corner of the coffee table
the
roof of an old silvered cabin is floating
through
the window a dam under construction passes
the
snake w/something to say says disregard the burning bird
I
(with my bald head) am about to refuse the dare to cross the young ice
there’s
knowledge in it, the way ice stops things, sublime, just like that
the
heavy ravens rise slowly & the wind twists like a hooked fish
the
railroad’s gone viscous with its river of cargo & a bull moose in rut
rain
brings down the dust, the mercuric pulver, the radioactive residue
train
passengers wear fish-bowls of water over their heads
so
much of my hair & fingernails are already in the sea
water-birds
dive for small fish, water-snakes prey upon the hungry birds
you
call to me through the fog in my fingertips
the
grey residue seeps into the smallest crack, thickens upon the lungs
(the
weather in my cells will have me one way or another)
let’s
lie down & make angels: fish, birds & reptiles in particular
what
does the moon care if water derives from snow or vice versa?
it’s
time to be off anyway; the fly-zipper on my trousers is gefritz
so
much ash & dust from the railroad has entered the water
a
last bird perches on the recalcitrant train stack; the rest is submerged
I’m
going out to die in the snow; my lungs will drown me one flake at a time
slow
suicide by ice-fog, far from the railroad that hoots ash over the drifts
only
the water-snakes are with us & they’re having a hard time
look!
the women all have birds beneath their skirts!
at
the terminus of the long metabolic ceremony
only
the trousers of my youth remember my form
