Walter Kist & the Seven Whorls Chapter 6

Toronto. Aug. 4, 1981.

Dear Kist,

The service was last week and there was a wake at the Selby Hotel, a rundown Victorian manse where Hemingway once lived and my dad once drank with his sock cronies. The latter were all in attendance, all kind of rundown themselves, except for their socks, which you would like: preppy argyle and natty striped, all very savvy. I’ll try to get you some - you can mix and match.

I took the camera you gave me, hoping to get shots of the ghosts of the two papas, mine and the literary one, but saw neither. I did see and shoot some beautiful original stained glass in a stairway which I imagined Ernest gazing upon while thinking up stories.

For Hem you shoot from the jugular, eh?

My own papa’s apartment is in a building called The Epitome (no kidding), and the Epitome is a four storey rectangular block of brick attached to a big old abandoned mansion. This mansion, which is set back from the street and all but obscured by the apartment block, has gables and turrets, bay windows and stained glass, nooks and secret rooms (more on that later).

My dad’s is a bachelor on the third floor of the block with a big corner terrace. At one end of the terrace I discovered a door in a brick wall, all covered with dead vines and iron bars. I was scared of it so I just took a picture then left it alone.

After a day though I couldn’t resist opening it and when I did, I discovered a little room with slanted ceilings and ancient wallpaper.

This room must have been part of the original mansion because there’s another door in it and if you go through that door you find yourself in a dark hallway where ruby and aubergine stained glass glimmers out of the shadows. I’m sure this is the intersection between house and apartment building but in this unoccupied limboland all vanishes into creepy darkness. I keep that door locked.

All my dad used the room for was storage. I don’t like staying in the apartment itself, too full of him and yet so bereft of him, and so I put his boxes and stuff in the apartment and have set myself up in the room. By day I sort through his junk, by night I write and dream in my secret atelier. Meet me there.

XOXO - Anahata

Toulouse. Aug. 17/81.

Dear Anahata,

You remember Escobar (the Gastown cobbler of sparkly platform shoes)? He was under the weather and gave me his ticket to Paris! Following a quick toast to Hem and you in Café deux Magots, I traveled with Escobar’s friends to Toulouse, which is known for its pink brick and its violets.

The man in my photo is Francois. He lives by the River Garonne in Toulouse. When the violets bloom in spring Francois picks enough to make several bottles of Liqueur de Violette. He pays his rent with the liqueur. He says his landlady can’t get enough of it (nor of him apparently - Francois is quite the lady’s man).

Liqueur de Violette is a heavenly shade of purple (although my camera has rendered it indigo, which is the colour of the third eye, a whole other centre and story) so I shot these photos from my crown, because the crown’s colour, you will recall, is purple. Thus my chakra shot of a chakra shot.

Remember, my love, Sahasrara is the centre most connected with the heavens, beyond the physical plane, beyond words, beyond, beyond. (A few shots of Francois’ liqueur and it isn’t hard to feel at one with God. A few too many, though, and you feel at one with the devil). This shot is for you and your dad’s spirit (and Hem’s!) Toulouse – the Pink City - meet me here.

Love, Kist

PS. Shoot your response to Francois (and my other shots) and someday we will have a show.

Thank you to David Windle, the fabulous actor/model who appears in this chapter. - MW

Find all published chapters at the link below - and thanks for reading!