Geoffrey Young : WHEN READING IS SEEING AND THINKING IS SEMANTIC

for Mel Bochner, 1940-2025

 

                               “Doubt, thy name is certainty”

Mel’s a word that rimes with tell, and gel, and sell, and bell.
When it rings, I think Mel!
When I’m in the city, where he was wont to dwell,
Tribeca means Mel!  And so on, for gel and sell.
And for smell, as well.

Rime can be trusted every time
to obscure the crime.  But Mel didn’t yell.
He lived in a domestic haven of art, not hell.
With attention focused on syllable and sense,
on gibberish and smarts, his endless lists
of idiomatic phrases, when brilliantly arrayed,
stuck like darts on the big target of American art. 

Just think how much the twenty-six letters of the alphabet
meant to him! And of the handful
of diacritical marks with which he fronted & fonted
his rogue meanings and vogue shapes. 

With so much talk to cull from and irreverence to mine,
being in a world of language was not unlike being surrounded
by music, albeit the music of goof & wonder, of fatuousness & blunder. 

Mel used more colors than anybody knew existed
to body forth verbal collisions in work after work.
Never less than exacting, still he courted accident.
He was as messy as the feeling of the moment demanded.

What Francis Picabia wrote of Guillaume Apollinaire a hundred years ago
pertains tonight, as we navigate Mel: 

“The memory of him that I preserve is one of a great freshness of heart,
of a great simplicity that only really blossomed in the intimacy
of friends, outside of any “gallery.”  As for his work, I consider that it is
at once filled with invention, and of the most intelligent kind.
He’s a friend whose absence I regret profoundly.”               

 

 

 

 

Geoffrey Young [photo credit: Dennis Kardon] was born in Los Angeles in 1944, and grew up in San Diego.

Before settling in Great Barrington, Massachusetts in 1982, Young spent student years in Santa Barbara (UCSB), and Albuquerque (UNM), then lived for two years in Paris (a Fulbright year followed by a six-month stint working for La Galerie Sonnabend). Married for many years to Laura Chester, they lived for seven of them in Berkeley (two sons born). Their small press, The Figures (1975-2005), published more than 135 books of poetry, art writing, and fiction.

He has taught literature and art at San Francisco State, Columbia’s General Studies Program, Vassar, and the University at Albany, NY. From 1992-2018 he ran the Geoffrey Young Gallery, where he presented hundreds of contemporary art shows.

Nadia Szold’s 80 minute film, The Figures (2023), features Young in the context of art and writing friends.

Recent chapbooks of poetry and drawings include LOOK WHO’S TALKING (2024); At Stake (2024); Monk’s Mood (2023); Money (2022); & Habit (2021).

Gary Barwin : A few words on Paul Dutton (1943-2025)

 

 

 

A few words about writer and performer, and beloved friend, Paul Dutton, who passed away at Princess Margaret Hospital last week from complications of cancer at age 81. Born in Toronto on December 29, 1943, Paul was a significant and longstanding figure in Canadian and international experimental poetry: sound poetry, textual work and visual poetry. He was a member of the Four Horsemen and, from 1989, the CCMC. 

Greg Betts wrote on Facebook, that Paul was “A grumbly genius or a genius grumbler,” and it’s true Paul could be a curmudgeon and a stickler about almost anything. From hyphens – when I edited his selected poems, we had hours-long conversations about hyphens and every other detail of writing – to bartenders never quite filling up a pint glass, a fact that we delighted in when the Toronto Star did an article which revealed he’d be correct about it for years. But Paul often joked self-deprecatingly about his own nature.

And he was the timeless master of the digression, often nesting five digressions inside each other and somehow coming out of them one by one.

But I understand that his perfectionism came from his irrepressible enthusiasm and intense commitment to everything he did and his belief in fairness, decency and getting things right. He truly believed in the possibility of the world and the value of things and people. Yes, the glass wasn’t full enough, but never pessimistic, Paul knew that with enough care, it could be.

Michael Dean wrote “No one improvised … like Paul Dutton, [he was] totally committed to each separate moment.”

Paul was totally committed to each separate moment in every aspect of his life.

