JIJN O 8 2{]05 You, whoever you are! ...

All you contmen al of ia, Africa, Europe, Australia, indifferent of place! All you on the num rtess islands of the archipelagoes of the sea! (Walt Whitman)

Are You Toll Taker Or Toll Payer

TINERANT NOMADIC DIASPORIC

Rootless Displaced Or Global Citizen?

The Windsor R -...,...~r·)..tns , Uterature and the Arts, is ace 5 'Diaspora' issue AND a related rformance series. Work in ine-based projects, video, sound, Installation, performance, pai ng, drawing, photography, poetry, snort fiction and creative non-f welcome. Deadline for vlsu ual work Is Ma Vol. 37, No. 2 (Fall 2004)

Managing Editor: Marty Gervais Fiction Editor: Alistair MacLeod Poetry Editor: Susan Holbrook Visual Arts Editor: Alex McKay Editorial Assistants: Jenny Sampirisi, Lindsay McNiff, Delailah Khan,Janine Ahpin

Designer: Karen Veryle Monck Layout: Jenny Sampirisi, Lindsay McNiff

Cover images: Chris McNamara

Published by the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences of the University of Windsor, Canada

ONTARIO ARTS COUNCIL CONSEIL DES ARTS OE l'ONTARIO The Windsor Review gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council.

CONTENTS

1 Lafibit 3 DQ Ryan Cox

5 Flannel Nightmares Angie Abdou

19 Object of the Report 24 Willow Margaret Christakos

31 Margaret Christakos 32 Poetics of Extensions and Prosthetics Susan Holbrook

40 Stephen Cain's geography 41 Clark Coolidge's diction 42 Adam Dickenson's envy 43 maria erskine's grace 44 Gil McElroy's astronomy 45 Don McKay's birding 46 John Newlove's silence 47 Karen Solie's guitar (12 string 48 William Carlos Williams' pad rob mclennan

49 The Watchmaker Elizabeth Blanchard

54 Group Tour Don McLellan

60 "Pont Neuf: Ravel's Birthday'' Excerpt from Aquamarine Karl Jirgens

63 Skaters or Sinners Gail Ghai

65 Bab~Baby Sandra Lloyd

69 Lynch, McNamara, Wilson, Wright Alex McKay, Visual Arts Editor

70 Magic Hour Christopher McNamara CONTENTS

71 It fades in the light Grahame Lynch

82 Ice Lake Innocence Dermot Wilson

85 Prairie Skies Andrew Wright

93 Tea Time Matthew Fries

103 No Complaints 107 Coming Up Short 109 Trespass Robert Hilles

112 Robert Hilles 113 No Ideas Without Emotions: An Interview with Robert Hilles Janine Ahpin

118 Infidelity Patrick Lane

119 August 120 Plain Truck Sean Johnston

121 In A Week Jenny Sampirisi

125 This Common Object Micheline May/or

126 The Most Lamentable Roman Tragedy ofTitus Andronicus 135 Train Conversation 136 Helpless George Elliott Clarke

137 Northwest Passage Meredith Quartermain

145 Contributor Notes Lalfibit I by Ryan Cox for baypay ahhh (this is where LE should be. I enjoy LE. The French don't use it anymore, neither do we. ash. ashes to ashes, dust to dust) bay say, (You look pretty good to day uh eff (eff is for fraggle) jhay osh (kosh b' gosh, omigosh!) eeeeee J111 kaw (crows are French, les corneilles. they're only semi-literate, they only know kaw) el (el is the in Spanish, in French it's a letter. El el) ehm (Auntie or Erica?) en oh! (I didn't see you there) pay cue air (breath is important in language. go on, ask the French) essssss tay ( there is an absence of a P. blood indicates the presences of a thorn) ooo (that looked like hurt) vay doobluhvay (it sounds just as silly in French. maybe sillier. the language of love is built of blocks of silliness) eeks egrect (when it reaches the proper age, the young egrect will spread its wings and leave the nest) zed (the bane of Canadian Sesame Street. blame the French when Kermit looks confused)

2 DQ I by Ryan Cox

5. Do you have lemon flavoured ice cream? no do you have chocolate? no I'll have a scoop of butter pecan and one of maple walnut we don't have those can I get mine in a waffle cone? no, I'm sorry I'll get a strawberry blizzard, but make it with yoghurt we don't have yoghurt I'd like my cone dipped in cherry we don't have cherry dip but I get it dipped in cherry at the one back home all the time it's only available in the states I'd like a hot dog Foot long or regular? that's made with extra oreo right? no, I'm sorry it isn't well, that's how they made it last time then they made it wrong What do you have? all of our soft serve is vanilla and soft is this even a poem? probably not

3 6. Do you have Concrete flavoured poetry? no do you have Harlem Renaissance? no I'll have a scoop of Beat and one of French Symbolism we don't have those can I get mine in a folio? no, I'm sorry I'll get a Pastoral Ode, but make it with yoghurt we don't have yoghurt I'd like my poem dipped in Whitman we don't have Whitman dip but I get it dipped in Whitman at the one back home all the time it's only available in the states I'd like something iambic Foot long or regular? That's made with extra metaphor right? no, I'm sorry it isn't well, that's how they made it last time then they made it wrong What do you have? all of our poetry is vanilla and soft does this have anything to do with ice cream? probably not

4 Flannel Nightmares I by Angie Abdou

Joyce wakes gradually in the shadowy hours of early morning, pulled out of the deep comfort of sleep against her will, stricken with the noise of a crying crowd. In the mix of cries, one voice is distinctly like a woman's, a hoarse desperate: "Help! Help! Help!" Joyce pulls the pastel-covered down duvet over her head, fear gripping her stom­ ach, and pretends not to hear. She knows she should help the woman. But she can't. Wherever that woman is, is somewhere that Joyce does not want to go. After Joyce hears the woman, but pretends not to hear, she can't fall back asleep. She calls her favourite dream characters to come to her. Sometimes she can do that, just by thinking of people she likes doing things she wants them to do, she can invent a dream and easily slide into it. But today she uses all her sleep tricks. Sleep won't come. Murray's breathing is even and heavy next to her. Joyce envies his deep sleep, his obliviousness to the crying crowd, to the woman who needs help. His body is warm and she resists the urge to snuggle against it. Perhaps if she could let herself be drawn to it, she wouldn't feel so sad. Everything would be OK. But Joyce kicks off that temptation along with the duvet as she slips out of bed and heads downstairs to make coffee and read the paper. At the patio door, she sees Ben, their black tomcat, begging to be let in. That's probably the "Help! Help! Help!" that made its way into her dreams. Just the cat. What a way to start the day! An ominous morning to follow an ominous night. Joyce opens the patio door for Ben. Poor kitty, out all night. She goes to the fridge, pouring a saucer of milk as a peace offering. Ben is easily won over and rubs his dewy fur against Joyce's calves, still bare since she has only pulled slippers on under her knee-length nightshirt. Having made amends to Ben, Joyce turns on the pot of coffee, gets the paper from the front door and selects a radio station, some easy-lis­ tening on low so as not to wake Murray. There. Joyce feels herself coming out of her sleepy gloom and savours the silence of the morning, flipping through the paper to the Arts Section. Really, the book and movie reviews are all that interest her. She knows the other stuff, the "real" news, should concern her, especially since she has two grown children attempting to fend in today's world, but ... well ... yawn. She'd rather read what the National Post's critics think of Alice Munro's latest short story collection. Propping her elbows on the granite countertop, she perches on a stool, pulling her

5 legs under her shirt and sitting on her feet. Her tiny frame allows her to do this with­ out losing balance and toppling the stool over. Even though Joyce is into her forties - her fifth decade, she likes to say with a laugh and a cheerful recitation of I grow old .. .I grow old .. .I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled - this childish pose is perfectly comfortable. Murray claims there's something youthful about Joyce's whole being, not just her girlish figure or the thick black hair falling heavily over her shoulders, but something in her energy, her gestures: the way she absent-mindedly twirls a strand of hair around her nose as she reads, the way she occasionally and unselfconsciously belts out a verse in time with the radio - DelTA Da-awn what'ssss that FLOW-er you got on? Could it be a faded rose from days goooonnnne byyyy ... Her kids liked this when they were little but sometimes complained of it when they got to be young teens. "Why can't you be more like other moms?" Jen would whine as Joyce sat down with the girls to play with make-up and talk about boys. Or Mike would insist "Moms do not play road hockey!" "I yam what I yam," Joyce would announce in an exaggerated Popeye imitation, getting a smile every time. After pulling herself out of her sullen mood - which she now attributes to the bad dream - Joyce quite enjoys her morning, sipping coffee, talking to Ben, singing at the radio, playing with her hair, reading the paper. She's well into her second book review before her mind rests upon the incidents of last night. What a disaster that was. One of Murray's grad students had been getting mar­ ried and Murray had neglected to mention the invitation to her until that day. "Have you gotten them a present?" she asked him though she knew he wouldn't have. Wedding gifts fell clearly in the domain of wife. "I don't know why you didn't tell me before." In fact, she knew all too well. First of all, he hadn't told her because he is a scat­ ter-brained professor, and for some reason this fault, viewed as incompetence in oth­ ers, is supposed to be viewed as endearing when it is held by those in the employ of the university. Second, he hadn't told her because they hadn't spoken to each other in over a week. Ten full days. But Joyce loved parties and was quickly disburdened of her irritation: she pulled out her favourite dress (something sexy but not trashy), grabbed a touching but not overly mushy card, and had Murray write the couple a cheque. It'd cost him more than a present, but tough, next time he could give her more than twen­ ty-four hours notice. The wedding was at the Millstone Resort, near Stratford, Ontario - almost an hour drive from their home in London. An hour in a car with a sulking Murray. That was enough to bring anyone down. Anyone but Joyce. Oblivious to the pouring rain and the gloomy silence of her chauffeur,Joyce turned up James Taylor on the tape deck and swayed in her seat as she sang along in a loud: "Oh Oh down in MEX-IC-OH ... I've never really been but I'd SHORE like TA GO ... Sun sooooo HOT I for-GOT ta GO h-OH-m ... " Joyce never let the fact that she didn't know the words stop her

6 from joining in, nor the fact that it was miserably wet out stop her from singing about the sun. She was hoping her buffoonery would get Murray laughing. It wasn't working. His mouth was rigid and she noticed that he had jowls. Had he always had jowls? "Damn Joyce. Look at the gas gauge." She did. "Oopsy. I took it out yesterday - to get some asparagus at the farmers' market in Port Thomas." "You couldn't have filled it up? You knew we had a trip today. Pay attention. Show a bit of care." Annoyance breaks him out of his silence but he retreats when he sees his words have no effect on his wife. There's no further talk until Stratford. Why the Millstone had become such a fashionable place for Londoners to have weddings was beyond her. True, it was quaint and classy, a nice rural, grassy setting, but this was a night wedding. It was dark. Surely the wine would taste as good and the music sound as loud somewhere in London. This quiet mood of Murray's was not at all unusual. He'd been the quiet and stu­ dious type ever since Joyce had met him. Even now, more than twenty years later, - when Murray was bothered by something he'd retreat into one of these thick silences. Murray would sulk, Joyce would let him, but just for awhile, then she'd clown around until she got a smile. After that, they'd carry on as if there'd never been anything to provoke the sulk in the first place. Why mess with what works? They had met at university when Joyce was a first-year undergrad and he a gradu­ ate student. Murray was doing a M.Sc. in epidemiology (whatever that means, she had joked back when she used to refer to his discipline as "epi-deemi-huh?"). Murray seemed to find her ignorance cute. He'd pat her waist and announce to his colleagues with a wink, "Joyce's expertise lies in the Arts." It was somehow appropri­ ate to have a wife whose mind was not equipped to deal with the hard sciences. "But, my degree is in science," Joyce would always object in mocking tones, "library science!" When the kids left home, Mike went all the way to Japan to teach English, and Jen was forced to fill the gap in her parents' lives. They called her all too often, daily at least, sometimes more. Murray and Joyce inevitably asked Jen the same stream of questions: "How are your classes?" "How is your dorm?" "How are your professors?" "Any word from Mike?" First, Murray would get on the phone making his way through the list and then Joyce would follow with the same inquiries. "Inquiries? More like an interrogation!" Jen would've complained. Eventually, of course, she blew up: "My classes, my professors, and my dorm are exactly the same as they were yesterday and the day before that. AND, I just told all this to dad. Don't you two talk to each other?!" It was then that Joyce decided to work full-time. In an unprecedented show of independence,Joyce put in her application at the university library and told Murray of her decision rather than asking him. She was given a position in Special Collections.

