It was raining. This was the Vancouver morning I’d been waiting for for nearly 5 years, wet and dark and cold.

It was perfect.

I sat in a small café near my new apartment, surfing the Internet and plugging away at minor creative endeavours. I could feel the engine of my creativity re-igniting, cycling up as it usually did around this time of year. It was fall, October 20, 2008. It was Monday, the day of my orientation into Vancouver Film School for a year of Foundation Arts. I was ready.

I’d gotten up at five, two hours earlier, and done my routine. Those days it consisted of an hour’s worth of Ashtanga yoga. I’d put a couple of cups of brown rice on to cook and lit a candle, and immersed myself in the golden and nutty scent of the boiling rice as it mingled with the tart apple of the burning candle, and the sharp cut of my own clean sweat.

Each morning I was taking the time I needed to feel alive. This particular morning I’d taken it nice and slow, allowing my body the space and freedom it needed to release all the stress and tension I’d been carrying up to that point.

After the yoga I’d taken a leisurely towel-bath, massaging Doctor Bronner’s Magic Peppermint Soap into every pore of my body. This not only conserved water but also gave me an extra fifteen minutes of relaxation, and more time to get in touch with where I was at at that point in time.

I’d then swallowed half a serving of protein powder mixed with cool water, and brushed my teeth with aniseed paste.

I’d dressed, choosing from the limited selection of clothing I’d managed to bring over from Japan. Cargo pants, a loose t-shirt, a heavy hooded pullover, the winter hooded jacket, and a pair of heavy boots, all blacks and deep navy blues.

I’d put an old rubber tension ball into my pocket, along with my keys and wallet, armed the portable music player, and stepped out the door.

It had been raining, and I’d turned my face up into the dark pre-dawn sky and let the drops fall on me. Taking a deep breath, I’d turned and headed up the dim rain-slicked street to the café.

And there I sat, at a table near the window, watching the traffic, the weather, the people, and the screen. Feeling my anxiety ebb and flow through my nervous system, and not buying into it. Letting those emotions run their course.

I was ready.


I didn’t know better, and that was the perfect excuse. Ignorance was the ultimate crutch whenever it was a true lack of knowledge that kept someone from participating or conversing or what have you.

It wasn’t that I’d lived in a bubble, or a vacuum. Quite the contrary, my parents had provided for me very well. A library stocked with all the essentials, great works of literature and books on the various sciences and magic of the world. I’d spent a lot of time in there, at least as a youth, in the years before the actual schooling began, and had filled my head full of the information contained therein. But like nearly all recorded knowledge it was dead, dead words on dead pages, a snapshot of things that had been and theories about things that might be. It had always been left to me to synthesize new thoughts from the old ones I read about, and unfortunately I lacked the requisite imagination.

My old gran had overseen me on many an afternoon, knitting and rocking in her chair near the stone hearth. The click-click of her needles had been like a metronome for my mind, each tick marking a certain number of words read, pages turned, books consumed. The old woman had often extolled the virtues of reading and book learning, about how the mind was the most amazing playground a young person or any person could ever hope to explore. Endless discovery awaits, she would say, her rheumy eyes ever fixed on the loop and thread between her wrinkled and bony fingertips.

“Great grey whales, roaring green dragons spouting fire from their fanged jaws, secret agents skulking in the shadows. Can’t you just picture it, young Jack?”

No, I’d wanted to say. No I can’t, Gran. Is there something wrong with me? But I never asked. I knew in my heart that it was a shameful thing, to be unable to see with my mind’s eye the words on the page made real from the fabric of my imagination. So I’d kept silent, reading the words with a stubborn plodding, like a prisoner treading the same track around the exercise yard, marking the hours and days of my sentence.

My parents had left various art tools for me, should I ever have felt the need to express myself in that fashion. Clay and picks for sculpting, paints and brushes for painting, pastels and charcoals for sketching. I never touched them.

“Wouldn’t you like to draw?” Gran would ask.

“Maybe later,” I would say, or “perhaps after this book.”


“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully-wedded wife?”

“I most certainly do not!”

And with that little exchange out of the way, I lifted her veil and tongue-kissed her in full view of the holy host.

There was a lavish reception as well.

The two of us danced, alone, while a string quartet played various waltzes.

We ate like king and queen. The finest prime rib. Truffles. Caviar. And of course, the cake.

It was a towering ten-tiered affair: a mountain of sugar, a monolith of caloric death. I had a small piece. She ate three generous helpings. She loved cake.

We didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, despite there being several bottles of fine champagne. It’s not that we never drank, we simply didn’t want to sully the memories.

And all throughout, my mental-Polaroid kept clicking away.

We flew to Nassau on the red-eye. The flight had been practically empty, allowing us to stretch out across several seats in economy class.

I think that was the first time I’d ever really slept on an airplane.

Dawn found us on a beach in the Bahamas, a massive international hotel towering behind us, and the full glory of the sun leaping into the sky from an azure horizon.