Paul was a remarkable supporter, friend and mentor to innumerable writers and musicians over the years. Even in his later years of poor health, he could be counted on to bicycle all over Toronto to events, a sign of his interest and support of poets, musicians and their art. It’s especially notable how supportive he was of young and emerging artists—in his conversations, attendance, and advice. In his enthusiasm and expansive kindness.  Greg Betts told me that for the last three years, Paul gave books to all the members of his creative writing class at Brock.

Paul was also committed to the legacy and memory of older artists (for example, his many articles about bpNichol are essential and invaluable and his work ensuring that the availability of Underwhich Editions were not forgotten.) He was a loyal and supportive friend and an active social justice advocate. He felt the world was his responsibility.

Paul was, of course, an astounding writer and performer—he was the international advocate for his invented term “soundsinger”—as part of the Four Horsemen, the CCMC and with his own solo publications, recordings and performances. He was particularly known internationally for these performances. Paul published seven books of poetry and his work appeared in innumerable periodicals and anthologies. His single novel, Several Women Dancing, is surprising, compellingly musical, and unusual.

He began writing and performing in the mid 1960s, and somehow, he continued to get better and better, even into his last years. Inventive, dynamic, virtuoso, innovative.

A more formal overview of Paul’s life and work is here where I’ve posted the biography and introduction to his Sonosyntactics: Selected and New Poems. His website pdutton.ca is also a tremendous resource.

He used to like to recount bpNichol’s quip that one shouldn’t ask Paul how he was feeling…because he’d tell you. But despite the complex and intersecting illnesses he faced at the end, his vitality, engagement, loving nature, and irrepressible wit, and humour never flagged.

Like everyone else, I’m going to sorely miss this exceptional man. Loving, funny, anecdotal, discursive, argumentative, fulminating, and supportive. I’m going to continue to revisit his inspiring recordings and books. There will be a celebration of Paul’s life and work forthcoming but in the meantime, here, on the internet, let’s raise a never-quite full enough virtual glass to the memory of the extraordinary Paul Dutton, soundsinger of singing, sound, and the song.

To Paul

 

[adapted from a speech given at the launch of the Muttertongue Trio's launch for What is a Word in Utter Space (Siren Recordings), Toronto, Thursday, July 7th, 2025] 

 

 

 

photo credit: Rob Allen

Gary Barwin is a writer, musician and multimedia artist and the author of 34 books including Scandal at the Alphorn Factory: New and Selected Short Fiction 2024-1984 and, with Lillian Allen and Gregory Betts, Muttertongue: What is a Word in Utter Space, published as an LP and a book. His most new novel, The Comedian’s Book of the Dead will be published by Book*Hug in 2026. He lives in Hamilton. garybarwin.com

 

Stan Rogal : REPORT FROM THE DEAD POETS’ SOCIETY: Loy

Mina Loy (1882-1966) in conversation with Stan Rogal

No love or the other thing
Only the impact of lighted bodies
Knocking sparks off each other
In chaos
— from: Songs to Joannes XIV

 

It was late afternoon, a cold and dreary November Friday, threat of snow. I was leaving the Edward Street BMV planning to head to the Eaton Centre, wander around for a couple of hours, kill time, maybe grab a bowl of wonton in the below-ground food arcade, when something in the bookstore window caught my eye. It was a colour poster with a photomontage by Hannah Höch, The Beautiful Girl, advertising an event to occur that evening at the Arts & Letters Club. A ‘Dada Extravaganza’ the headline read, that promised an all-star cast of performers including Tristan Tzara, Francis Picabia, Gertrude Stein, Filippo Marinetti, Giovanni Papini, Sophie Taeuber-Arp, Emmy Hennings and Hugo Ball (this last couple being co-founders of the Dadaist Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich, 1916) plus many other surprise guests. What was most interesting to me was that the person listed as organizer and Mistress of Ceremonies was none other than Mina Loy, British-born artist, writer, poet, playwright, novelist, painter, maker of assemblages, designer of lamps, and celebrated bohemian beauty. Also, much regarded as the ideal modern woman at the turn of the twentieth century, labeled a Futurist, Dadaist, Surrealist, feminist, conceptualist, Modernist, and Postmodernist; having numerous love affairs, perpetually traveling internationally, and writing controversial poems, specifically with a bent for subverting traditional tropes and expectations of love poems throughout her work.

