Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

excerpt

Named for William Bowser, a former Premier of the Province of British
Columbia, Bowser is a minute community with a long history. It is situated
on the eastern shore of Vancouver Island within a string of holiday and
retirement communities in the area known as Lighthouse Country. These
residential hamlets follow the easily accessible seashore between the larger
communities of Parksville-Qualicum to the south, and Courtney-Comox to
the north. In the 1940s, the area had become famous because of the Pink
River, the early name for Nile Creek. The seasonal run of homecoming
salmon, more pink than silver in their waning cycle, choked the river in their
drive to seek the upstream pools and gravel riffs where they could spawn in
relative safely. Despite the falling numbers of returning salmon through the
1990s, Nile Creek continued to be one of his favourite places—a peaceful,
restorative out of the way escape, and when he needed space to heal, it
became his destination.
It seemed reasonable that if he were serious about reinventing himself,
he should begin with the basics. A healthy body generally encouraged a
healthy mind. He started with solitary beach walks, and as his stamina
improved, he ranged further. In the course of his exercise routine, Ken
eventually explored every beach, hidden cove and tidal pool from Parksville
to Bowser to Courtney in the mid-island area of Vancouver Island. He
chatted with fishermen and shopkeepers and old-timers with stories to tell.
It provided a fine opportunity to learn the history and the folklore of the area
he now considered home.
On this mission to return himself to physical and mental health, he
was dogged. Close friends became concerned when they learned he had
not only changed the way in which he did everything, but he also appeared
no longer to have any desire for either of his life-long passions: fishing and
painting. The truth was that for some time his heart had not been part of
either occupation. For nearly six months he had not even entered the studio
he rented together with his cottage from his neighbour, Ken Harris. He says,
“Even in those areas I’d been on autopilot.”

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

excerpt

that if the vessel sunk in the Atlantic, an ability to stay afloat would
only delay the inevitable. He acquired skills in the navy that didn’t
transfer easily to a civilian economy. Which is why, when the
slaughter was over, he went to work for the first company offering
employment, a meat plant on the Vancouver waterfront.
He worked in a freezer, sorting animal carcasses. The cold caused
his face to flush as though he was suffering from permanent discomfiture.
People sometimes wondered if he’d recently returned from
California or Hawaii. My father enjoyed being mistaken for someone
wealthy enough to afford such a holiday. From the neck down
he was eggshell white.
Weekends my dad hung out at the Hastings Park Racetrack. In
the off-season he made wagers through a bookie, mumbling peculiar
equations into the phone, pretending to talk union or hockey
whenever my mother roamed within earshot. He would visit a barbershop
downtown to settle his accounts. It was his modus operandi.
One Sunday, in an attempt to sabotage this unsanctioned liaison,
my mother hid the car keys. Dad hadn’t been paying her enough
attention, a common lament. The family Plymouth sat forlornly at
the curb while they revisited schisms pre-dating my birth. When
Dad reached for the coin jar in the cupboard, having decided to
catch a bus, he discovered it empty — her modus operandi.
– I’m going, my father vowed. You can’t stop me.
– Then start walking, buster, our mother returned.
And so he did, she following like an obstinate virus.
From our house in the Project a brisk stroll downtown took about
two hours. Myfather later revealed that he’d hoped to lose her in the
crowds of Chinatown, but that his height — over six feet, toe to
crown— prevented a getaway.
– I was like a noodle in a rice bowl, he said.
– Why don’t you tell everybody where you’re going, big shot? my
mother reportedly exclaimed over tables stacked high with bok
choy, ducking between the hapless torsos of barbecued poultry. Tell
’em why you’re sneaking off!
She paced outside the barbershop until my father completed his
business. I can see him chuckling nervously as he tries explaining
her behaviour to the congress of punters. Hear from behind an arc of
steaming lather, What’s with the dame?

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Impulses

Detail
Turning countless pages
puzzled over commas
full-stops
and maze of tumid lines
void of breath for thought in
fathoms of verbiage
we looked between
stanzas and blurry riddles
sniffed hidden meanings
argued about blasphemies
called on the smooth-faced poet
gray hair philosopher and
they agreed that that god was dead
and the masses danced in the agora
convinced that He never
appears obvious apparent

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