7 How she loved that! All those big dusty books with their illegible scripts. Joyce helped researchers find their desired manuscripts and then peered jealously over their shoul­ ders as they transcribed the contents and scribbled notes to themselves, pencil jottings filled with exclamation marks. Occasionally a grad student or junior professor would spend the whole day, leaving at closing time with flushed cheeks and vowing to return to the manuscript first thing the next morning. Oh to be twenty again, Joyce would sigh. But then she'd remind herself of Murray, Mike, Jen, and their three-story stone house backing onto the Thames and she'd concede that given the chance she probably wouldn't do things differently. The students claimed to envy Joyce for what they viewed as a certain grace, an ease with life: "You've got it figured out," they'd tell her, "You don't have to struggle." This admiration was more pronounced in the male students than the female ones. Or, at least, they were the ones who expressed such praise over espressos and lattes. Joyce bloomed under this admiration, began smiling more freely. That is, she discov­ ered smiles appearing on her face without her having instructed them to do so. She started spritzing herself with light perfume, donning dangling earrings, wearing snug­ ger sweaters with lower necklines, feeling more sensual, more sexy. It was near the end of her first year working in Special Collections that she met Paul, a Beowulf scholar. There was something particularly unthreatening, yet still appealing, about a grown man who made his living by studying monster stories writ­ ten in pretend languages. "It's not a pretend language," Paul had told her with undisguised consternation. "It's an ancient language, an earlier version of our own." But Joyce couldn't recognize anything English about those weird characters and unpronounceable words. Rather than trying, Joyce had laughed and ruffled his hair. Paul turned red and Joyce wondered if he was blushing because she had made light of his life's work or because she had touched him. That night, as she was closing the library, she realized with a barely recognizable mixture of pride and desire, that it was at least partly the latter. Paul awkwardly invited her for a drink at the campus bar, ostensibly so he could convince her that Beowulf was not just a monster story. While they talked about literature over their pints of lager, there was an accidental brush of the hand here, a rub of the knees there, all intermixed with litany of embarrassed stam­ mers. As the two parted, Paul awkwardly confided how much he had enjoyed their conversation and hoped they could do it again sometime. And she did do it again - with him and with others, each blurring into the next. A anthropologist, a linguist, an art historian. "Slumming" she called it, leaving her big brick home on the river to spend evenings with men who'd donned the lifestyle of the poor scholar. Joyce, though, was not at all turned off by their musty-smelling, run­ down, cramped dwellings. On the contrary, they reminded her of Murray's graduate­ study years, of his closet-sized apartment scattered with books and papers. The famil­ iar, if nearly forgotten, milieu brought back the intensity of their initial encounters

8 with an immediacy Joyce had not thought possible. When Joyce saw an unmade mat­ tress thrown on the floor of a bedroom/office/living-room, she felt eighteen again. When Joyce smelled a greasy cooking sheet in the dirty oven, the stale air that no number of open windows could chase away, and the sink of dirty dishes in absurd prox­ imity to the sleeping space, she was once again a beautiful undergraduate with all her life ahead of her. Joyce's sexual encounters were clandestine and furtive, urgency leaving little time for post-coital cuddling. The sweat had barely had time to dry when Joyce was pulling on her pants with one hand and straightening her hair with the other. This too was familiar. At eighteen with Murray, it had been the girls' dormitory curfew that had her rushing and now it was her husband waiting at home. Guilt played a part in both and, now as then, it added to the excitement. Initially, Murray wondered what was keeping Joyce out after work and she didn't put much effort into coming up with excuses. In fact, Joyce was proud of the new friends she was making, pleased with her popularity, and she readily told Murray: I'll be home late, I'm having a coffee with John, a drink with Paul, a visit with Thomas, a meeting with Dennis. Murray laughed at his wife's new collection of "suitors" as he called them. Laughed at first. The later she stayed out, the less laughter there was. ''.Another date with one of your many boyfriends?" he'd ask sourly. "Boyfriends!" Joyce would mimic. "You know you're my only guy, Murray. Besides, what would these young boys see in me? I'm like a big sister to them. A mom even." Joyce waited for Murray to object but he never did. Murray's most irate response - or the closest he ever came to irate - was when Joyce missed a faculty club function. It wasn't as ifit was any big, formal event - went Joyce's reasoning--just a casual wine and cheese at a colleague's house. A chance for the men to boast about their latest publications, to pontificate on their limitless knowl­ edge of whatever it was that they were supposed to be knowledgeable about, and an opportunity for the women to look pretty and act smart, but not too smart, on the arms of their accomplished husbands. Tiresome. No wonder Joyce jumped at a better offer. Daniel, a tenure-seeking art historian, had been worki!}g on a conference paper for the upcoming International Congress of Medieval Studies, and he asked Joyce if she'd come to his apartment for a practice run. He had the slide projector all set up in his apartment, he said, and could benefit from the feedback of a non-specialist. "You can't watch Danny's little side-show a different night? Any different night?" "I promised, Murray. His conference is this weekend." ''And he can't get feedback from a colleague. It is your particular response that he so desires?" Murray asked with a dangerous trace of irony. "His audience is going to be varied, people who don't necessarily specialize in the field. He wants the opinion of someone intelligent and well-read but without a par­ ticular knowledge of the Middle Ages."

9 Murray erupted. "What is this Joyce? Some kind of belated teenage rebellion? A full-time job is one thing but all these late nights, missed obligations, skirt-chasing men. I hope you plan to grow up and out of this phase soon. I'm losing patience!" He slammed down the receiver. "Teenage rebellion!" laughed Joyce into the dial tone. Then she went to Daniel's, smoked a joint, had sex, and hurried home to slip into bed with Murray just after mid­ night, a bit late but not late enough to risk getting in real trouble. When the time came,Joyce always let the boys-that's how she thought of them­ down gently and insisted she was doing them a favour, that she was sure they'd prefer to devote their attention to a young pretty girl, one closer to their own age. The latest fling had caused some trouble on that account. Eric. He was a visiting anthropologist from New Zealand. It figures, Joyce thought, anthropologists always were the most difficult to pin down. Eric had even started differently, had pursued her more aggressively, had claimed to like older women whereas the others pretended not to notice she was older. There was an intensity about Eric as there was with all the young scholars but what was unique about him was his intense truthfulness. The others specialized in fiction, in lies and half truths, in interpreting words or events to suit a particular circumstance. They knew how to stretch those interpretations when stretching was what was needed. At some level, they all knew that with Joyce, their gestures of love were taken as if in jest, and that the romance was pretend, a very temporary game. Eric, however, didn't play by these rules. He didn't let her hold him in her arms one day and then pass him by on campus with barely a familiar glance the next. "What're we doing here?" he'd insist "What is this?" One night, one night in a succession of many nights, Eric waited for Joyce to lock up. When everyone had gone and the door was closed, Joyce came and perched on the desk's ledge, relaxed and happy. Until Eric commenced the by now familiar line of interrogation, the questioning of Joyce's intentions. Eric, as usual, refused to be appeased by Joyce's soothing "You know I care for you, Eric, I do. And respect your work. Admire your intellect. But maybe you'd be happier with someone your own-" "I'd be happier with you," he'd interrupted her. "Happier if you'd cut the bullshit." Joyce had been caught off guard by his anger, by her lack of control over the situ­ ation. She began to rise, a flutter of panic in her chest, and reached for her coat hang­ ing above his head. Her eyes raced as she scripted a plan to usher him out and lock the door behind him. "Stop, Joyce. Just sit." Joyce sat. "What we need here is some honesty. This-" he pounded her desk, a desk they had talked across frequently. "This is the Table ofTruth. When we come here, we say what's in our hearts. We don't play games. Honesty. Absolute honesty. That's our goal."

10 His voice and the furrow of his eyebrows were so sincere that they would have scared Joyce but for the trace of accent that made him pronounce Table of Truth as Table ofTroo£ Yes indeed, thought Joyce, this is the Table of Troo£ She smiled to herself and calmly saw the evening through. Then she never interacted with Eric again outside of the library. She made sure of that, always having a friend come to meet her at close or pretending to need a female scholar's assistance after the room had been cleared out. As long as there was a witness, Joyce was safe. Eric had too much self-respect to cause a scene and it appeared that the whole thing had quietly blown over. Joyce had even begun thinking that her little game had gone too far, and she twice asked Murray to stop by work to pick her up. A safety net. He hated waiting for her and fidgeted irritably but came nonetheless. Things settled down into a comfortable domesticity. Until the letter, until the silly letter that initiated the ten days of silence leading to up to the wedding. Joyce knew now that she shouldn't have realistically expected Eric to fade away so quietly. When she found the note that he'd slipped into her coat behind her desk, she knew she'd been expecting it. The letter was handwritten and long, each page practically worn through with the deeply pressed letters, so strong was the force of the pen on paper. Eric said that he understood now why she'd had to leave him but missed her terribly, knew that their togetherness could only be a "tear in time" but that he'd think of her fondly forever. He said her husband was a lucky man to have someone smart and beautiful. "Not to mention sexy as hell in bed," he had added naughtily. Joyce blushed reading that. And then read it again. This mischievousness comment, though, was parenthetical. Mostly, Eric was above such things. He wrote instead of true love and soul mates, of infinite beauty and absolute connection, of emotional intimacy and unhindered communication, in short of things that have no place in the world of marriage. "Maybe circumstances will be more favourable in our next life," he had signed off. Joyce imagined him at his desk in the attic suite on Huron Street, bent over this paper, tearing at his hair with his free hand, lifting the pen from his labour only when the finger cramps grew unbearable. "He cares this much for me ... still!" thought Joyce as she studied her reflection in the library window, pulling back her hair so her cheekbones were more pronounced. "Poor dear!" That letter was to Joyce what the lake was to Narcissus. She folded the paper, not sure what else to do with it, and stuck it in her purse between a compact and a miniature package of Kleenex, planning to rip it up and flush it once she had studied its contents more closely and determined how to respond. Surely such effort required a response. Joyce was relieved to get home to an empty house. Facing Murray and playing it straight would be nearly impossible tonight. It was unusual for him to be out past ten

11 but Joyce wasn't about to question her good luck. A quick hot bath then straight into the comfort of her flannel sheets and down duvet. Sleep rarely eluded Joyce and tonight was no exception. Less than two hours later, Joyce woke suddenly, a pit of dread in her stomach, acid rising in her throat. Something was wrong, she knew that. It was 12:30, Murray was home. Why wasn't he upstairs? Oh god. The letter was downstairs. Please don't let him be reading the letter. Hearing steps on the staircase, Joyce held her breath, panic tingling her skin. Murray slipped into bed, his weighted presence shifting the mattress, and placed an arm around his wife. "I love you," he said, more of a question than a statement. "Mmm hmmm," Joyce mumbled, trying to sound sleepy, praying she was wrong. "Do you find me attractive? I know I'm old. And fat. But just a little bit, at all attractive?" Oh no. Here we go. "Murray! Of course, I do, sweety. You know I do. You're my Professor of Love, my Doctor Feel Good. But it's late. I'm tired!" "Can we talk?" Since when did Murray want to talk? "Talk about what? It's after midnight." "Never mind. We'll talk tomorrow." He sounded resigned, sad. Guilt pulled at Joyce's stomach. "Tomorrow? You leave for work at seven. Fine. Let's talk." She pulled herself upright and tossed aside the pretence of sleepiness. "What is it?" "Why? Why couldn't I just believe you? Why do I go looking for answers?" Joyce knew she was right. This was it. It was all out in the open. So be it. "What did you find, Murray? What did you read?" "What do you think I read?" The first note of anger crept into his voice. "You shouldn't have done that," was Joyce's non-answer. She didn't know what else to say. "Do you use condoms when you have sex with these other guys?" So much for our gentle lead in, thought Joyce, so much for pretending we are deal­ ing with something manageable. Searching his voice for hostility but finding only despair, she answered "Singular, Murray. Other guy." Knowing there was no proof of the others. After a long pause. "Well, do you?" "Murray, don't do this. Do you want me to be tested? Is that your worry?" She wondered what Jen or Mike would make of this conversation, after she'd so carefully raised them to be smart about such matters. "We've had sex since. Too late. Never mind. It's OK." A martyr to the end. "What are you doing looking through my stuff anyway?" She attempted to work up some hostility, some righteous indignation of her own. "I was looking for a pen." "The letter was in my purse, in my own private purse. Zipped shut."

12 "I needed a pen. I shook when I read it. Shaking! I shook and shook. I didn't know what to do." "There was no pen in my purse." "I know." He met her eyes. "I didn't find one." That's when the most unexpected thing happened. A smile began, inconceivably, to form itself at the corners of Murray's mouth. Joyce, relieved, smiled back, grinned at the joke of the unfound pen. And they went to sleep. Just like that. That was the prelude to their ten days of silence, the ten days before the dreadful wedding. Actually, it wasn't that Joyce and Murray didn't talk for ten days. They did talk, they did not converse. If anything, they were overly polite to each other, as if their hasty approach to a truth so long left unexposed had left them traumatized. They were shocked accident victims, ignoring their severed limbs and insisting that they had more important business to attend to: "Everything is fine. We're good. Nothing to see here, folks. Carry on as usual." The next morning as Murray timidly entered the kitchen,Joyce quietly, testing the waters, asked "Can I make you breakfast?" "No. No, thanks. I need to get to campus. Nice of you to offer though. Thank­ you." "Oh, no problem. You're welcome. You should take something though. Here take this fruit at least." She grabbed him a nectarine, an apple, and, in a flourish of over­ abundance, a banana. "Thanks. Do you need me to pick up anything on the way home from school? Any groceries or anything?" "No. No. I'm fine. Thanks." "You're welcome. Have a good day. Bye." "Yes, you have a nice day too. Bye." And that exchange set the tone. Over the following days, when Murray and Joyce crossed paths they did so amidst a flurry of thank-you's, you're-welcome's, and any­ thing-I-can-do-for-you's. The drive to the Millstone was the first time since then that the couple had spent more than minutes in each other's company. And, with the help ofJames Taylor,Joyce maintained the distinct separation between verbal noise and emotional content, favouring the safety of empty words over the disruptiveness of genuine communica­ tion. Hadn't their whole marriage been like that, she wondered, this time they just had bigger things to ignore. They pulled into the parking lot and Murray examined the gas gauge-an eighth of a tank left. They'd have to pull into Stratford and fill-up after the wedding. He shot Joyce an angry look. She turned on an interior light and pulled out a mirror, reap­ plied her lipstick and did a quick cleavage check, ensuring that her Miracle Bra was doing its job. You can't expect forty-something-year-old breasts to do that on their

