Sunrise of the Planetary Dream Collector is a composition by Terry Riley, based on the notion that dreams are collected and redistributed. The Tempered Stays is a collection of dreams.

The Tempered Stays

jon argyle

There is a sharp snap to my immediate left. A suited woman looks me in the eyes and bellows. "What are you waiting for? Move along. Money to earn. Money to earn. We can't all be standing around like you."

As she speaks, I am herded sideways and backwards, caught helplessly in a determined commuter stampede. Through glistening steel corrals this morning throng is directed to an oil-gripped bus terminal. Sugar plum women in pink frills and fluff dresses direct the masses in candy-sick nasal voices.

"You'll find your bus at gate 36C, sir, just to your right and then to your left. I hope you have a pleasant journey. Thank you so much for travelling with us."

My search for 36C is challenged. Movement upon movement in a resolute march. Above the frantic din, I hear a familiar piano piece. It's the Goldberg Variations. Glenn Gould. 35A, 35B, getting closer.
Another sickly voice heralds me. "Yes sir, you're moving in the right direction. It won't be long before you are on your bus and on your way. Do have a good day travelling with us."

At 36C, I climb the steps of a huge articulated bus. It is crowded and noisy with the chatter of workers. Everyone sports blue canvas overalls with a green embroidered logo on the chest pocket. Stainless steel lunch boxes reflect the moving mouths.

The driver makes a garbled announcement and we lurch forward. We are soon travelling at speed westwards on an uneven, rambling road, train tracks to our right, a stream to the left. A train approaches, it's thunder and steam building a menacing wall through which we must pass. "Jenny's on that train." someone calls out. The talk continues. The train pounds past. I believe I spot her reading a magazine. There is laughter from the rear of the bus and I hear someone say we will stay in a hotel for the night.

The bus sputters to an abrupt halt.

"You." The driver is clearly pointing to me. "How many times have I told you to stop? C'mon, how many times?"
I hazard a guess. "Must be at least three times." My fellow riders laugh incredulously.
"Wrong answer buddy. Get off."
The riders all wave white silk kerchiefs and in unison whisper repeatedly "bye bye sad guy."

I step from the bus and find myself on a miniature movie set. Cameras of all descriptions rest on wheeled tripods and point at me. I move to the left. Each camera follows my movement. To the right, more movement. A sudden, intense claustrophobic feeling descends. I back into a granite wall. Long, high and encompassing. There is activity overhead. Pulleys are moved and lights adjusted.

A rapid mouse-like voice squeals from above. "You're not in this scene. Move on. Get out. Hurry. Hurry and scurry."

The walls close in. Nowhere to go.
"Now. Now. Now. Get out. Go over there. Over there."

To my right, a flickering neon sign reads: ate's

I move to the sign with its burnt out letter and gaudy lime colouring. The sign rests in the window of a cafe. ate's. Billows of grease, smoke and bleach greet me as I open the cafe's blistered door. The cafe is narrow with green plastic chairs leaning against a smeared white wall. A TV soap opera actress stands defiantly behind the counter, her stained apron enclosing her impressive figure. She loudly sings bawdy songs in a classically trained voice and tells disparaging jokes about her husband. No one laughs. A parrot squawks in the corner. The actress turns to me and says "Outside. That's where you want to be. Outside."

She's right. I want to be outside. I certainly don't belong here. I reach for the handle, step outside and stumble into the arms of C.

She has been crying. She is not well. I brush the tears from her cheek. I comfort her. Hold her. I want her pain to come to me. I kiss her damp hair and whisper words that I haven't before. She looks at me. The pain.
Disappearing. If it was only that easy. Her eyes. Clearer. They smile. I know from her look....well, I know.

There is a clamour in the background. I turn to face a bright blue wall. I turn again. C is gone. A thick rope hangs down. I have an intense urge to climb. Ten metres. Thirty metres. Fifty metres. The wall grows as I climb. I am determined to succeed, to reach the top. My muscles groan as I continue.

Then I can climb no more. I admit defeat. I rest, clinging. Can I let go or must I cling like a baby to its mother? Will I fall with a thud? I don't want to wake anyone. Where is C? Below somewhere.

I ease my grip and feel air upon my wet back. I am flipped upwards. Quickly. Backwards. There is an abrupt stop as I hit a ceiling, cobwebbed and gritty. Below me is an eerie open and empty space. Black darkness. The letter C is carved in the blackness. A glowing C. Pages of a glossy magazine come from nowhere and blind me. The C disappears. I am in total darkness dangling from a ceiling. Perhaps a guardian's hand holds me safely and I should not be troubled. Perhaps not. Dangling. No control.......