And still, we didn’t make love.

We spent the morning on the beach, draining our psyches of urban living. Lunch was served by dark-skinned men and women wearing blinding white uniforms, and I was briefly reminded of her, resplendent in her bridal white.

We took siesta in the room, sleeping the afternoon away.

The evening brought entertainment in the form of an open-air jazz concert. It was off-season in the Bahamas, and we were alone in the pavilion as a professional pianist rolled through the standards.

We hadn’t spoken since I told her, and God, that I wouldn’t join her in holy matrimony. Our communication had consisted of stolen glances, funny faces, smiles and grimaces.

We were happy.

I left her around midnight. No note, no apologetic kiss across her sleeping brow.

I’d see her again.

“There is a certain,” and I paused here for effect, “assurance about the inevitability of things.”

She gave me one of those what-the-hell-is-that-supposed-to-mean looks before responding. “If you’re going to start lecturing me on life and death, save your breath. I got more than enough of that from my last lover. And he was a philosophy major. I’ve made up my own mind about things, and none of what I’ve decided includes anything inevitable. I simply do not believe in destiny.”

“A safe position to take!” I was trying very hard to ignore her barb about not being a professional thinker. The fact that she had said last lover gave me a lot of hope, although I knew it was dangerous to read too much into a person’s use of grammar. I continued. “After all, who would want to give up their sense of free will to a belief in a pre-determined existence?”

“Again you show your ignorance, Jack.” She sucked on the cigarette that had been idly burning in the ashtray. “Just because someone doesn’t believe in destiny doesn’t make life any less pre-determined. It’s the acceptance that while you have the choices to make, those choices are all decided by external factors. Thus, there is some measure of pre-determination.”

The preparations had all been made, and all the rehearsals run. I had studiously observed all the little policies and regulations surrounding the ceremony, and everything ran without a hitch.

She entered the little church we’d chosen, looking glorious and angelic in the frothing white lace and tight silk she’d finally decided on after hours and hours of trial and error.

It was exactly noon. The sun shafted directly into the narrow aisle that she now walked up, igniting the dress in a dazzling blast of the purest golden ivory, blinding all who would behold her beauty.

The strains of “Here Comes the Bride” could be heard, throaty and deep, issuing forth from an ancient pipe organ. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

There was only one witness. Neither of our families knew what we were doing that afternoon.

I felt a tear coming and I choked it back. I would look strong and commanding on this, the day of our wedding.

Her satin-clad toes reached the pre-determined mark at the head of the aisle just as the last note of the song rang out. We were within arm’s reach of each other. I could smell her, a sweet jasmine scent mixed with the green tang of a spring breeze. Again the tears challenged my resolve, and again I beat them back.

I was beginning to understand the purpose of this ceremony, and why people did it. It was an emotional rush. A drug-like experience. Like engaging in mental intercourse of some kind. A memory-maker. I felt snapshots reeling off in my mind, already developing, Polaroid snaps drying in the light.

Images swimming to the surface of a dark emulsion.

The minister began to minister.

We’d decided to go with the traditional vows, the default settings all the way. Nothing radical, nothing fantastic.

“I could take you away from all this,” I said, more of a statement of fact than an offer to be taken seriously, “but it’s not what you’d want.” There was a moment when her eyes unfocused, perhaps indicating that she was considering a life far-removed from what she’d been doing for the past twenty-odd years.

“You’re very clever, Jack. You know many things. But there are some things that even your big brain can’t quite figure.” Those eyes had refocused, their hard intensity had returned even harder and more intense than before.

I could tell she wanted to play a little. “Fuck off.” I wasn’t interested. “I know all I need to. If anything remains hidden, or secret, it simply isn’t worth knowing.”

Now there was anger in those swirling pools, her windows to the soul. She tried to speak, but all that came out where grunts and gasps. And she fucked off. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.

After all, it was what I’d wanted her to do in the first place.

“What do you do?”

“I spend my husband’s money. Other than that I simply exist to pleasure and serve him. Is that not a wife’s duty?”

“I suppose.” I didn’t, really, but I wanted to humor her. I wanted to find out how deep those roots really went. “What if you found out that he’d been unfaithful to you?”

“Unfaithful?” Her puzzlement was genuine, her heavily mascara’d lashes batting in bewilderment.

“You know. Cheated. Had an affair. Fucked another woman.” I was testing her response to the f-word. I was rewarded with shock and awe, though I was unsure if it was my use of profanity or the mere suggestion of adultery that had blown her mind.

“Never. He would never do such a thing. Why would he? He has everything he needs in me.”

“Oh, you know. He is a man, isn’t he? All men at least consider such things, regardless of how much of a goddess his wife is.”

“I don’t believe you.” She really didn’t. What I was telling her was inconceivable. And it warmed my heart that at least one person in the world was actually true to their ideals. It was a shame her husband was not. I briefly entertained ideas of trying to capture this prize for myself, but only briefly.