13 own, she thought with a sigh. At the sight, Murray inquired, with uncharacteristic bit­ terness, "Expecting some of your own special collections to be here tonight, dear?" "My special collections?!" Joyce laughed. "Clever, Murray." Forestalling further conversation, she opened the car door and jumped into the rain leaving Murray behind as she ran for shelter, not wanting the rain to spot her dress or flatten her hair. She ran up the stairs onto the balcony that surrounded the banquet hall. In the daylight, all these windows would overlook the well-kept yards and in the distance a man-made pond. Now, all was black. Wet, cold, and black. Joyce stopped short of entering the hall and pulled herself under the eaves trough for protection. She hugged her shoulders tightly, rubbing her hands over the goose bumps and thinking how much more pleasant it would be to be on the other side of the glass, in the light, the laugh­ ter, the dry heat. Joyce and Murray hadn't been invited to the dinner. Just to the dance. It appeared the dessert and speeches had gone late. Other guests were arriving and dashing for the dry, warm lobby downstairs. Murray, however,joinedJoyce under the eaves trough and showed no intention of heading anywhere more comfortable. Through the windows, there were wedding speeches being delivered. A man, probably the best man, stood at the head table, flushed and smiling, revelling in the peals of laughter he could so easily illicit from his cooperative audience. With each joke, he looked to the center of the table at the bride and groom who held hands, pleasantly embarrassed by his gentle ribbing. They looked at each other or down at the table, only allowing quick glances into the audience. Oh well, thought Joyce remembering her own wedding, they'll get their share of meaningful eye contact later tonight, shaking hands and smiling until their faces hurt. Murray's silence was heavy beside her and Joyce fleetingly considered drawing on her old friend James Taylor and breaking into a verse of "I'm a steamroller, baby." Doing a little dance to warm up. The words caught in her throat. Instead, she chewed her fingernails and watched the warm, dry strangers laughing and wondered how a single pane of glass could be such an insurmountable barrier. She waited to see where Murray was going to take this, waited suspended between the rain and the wedding celebration, waited seeing the warmth but feeling the cold. When Murray finally spoke, he bypassed any cushioning preamble. "What are we doing, Joyce? Are we together or apart?" A deep breath. "After so many years to have to ask such a question! But I need to know, where are we?" Joyce was silenced. Clearly, humour wasn't an apt tool for this occasion but she had no idea what to use in its place. She swallowed. And then sighed. "I don't know, Murray. I really don't know." Murray made a noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob, a sound that scared Joyce. "You don't know. That's great. Don't know what? Don't know if you want to be my wife anymore? Don't know if you want to keep sleeping with other men? Don't know if you've infected me with some sort of venereal disease? Don't know what, Joyce?" "Don't know what I'm supposed to say." They were standing close under their small shelter and Joyce was cold. She want­ ed to draw into Murray, to feel his heat, wanted the storm to pass. Inside, people were clapping and rising from their seats, moving to the dance floor for the first dance. New, slightly wet guests were entering the hall. Everything inside seemed to be hap­ pening through a yellow filter so different was the atmosphere on the other side of the window. How far they had come from that. Joyce looked up into Murray's eyes, looked at him directly, then wished she could undo the hurt, felt for the first time true remorse. She tried to imagine what her life would be like without him, without their home. What would she be if she weren't a professor's wife? How could the kids begin to understand a broken parental relation­ ship at this stage? "I am sorry, Murray. I don't know what has happened." When had she ever been without Murray, without someone to care for her? "We can get through this. Together. The letter. .. all that's done." Her words took on a desperation as she raced through them. She was embarrassed, as though she were pleading for help. "I don't know that I can believe you, Joyce. I would have before. Now, I just ... " Murray's voice cracked on this final word and he had to stop to regain his composure. He took a deep breath as if to summon himself back together and looked straight into her eyes, "I used to believe every word you said to me. Every word." Joyce felt an unbearable pain in her chest. A mixture of sadness and grief and guilt and anger and betrayal and remorse and regret and despair and loneliness. She was at a loss. She had no idea what she was supposed to do or to say, no script for this situation. She heard herself asking in the voice of a lost scared child, "What now then?" Murray studied his tie. "Maybe we need to separate for awhile. To figure this out. You keep the house. I'll go. For awhile." Words that must've been spoken by so many husbands before Murray but which pointed to a future that Joyce could not begin to imagine. Through the windows, the bride and groom began their first dance, smiling and happily encircled by their family and friends, blinking proudly into the flood of cam­ era flashes. They look so young, thought Joyce, so unready for what lies ahead of them, there's so much they don't know. "I'm cold," she announced. ''Are we going in?" Making the cross into that other world seemed impossible, but she asked anyway. Murray let out a "Ha!" which sounded more like a real laugh. "No, I don't think I'm up for that tonight. I'm going back." "We could have one last dance." "I never did like dancing." Murray stepped into the wind and the rain and headed for the car. On the way home, the only sound was the whirring of the wipers, the rain beating on the wind-

15 shield. He pulled into a station on the outskirts of Stratford and filled the tank, wor­ ried by the now blinking fuel signal. Joyce wrapped herself in a blanket and leaned her face against the cold pane of the window, too tired to cry. Murray steered the car into their driveway and then into the garage. Neither spoke but neither made a move to leave the vehicle either, they simply sat, enclosed, as if this was as far as their limited energy could take them, as if they might have to spend the rest of their days here, Murray staring at the mileage gauge and Joyce resting her cheek on the cool glass. Eventually, Murray reached out and touched Joyce's shoulder: "Don't look so sad. We can deal with this tomorrow. Smile." Joyce lifted her cheek from the window, allowing her gaze to take in the man with whom she'd lived for twenty plus years and raised two children, with whom she'd built the only life she knew. She saw her marriage as a flannel nightmare holding out its hand. Without hesitation, she fell into its warm and predictable embrace, and the cou­ ple went upstairs to bed without speaking another word.

16 Margaret Christakos

Object of the Report I by Margaret Christakos Facts.

A right whistle, pealing the air. Two legs, one corner. Odd nearness, soon. Where Bob is this morning is odd.

Bob is not at or on his corner. There's no whistling. Yes, no whistling on or at the corner where today Bob is not. Tomorrow will he stop altogether so this afternoon the street already sits quietish? No look of him and not a beautiful sound of Bob outside the Drugmart this noontime nor tonight. Lots of business mobs the nitrate-y hot dog cabana near the curb; but by Bob's corner (like of oxygen) much less sign, not one nod. Seems he's veered (to go, where now, an alley, a bench roof down or under, testing his day's lost legs?) ("Do ten bobs," say the swim instructors, and my children dunk and paw back up ten times to Mr. Bob.) Enough conjecture. Just what is visible:

There's not a whistle. His corner, that of melodious Bob, ripples out without appointment.

Loss is said to rustle not in or of itself, but on the sadder feet of facts, jaw-broken, about which I have told you concisely all that lingers, reportable, as cardinal as Bob.

19 His right whistle, pealing blue the air. Bob's cold legs, and the one bright-jawed corner. Not odd, or near, now. Never any more, maybe.

Corner Nary.

Bob seemed my dad to my kids for a month or so they thought him Granddad. Now he's donned a (third-hand) parka, spine stooped. He sweeps Teatro, a chic restaurant run by Greg, who walks his one-eared dog, smokes, has turned-out feet.

Recently Greg hired Granddad to sweep for dinner. Maybe Mr Bob sleeps in Teatro's basement. Maybe Bob peels onions there. In Trinity-Bellwoods park Greg's hot girlfriend hung upside-down, belly-lifted a kid. She's some yoga-acrobat, or modern dancer, Greg's girlfriend is. I pumped

swinging high and my vertigo did not act up. Bob never gets as south as Trinity-Bellwoods park. Dad fishes Ramsey evenings and makes stew without tomato. My finicky mother taken care 0£ They live up north, do not bob together. All

20 right? Bob's wife died four years back. Bob lost final apartment one month ago. Bob cannot corner his neck right now. Bob cannot corner his neck right, now. He skips saying it hurts. Autumn nights colder in Trinity-Bellwoods park. Should be exciting, like nature, fresh with air, owls, tough thugs at 3 a.m. My Dad'd be anxious and I'd make fragrant coffee. I pass spare cash to Bob, tell my kids he's a man like Granddad, he's not exactly Granddad.

Bob's a relative relative, not one real one. I logic this, rather embarrassed, but I owe them some truth, no? I owe Bob more, or, less abstractly, less philosophy and greater naming, perhaps "Uncle" Bob?

It's a muddle, all right.

21 Right.

Bob to my mother or him Granddad third-hand parka, sweeps Teatro, by Greg, one-eared dog, feet.

Recently to sweep sleeps in Bob Peels Trinity-Bellwoods park hung upside-down, She's Some dancer; Greg's pumped

Swinging vertigo did Bob never as Trinity-Bellwoods Ramsey evenings without tomato. taken Care north do all

Right? Four years final apartment Bob Cannot right now. His neck skips Saying nights colder. Should

Be fresh with thugs at Dad'd Be make fragrant spare cash my Kids like Granddad, Granddad.

Bob's not one logic this, I Owe no? Think truth. I or, Less and greater Bob?

It's right.

22 Body.

What did I tell you

He's not on or at any corner lately. Bob's less common, kind of semi-drunken people who disappear and don't whistle.

Nobody blows a fucking whistle re: Bob. Kind of uncle

(Who, if he whistled, would Hear him among damned College Street Crowds ordering? Latte!, Teatro.)

That hot girlfriend's six-pack abs,

Very impressive - which Bikram-yoga-lift us

Enlightened by belly, inverted, dizzy.

My kids shout, "Mr. Bob!"

Ten times. Salutatory. "Mr. Bob!"

But he sleeps, peels, not at or on.

Uncornered, reports of the object only. "Just." Merely. This. Bob.

23 Willow Excerpt from the novel Miss See-Through Girl

by Margaret Christakos

When Brenda was born I took her up to the top floor of the hospital and showed her the farthest view you could get in this town. I pointed out the conservation park visible from the rooftop lookout, and told her that our house was smack-dab at the foot of that huge ragtag weeping willow with the collapsing shoulders, and that in a funny way she was kind of related to it. She couldn't see the house of course, but there it was, I assured her, virtually canopied by the ardent branches that displayed how thick the late January snow had fallen. Its cascading skirt of twigs etched the sky like a frozen dying firework and made me anticipate the indoor architectural compactness of our home, how out every window Brenda would greet and get to know an edited sub­ juration of nature. Nature didn't grow this way on its own; it took the entire city coun­ cil park advocacy Residents Advisory, of which I had been chair for five years during the park's infancy, to conduct it up into such precise lineation, like a minimalist silver­ point. Beauty was a made thing, worthy of truculent protection, and in this case the tree's memory function was too. One had to prepare and refine arguments to ensure the world's mindfulness was not erased to the lowest order of creeping and unconsid­ ered reproduction, when stringy vines and masses of ragweed would fill in and defile our hard-won compositions. She murmured and fluttered. She breathed. The cream toque like a stretched-out sock anchored itself to her little head, round as the grapefruit on which I used to pull just such a lost sock pretending I was dolling it up, and pink as the most subtle flesh­ coloured pencil crayon I used throughout my teen years to fill in the faces of the dressed-to-the-nines models in newspaper ads. Initially, I felt eminently relaxed about her sense of me. As soon as I could leave the hospital with Brenda, I did. Stewart hauled the mys­ teriously filled carseat out of our van, exposing my deflated figure to the gathering neighbours. Several women spied over at the relative misshapenness of my new mater­ nal body. My post-delivery waist was cloaked and amorphous in my mother's hand­ me-down melton-cloth coat, but I imagined my torso strangely naked and self­ announcing to all, unkicked ribcage bracing a hollow marshy region, breasts firmly bulbous and illumined, as if somehow connected to the occult. None of them was a

24 mother yet; I had plugged the galactic lamp in and its bulb was fiercely aglare. They were counting their lucky stars that it was us and not them, not yet. Still, that first appearance I was in control, beaming, proud, elevated, an icon. Over the next few weeks I avoided direct contact with any of them, afraid they would infect the baby with a spittley cold or insist on hugging her, for which I was not yet feeling generous enough. Around the six-week mark I peeled the greyish sour­ smelling rags from my shoulders, washed, dressed in a light sweater and a neat fitted coat that was perfect for the sunny early March afternoon, and pushed the stroller fea­ turing Brenda's cherubic bonneted gurgling smile up and down the sidewalk of our street over to Newcurrent and back across Rossiter. One by one the women descend­ ed their porch steps and approached with a distracted gaze, like sleepwalkers, looking agog into the carriage at the baby's miraculous chubbiness, as if she had appeared in a rudderless interplanetary halo of light. I was not even innocuous; I simply wasn't counted to be present. At some point after the initial thrall, they would startle in my direction. "June, my gosh, how are you! You look. ... " And their voices would trail off into the classic anorectic refusal to pronounce, toward an avoidant fear of the word in the mouth lest the wrong word should be regurgitated with the sudden flaming con­ sciousness of how horrific a word it really was to have been uttered aloud. Fat, they meant, of course. They meant I looked like a butter tart, a curdled crumbling day-old one at that. The substitute words would then start to be tittered forth: glowing, radi­ ant, full of life, happy as an old milk cow. This last one was actually said to me by a male retiree, who was chomping on a clot of smelly tobacco and unblinkingly scanning my chest as if it was a pie chart. I remember not knowing what to say to any of them. The waist-tall vehicle I was pushing had wheels and so I would start pushing, as if some higher motor had finished refueling and now gunned its engine and I and the baby and the baby's container were all impelled along its resurgent and efficient conveyer belt. This got me out of a lot of unwanted and frankly humiliating moments with people with whom I had barely a thing in common now. As soon as I started moving they became as unreal to me as I had been to them moments before. The neighbourhood had far less heart than I'd thought, for all those years, sitting on the garden committee and ordering bulbs for the spring bloom, deciding on community-minded pesticide options, colour-coordinating the garden's shifting palette with the walls of houses facing it. I couldn't give a cher­ ris pit now for that garden, and for those people. I smiled and precisely conversed; hut sweet Brenda was an extraterrestrial whose glinting and wondrous mothership was not nearly so interesting now that it was parked, like a shabby down-market trailer, curbside. Stewart got the hang of jiggling her in a hip sling when I suggested to him that he imagine the world from inside a pea pod, that repetitive motion was a comfort to all living creatures, including humans before the age of five, at which point we all pros-

25 trate ourselves against biology to television and artificial food colouring. I liked being able to teach him things, and he was bold about enacting the advice to my satisfaction. For the first time in our relationship he seemed to understand marriage to be an acceptable perforation of his one-sided teacherly expertise. As if our bodies had been pressed together like two sheets of foolscap and three irreversible holes had been punched at exactly the same points: brain, gut and loin. We didn't have a notion of god or anything like it, but some new language laced itself through and between us, and we began to accept that each would throw the occasional tantrum or sink into the other's abdomen for comfort, demonstrations of fragility to which we had never been inclined. We had been a couple who kept a polite detachment until a sexual urge clawed from each of our gazes and uncivilized us, always a violent kind of mating, a frenetic and cloying mounting of the distance that was normal to keep. After sex we'd lie like two felled trees, impatient to be hauled to the lumberyard, to be floated onto separate rivers, sent to distinct and efficient sawblades. When Brenda was born we simply were in the room together so much more often; we saw the other get felled and stripped and chipped to dust several times a day. We stopped being repulsed, I sup­ pose, by the natural indignity of loving someone. With a garden of course you can tear up something by the roots and throw it on a heap of mulch. I liked that. You have to be a rather fearsome pragmatist to be a good gardener, you have to believe in the merits of controlling how new life comes into a space, how it holds itself, where it should be cropped and transplanted, when its thirst should be met and denied. You cannot be overly sentimental, and this is why I was sure I would be an excellent parent. I knew I could cut a living branch back to its stem without remorse. Green tips did not bleed. Leaves made a great starter for homemade paper. One form of life could be easily transfigured into another, in a kind of gliding millwork. Once I had her home for a few days, though, I completely lost my principles. Her little self was a particularized eco-system, and its perimeters were sacred, and so vul­ nerable to trespass. My own mother became my stern shadow; she thought I fussed too much, clearly. I got to thinking about ghosts, and how living relatives no matter how physically removed and those who are already dead have a way of orchestrating each other through the chores and gnatty dilemmas of everyday domestic life. The first couple of months, my mother's virtual body was so palpable that sometimes I would ask her over my shoulder to hand me a diaper, would she, or to join me in a cup of hot tea while I unhinged Brenda from my breast to snore flat under a blanket in her Moses' basket. The delirium of parenthood summoned up my own childish reflexive idea that my mom should always be around any corner, and could be quickly fetched to answer for any perplexity I came upon. As a kid, I had tried to solve things solo, with the confidence to attempt more as my young years evolved, but I knew my own shape-shifting torso was ballasted before she died, for that half a contented teenage­ hood, by at least the idea of her self-satisfied and trunk-solid legs.