"There you are. We thought you'd gone AWOL. Come on. Time to go." An auburn haired woman grabs me by the shoulder and hurries me through a bright office. "We've done enough for today. Get your coat and let's go." Obediently, I shuffle with her into a sardine elevator. There is banter about pounds, dollars, and marks. "Get ready," she tells me. "See you tomorrow." As the doors slide open, people scatter like roaches caught in
the light. This is an aeroport. People dash to catch their commuter flights home. A smartly dressed man with a shiny leather briefcase bangs his umbrella on the door of a plane as it taxis. "Do let me in," he hollers as
he jogs beside the plane. The pilot ignores him. He'll have to wait. He slices the air with his umbrella and curses. The engine blasts throw him to the ground. He dusts himself and returns to a waiting area, fists to the air.

I sit in a large olive coloured room with a noticeable constant hum. Glenn Gould. Neatly dressed individuals sit in theatre-like seats in orderly rows. A screen fills the front. A chewing gum advertisement is being projected. "Your teeth will thank you." I am blinded by the brightness.

An all-girls choir in crisp, regimental dresses and braided hair files in and stands before a huge stick of sugar-free gum. It is then that I notice the attendants. This is an aeroplane, a vast, church-like space. I find a
worn, folded ticket buried in my breast pocket. My destination is four streets away. I can't imagine taking this plane.

I get the attention of an attendant and explain my situation. She is adamant that I must sit down. Now.
"But I'd rather walk." She isn't listening.
"It will take forever to remove your luggage. And what will the doctors say? They are seldom happy, cantankerous at the best of times. What do you think they'd be like if the plane is late? All those pregnant women and a late plane. I ask you."

I haven't a clue what she's talking about. All I know is that I must walk. I grab her and speak sternly. "I have no luggage. Let me off this plane. Now."

"It would be so much easier if you used the magic word. You do know the magic word."

The choir starts humming 'Old Man River'. An announcer introduces the in-flight entertainment. In a gold lame suit, and with a mouthful of bright teeth, Liberace enters. "But, he's dead," I mumble, my words drowned by the applause. There is a standing ovation, cheers and a mini-fireworks display. "Please. Please, let me off this plane."

The stewardess smiles. "Now that wasn't so hard was it? All you had to say was please." She snaps her fingers and blows me a kiss.

I am dangling above nothing......

I hear footsteps. Echoing footsteps. Closer.
I dangle.

"You play guitar, don't you?'
"Who's that? I can't see you. Can you get me down? Please."
"Well? You play guitar don't you?"
A face emerges from the dark. Inches from mine. I can smell his clothes. An open fire smell. Lots of smoke. "Well?"
"I don't really play. I know about three chords. A few Deep Purple power chords. Now can you get me down?"
"You don't want me to get you down. You'll fall. There's nothing beneath here."
"What are you standing on then?" I ask curiously.
"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure. I just stand. Do you play any Bach?"
"Not on guitar, I don't."
"What about Coltrane?"
"I know three chords. Aren't you listening to me? Three lousy chords!"
"Let's go play." He grabs my hand and tugs. I can feel the grasp on my back fall away.
"Don't let go." I plead as he moves off into the darkness.
"Trust me," he says with a smile. "Want some gum?"

I can hear his hand on a door handle. We enter a recording studio. A guitar is thrust into my arms.

"Play that weird minor chord. The one you played on Electric Ladyland."
I look him in the eyes. They are grey and bloodshot. "I know three chords!"
"That's ok. I only want you to play one," he says calmly as he moves behind the control desk. "Hurry up. You have to go soon."

I plug in the guitar. It is beautiful. Hand built. Nice inlays. I'm no guitarist, but I know it feels right in my hands.
"Hurry up!"
I position my fingers and play one of the chords. I strum and switch to the second chord. There is a spasm in my hands. I stop playing. The spasm continues.
"Hurry up!"
"My hands feel strange. They're.."
"Hurry up."

There is numbness as I position my hands again. I strum a C. There is much reverberation. As I strum, I start to feel a groove. A steady, pulsating groove. My fingers twist and slide. I am playing. Properly. With conviction. With talent. With ease. I strut. Seconds later, my fingers tire and I hit an awkward, snarling chord.

"That's the one. I got it. You're toast!" He points to me, his thumb arched backwards like a tired, road-weary hitchhiker.

The blackness was sudden and complete. My position was now familiar.
Dangling......