Impressive? You bet. I likely performed a comic double-take as I took in the news and the first thought that struck me was (perhaps not too surprisingly) one of total self-interest: why hadn’t I been contacted to interview her? Before I had a chance to feel sorry for myself and whine and complain to the powers that be, the penny dropped, as I realized — but, of course! — this wasn’t the real Mina Loy back from the dead, no. This was an actor taking part in a theatrical production, along with other actors portraying other characters from the past. Not as overwhelming and exciting as I’d first imagined, still, being a fan of the riotous environs of Dada and its hell-raising Boho crowd, I was intrigued and curious to know more.

The Arts & Letters Club was only a couple of blocks away and I was vaguely aware that the public was allowed to check out the facilities between the hours of four and seven on a Friday. I decided to pay a visit, and, who knows? I might be lucky enough to bump into the character of Mina Loy and gather some information about the production, maybe even offer to write an article that I could send out over the transom to various publications. It was just past four, so I shifted into high gear and marched on over.

As I climbed the stairs I spotted a hand-printed sign taped to the door: Sorry, No Visitors Today. Rehearsal In Progress. Rats and damn, I thought. Strictly by impulse, I tried the door and discovered it was unlocked. Swell. I went in and climbed another flight of stairs where I was met by a uniformed security guard who was intent on ushering me back from whence I came. I argued that I was from the press, here to interview Mina Loy. The guard was unimpressed and unmoved, stating she had no information of that nature and would I be so kind as to remove myself from the building, whereupon she stepped down a few steps and placed a strong hand on my shoulder, clearly meant to help me reverse my direction. Meanwhile, I continued my process of verbal protest and even flashed a worn press card I had once used to enter a Harbourfront event. Suddenly, a woman stuck her head out from the cocktail lounge and asked what the commotion was all about. She bore an excellent resemblance to Mina Loy, though looking even more strikingly beautiful and radiant than in pictures I’d seen, which raised another red flag as to her authenticity, I judged. At any rate, I held my wallet open and shook it in the air. I’m from the press, I announced. Here for an interview about the show, if you don’t mind. She smiled, waved, and invited me to join her inside. The press is always welcome, she said. The guard grunted, reluctantly removed her hand, gave me an unpleasant look, and made her way back to her post. I said thank you and scampered past.

I’m sitting at the bar, said the woman, going over my notes. She motioned with a hand. And do call me Mina. I deplore long, drawn-out introductions. And you are? I told her and took a stool next to her. Now, what is it I can do for you, she asked? I dropped my recorder on the bar. She wore a non-descript pale brown linen dress done up with large red buttons from her waist to her slim neck, around which hung a single strand of coral beads. A slash of the same coral colour stained her lips. The dress was loose-fitting, long-sleeved, casual, almost sack-like, and looked somehow terrific on her, or, I should say, she looked terrific in it. I’m drinking champagne, she said. Veuve Clicquot. I hope you like it. The bartender filled two glasses. I was never one for sparkling wine, personally, but, I had to admit, this was heads above what I’d ever experienced before, and quite delicious. A votre santé, we toasted.

 

Stan Rogal: Just to be clear… (I inched my recorder slightly closer to her). I’m talking to Mina Loy, is that correct? The organizer and Mistress of Ceremonies for tonight’s Dada event at the Arts & Letters Club.

Mina Loy: That’s correct. (She flashed another wide smile at me and crossed one leg over the other. Her dress hem hung just above her ankles and she wore a pair of 1920s reddish-brown strap pump shoes. I thought, was she joking with me, or what? Or was it one of those crazy Stanislavsky theatre exercises where the actors remain in role the entire day of the performance to add some extra layer of credibility to their portrayal or whatever? Rather than possibly interfering with a ritualistic stage process, I decided go along for the ride and see what I could tease out, if anything).

SR: Your poster advertises a Dada Extravaganza. Is it a play that you’re putting on?

ML: Not a play, in the formal sense, no. I mean, there’s no actual script, though there is an outline as well as a certain order of key performances and presentations. Having said that, the evening will include several short plays or vignettes alongside other entertainments and spectacles, and it will often be the case where some of these elements overlap, or else even occur simultaneously. So, less a conventional play than a multimedia event, or happening.