26 With my own baby I felt as soft as a corsage; I had so many moments when a rea­ sonable decision, one that any adult could have made without any sort of mental or moral computation, petalled through my entire nervous system as stemlessly as an alien language. What I was aware of was just how unripe the heart, my heart, was; how my emotional self-knowledge was so babbling and rudimentary that when my baby cried I felt swamped in the odd pained cry itself and had to pull myself to shore just to get to the concept "swamped." Everything took so much more time to feel my way through, and so my mother's presence, that chesty and forward-moving big woman who had known with her eyes closed where everyone in the house was and what their going concern really would be, both soothed and insulted my self-posses­ sion, but in a bearable and ultimately comforting way. Somehow it was appropriate to be subjugated to the idea of her once again. It had been such a long time since I'd had that luxury.

By the time Brenda was a toddler, Stewart and I would go out occasionally, I'd slick on some lip gloss and straighten my hair, we'd walk hands clasped through the park for the scenery then swerve south along the creek path for a quick dinner or a cool beer on a patio over by the farmer's market where there was a new triad of trendy restau­ rants, marketed to adults only (there weren't ramps or lifts of any kind and the coun­ terless bathrooms were buried in the basement, down three connecting, circling hall­ ways). Once the drinks arrived and we'd exchanged the requisite "This is nice"/"Yes, it is, it's good just to be out," we'd sit and examine each other for clues to a conversa­ tion we might have if our child were not between us even in her absence. I'd have left her with the babysitter my volunteer coordinator Mrs Shandy prodded me toward, six­ teen-year-old Chris-Ann Hadlosh, whose mother was vice-principal at Stewart's school. Stewart had never liked the woman and took every opportunity to point out the historical periods about which she obviously knew nothing, yet did that stop her from grading his teaching performance? "Not one bit," I'd guess, and he'd say out of the corner of his mouth, "Right you are honey," and sneak a sloe look at me like I was fifteen years younger and my miserable dad was waiting up at home while we ambled through the park, decorously necking on a bench. I used to think about Stewart's penis in his pants and getting it out into my hand, veering it somehow into myself a whole lot then, and now, on these dates, the possibility of that era repeating itself just nipped me on the arm and flew off, like a gnat out for an evening buzz. I'd talk about the garden and he'd talk about school and we'd both mention a show we might like to go to if there was another chance to book Chris-Ann before the movie left the Gladhand. At a certain point, sooner or later depending on how well I'd slept recent­ ly, I'd laser an intense look into Stewart's chin inquiring as to why I was trusting the girl at all with my daughter, what did I really know about her except her age and the fact that her nails were groomed and that she showed up on time, that she did the stray leftover dishes and that Brenda generally nodded that she'd had a good time or did

27 some new fun thing she'd never done before with her, that she obeyed my instruction not to bathe Brenda, that the girl was polite and never brought over other friends, was pretty, and did well in school, and babysat for other families on other streets. It gen­ erally seemed about all one should need to know, but my own fears biased me. On this one count I relied on Stewart, for he kept the tiny silver key to my vaulted memory of Marvine Connors close to his chest where he could feel it flip and bang against his own powers of judgement. "It's all right, June," he'd say into the centre of my eyes, "Brenda's fine. Let's just enjoy our little break." For a man not particularly astute about the workings of personal trauma, he had understood how the seven-year-old girl I'd been had watched her mother apply a memorable edge of mauve lipstick (I could bare­ ly recall her ever doing it after that, or perhaps I couldn't recall her ever lodging me with another sitter) before leaving the house on one important warm evening on my father's arm, dressed in a trim ginger-hued skirt suit wearing a double-string of black seed pearls. She'd leaned over so I could sniff her perfume and I fixed the fall of the necklace around her lapels. Marvine said, "There, there, don't make your parents be late for their party," and moved them out the door, clicking it shut. She fed me din­ ner and then suggested I have a bath, which when it was foamy and steaming with lavender bubbles I climbed into, smiling. Marvine surprised me by following me into the water, her clothes seeming to have fallen off in one effortless stroke on the floor behind her. At first she mock-paddled in the suds, washing my legs and tickling me in the navel. I said, "I'm gonna get out now," and she said "So soon? Nah, Junie, stay for a while. There's a game I want to show you," and she gripped me by one arm and pulled me back into the tub. Her hand went up between my kneeling legs, and I start­ ed pedalling to get clear of it. She clamped her other hand over my face and laughed "Peekaboo!" I didn't know what she was getting at, but I knew I'd never been in the bath with my mother, and I'd certainly never had anyone's fingers spreading my geni­ tals and pushing inside me. I writhed away from her, slipping on the wall of the tub and hoisted myself over the side, then ran soaking wet out of the bathroom skidding down the hall to my room. I shut the door and shoved a chair under the handle, crawled into bed and the next morning my mother jangled the handle and said, "June Larsen, what's going on, your door won't open." I answered by silently drawing the chair aside and the door open, not fixing anything about my dishevelled appearance. "What on earth --" she started. My hair had dried in pointed sections askew like a raspberry bush, and though I didn't say anything she, for perhaps the first time in my childhood, gazed upon me with a fired concern, like she knew there was something not right with me and that for this one moment of time that it had not been my full­ of-beanness getting in the way of social pleasantries, nor my artistic flare dramatizing an essentially ordinary feeling. She began, "Marvine said you were a bit strange last - -" breaking the tiny hinge of trust I'd been about to embark upon toward her arms, and I dashed around her and tore by the kitchen doorframe, through which I could just sense my father's white-shirted pot belly mounded on a chair, him breathing in the

28 flavour of his morning coffee, and yanked open the front door. I ran barefoot in my nightie to the willow crushing my soles against bits of wood and pebbles and climbed its trunk, elevating myself up into its nest of branches, and gathered my knees close to my neck and wept. Eventually both my parents appeared at the base and instructed me to come down. My father's hand was touching my mother at the waist, a sombre tenderness I had never seen, not even in the omnipresent photograph of my brother's funeral. They did not yell. I descended like an ill cat, shakily, and followed them back into our kitchen and after sitting for ten minutes with them looking at me, saying nothing, just looking at my slim figure in its light cotton sheathe, and my hands tied around my tucked calves, I murmured, "She hurt me." My mother's eyes filled, and my father placed his arms in his black jacket and left the room as if to attend to an emergency that would require the depth of his expertise. Katie later told me that her sister had been "whipped," and as much as I hated the thought of any person suffer­ ing corporal punishment, I was glad. I didn't allow anyone to call me Junie again. The impudence of such memories is of course that they dare to strain you back from the natural pitch and growth of your own life. I didn't want to hold Brenda in a play pen or any other kind of box; I wanted her to touch the world's dirt and compost and see what would grow whole under her watch. But it's not so easy with your own child. Some days I thought that the only daughter I'd be any good at all mothering was somebody else's. That wild neighbour girl, Corrine Lesage, who skipped to 154 counts (metred out by my own number-happy child) before coming in for a cup of Mountain Dew that first afternoon, just to prove her legs were as fit as the male jun­ ior champion boxer's she'd seen on TV, aroused my excitement. I could almost feel the pruning shears land in my hands. For as my own Brenda grew up into a sweet, well-mannered, conscientious little girl, and then as she became more internal, a quiet, perfectionistic older girl, I felt myself relax into a droning sameness, one I relieved by squatting in the gardens and clenching my jaw. I realized I had kept my balance through the hard part and figured out how to keep the unpredictable edge of anxiety from our door. Our household was a haven, mostly, an orderly universe where all objects had a proper place and where emotion was confronted head on and directed to its best possible destination. I liked things to be in a fruitful motion, not to stand still, but neither to break loose. Stewart, perhaps it was inevitable, felt my abiding organizational prowess like a bit between his teeth. When I asked him to please take more responsibility in the kitchen, he balked and accused me of wanting to control everything. From what I could see, men used the oldest arguments in the book to keep their purchase on personal liberty. Like my own father, even the upstanding ones craved incessant babying. So perhaps it was less of a surprise than it should have been. Stewart reported on one too many PD. conferences, with suspiciously inflated enthusiasm; he had no mauve rings under his eyes, no shadowed chin, and these he got even staying up late planning a mid-term. He looked too damn well groomed to have been at the

29 Learneds, where he liked to go to prove his status as an academic despite the fact that he'd never advanced beyond teaching Grade Twelves, with their livid ingratiation and/or snarling insolence. I didn't know how he could stand any of them. We'd raised Brenda to be as polite as the average well-bred adult by the age of ten. But most of the kids in her year seemed to have little clue even how to say "Thank you, Mrs Turgeon'' when I fixed them a snack or drove them home in the rain. Corrine was per­ haps the worst of the bunch, but I never cared with her. She had more life in her than an armada of the others. Sometimes I even wished Brenda would be influenced by her carnivalesque style, wear a pattern, something graphic, eye-catching, not stick with her careful matches of pastels and cottons, tell a racy joke once in a while. I felt glad we,d been able to be there for Corrine. Louise and Maurice Lesage were reasonably nice but snorted enough cocaine (they'd moved on from the pot of their high school days) to mistake their daughter's wayward fragilities for nonchalance. She was comforted at our place; we used to laugh together like hyenas watching Wonder Woman on TV spinning at high speed, her thimble-wide waist a tiny blur. I don't remember ever laughing as heartily with Brenda. Once Corrine wrapped a towel around her stomach and pulled it as tight as she could, huffing like a pregnant walrus, knowing the whole female-beauty trip was a ridiculous conspiracy. Brenda would be the one to look side­ long silently pleading for me to get lost, for Corrine to settle down and enjoy the show. I wondered then if Brenda would ever have the nerve to speak back to me, to dash me down the way all good Electras must. She certainly never seemed overly attached to Stewart. Even last year when I sat her down and told her, "Look, Dad's not going to be around as much, we're having some problems," she didn't ask any of the next logi­ cal questions. So I couldn't tell her, in all good faith, I couldn't unload the news that her father was an unfaithful prick. I would never tell Brenda something just to get it off my chest. She had to ask. She had to want to know about the world. I just was­ n't that sure she ever would, really.

30 Margaret Christakos

Margaret Christakos is a Toronto-based poet and fiction writer whose work has daringly explored narrativity, recombinant poetics, process writing and seriality. She has published five collections of poetry and one novel, and has given readings and sem­ inars from her work since 1989. Themes include subjectivity, gender, attachment, technology, parenting, and sexuality. Her most recent poetry collection, Excessive Love Prostheses (Coach House) - which "takes the confessional lyric poem and runs it through Kathy Acker's Cuisinart" - won the 2003 ReLit Award for Poetry. Her debut novel Charisma was shortlisted for the Trillium Book Award in 2001, and her poem "Pumpkins, for Claire" received the Bliss Carman Poetry Award. Many review­ ers have highlighted the originality and complexity of Christakos's work across diverse genres; she is also widely praised as one of Canada's best performance poets. From 1992 until 1997, Christakos taught creative writing at the Ontario College of Art and Design. She founded and co-edited MIX: The Magazine ofArtist-Run Culture from 1994 to 1996, and has worked as an publisher, editor and critic for numerous literary and art journals. She has organized major events for the League of Canadian Poetry and PEN Canada, where in 2003 she founded a new literary program to support writers living in exile in Canada. In 1985, she obtained her B.F.A. from York University majoring in Visual Arts, and in 1994 completed her M.A. at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, in the History and Philosophy of Education. Christakos was born and raised in Sudbury, Ontario. She lives in Toronto with her partner, graphic designer Bryan Gee, and their three school-aged children. Christakos is pursuing research and writing for several manuscripts in progress, each of which explore some portion of her longterm interests in formal exploration, sexuality, gender, inclusions of eccentric voice, and subjectivity. One is a final draft of a novel Miss See-through Girl, which looks at the borders between protection and sur­ veillance with:n parenting relationships, centred around a teenaged babysitter who sees the workings of five neighbourhood families while developing her own threshold for risking new experience. A second fiction project is a collection of new short stories, called "Besides," con­ templating desire, attachment and contemporary relationships, especially among peo­ ple of diverse orientations. Christakos is also extending and challenging her uses of voice, dialogue, scene progression and surrealism in this work.