"Next. I think you will find that you are next, sir."

A spotlight hits a chrome-plated barber's chair. Behind it stands a tall, erect figure. Bow-tied and gleaming. "Sir?"
With that I am rotated, swivelled and churned. Swiftly. Efficiently. The plump, leather seat comforts me as my gymnastic display is curtailed.
"Short back and sides, sir? Fine weather we are having today, though they do say there is a cold stretch ahead. You have not been to see us before have you sir?" he asks as his fingers flail. I anticipate the blood flow to commence shortly.
"No. This is a very unexpected visit really. May I ask where I am exactly?"
"You may, sir. You certainly may, " he states all the time click-click-clicking.
"Well? Where would you say I am. Where are we?"
"Where would you like to be sir?" He was working around my ears. I held as still as possible as I always dread an unexpected Van Gough.
"It's not a question of where I'd like to be. I'd like to know where I am."
"Certainly, sir." He lays down his scissors and comb. To his left is a soft but significant brush. He grasps it as a violinist would take his instrument. With respect. With adoration. He runs the scale on my shoulders. The remnants of the trim are scattered from my person. "Something for the weekend sir?"
"No. Thank you. I'm fine."
"Thank you sir. I hope that I will have the pleasure of serving you in the future." He clicks his heels and bows at the waist. "Next please."

The lights go out. Behind me is a sneeze. I turn and see a candle resting on a small wooden box. To the left is a mat, an exercise mat. There is another sneeze. A woman drops to the mat with a third sneeze.

"So sorry about all this sneezing. Have you just had a haircut? All the little hairs drive me batty."
"My apologies. Yes, I have had a trim. I did think that all the hairs were gone. Obviously I was wrong. What should I do?"
"Just stand over there for a minute. By the window."
She points behind me. It is dark. I see no window. She sneezes repeatedly. I move to where she points.
"But please mind the gap."

As she says that, my foot steps into a void and my body follows. I commence yet another gymnastic routine. Somersaults. Three-point gainers. I gather speed as I tumble and fall. I am Newton's apple. I picture myself as a pavement pancake. A disquieting peace comes over me. I hear Glenn Gould humming and picture his fingers moving over the keyboard as a lover caresses. Should it end now, I would die contented.

A large green net is thrust from the darkness with a bubble gum swoosh. My peace is halted as is my fall. Two mean eyes appear over the net's rim followed by a stern, scarred face.
"Not so fast. You have to pay the tax. Thought you'd get away didn't you? When will you realise that you have to pay? When?"
He pulls a calculator from a back pocket. He punches in numbers and scratches his head with uncertainty. "Carry the four," he mutters. He pulls a pencil from behind his ear and jots some numbers on a pad. More
buttons are punched. The digits are transferred to the pad. The collector reviews the outcome and confidently makes me aware of the damage. "£4.21" he states. "No, that's not right. But it must be. Let me check this again. Would you please wait over there." He points behind me. I take one step and begin to fall...

This fall is long. Long. Too long. Unexpected. Unexpectedly long. When will another net grab me? I don't want to be here. The long fall. How will I stop? How do I stop the fall? My question is answered. A pillow. Soft. Downy. Gentle. Breath easy. You have arrived.

I take in the quiet. This darkness comforts me. It's like being nestled in the bosom of C. Where is she? Where am I?  Where do I go from here? I stand. Somewhat unbalanced by the drop. It's so dark. To my left is a chant. It reminds me of McGill University 1979. Krishna Consciousness. I'm dancing. The room dances. The room spins. The happy room. The happy spinning room. The chant. I hear C. With her choir. She is in the Abbey. In the front wearing her prescribed blouse. She looks at me quizzically. I listen as she sings. Her voice. Angelic. She says I shouldn't be there.
"I must be," I say. "I want to be with you."
"We can't!" She turns away.
"Yes. We can. You know that I......" I shout though my voice seems silenced.

She turns to me. She smiles and disappears....

"Mind your feet please." The cleaner. Sweeping the floor. Keeping us safe from dust balls and all evil things gritty. "Mind your feet please."
I pick up my feet and find myself gliding. As a baby in a cradle. Gently through the air. Dorothy's house spins past. A frantic destiny awaits it. I cruise forward gathering speed. I hear C still. Jerusalem. All Creatures Great and Small. I land splayed. This body will ache.

"You just missed my turnips good thing mind as I just planted them and if you'd landed on them they'd be knackered with a capital k if you ask me but you wouldn't ask me would you would ask someone you knew who would that be I wonder who would you ask someone special are you married maybe you'd ring her and tell her that you just squashed my turnips go ahead and call her because you nearly did and then what would I have done well I ask you what would I have done well?"

