The gulls were all whirling and fairly screaming as I turned the corner onto Princess Street on Sunday morning. Crashed packets of garbage, then a million broken bits rolling around. It was a gull party. At least the wind was warm. I don't know why I walked up Division, which I usually avoid, because the effect is certainly disaffecting ... I understand why you might mindlessly pile up beer bottles on your front step, but why go to the effort of smashing them? Division Street's ugliness is unrelenting enough to dismiss until you think just for a few seconds about the kind of people who do walk it: the unemployed (or unemployable) and upper middle-class Queen's students. Guess who leaves more of a mess? Of course the Money Mart is a classic touch, kind of a flagship for the suffering. I did find a dime on the sidewalk, about a block from my studio, but I declined to pick it up because it was floating in piss. This might turn out to be bad luck later.
People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m
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