31 Poetics of Extensions and Prosthetics An Interview with Margaret Christakos

by Susan Holbrook

1. One amazing thing about you, Margaret, is your productivity; in the case of your work, we can invert the old complaint about bad restaurants and cheer that it's delicious AND there's lots of it! Can you start by talking about current writ­ ing projects?

MC: I'm thrilled and very grateful to be enjoying a position as writer-in-residence, with this magnificent licence to write and write. It's an exceptional opportunity and I know it will have deep consequences on my work from here on. As is generally the case with me, I am working on concurrent projects utilizing quite diverse aesthetic and formal approaches. I find it keeps my brain spry. Also, I find writing cannot - as much as we wish it could - be top-scheduled into existence. Every manuscript has serpentine origins; as does even the briefest poem. I'm writing some exploratory experimental poetry, pushing my uses of anti-lyric line . Throughout my books I've played with autobiography, hystereotypy and form a lot, but I keep finding new things of interest to do to it, to have it do to me, to voice, to language and to sense-making, to boundary-keeping. There is maximum room for manipulative re-distribution with meaning in the poem text, and the effects of saying things differently bring on emotional displacements that speed up and rattle the ways and means of getting through efficient normal everyday speech. It is like music for me, like a form of dance or sport and also very much like baking; it's also more omi­ nous and precipitous than these acts, it requires sarcasm, guts and ruthless editing. Also I've got my hands shoulder-deep in a novel about mothering and babysitting, really about authority and surrogacy, systems of social protection and surveillance. The excerpt published here is one root of the novel-tree; there are several families docu­ mented and some rather drastic dramatic turns dealing with teenagers out on their own in the world. I speculate on different aspects of women's sexuality and strobe sub­ jectivity. I'm writing this story out of the eleven years of experience I have of being part of a grassroots parenting culture, where contrary to all pre-parenting notions of self-liberty, you think in terms of snack breaks, parks, tantrums and self-displacement. You map the city differently, and this perspective creates a highly tuned radar for

32 details that people without children simply never see; it is in fact a bit like the mem­ brane-slip into Harry Potter's magical wizarding world. When I had my first child, and again when I had my twins, I realized parents do a kind of coming out into this mass subculture: the gaze exchange on the subway, the looking up and down each other's bodies, noticing the milk spill: it's an intense new literacy that has much to do with desire and attraction, and also with the seeping sense that many tidy people don't want you or your offspring around in their universe. The omnipresence of fatigue and tedium punctuated by raw joy is quite a different register from life pre-child; there are multiple consequences for narrative structure. Plus, I'm working on a collection of short stories about sex, and research on movie houses around Ontario, what's happening to them as the corporate Superplexes invade even the smallest community and fundamentally wreck the most important cultural form and forum of my generation's teenagehood.

2. Miss See-Through Girl is more traditionally narrative than your other work. Can you talk about how and why your strategies have shifted for this project?

MC: Wanna be inside an experimental poem? Hang out with three toddlers hav­ ing night terrors. There's your dissolution of sense-making capacities, there's syntax coming out its own earhole, there's trouble in the brain. Honestly, reading aloud a thousand and one stories after the cacophony of their alert (in both senses) state to help kids go to sleep makes one kind of love story! Everything by William Steig and Stevenson's Treasure Island, Tomi Ungerer and Dr. Seuss, the Greek Myths and Margaret Wise Brown, so many wonderful books with such sonority and playfulness, these all became a huge influence. Story has something to do with regulating the pro­ vision of comfort; at its worst, it's crowd control. The experimental impulse is to insist on repeated dis- and re-location. Audiences have a reflexive anxiety at their intuition that patterns are being disturbed and differently regulated. In year 2 of writing this novel - which was pretty splayed and experimental through year 1 - I drew a map of my fictional community with street names and all the pieces you have in a contemporary small city, post office, gym, etc. The web of sto­ ries connects a cast of characters; I realized I was interested in creating some charac­ ters, or, I realized I had some. Qyite a few were in my lap. So I needed to do some urban planning, give them a geographical, social and spatial ward. The book is now in year 4, and its writing moved out of that time zone where my own adult consciousness is held hostage to infantile needs and wants. I am writing about less admissible parenting experiences, about humiliation, rage, delusion, lack of control, control-freakishness, huge shifts in sexual subjectivity - the private diary entries of most parents that are still considerably censored and managed in conversa­ tions by the park fountain. There are a range of silences and bluffs, and I'm daring to write about some of the ones I have felt and seen, and this does require more engag-

33 ing narrative iteration I think, because that constituency just isn't going to pick up something called Excessive Love Prostheses even though they'd read it fine. I'm not strategizing a "readership grab" though; I'm writing what I've been com­ pelled to write, to become a more flexible and capable text-artisan. The overall struc­ ture of the book is still very non-traditional, so a lot of the writing challenge is tightrope-navigating between stories within The Story.

3. The excerpt published here offers a portrait of motherhood that is both sur­ prising and right on (defamiliarized and familiar). How are you intervening in popular and/or literary notions of motherhood in this book?

MC: I hope this book will pose some interesting questions about the ongoing rel­ evance of feminism to the contemporary moment. I discovered that many of my adult female friends had, like me, experiences of becoming the overresponsible surrogate mom when Mom went off to work, or to find herself, in the early 70s. Society was shifting for one generation of women, but childcare was left in a gap. Girls often filled in, and got saddled with some odd complexes. In part I'm writing about some deeply unresolved feelings within my own relationship about the mother becoming absent, who "left" us, so it felt, to pursue herself; In fact, she was breadwinning, often to the direct detriment of her own forceful artistic impulses. Now I know she absolutely did quite an incredible job, but it's what sticks and got stunted in the memory that blazes for me in this writing. For whatever reason, what I remembered was maternal rage, and then I experienced a lot of rage in my own experience with my three kids when suddenly I was the female at home with a partner out working at midnight; it was as if the darkest shades of her life were psychedelically merging with mine and me with her. It was shattering to me that I could also be the madwoman. I had had that sweet­ ie-pie righteousness before, but then I could become interested in threshold and con­ text and depth. As in the excerpt about the protagonist's mother June presented here, I see the world and "the family" now as tender and with considerably more ambiva­ lence than I did as a free-floating outspoken academic feminist of the 80s.

4. When I read your poetry I note a resonance with another favourite poet, Harryette Mullen. Can you name writers with whom you share an affinity? Who's good?

MC: Well, you are! I love your work. In Canada, I am interested in various poet­ ries, more in the overall vision of the writer than in the individual books. In my lucky years at York University in the early 1980s, I worked with bp Nichol, then Eli Mandel and Don Coles. These three kind, generous, passionate writer's writers aroused every­ thing important in my ear and my eye, in my quirky performative impulses and my showy surfaces. Especially bp's, along with Daphne Marlatt's, poetry was a significant

34 mentorship in terms of opening up the expectation that a poem could situate self-con­ scious subjects, memoried bodies, ambivalent desires and labouring breath, not dictat­ ed rhyme schemes and grand sentiments, nor unquestioned confessions and unchal­ lenged narrators. I've become quite interested in life progressions, and why and how a writer's atten­ tion moves and veers and chiefly, revisits itself and its surroundings. I've followed Nicole Brossard and Erin Moure's poetry since first contact in the mid 1980s; both have very strong major thematic chords running through their work, and formally adventurous, sensuous and keenly intellectual imaginations which they keep experi­ menting with outside of an academic bastion. (I am repeatedly awakened to some new depth of misery that I will never be interesting enough when I read those two; ah, self­ pity!) The important thread with both their work is an interest in writing as transla­ tion, which is fundamentally a form of revisitation. Gail Scott and her textual precur­ sor Leonard Cohen have been strong prose influences; Nichol, Scott, Moure and Brossard have at some point or other led me to just about everything that's really affected my work. Lispector, Woolf, Cixous, Duras, Benjamin, Rilke, Kinkaid, Acker, Hejinian, Celan ... also. Apart from this, taut prose like Aretha Van Herk's and Ian MacEwan's knocks me out, and I love a good essay. Fairytales and mythology, due to the density of kids' lit in my life, have been constant material. There are a lot of my contemporaries who I learn from continually, like my Coach House editor Darren Wershler-Henry, Lise Downe, Christian Bok, Lisa Robertson, Trish Salah, Rachel Zolf, Mark Cochrane, Nathalie Stephens, Angela Rawlings, and many more of this exploratory ilk who blow me away. I like edgy, risky, art-informed writing in general.

5. Can you give us a sense of your poetics - methods, burrs, engines?

MC: Laundry is a major formal inspiration: gyrate, ventilate, shake, fold, pile, deliver, redo next day. The way it cools off as it's folded right out of the dryer: this is instructive. You must use most of your body to adequately perform the task; this is my view of writing. The urge and compulsion to divide myself - no, multiply myself - no, re-assem­ ble myselves - among my three children - my beloveds - my sucklers - has been the most important stake and driver in generating a poetics of extensions and pros­ thetics. Being a hapless suckler myself for obsessive crushes is another, for this girds a high romanticism so far out over the whirlpool I become delirious and rather usefully far­ sighted. I go for the circuitous sentence that billows out like a Christo sculpture. Also primary: Disbelief in self, which leads me repeatedly to a precipice, where I dare self out of myself, again and again, and this is not about autobiographical content, but about the risk of writing and the problem of existing. "Contact is crisis," which

35 Anne Carson said once, and it seems in the act of writing I wrestle fear of the void to get to voice: utterance. Speech has always been signature. That's my particular blend of nature-nurture. Crisis must be transformed to pleasure. Remarkably, it has been, it lS. I think I was a blogger from day one. "Diary'' has always been a public, performa­ tive, somewhat prosecutory space in which the sum of utterance is greater than the individual voice, but also entirely contingent on the individual. A sense of ritual that is devotional, like TV watching, the churchgoing of my adolescence. Writing has been a sexual realm for me, and my ongoing efforts to name and decentre sexual identity and gender continually fuel my writing, both poems and prose.

6. Much of your work shuttles between poetry and prose in dynamic ways. How would you characterize the impulses of each genre and their interplay in your writing? Or, to quote Gertrude Stein, "what is poetry and what is prose?"

MC: Not Egypt came out in 1989, and it's still kind of avant-garde now for the extent to which it confounds genres - I credit bp Nichol's influence in casting genre as a very porous gesture. At the same time we had Chris Dewdney's early jewellike prose, or was it poetry? I came of age among writers already blurring categories, and I don't think anyone now much cares, really. My more recent novel Charisma certain­ ly operates more like a poem than a mainstream booklength plot-driven story. I think it has something to do with where I situate the listener in relation to the work. Poetry calls up readers one by one -what? Like a confessional!!! - and prose takes for granted a group. Is that it? It's interesting the way various pieces enter in their own coat. A student asked me recently how do I know when a piece is finished. I bumbled an answer that didn't feel right, and I don't know that I've yet articulated to myself what that set of awarenesses is which recognizes utterance has been made manifest, but there is a palpable assess­ ment and critique which delivers the bell. There: done. Also, of course virtually all of my work for the past ten years has formally used poetic sequencing, and procedur­ al mechanisms to juice poems one from and to the next. I work in serial form.

7. What is the connection between aesthetics and politics for you? What might your work do in the world?

MC: Rather large question, no!!? Excuse me if I go on a bit. Feel free to insert some query lines to make us imagine we are conversing, but truly I am speaking to you Susan Holbrook and this is why I feel like yakking so much. (i.e. I am not alone here at the keyboard.) Yeah, I'm writing this as an email response which is why I can sound fluid. The old transcribed conversation of the fifties sounds rather dull and undisciplined, we can

36 all agree, it's more fun to be able to think on the keyboard, and not be flustered in the glow and fluctuating breath of a dinner companion. But something goes missing too; the social stimulus, the personal stakes, of being within the essence of another human presence ... That's why I love the poetry reading context, where a group of bodies gath­ ers in a room, preferably a bar, and you start to tremble, just like that, your nerves go haywire and everyone starts to feel their inner ear vibrate, and the buzz of the bodies is the sex of writing, the passage from interior voice to human intercourse. Private reading is the same, one to one, which is why the book object will not become obso­ lete. I admit I'm still working out a lot of personal narcissistic merde in writing, and I think that's a good use of the medium. The social reverberations are useful. You can't start to write something with the aim of social usefulness. The voice is always the same: manifesto, doctrine, harping. I do hold stock in the truth, in revelatory and epiphanic unveilings that emerge through acts of the literary imagination; you get at that by keeping writing in and through the body, let's say right from the genitalia, i.e. the brain and the emotional squeezing of the toes. Let's first ask what other sorts of textuality are making and unmaking in the world, and where humanity is stirring with the proliferation of the technological and digital, with the body being erased, and everyone building fuck-my-high-density-digital-scan boudoirs in their brainscreens. Essentially we are becoming a fully masturbatory cul­ ture, with belief in the self's right to pleasure being guaranteed by the self's own hand, instead of having to withstand trust in another. We can stuff our faces and rock our own worlds. But it's the shared world that goes a little malnourished in this equation. I can be your muse, but can I be your lover, your partner, your equal, your co-citizen? The queer world has moved this usefully to developing fluidity and motion between ecstatic gratification of the self and situatedness within a collaborative shared-interest group. Also, how the less technologized half of the world is becoming raw labour for the digitally resourced. Our kids don't even learn to use script in school anymore; they are asked to hand things in as laserprinted documents as early as Grade 3. There are whole nations whose young people get up in the morning and participate as workers building the inner bits of computer hardware, how nimble are their little digits. Let's look even fifteen years down the road and see a global workforce split in great uneven halves, one struggling for basic literacy and rice and the other struggling for virtual multi-orgasms and the next best auto-text generator. I've played a lot with procedural recombinant poetics, but hey! -- I do it all by hand, with counting and endless streams and scraps of papers. It is a physical collage activity with a lot of transcriptive and reiterative labour and its analogy is domesticity. I'm not as interested in what a computer can write for me. Then there's the counter-media, the use of the Internet to generate monopoly­ resistance, as happened with poets creating instant anthologies in the period before the