I take a deep breath on behalf of my new acquaintance. "I am so sorry. So very sorry. You do have an incredible garden. I certainly wouldn't want to cause it any problems whatsoever."
"But that's just it isn't it isn't it just you may not wish to do something but it just happens hasn't that ever happened to you hasn't it?"
C comes to mind instantly. "Yes. Yes it has."
"Well I think you should apologise and get out of here just leave because you are not welcomed here we don't like your sort around here never have and never will well what are you waiting for go on get going."
"I'm sorry."
With that I spin. Uncontrollably. Forward. Head over heels. Like a yorkie with a firm destination. Middle
stump. Ninety-five for five. A fine innings.

"Stop right there."
And I do.
A tannoy advises in a whining well-rehearsed tone — "The premises you are entering are under surveillance by cameras and other advanced technology. Any action or actions you may take will be recorded for future generations to view and to judge. Be aware of this as it may affect your good name. You must consider this before acting."
What trouble could I possibly get into? I'm alone and I'm here for the ride.
I open a door.

There is a small frame on the floor. A picture frame without an image. As I look at it, an image flashes. A groaning murmur commences. It is Yonge Street. Toronto. 4:30 on a Friday. The hustle of the escape. I see myself rushing from Commerce Court. Up Yonge Street to the book store and then the beer store. Priorities. I throw off my suit, open a beer and rest on my 18^th floor balcony. I crack the spine of a paperback. This is my weekend. She won't be ringing me. She's pissed off. I don't know why. Can never really read her. Maybe that's the attraction. I read aloud this tragic mystery in my best Cohen voice. Neighbours gather on their balconies. They applaud snippets. Anticipation mounts. I continue reading.

A blue light explodes. The frame blanks. There is quiet. The frame is charred. Small pieces lay beside it. I gather the pieces. Photographic jigsaws. I piece the images. It is C carrying a small wrapped box. I hear her whisper.
"This is for you. I can give you nothing more."
The pieces move. It is C dancing. She smiles and winks. She dances in circles. Her long dress spins. No worries. Carefree. "I can give you nothing more."

I love her smile. I could watch her forever. She stops dancing. There is darkness.

Not again.....

I listen.
I listen to the quiet.
There must be more.

A magazine rustles behind me. I turn. A familiar voice chuckles. A throne-like chair appears high above me. A figure that I cannot see clearly peers down.

"Insect." The hooded person returns to a magazine and laughs. "Insect. Squash him."
On command, a large thumb approaches from above. I run beneath the chair. Safety by a whisker. The thumb hits the ground with a mighty thud and quickly prepares for the next assault.

I pause to catch my breath. I look up at the chair's seat. There is a screen. Blinking. Snowlike. I punch at it and the reception improves. I see C in an arm wrestle.
"No!" I yell. "It's not a contest. It's not a contest."
A referee tells me to be quiet. He blows his whistle and yells, "Go".
I start running. The others around me do as well. It is a marathon. Televised worldwide and brought to you by your favourite breakfast cereal, sandwich spread and mouthwash. I'm wearing headphones. I hear a classical piece. I hear R&B. I hear trouble. A cacophony. A run in the park. A typical Sunday. I pass a woman selling strawberries. She asks if I'm going to Wimbledon. Can I drop off some cream? I hesitate. I'm not certain of my route. She gives me a pint and tells me to do my best. "I always do." The thumb scatters runners to my left side. I manage not to spill the cream. When will the race be run?

I hit the wall. My marathon limit. My chest pounds. I sweat. My eyes hurt. My body pains. Even my ears are screaming. The thumb keeps me alert and agile. The wall must be conquered. A yell from behind tells me of another thumb strike. My speed quickens.

"Hey you. Over here. C'mon."

I've no choice. I can't keep ahead of the thumb. I'll be gravel any moment. I dash towards the man with his bright green sign telling all to Eat at Joe's. I am slow to catch my breath when I stop in his arms.
"Don't worry buddy. I'll take care of you. I know you're caught in this weird trip. It'll be ok. Let's go get some coffee."
We walk slowly down a narrow, walled lane. Behind me I can hear echoed warnings. The thumb is taking it's toll. My guide is unperturbed. We walk at a slow but definite pace.
"Is it much further?" I ask. These are not athlete's legs.
"How long is a piece of string? C'mon. Whatdoyathink?"
This is no time for mind games and puzzles. I just want a chair and a cold drink.
"We're here. Take a deep breath. Smell the coffee?"
I stop and do as he said. Hot. Freshly brewed. A warm unexpected calm passes over me.
"Can I go inside?" He's gone. I stand alone. There is a door with a neon welcome sign just above it. I open it. There must be a better beyond.