SR: I see. Sounds ambitious and I can’t help but pose the question. That is, there have been — it’s been well documented, at any rate — certain Dadaists who had a rather perverse sense of humour, in that they would invite an audience to attend an event at a particular time and place, only to discover it was a hoax. They were in fact, “the event,” and the Dada members would be safely squirreled away nearby, having become the audience. Is that likely to happen here?

ML: Ha-ha, yes, I remember, and, no, the participants we have tonight are far too eager to perform again. There’s no fear of a hoax, I can guarantee that.

SR: Without giving too much away, can you elaborate?

ML: Well… (She opened her notebook and flipped through pages covered with hand-written text and pencil and ink drawings and doodles of characters, costumes, pieces of set and props and so on). There’ll be the usual folk songs, bawdy bordello songs, and savage political numbers, of course. Emma Hennings’ voice is in fine form. Tristan Tzara will sing his little ditty, The Song of a Dadaist. Hugo Ball will be performing his sound poem, Gadji Beri Bimba. At this very moment he’s helping put together his original costume: legs in cylinders of shiny blue cardboard that come up to his hips. A cylinder covering his torso. Smaller cylinders for arms. A huge coat collar cut out of cardboard, scarlet inside and gold outside. A high, blue and white striped witch doctor’s hat, so that he resembles an obelisk. (She smiled playfully, spread her fingers and ran her hands up and down her body to outline the cardboard torso). The costume makes it impossible for him to walk, of course, so he needs to be carried out to the stage on a stretcher and stood up. (She mimed the action). Then, as he recites: “gadji beri bimba glandridi laula lonni cadori…” these others will parade around him, playing percussion instruments and chanting. Who knows, there might even be gunshots at some point. We’re striving for a certain amount of pandemonium and chaos within the structure. There’ll be assemblages, found art pieces, photomontages, and collages strewn throughout the theatre thanks to Sophie Taeuber-Arp, Hannah Höch, Beatrice Wood, and so on.

SR: I imagine some of these art pieces will be in the audience seating area?

ML: Seating area? (She tossed back her head, laughed — she had a wonderful laugh, warm and inviting — placed a hand on her coral beads and sipped her champagne). What an entirely bourgeois concept. There is no seating area. The audience is free to roam around the theatre, drink in hand, to take in whatever attracts them. We have small tables situated on the floor with poets reciting poems as well as typing poems upon request, magicians performing card tricks, chess matches, and, naturally the clairvoyants, fortune tellers, and necromancers who were so integral to bringing the participants back to life for this event.

SR: Excuse me?

ML: What? (She continued to toy with her necklace. I realized that I was well into my second glass of champagne and the bubbles were going to my head. I sat fascinated, staring at her slim fingers caressing the coral beads. What did I recall about the colour coral? An activating, life-affirming colour. Revitalizing, the way the vibrant colour orange is, but with a softening edge to its pink tones. The result is a feeling of freshness, liveliness, and a deep sense of optimism and joy. It’s a very positive colour with strong physical energy and a need for social interaction. Also open to flighty and irrational behaviour. The pink, of course, representing the erotic and the colour of the sexual organs, the tip of the penis and the vulva. But wait! Hold on a moment, here. I realized I was getting way ahead of myself. Down, wanton, down. I shut my eyes and gave my head a shake to snap my focus back to the job at hand).

SR: Well, when you say that these people were integral, what do you mean?

ML: (She leaned her face closer to me and continued to fiddle with the necklace beads. It was driving me crazy, and I’m sure she knew it). What do you mean by what do I mean? (She was thoroughly enjoying my obvious bafflement and discomfort due to her presence and she wasn’t about to make it any easier for me). 

SR: Um… (I tried to take a deep breath to gather my thoughts, but found it impossible, my chest felt so tight). You said. To bring the participants back to life. The clairvoyants, fortune tellers, and necromancers. How do you mean?

ML: Oh, I see! Well, just that. Once the audience is settled, there will be a sort-of mass séance, and a certain amount of theatrical hocus-pocus, that will be used to introduce our cast of characters.

SR: Uh-huh. That’s it?

ML: What more did you expect?

SR: Well, nothing, I guess. (I drained my glass and the bartender was quick to provide a refill).

ML: You’re very strange for a reporter, do you know that? (She finally released her grip on the beads and I was once again able to breathe normally). Speaking of strange, Marcel Duchamp will arrive as his drag queen alter-ego, Rrose Sélavy. He — or she — will be overseeing the chess matches, naturally.