37 American people invaded Iraq - Bush didn't do it on his own; there's a serious crisis in America that's endangering the globe. Resistance rhetoric is fine as long as people are comfortable. Unfortunately we are all addicted to comfort and billboard-sized hamburgers. In exchange for our comfort we generate deeper and deeper complicity with media-fakery, flat-out lying, complete corruption. I'm not optimistic about how to contest our comfort-greed, because I see myself trying to make the world as safe and sweet as possible for my own kids, and even though I am actively asking why and what are the effects, of this near-coddling, I still somehow rationalize it into existence. Hopefully I am helping them to preserve their nerve endings, not to suffocate them. I hope they can access empathy, and will seek out the real story even when it's a bru­ tally sharp razor: how to handle it, hold it, negotiate its facts. This is the generation who will very likely be conscripted for a next world war, which, tragically, I think has already begun. Their diet of digital war gaming is hard­ core prep for them to be able to sit in a plane and operate a sequence of devastating digital instructions. As in my piece "Orphans Fan the Flames," they just won't have the same access to supersized bags of Frito-Lays once they're conscripted. But then these kids are ending up on the ground, in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in the next zone, and they are doing hand to hand grenade combat. Heads are rolling. Bodies are meat. How do we get ourselves to realize our kids and their kids are flesh before having to demonstrate it in a planetary deathmarch? Feminism, environmentalism, peace work, conflict resolution, writing critically about our culture: it is one key. Survival depends on being able to sit in a room with someone who does not share your views. This might start with being able to yak online without flaming the opponent and calling him a fucking bastard loser. Perhaps our conversational capacities will rise along with our fleet coding. I myself struggle with temper and moderating strong emotion; it's a lot to wonder about. I try to give as much voice to as many different kinds of writing as I can to my chil­ dren, so they will have language as the tool, and a lively parental voice physically accompanying them in their spirits. The real key though is multilingualism - which I think is really what Brossard and Moure have done and taught. Imagine teaching Arabic and Farsi and Punjabi and Ojibway to our kids, and Hebrew and Japanese and Spanish, not as Heritage languages, but as living breathing core curriculum. Six lan­ guages each should be the goal. I'm saying this partly as a lament, because I was not even passed on Greek, while my Greek immigrant grandfather spoke, reportedly, numerous languages well because he sold snacks along the CPR railline and had to converse with multiple waves of immigrants. Last year at PEN Canada I worked with writers living in exile in Canada, and learned about the world through the point of view of refugee writers. In Toronto a monthly salon evening is still happening where exiled writers meet and read work, and there is a conversation about what it's like to write across cultures. In the room are people from many countries and speaking across many languages of origin in English.

38 They withstand the erosive embarrassment of speaking in broken tongues, with dis­ figures of speech. They are incredibly brave. I have stuck to this point to the language in which I am most fluent and comfort­ able; this is something I would like to challenge in my own writing future. I have writ­ ten political, topical work; also deeply interior ambiguous texts. Some disturbing and vehement prose; I've messed around a lot with sexuality and representing bisexual sen­ sibilities. I am interested in understanding the dynamics among women more, specif­ ically between mothers and daughters in what I hope is an ongoingly shifting feminist set of queries, which of course leads to querying the whole of the social order. I am trying to write desire and gender and arousal of the senses in ways that really alter writing as invocations to the erotic and the humane. Also I'm finding my feet in my content and formal exploration each year differently, as my children grow up and I am reacquainted and relocated within mysel£ The connection between aesthetics and politics is to keep inquiring of myself dur­ ing the writing act about what it is that I am writing, what is being created, what mate­ rial is being called forth, what is its provenance and what are its implications, what's coming from cliche? If I've heard it before or written it before I try to get rid of it or try to repeat it so often it is essentially altered by the excessive attention - until it blushes and turns a colour. Let's see what colour.

39 Stephen Cain's geography I by rob mclennan windows the mark, of smaller borders

transit nursery, where streetcars raised, & learn

an ashtray, across the trees of no resolve

an idler mishap, triple cabfare is sure enough a not

& slip a carcrash, thru the office screen

horn invades a harbour, invisible

40 Clark Coolige's diction I by rob mclennan go mg went m to 1965 mme mory of those whove fall en bak er met in squalls of amer can paths of pine

41 Adam Dickenson's envy I by rob mclennan call him a nature poet, laugh

isnt that enough, go out for drinks

forget the rest of what were doing

42 maria erskine's grace I by rob mclennan could shake a stir-thing, cause a 'cause, mistaking mix eh

hers a beauty, heart in whispers, but lifts rise across an imprint

do tell, to marks or mars stars, remarks a body eclipsed the earth pulls the couch out, calmly whispers in pulls the 'tween door slow behind

43 Gil McElroy's astronomy I by rob mclennan finds a day at random, seemingly

w/out a season

composed, in "the first act" , a relative mark

takes a measure of stars &so

locates them, echoes written in

overblown from points, & set thru staging

curtain down the morning but never

fades from view

44 Don McKay's birding I by rob mclennan a birdwatcher knows when the timing is right

& knows patience, like the back of his steady hand how the feathers change colour w/ the light the appeal is this, the details in a fluttering breath or long air current that exaggerates a twitch a wing or a slight mistake by the Raisin River, he traces an age, the stretch of many particulars prehistoric fowl, a line on a rocking chair that any country bird in flight would trust to light upon by emphasizing nothing, he makes it all happen

45 John Newlove's silence I by rob mclennan not as deliberate as youd think, more a passive

than an active recluse

but a block away, he compounds a silence, & a fine line

writes less than he carves away

& knows something of pessimism, hes worked on for years, & become

its frail master

long hours spent on computer, playing solitaire

46 Karen Solie's guitar ( 12 string I by rob mclennan this is but the first, before something else occurs the guitar player sings something too, a whisper a long way from Moose Jaw, & the end of a juke-box not bad for a girl who used to play country songs in, wheres that, Texas the beginning of harvest & home, her familiar dark pick-up let me know when this is, this ends, the first set, the first round

47 William Carlos Williams' pad I by rob mclennon waiting for babies, quick, a poem

-a doctor's office, prescription pad

there is nothing more, a day in hospital whites

or a nighttime, catch a newborns breath

when one arrives, you cant put up on no shelf, no way

but take it as it comes

48 The Watchmaker I by Elizabeth Blanchard

I slip charms onto split-rings and twist split-rings onto bracelets; hanging charm to bracelet, linking bracelet to pendant. I raise my eyes and look at the timepiece on the left-hand corner of my workbench: 8:34. I continue. Not many of them today, nor last week, nor last month. Not like before. Not like the multitude that kept me hunched over my workbench until my fingers could no longer keep the rhythm. Only a few dozen this morning which I'll finish slipping before I open the store. My eyepiece slides smoothly into the groove of my right socket between cheekbone and brow. I sometimes forget it's there when serving customers who come and stand at the counter, no longer noticing the distortion the lens brings to their faces. They, for their part, seem accustomed to my ocular appendage. I am wondering lately if it's because of my eyepiece that I didn't see it coming. Looking at small things too closely, maybe I am no longer able to see the big picture from afar. "Good morning, Mr. Hughes." Mary nods at me, locking the door behind her. "Good morning, Mary." ''And where do I start this morning, Mr. Hughes? " Mary begins every workday with the same question. "Why don't you start in the Diamond room this morning, Mary. Update our inventory lists." She hangs her brown coat and scarf in the customary spot and walks stiffly over to the Diamond room. A small space in the far right corner of the store enclosed by 6- foot high wooden panels that Alexis Murphy built for me. The swinging doors were my late wife's idea - easier to open when your hands are full, James. Generations of young women have come to this room. They have sat in breathless anticipation around the circular table covered with slotted trays filled with yellow and white gold rings upon which were mounted brilliant, 32-facet diamonds. Daughters, like the mothers before them, playing out the ritual of choosing an engagement ring and, in doing so, confirming their choice of mate. Mates, many of whom couldn't afford such things, but, being young men in love - or so they thought - they came

49 faithfully, monthly, with small sums of money in an envelope; a requisite stipend for access to the altar. Now, years later, they come up to me in the mall, at the grocery store, after mass on the church steps. They pull their hands out of their pockets, slip their gloves off their hands, eager to share the memory. It's been twenty-seven years, Jimmy. We got our rings at your place. Do you remember the look on my face when you told me how much they cost? Jesus, I almost passed out. Remember? Back slaps and laughter. They accost me. Widows in ill-fitting coats hold their knobby fingers up to my face, fondness in their voice. It's still as bright as the first day I bought it,Jim. I think of you and the store when I wear it. Unwitting alchemists, they have melted the jeweler into the jewelry. "Where are the inventory lists, Mr. Hughes?" I see only the top of Mary's face looking out from inside the Diamond room, glancing disdainfully at the swinging doors. Mary believes that it is inappropriate for young men and women to have to make such an important decision behind doors that rightfully belong in front of a saloon. She has told me this before. She tells me it again. My blatant lack of respect of the ritual; this is the problem. I smile inwardly - Mary's repetitive criticism strangely comforting to me this morning - and retrieve the inventory lists from the filing cabinet in the back store. The thought of having to return unsold inventory before Christmas is foreign. Nine a.m. - time to open shop. I walk to the front of the store under the gaze of the porcelain women with the del­ icate white hands. Opening the door, I stand on the threshold and inhale deeply, wish­ ing the cold air would draw the dust that has settled on my mood. I return behind the counter. Mornings are quiet now; there was a time when I wished for this. I tear November off the wall next to the cash register and expose December, decep­ tively fresh with promise. November and December were always my busiest months. I remember it as being a truly mystical phenomenon. Throngs of customers, elbows touching, leaning over showcases laden with bracelets and chains and pendants and earrings. The reflection oflast year's purchases hanging from their necks, eclipsed by the allure of buying a new piece of gold -- that moment when the gap between reality and the rich is narrowed. But my customers weren't rich. And, as with any overindulgence, the inevitable financial hangovers from these buying binges came and lasted deep into the New Year, and unlike a "good drunk'', were rarely boasted about.

50 My business no longer profits from these episodes of guileless spending, and although I suppose I should harbour some sense of spiritual relief, I don't. I open the first drawer of my workbench and pull out a small yellow envelope, the contents of which I carefully empty out onto my workspace: a pocket watch tagged with Joseph Mann's name. I put on my eyepiece, twist the silver casing off the back of the watch, pull the lamp over my desk; my hands must be very still.

I examine the train of wheels, follow in my mind the gears' path from mainspring to escapement, listen and feel the tempo of the balance wheel - driven by the fine hairspring lodged at its center - pushing and pulling the hands around the face of the watch, the rhythm as familiar to my being as the sound of a brushstroke through my wife's hair at bedtime. Mary's handwriting on the envelope: losing 3 to 5 minutes a day, needs cleaning. I begin to take apart the mechanism, trying to find where and why time is being misplaced. I lean forward holding my breath to prevent from entangling the hair­ spring, and adding an hour or more to the job. I have been dismantling and reconstructing Joseph's watch for years. A railroad man most of his life, Joe worked alongside dozens of other men who lived in and around town. Men who, sooner or later, would walk into my store, tug on the silver chain clipped to their vests or overalls, and pull my livelihood from out of their pock­ ets. Selling, repairing, adjusting, and cleaning the railway men's watches became such a part of my work that I often caught myself feeling guilty when, in casual conversa­ tion, friends would complain about the train not being on time. The steel river that ran through our town and the money that flowed out of it into homes, trucks, businesses, and hockey equipment for the kids, dried up, along with the self-esteem of more than 200 men who no longer had a reason to carry a pocket watch. The train stops only briefly now. Arrival and departure schedules come to mind only when my children and their children come to visit.

"I've finished the inventory lists, Mr. Hughes." Mary carefully lowers herself into the chair behind the small desk facing my workbench - her workspace, which she likes to refer to as the bookkeeper's desk. She continues. "Diamond sales are a lot lower this year than last year, or the year before for that matter. I think you're going to have to send back more than half the stock in the Diamond room. It's a shame really; we've never had to do it before. Young people today don't understand what the word commitment means. No wonder they don't buy engagement rings, it's a bad investment. Why should they spend money 1.m something they know isn't going to last more than a few years?" Mary's voice, a strange solace - like leaving the television on even when you're not

51 listening to it. I continue cleaning Joseph's watch as Mary keeps talking. "Sad state of affairs, really. Like I've always said, Mr. Hughes, it's a good thing you've got the watches; you've always been able to depend on the watchmaking. You've been blessed with good hands." Good hands. Steady hands. You've got steady hands, son, and fingers nimble as a pickpocket. That's what the instructor had said at the veteran's rehabilitation center. I was 23 at the time, in need of money and a future. Watchmaker is a fine trade, James. There will always be watches and clocks that need fixing. You'll make good at it. He was right - I did. At first it was a job, something my hands mastered with ease, an exercise of neces­ sity. But people need to know how you fit into their lives. Labels must be worn; they stick them on you and rub them into your skin.

To them, I was the Watchmaker. Before the sizing of amethyst and emerald rings; the silver-plated tea sets, the 24% leaded crystal tumblers; before the Diamond room, I was the town's Watchmaker. And over time, as other parts of me became obsolete - father to grown children, husband to a deceased wife - the label's dye seeped into my muscle and stained my bones. I raise my head at the sound of the door opening. Mary has stopped talking and has left her desk. I turn my head to look at the young woman in the yellow parka who has just entered the store. Her belly as round and bright as the sun, she strides up to the counter seemingly unencumbered by the weight of the child in her. "Mr. Hughes, you don't remember me, do you? I'm Paul Mackenzie's daughter, Catherine." "Catherine .. .I don't think I'd have recognized you. The last time I saw your Dad was the week before he moved, he came in to say goodbye. How is Paul?" "He's fine. He's been retired for almost three years now. My Mom's still teaching, but she's hoping to retire next year. They want to come back east. They'd like to build on that piece of land they own down shore." "Is this your first?" I raise my eyebrows and nod in the direction of her swollen abdomen. Catherine laughs. "This will be my fourth. I've got three boys." The sound of her laughter is heartwarming. I am reminded of her father, a fish­ ing pal who I suddenly long to see again. Catherine pulls a man's watch out of her pocket and sets it down on the counter. "We're up for the weekend visiting my sister. My husband broke this yesterday taking the luggage out of the car. My oldest son tried to close the trunk while Marc's hand was still in it. Can you fix it?"