The door opens to a smallish room. There is a bed in the center. It is freshly made with a newly cut rose laid on the pillow. A handwritten note is attached. "I won. Go take a hot bath. I'll join you." It is unsigned. My body hollers for some immediate attention. I remove my damp, marathon clothes. I feel the breeze on my flesh. Where is this bath? I gather my clothes and walk at a tempered pace. The darkness hinders my advance.

A whisper beckons me. "Come to me. You are steps away."
I smell nature. I smell my Sunday mornings with the Goldberg Variations and a heavy edition of a broadsheet. I smell C. I must be where I should be.

I hit a wall. I turn to my right. Another wall. Behind me another. I discover a fourth. Boxed and naked. I'd rather be dangling.

A rough tinny voice shears through a high volume tannoy. "We have a special on imported undergarments today only. Be certain to look for the special signs when you leave us on the tenth floor. Thank you for shopping at Murphy's."

There is a sudden jolt and a bright vista appears.

I remove myself from the box and dress. Smelly and confused, I take tentative steps. Before me are rows upon rows of crisp white underwear. Silk. Cotton. PVC. Something for everyone. I don't want to be here. I need a shower. I need an escape.

There is a hush. A bellowing hush. It is planned. Calculated. I turn to challenge it. I hush loudly. It reminds me of useless arguments with my sister. Shushing contests. Who would be the last one to shush? She always won. I never accepted confrontation. Hush. Shush. The tables start to shimmy. Shush. They begin a canter. The meditative pace of the knickers table. They part as the river does in the Heston film. I advance whilst my body cries. My muscles need attention. Where is C with her special body rub? The tables continue their parting. I have enough room to waltz.

Glenn Gould sits in the corner. His clumsy chair squeaks beneath his weight. He hums me a tune. I join in. He says I'm a natural. Glenn asks me if I have a kettle. He needs to boil some water.
"Sorry Glenn, I wish I did. I'd really like to help you."
He looks concerned but continues to play and hum. His playing massages my aches. I stretch. My muscles implode with relaxation. I close my weary eyes. This adventure has been unwarranted.

"Join in!" Glenn demands as he starts playing a Dr John boogie number. I start my unique form of dance. Early nerd I think it was once defined. I close my eyes. I need a shower. A bed. A rest. A break.

Glenn moves into Take Five.
"Are you into Brubeck?" I ask him.
"Only when the doors are closed."
"What about Mingus?"
"Charles!!" He moves into Wednesday Night Prayer Meetin'. I mince. Mingus is my man. My opinion of this journey alters. I picture C dancing. Her long dress. Velvet boots.

Glenn pulls a pork-pie hat from mid-air. "Sure you don't have a kettle?"
"I really don't."

There is a thud to my left. That blasted thumb. I run into darkness....

There are whispers. One soft voice repeats a poem. One I know. One I wrote.
Whispers.

as friends should be
we cannot
as friends should be
should we redefine

I repeat it. as friends should be. we cannot. Redefine. What should we be?
What do we want to be? I turn. I am lost. I am unknown......

To be unknown and unseen. To be left alone. To be on my way home.

My eyes are weary. Dry and mean.

The poetry-reading voice stops. A quiet dark.

I hum.

A magazine rustles.

"Flight YUL now boarding at gate number four." A distant announcement to my right. I take tentative steps. The announcement continues. My steps are slowed. I've stepped in discarded gum. I cannot move.

"Final call for Flight YUL."

YUL. Montreal. Home.

"Final call."

I grab my left foot and lift. The gum refuses to ease its grip. I'll never get home.

A warm tender hand touches mine. The hold strengthens. I am pulled. Pulled free. We run. Towards my flight. Towards home.

"I hope we'll get there in time." It is C.

We run. Panicked and laughing. The runway lights blue and bright guide us. We screech as the aeroplane comes in sight. We are children playing games under the kitchen table. This is fun. This is the way it should be.

I bound up the stairs first. My first steps home.

At the top, I notice C isn't with me. She stands at the bottom and waves.

"I can give you nothing more." She smiles.

I understand. as friends should be.

C blows me a kiss.

"Would you like gum or a magazine?" a steward asks.
I just want to go home. Take me home. Take me home, please."