SR: Naturally. (I was aware that Marcel Duchamp, besides being a chess fanatic and famous for his readymade art pieces, was also well-known for his love of pranks and puns, ‘Rrose Sélavy’ being a homonym for ‘eros, c’est la vie.’ He had also created an art piece by filling a bird cage with 152 marble sugar cubes, a thermometer and a cuttlefish bone. The title was ‘Why Not Sneeze, Rose Sélavy?’ A sneeze was considered by those in the know to be a metaphor for orgasm. He added the second ‘r’ to his assumed name later, for reasons unknown).        

ML: The Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven will bless us with her company, likely dressed in one of her wonderful costumes comprised of found materials she’s recovered from the city streets and alleyways.

SR: Right. (The Baroness, though born in Germany, was active in the Greenwich Village scene from 1913-1923, and was considered one of the most controversial and radical women artists of the era. To add a soupçon of Canadiana here, the Baroness — often referred to as the Mama of Dada ((or, at least, one of them, as there have been several recognized over the years)) — had once been married to Prairie novelist and translator Frederick Philip Grove, under suspicious circumstances. Of course, she also had sexual relations with numerous others, including Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, Berenice Abbott and Djuna Barnes. She was a busy gal who hobnobbed with the crème de la crème of the art world. Never one to shun the outrageous, she’d commented on the all-consuming worship and love that Americans had for plumbing, and took a 10½ inch high cast iron plumbing trap, assembled it in a phallic-like manner, turned it upside down, mounted it on a wooden mitre box, and titled it “God”). As I understand it, and, as has been said by others, she both critiqued and challenged the bourgeoisie notions of feminine beauty and economic worth by adorning herself with utilitarian objects like spoons, tin cans, and curtain rings, as well as any street debris that she came across.

ML: Yes. She used her body as a medium to transform herself into a specific type of spectacle. By doing so, she controlled and established agency over the visual access to her own nudity, unhinged the presentational expectations of femininity by appearing androgynous, drew upon ideas of women's selfhood and sexual politics, and provided emphasis on her anti-consumerism and anti-aestheticism outlooks. She included her body's smells, perceived imperfections, and leakages in her body art. Intriguing, yes? (She smacked her coral lips). We’re fully expecting her to perform her notorious “The Baroness Elsa Shaves Her Pubic Hair.” It caused quite a scandal at the time.

SR: Given our more sensitive theatre-goers these days, who demand to be given extensive disclaimers and trigger warnings before they venture forth, I think it’s safe to guess her performance may still cause somewhat of a scandal. 

ML: Do you really think so? (She beamed at the possibility, raised her glass and clinked her rim to mine). To divine decadence! (We drank and ran our tongues across our teeth). Oh! Giovanni Papini and Filippo Marinetti will be on hand to amuse us with something from the Futurist grab-bag. If nothing else, I’m sure it will be loud. (She mock-covered her ears and grinned impishly).

SR: Hm. The three of you were involved in a love triangle, yes? In Italy.

ML: Yes. Until I became disillusioned with the whole macho-destructive business and left. Both them and the Futurist movement.

SR: It was at that time you wrote your Feminist Manifesto.

ML: Which remained unpublished in my lifetime. (She fluttered a hand in the air). Goes to show.

SR: Uh-huh. So, tell me. Don’t you find it a bit awkward having Papini and Marinetti involved with this event? I mean, aren’t you concerned they might still hold feelings for you?

ML: Feelings? That’s an understatement. They absolutely lust after me. They trail around behind me like a couple of stray horny puppies. It would be cute if it weren’t so pathetic. Anyway, they’re generally harmless and easily distracted. We’ve set up a miniature train set in one of the rooms where they can amuse themselves by crashing trains into each other and blowing up bridges.

SR: Ha! (I danced my champagne glass in the air). Your thirty-four poems, Songs to Joannes, were written on the subject of your failed relationship with the pair, yes? “We might have coupled / In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment / Or broken flesh with one another / At the profane communion table / Where wine is spilled on promiscuous lips.”

ML: “We might have given birth to a butterfly / With the daily news / Printed in blood on its wings.”

SR: (I thought I might catch her off-guard by reciting one of her poems, but she was smack dead-on with her response and never missed a beat). Very good. Excellent.