52 The black straps on either side of the watch lie against the counter, bulging slight­ ly. The glass on the face of the watch is broken, and where red digits usually glow the time, only two dim red lines can be seen. I turn over the watch and remove the cas­ ing. No wheels, no balance staff, no regulator, no escape wheel - just a round battery and small metal plates under which is hidden the electronic movement. I attempt the usual. I pull out a small box of batteries from underneath the count­ er and replace the one in the watch. Nothing happens. Strangely aware of my own shelf life, I remove my eyepiece and look at the preg­ nant young woman standing at the counter. "I'm afraid there isn't much I can do with the watch. It has an electronic move­ ment. I suspect that it'll cost you more to send it away to get it fixed than to buy a new one. " She hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. "Oh well, throw it out, he'll just get another." Catherine disappears through the shop door. Her husband's broken watch remains on my counter. I cannot so easily throw it out. To simply discard it unsettles me. What does it mean when the instrument that has rendered you obsolete is itself expendable? Mary is now standing across the counter from me. "I think I'll go for lunch now, Mr. Hughes." "You do that, Mary, I'll watch the store."

53 Group Tour I by Don McLe/1/JII

"Give the little bugger somethin'," Harold said. "Won't leave us alone 'ttl ya do." They'd just exited the market across from the hotel. Both wanted to stretch their legs before dinner, to be served aboard a boat cruise to a pagoda of apparent signifi­ cance. The frenzied pace of the market left Winnie feeling dizzy. Unfamiliar scents always caused her to gag. Her eyes hadn't adjusted to the afternoon glare when the boy touched her on the shoulder. He thrust forward an unwashed palm. "Haroo, 'Merican," he'd said. Straw adhered to his unruly thatch like dust to a mop. "Ca-na-di-an!" she corrected, hoping louder would somehow improve the youth's linguistic skills. It hadn't worked anywhere else. "How much should I give him?" she asked, but her husband had wandered ahead. The boy tugged at her sleeve. "Hold your horses, sonny," she said. Coins pooled at the bottom of the handbag she'd purchased in whatever country they visited the previous Tuesday. All she could recall was that it had been Day 10, halfway through their holiday. And that Harold had kept her awake most of the night with gastrointestinal difficulties. Their tour leader Karen told them not to worry if they forgot how to convert the currency. Monopoly money, she'd called it. Winnie handed the boy a coin bearing the profile of an erstwhile emperor. The youngster appeared disappointed, so she poured the works into his excited hands. All the countries mixed in together, just the way they swirled around inside her head, the kings and the dragons and the plum blossoms. Some bills were not much larger than a postage stamp. Others had to be folded twice like a sheet of paper. She scanned the street for the silly sailor's cap Harold had won at Casino Night. He was circling a peddler's stall like a sniffing hound, hungry again.

It had been Phil's idea. He and Donna picked up a brochure from a travel agent in the mall. Phil brought it to the refinery and showed Harold at the lunch break. Jack Billingsly, the union rep, had just finished a night shift. "Heard ya can get it over there for a pack of smokes," Jack said. Harold studied the photo of a near-naked girl stepping from a wave.

54 "Fuck me," he said. "That'll cost ya," Phil said. ''A carton of Players Light," said Jack.

Usually they went to a fishing lodge up the coast or to the Interior to visit Winnie's people. Two weeks annual didn't allow for much else. But this year Harold's seniority kicked in and he had a full month. "I've never cared much for Donna," Winnie said. "Shit," said Harold. "Phil can't stand her." Winnie imagined herself lounging by the pool in the brochure. She'd need a new swim suit. "I am feeling better these days," she said. During her last hospital stay she'd noticed the sadness had been replaced by an emptiness, which the doctor said indicated progress. But it didn't feel like progress to Winnie. It was like swapping a stabbing pain in the heart for a dull ache all over. Up and around again, at least appearing like her old self, she'd enrolled in a quilt­ making course at the community center. Thursdays she had Aqua Fit. "I'd better refill my medication if we're going away, then," she said. "You know, just m. case. "

Three days into their holiday and Winnie knew they should have stayed home - that's what she told the girls in the class when she got back. It would have been cheap­ er renting a travel video or tuning into the Discovery Channel. She cited the heat and the unclean restrooms. The surly help and the bloody flies. "You just knew," she said, the gals rapt, quilting needles idle, "that the minute our white faces appeared the price of everything quadrupled." The facilitator encouraged newcomers like Winnie to express themselves freely; any topic was okay. Some days it was so quiet a tear could be heard splattering on the tile, the women absorbed in their own reclamation projects, the only constants the clicking needles and the screams from the Advanced Tae Kwon Do class upstairs. Other times it was all giggles and sobs and snouts being honked. That's the way it'd been the day she brought along the polaroids. Everybody had a good laugh. Winnie discovered she enjoyed talking about the vacation more than the vacation itself One day, she told them, the men on the tour were overheard discussing a live sex show. "They were making plans." Classmates slid their chairs closer. Someone closed the door. ''A bunch of 'em took off one night," Winnie said. "They said they were going to d1c dog races. Of course we knew better. We didn't want to catch anything." The gals nodded; a few grimaced. For some it was obviously familiar territory.

55 Winnie recreated the circumstances. How the men had gathered in the lobby, shoes buffed, hair slicked, abs sucked in. The musk was toxic. Phil said, "We're not doin' nothin ... right, guys?" "We're not stupid," Winnie had said. "You're imaging things, dear," Harold said. "What'd I tell ya, huh, fellas?" Afterwards Winnie took a stroll through the market. When she met up with the boy her gloom dissolved. She gave him all the money she had. Better him than Harold.

Of course the tour guide had warned them about the curfew. About the rebels in the hills and the student protests. Sitting in the travel agency, those posters promis­ ing Fun iri the Sun, urging her to Pack Your Cares Away, it all sounded so exciting. She'd never been overseas. "Do you suppose it's safe?" she'd asked Harold. "Goin' to the corner store ain't safe nowadays." He glanced at the photo on the dresser. Harold had worked at the refinery since his last year of high school. He made night foreman just after Harold Jr. came along. To him, driving anywhere further than 100 kilometres represented a safari. Their guide Karen repeated the admonition about the curfew before landing, the lights of the ancient capitol twinkling below, Winnie's eardrums beginning to throb the way she was told they might at Orientation. Most members of the group weren't paying attention. They were too busy filling out Customs declarations and making room in carry-on luggage for the duty-free booze. Harold reminded her the curfew didn't apply to visitors. As long as they restrict­ ed their carousing to the designated entertainment district. "How hard could that be?" he'd shrugged. Now, perched by the window of their musty double occupancy at the Hotel Intercontinental, Winnie watched the populace race to clear the street. In the minutes leading up to 11 p.m. all was pandemonium. Shops were shut, lights extinguished, frantic people were charging every which way. By 11:01 there was a spooky calm. She soon learned of exceptions to the decree. While waiting up for Harold she watched the prostitutes and their clients stagger from the cabarets, red-faced western men with money, petite Asian girls without. She heard their inebriated shenanigans in the hallway, tired heels tapping on the cobbled streets at sunrise. However minutely, however distastefully, wealth had been redistributed overnight: petite Asian girls with money, westerners with a powerful burning sensation ... Also exempt from the curfew were the blind masseurs. Their soothing grips were summoned by those weary of temple tours and the solemnity of museums. They made their way along the deserted avenues of the foreign quarter, in one hand a bamboo walking stick, the other clamped onto the shoulder of a child handler.

56 It was while Winnie was observing these proceedings unfold under her window that she noticed the boy from the market, sunglassed employer in tow. She pried open the shutter and called down to him, but a military vehicle passed, its siren howling. He couldn't hear her.

The group visited a cultural village. They were greeted by locals wearing heritage garb and playing traditional instruments. Theirs was not the only vacationing group in attendance. Her travel mates tallied the number of languages overheard in the gift shop. Harold was hungover, Winnie exhausted. She felt the ground rotate beneath her feet. That morning they took turns using the bathroom. "Are you feeling alright?" Karen asked her. They'd been ushered into an uncovered grandstand and left to dehydrate in the mid-day blaze. "I know it can be a little over­ whelming the first time." "Better keep an eye on Harold," Winnie said. "His ancestors were Norwegian." A translation was read aloud about the importance of the dance. All Winnie remembered of it, she told the gals back home, was that the jig had been enacted for thousands of years. The steps told a story. Through a slit in the curtains she could see the performers extinguishing cigarettes and changing out of their western clothes. A boom box blasted. It occurred to her then that in this troubled land much was made of longevity. Repetition seemed sacrosanct; the past, one's forefathers, were worshipped like deities. As the dancers stomped across the stage she considered how different it was from the true north strong and free, where there was a 12-step program for every misfortune, where one was encouraged to forget, to move on, let go. To erase people and things as though they'd never existed. And knit quilts. Their last night she decided to say something. She'd promised herself she would­ n't but she couldn't help hersel£ Days she neglected to take her prescription Winnie was quick to boil. "I thought," she said to Harold, "we'd do something together. We're going home tomorrow." He sulked through dinner and complained afterwards of heartburn. It disappeared when Phil came by. She decided not to wait up or visit Donna's room, where some of the others would be comparing what they believed were bargains and attempting to contact their kids via the unpredictable telephone system. The tour group had broken down into sub­ groups. Tho e who came to shop, the card players. The revelers and those in their pajama by nine. None uited Winnie. She sat in front of the rattling air-con unit in her new swim suit, the price tag flapping in the frigid blast, trying to assimilate all the images that

57 had invaded her thoughts these past few weeks. She'd hoped to assemble a scrapbook and fill it with ticket stubs and postcards. This is when we were in ... She'd asked Harold Jr. to pick up some butter and salt from the Save & Carry on the corner. Take your bike, she'd said. Watch for cars. Karen, that afternoon at the cultural village, had summed up her feelings exactly: Winnie was overwhelmed. Harold stumbled in at dawn. She got up to pee and removed his shoes. He groaned and curled into a ball. While helping him out of his shirt, an arm extended, Winnie caught a whiff of his fingers. She hadn't been imagining things after all.

She rose early. Their suitcases were piled by the door. The ferocity of Harold's snoring startled the pigeons nesting on the crap-covered window ledge. The morning air was brittle but refreshing. A convoy of trucks ploughed in and out of the market, their wares tossed to the sawdust floor in a chorus of grunts and exhortations. Overcrowded buses lumbered to a halt, passengers spilling from its ori­ fices like rice from a sack. The bored young soldiers at the army checkpoint stared sul­ lenly when she flashed her passport. At that hour hers was the only alien face on the street. Uniformed schoolchildren snickered in her presence, covering perfect, radiant smiles with cupped hands. "Haroo, 'Merican!" they shouted gleefully. "Haroo!" With the hotel disappearing from view, Winnie felt as though she was doing something wicked. She also felt apprehension, but she did not feel empty. Away from the hotel, away from Harold and all that she had been, the dull ache lifted like a cloud. In the park there was a pond guarded by a navy of proud, sleek swans. A gaggle of elders stretching to stringed melodies broadcast from speakers mounted in the willows. She rested her sneakered feet on a bench and - melanoma be damned - turned her face to the sun. Later, strolling alongside a canal, she watched a line of monks file across a foot­ bridge. They were hairless - man or woman, it was impossible to say - the hands tucked inside saffron robes, their fey chant oddly soothing. Each smiled at her in pass­ ing. She didn't know why exactly, Winnie wasn't normally impetuous, but she then reached into her purse and tossed her medications into a garbage bin. She just decid­ ed the pills were meant more for those trying to control her, for those like Harold and her doctor, who were made uncomfortable by her crying jags. Henceforth, Winnie quietly declared, she would feel ... whatever she felt. Guilt? Then she would wres­ tle with guilt. Winnie decided on an alternate route back to the hotel. She stopped at stalls to examine items that until that morning had held little interest. She peeked into cook­ ing pots and ran her hands over everything.

58 An hour before the tour bus was scheduled to leave for the airport she realized she'd become a victim of her own nascent curiosity. She quickened her pace, but the more desperately she tried navigating a return the more disoriented she became. The group would be frantic. Harold would use it against her until death did they part. Her eyes sought out signage she might recognize from earlier excursions. Every character was an indecipherable doodle. "Haroo, 'Merican, Haroo ..." In her mounting panic Winnie slammed into a lamppost, dropping her shopping bag. It split apart on the pavement, the melons she'd planned to share with her travel companions coursing into the gutter like bowling balls. At the entrance to the train station she was sandwiched between rushing com­ muters and knocked to the ground. Passersby swerved around her. Some stepped over her like a puddle. Winnie crawled into a sitting position and began to weep. "Haroo, 'Nadian!" With his grimy sleeve the boy from the market wiped the melting eye shadow from her cheeks. She pointed to her wristwatch and he seemed to understand. He squeezed her hand and pulled Winnie to her feet. Off they went into the labyrinth. Just when Winnie though she couldn't take another step she spotted the hotel up ahead. The tour bus, smoke belching from its backside, impatient at the curb. Harold and Karen scooped her up, the door closed, the vehicle nudged into traffic. "You had us worried," Karen said. "I was about to call the embassy." "Jesus, Win!" Harold fretted. "What the hell?" The others made room for her at the rear. The driver wrestled the wheel and pounded the horn, the bus shuddered into gear. Winnie laid her head back - and realized she hadn't thanked him. "Who?" Harold asked. "What ya talkin' about?" Winnie swung around in her seat. Diesel fumes dissipated. The boy had vanished.