ML: Well, in all fairness, I did write the poem.

SR: Yes. You did. Tell me, will you be reciting any of your poetry tonight?

ML: Not anything officially scheduled, though, who knows? I might toss in a verse here or there. What I am doing is a repeat performance of the short one-act poetic play Lima Beans, by Alfred Kreymborg, along with William Carlos Williams. We play a husband and wife complete with a cast of puppets constructed by Sophie Taeuber-Arp. (Just then, a familiar portly figure approached us, grinning and rubbing her hands eagerly together). Ah, Gertrude, comment ça va? (The two women shared kisses on the cheeks).

Gertrude Stein: Je vais très bien, merci! I’m here to begin arranging my salon for later this evening. I’m expecting a large crowd. (She turned to walk away, then spun on her heels toward Mina). Oh, I almost forgot, Picasso sends his regrets. C’est dommage. Though the Delaunays can both attend, which is marvellous. If we can manage to limit the alcohol intake of monsieurs Ernest Hemingway and Wallace Stevens we might be able to prevent them from coming to blows, though there’s no guarantee. Then again, what’s a party without a brief display of testosterone-driven fisticuffs to settle artistic differences? Well, bonne chance, Gertrude! (She gave a small wave and walked to the rear of the lounge).

SR: (At this point I began to notice that my champagne glass was always full, no matter how much I drank. It was either a skillful magic trick, or else the bartender moved silent as a ghost topping up the glasses. I had no idea how much I’d had to drink. I did know I was getting pleasantly plastered). She called you Gertrude, or…?

ML: My middle name. She calls me that as a friendly tease, to show that we’re sympatico, since she likes to tell everyone that I’m one of the few people who can understand her writing without putting in the commas. (Obviously delighted with this compliment, she made a popping sound with her lips). BUT…she’s reminded me of something I haven’t mentioned to you yet.

SR: Which is? (I grinned dopily at her and rested my chin on a fist).

ML: As part of our set design, we’ve constructed a boxing ring on the stage where I will make my announcements over the microphone and within which several of the performances will be held, culminating with the grand feature of the night. Arthur Cravan and Jack Johnson will re-create their historic heavyweight boxing match.

SR: (Boxing was much in vogue and popular with the Dadaists, as I recalled, and Arthur Cravan — Swiss born writer, poet, artist, boxer and nephew of Oscar Wilde — due to his rough vibrant poetry and provocative anarchistic lectures and public appearances ((often degenerating into drunken brawls)) earned him the admiration of other young artists and intellectuals. His proclivity for shock ((during one such “lecture” he announced that he would commit suicide by drinking a carafe of absinthe in front of the crowd whilst wearing only a jock-strap “for the benefit of the ladies,” and delivered his pre-suicide récit with his testicles draped on the table))

endeared him to the New York Dadaist movement, who adopted him as their poster boy after his death by misadventure at the untimely young age of 31. His death ((never mind his life)) involved a very complex and twisty story that would make a swell movie, I thought, if it all didn’t sound too far-fetched and implausible, if anyone took a notion. Arthur and Mina were lovers who married in Mexico City after she became pregnant with his child. As Cravan was a draft dodger being pursued by American secret police, the pair sought to escape Mexico City separately and meet up again in Argentina. He was presumed drowned after attempting to sail a rickety old boat alone to Puerto Angel, a few days up the coast. After that, Mina always claimed that Arthur was the one true love in her life). Then, Arthur Cravan is here? (I was, on some personal level, disappointed at the news, as one might imagine, and saw myself alongside the likes of Papini and Marinetti, only able to admire Mina from a distance).  

ML: Oh no, not yet, at the penultimate moment we expect. We hope, at any rate.

SR: He doesn’t need to rehearse?

ML: Rehearse? (She widened her eyes and stared at me in utter astonishment). You must be joking. What need is there for rehearsal? He is Arthur Cravan, after all, formidable poet and boxer. Six feet four inches tall, two hundred and thirty pounds of seething energy, muscular and broad shouldered, more a force of brute nature than a mere mortal.

SR: (Her report was wistful, glowing, if not a trifle warped by her feelings for the man. According to reliable reports, Arthur was mostly a fraud and an imposter; a third-rate poet and worse boxer, who never won a professional bout in his short career. The fight between him and Jack Johnson in Barcelona had been fixed. Arthur took an agreed dive in the sixth round, then absconded with the gate money and fled to New York. Ah, well, as they say, love is blind, and no point in me attempting to confront her with the facts. Besides, the night’s performance was all theatre and play-acting anyway, right? And, who knows, maybe it was Jack Johnson’s turn to hit the mat after a phantom punch to the jaw and Arthur could finally move beyond his usual exaggerated prowess in the ring and claim victory. As for me, I was defeated from the start. What start? There was no start? What had she once said about Arthur and their relationship? Oh, yeah: “Tenderness awakened in him, and tenderness in a strong man is always a deluge.” That says it all, brother. Step to the back of the line). You’re looking forward to seeing him, I can tell.

ML: More than you can imagine.

SR: Well, it all sounds like it’s going to be a terrific evening’s entertainment. (I finished my champagne and laid my palm over the glass before the bartender could refill it). I would love to attend. Where can I purchase a ticket?

ML: (She stretched her mouth and sucked a breath through her teeth). Oh, sorry, we’re entirely sold out, even overbooked, with a growing waiting list. Have been since we announced the event.

SR: I don’t doubt it. Congratulations. I wish you every success. (I secured my recorder, stood — a tad unsteadily, I admit, due to the amount of champagne I’d consumed, meanwhile, Mina appeared unfazed and unaffected — extended a hand, and we shook. Best to end it at that, I thought. In a businesslike manner. As I reminded myself, it’s never a good idea to fall in love with a ghost. It can only end badly. A phone rang and she withdrew a cell phone from her dress pocket and tapped the faceplate to read a text. ‘Cell phone’ I thought. Another piece of evidence showing she’s not who she appears to be. Or is that ‘whom’? I was definitely rattled. Her head sagged and her lips formed a silent ‘what?’). What is it? Is anything wrong? (I didn’t dare hope that it had something to do with Arthur Cravan, and yet…).

ML: It’s a message from Bill — William Carlos — he can’t make the performance tonight, he’s come down with something. Not COVID, he tested. Maybe the flu, maybe food poisoning, but he can’t get out of bed, except for the toilet. How sad.

SR: Yes, it is. You and he were going to…

ML: Lima Beans. The Alfred Kreymborg play.

SR: Husband and wife. And puppets. That’s a shame.

ML: It is a shame. I was looking very much forward to it. (She slit her eyes, pursed her lips, and clutched her coral beads with her fingertips. OMG, I thought, not again). Can I ask you? (We locked eyes). Have you ever acted on stage?

SR: In university, the odd time, nothing too serious. (I blurted the lie, and hoped she couldn’t read the truth in my eyes, which her gaze was boring into). 

ML: You could fill in. It’s a short play. I can walk you through it. You can be on book. Won’t matter. There’ll be so much going on anyhow. What do you say? It would mean so much to me. And the others, it goes without saying. (She continued fondling the coral beads with one hand while pressing the other against her chest).

SR: Yes. Of course. I’d be delighted and honoured and... Anyway, I’m a quick study. I might surprise you.

ML: You might, might you? (She laughed). Well. You’re quite the rascal, aren’t you? How charming. Wonderful. Follow me. We’ll have you fitted for a costume.

 

I stuck my recorder in my coat pocket as she led me to the theatre entrance. She asked if I was prepared to be amazed. I said yes. She gripped the door handle, looked at me, smiled, bent at the waist, kissed me softly on the mouth. “We have flowed out of ourselves,” she said, “Beginning on the outside / That shrivvable skin / Where you leave off  // Of infinite elastic / Walking the ceiling / Our eyelashes polish stars.” It was her poem titled The Dead. My head was spinning. I didn’t know if it was the champagne or the kiss. Those coral lips. She pushed the door open and dragged me inside. The lights were up full and dazzling and art works and faces I had only recognized and admired through books and gallery visits suddenly took on life. And I was to be a part of it. I was to become William Carlos Williams sharing spit on stage with the fabulous Mina Loy. Amazed? Oh, yeah. I didn’t know what more to expect. I didn’t care. Mina led the way and I followed.

It was all I could do.  

             

   

 

 

Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks, a 13th poetry collection was published in March 2025 with ecw press. Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.