59 "Pont Neuf: Ravel's Birthday" * Excerpt from Aquamarine

by Karl ]irgens ...there is a man walking on a string; his name is Ravel. It is raining. The shadows splash into the light afternoon air with the sound of eave troughs and footsteps on the trottoir. His shirt sleeve is blue. A cobalt perhaps cerulean blue. His jacket is black. There is an air blowing in his mind fingers dancing on the keys of an ivory coast strings and oboes a hesitation ...... peace. Then, a player piano sounds Maurice's 1930 Bolero while a chanson rises in the distance. A walk in the rain. The piano, a waddling black rhombus leads the way, followed closely by the long-faced oboes, and the violins with their sullen electric eyes ...

At the concert hall, when the player played the overture it was at triple speed ...

60 he got his bow stuck between the strings the horrible squeal ... they all knew what happened still, he finished it of£ The stage manager later said to the composer, "He never did that in rehearsal!" he yelled, "He never did that in rehearsal

The music, author of the dance the parade the scratch on the record repeats itself in the wan sun.

The curtain's lace flutters against a light breeze.

Outside, the street, and by the pier a light fog the soft parade of oboes and piano, (the violins have retired to a cafe).

At rue Dauphin, a cigarette-smoking concierge scowls a warning, don't be late or I'll lock the door.

61 The rooftops sparkle brilliant red sun a range of gray slates and terra cottas reflecting Paris in the afternoon on a workday, near Pont Neu£

Somehow, I know, it is the birthday of Ravel.

10/2004

* [Ravel, Maurice. Born 1875 at Ciboure near St. Jean de Luz. Composer, noted for his vivacious melodies. Spent childhood in Paris, trained in classic form at the Conservatory. Influenced by Satie. Died in Paris 1937].

62 Skaters or Sinners

by Gail Chai We sit in that 7th grade class, so still we seem frozen like the silver skating rink beyond the school playground where the clatterings of steel swings turn my head. The prairie sky, bruised in maroon and cobalt begins to lower its winter eyelid while Sister Dorothy taps the provincial capitals on the wall-to-wall blackboards: British Columbia-Victoria, Alberta-Edmonton, Saskatchewan ... Our voices drift eastward as my eyes turn westward towards the windows laced in snow.

Now the late afternoon lemon light is squeezed pale and the rink is an opal burning with dry fire. In forty minutes I'll be there twirling in my new figure skates. Showing off to Orest Kewan, accidentally bumping into his broad blue parka. Yukon? Beside me, Sister Dorothy's voice shreds. When did we turn north? Yellowknife, I stutter. My brain sorts. Panic hiccups in my voice. No. Whitehorse. I try to sound casually confident. Sister Dorothy sizes me up, nods. Eyes to the front. Again class. British Columbia-Victoria.

63 I sit so still like one of the ice sculptures ringing the rink, an angel, a seraph, her triple set of wings outstretched to catch falling skaters or sinners, who alone or with others have lost their thin bladed balance, doing a wheel barrow, figure eight, s p r e a d e a g 1 e.

64 Baby, Baby by Sandra Lloyd

Linda relinquished Melanie into the arms of a Vietnamese woman and turned her shredded mind to the zapping noise of the florescent lights overhead. She saw the putrid yellow of the empty wall before her, and felt Melanie's warmth radiating from the place on her chest where she had been holding her. The other woman propped the baby against her, turned and walked solemnly. Linda watched the soft black tuft of hair float away over the woman's shoulder - the last of her daughter she would ever see. "Take care of her eyes," Linda cautioned, thinking of those clear black baby-eyes that were encrusted with infection when she first saw Melanie last Monday. "Excuse me please, Mrs. Meyers." Another gracious official stood to her right and touched her elbow. "Is there anything we can do? We've hired a taxi to take you back to the hotel. We'll call you there." The emotional currents ended as if someone had gutted Linda like a snagged fish, leaving her wide-eyed and dead. It would not be long until someone's empathy would free her grief, trapped like pockets of submerged air rising suddenly to the surface. The woman directed Linda from the room, and from the dank, gray building. Turning either left or right was not a decision she was capable of making. She crum­ bled into the rusted brown cab; it lurched forward through the crowded streets of Hanoi. Linda was amazed at the speed at which she'd evolved into a mother - as if her internal wiring changed and electricity flowed through her differently than before. She became acquainted with the mellow baby sounds Melanie made while sleeping. She knew the timbre of her voice - its clear tone, not raspy like the baby's cry down the hall. As with the other parents here, she had known of Melanie for months, her new daughter assigned to her by the authorities; all of it made legal through a library of paperwork, and many phone calls with their long-distance delay and echo. Vietnam was the first home of their daughter, but now Melanie would be a new Canadian. Linda and her husband, Steve, treated the waiting time like a pregnancy. They could not control the fact that they had to wait. And so, they prepared. Linda paint­ ed and wallpapered, bought sweet-girl things, and dreamed of the day that Melanie would be tucked into the wooden crib with its soft toys, bumpers, and pink floral com­ forter. She and Steve had placed pictures on the walls of the Vietnamese landscape. Linda dreamed of pointing to them, explaining about Melanie's birth country, and her

65 - ---~-- - -~------

journey into their lives. The new mother had created a scrapbook of events, baby showers, and gifts, so that Melanie could later read of her parent's anticipation. Once everything was settled, Linda traveled to Hanoi, and Melanie became hers after a "giving and receiving" ceremony. It was an ending for one mother, a beginning for the other. Melanie's birth mother, a young girl, tearfully released Melanie to Linda's care with a gracious bow, a tight hug, and some Vietnamese words that were translated for Linda: "I give you my daughter, as a gift. It is my hope that she brings you joy, and that you care for her, as I would have done. My heart and love go with you to Canada." She had chosen and rehearsed her words. Melanie was transferred from mother to mother, the tears upon their faces mixing as they embraced. Melanie lay in her new mother's arms - asleep, and breathing soft­ ly. Linda's heart beat so hard she thought it might awaken the child. She was sure this day was as intense as if she had given birth to Melanie herself - parenthood and all its emotions suddenly part of who she was as a woman. Back in the hotel room she had inspected her new daughter. Her skin was deco­ rated with a red rash, and her eyes were yellow and oozing. Linda protectively washed the baby, and she talked to her. "Daddy is waiting for us in Canada", she said softly as she counted ten fingers and toes. "We want you to be happy." She fluffed a comb through the baby's thick dark hair that responded by remaining straight up on end, with a mind of its own. Anger was also mixed into Linda's joy. She had paid for foster care for this child, and had sent new clothes and toys. Melanie had none of these with her, and Linda learned that her daughter had been living in the orphanage. Linda sighed vowing to focus on her baby, and the rightness of finally being together - whatever the cost. But, Linda had no idea that within two days, she would feel as though she were in a permanent state of falling. There had been a knock at the door - the first of two such times that when she opened the door, her world would change forever. On this day, one of the women she had met through the process of"receiving" was standing before her with an expression of deep sympathy. "Come in!" Linda had exclaimed, and then saw the need to ask, "What's wrong?" The woman took a moment to consider her words before speaking. "Where's the baby?" The woman asked glancing about the hotel suite. "Sleeping, in there," Linda indicated as nervousness came upon her like a shadow. "Why?" "I have terrible news. I am so sorry." Linda waited. "The baby, you cannot take her with you. It is against the rules." "What are you talking about?" Linda's lungs tightened. "The baby, she is terribly sick. If we had known this two days ago, she would not be with you. She will die, probably before she turns three, the doctor says. It is not

66 possible for you to take her, as the law does not permit it. We are not allowed to release a terminally ill child. We will try to find another, a healthy baby for you. She must come with me now." Linda heard the distant sound of her own mother-voice. "No, I will bring her to you later. Is this afternoon okay? Just a little longer?" The young mother was shocked - frozen. And yet, part of her mind knew she must melt back into this horrible new reality. She called her husband. Steve was objective. The baby wasn't healthy. They want­ ed a family and knew that although they could ease Melanie's journey towards death, they deserved a chance to raise a child to adulthood. Linda had sobbed and gasped throughout the conversation, and on the return trip to the agency, with Melanie in her arms. Neither country would allow the exchange. Steve agreed. She had to say good­ bye. After handing the baby back she returned to find a message from her sister at the hotel. Stacey'd heard the news and was coming to be with Linda while she waited in Hanoi. The authorities assured Linda that if there was another baby girl available, that she would be theirs. But they warned her - there didn't seem to be any more babies ready right now. Stacey hugged Linda for a long time when she arrived. "We'll get you through this." Stacey's tone was maternal, and her strength tangible. For two days the women traveled together around the city and its outskirts. Linda felt like a blind tourist. She couldn't process what she was seeing, and allowed her sis­ ter to lead her from sight to sight. There was comfort in the sound of Stacey's calm, soft voice. When they returned to the hotel room, there had been no contact from the adop­ tion agency. Linda packed dispiritedly for the flight that was scheduled to take them home the following day. "It's like I have all this love, and no one to give it to .... " She sat down on the bed, head in hands. Stacey didn't reply. There was a knock at the door. "I've got it," Stacey said, sprinting to answer. Linda could hear surprise in Stacey's voice as she spoke with a woman. "Linda ... you need to come here." She pushed herself up, and stood to see a woman holding a baby in her arms. "Hello." Linda greeted her. She thought that this was one of the other adoptive parents staying at the hotel. "Mrs. Meyers?" "Yes?" "I am from the agency. I know this is not the normal procedure, but we have Anna

67 here - a baby girl. She is healthy, and if you want her, she is yours to take home ~th you tomorrow." The woman stepped forward and held the baby out to Linda. She had eyes like blackened almonds and the same stand-on-end hair as Melanie. Linda's mind wandered around the children that were given, and taken, and then given again. She looked at Anna who resembled her "sister" Melanie. Linda hoped more children were waiting for her on the other side of unopened doors. But she said this: "No. I will not take this baby. I can't." "Wait," Stacey said reaching out to her sister. "Linda, think about it for a minute. Think of Steve ... ". "No. Melanie was the daughter I waited for all these months. It's as ifl gave birth to her mysel£ I'm not ready for a 'replacement' baby. I want to be a mother more than anything, but I don't think it can be this way." She held a clenched fist to her heart as she spoke. Turning, Linda's features changed from flesh to stone. Stacey talked to the woman for a few moments before closing the door behind her. Linda continued to pack in silence. All resolve had been leached from her. She wanted to know why the world would not allow her to love a child. Slamming her suitcase closed, she burst into tears.

68 Lynch, McNamara, Wilson, Wright by Alex McKay, Visual Arts Editor

This issue found a theme for its Visual Arts quite by accident. The collection is linked by investigations into qualities of light and self-reflective moments of the (pho­ tographic/poetic) gaze. Grahame Lynch, drawing from a recent collaboration with Mark Jeffrey, gives us It fades in the light (and is restored in darkness) and asks us to participate in an uncom­ fortable and disturbing sensory experience, drawn from a body of work developed through a lifetime of preparation for his certain and complete blindness. Christopher McNamara's poetic and lush Magic Hour (front cover) is similarly evocative of fading light. His video, here frozen, cycles through time and place as suns set on different worlds linked by quality of light, sentiment and humanity. Dermot Wilson's Ice Lake Innocence gives us two observers, one perhaps missing the spectacular with camera pressed to face, the other bearing witness but perhaps too young to make sense of it. Ice Lake Innocence is a vectorized* rendering of light and dark burning itself on the retina as a landscape of whimsical horror. Andrew Wright's Prairie Sky series utilizing his Camera Obscura, speaks of light and movement, of fixing the ephemeral and the futility of any attempt to do so. I imagine myself inside his darkened room unable to touch the moving image but want­ ing to possess it. His clouds, although incorporated and fixed, still move; I am certain of it - the more I fix my gaze, the more certain I become.

Grahame Lynch can be found at http://www.gelo.ca/ Christopher McNamara can be found at http://www.lsa. umich./edu/filmvideo/faculty _staff/ mcnamara.htm and at http://www3.sympatico.ca/dermot.wilson as part of machyderm, Dermot and Christopher's collaborative. Dermot Wilson can be found at http://www.3sympatico.ca/dermot.wilson/ at http://www.pseudoarc.com and at http://www.incard.ca/wilsondermot.htm Andrew Wright can be found at http://www.andrewwright.ca For more about the Camera Obscura try starting with the Magic Lantern of Life webpage at http://brightbytes.com/cosite/ cohome.html

* A digital process whereby the continuous tonal values of an image are segmented/compressed into distinct but limited values, giving the image, and in this case also the text and visual narra­ tive, an almost typographical appearance. 69 Christopher McNamara

Magic Hour

During a recent artist's residency in Switzerland, I began work on a series of new videos designed for both performance works and installations. Operating under the idea that I would compose images and sounds as simultaneously as possible I created six short videos. One of the videos I created, Intersection 2. (Barcelona) was initially a stand-alone cityscape, shot at the magic hour, moments after the sun has set. After considering this piece for a couple of months, I determined to create more. I shot an intersection in Zurich at approximately the same time of day, with the camera facing the same westerly direction and, most recently I shot a similar video in Detroit. I am particularly interested in the idea of "street photography" as practiced by Garry Winogrand and Robert Frank and how it translates in the digital age. I see these videos functioning as documents as well as tone poems of the illustrated cities. At the Art Gallery of Windsor, I presented these videos as overlapping projections with a new, ambient soundtrack. The resultant projections create a mosaic of three cities, overlapping and occasionally creating the sense that pedestrians and cars are tra­ versing large geographical gaps. It is a conflation of space and (however occasional) an opening of borders.

70 Grahame Lynch

Investigations of visuality are a consistent part of the creative process for me. Recent images and installations have involved situations in which physical and per­ ceived boundaries were being tested. A moment or a thought once ignored or taken for granted is revisited as visual ephemera are revealed with the subtle turning of a page in the light - subtle shifts in perception are revealed as deliberate interventions.

It fades in the light

A recent collaboration by Grahame Lynch and Mark Jeffrey, was conceived through discussion of contrasting experiences - one artist's lifelong preparation for blindness and the instantaneous loss of sight experienced by the other's father - an arduous task of imposing order, and the sudden appearance of chaos. A long-standing interest in two characteristics of cyanotypes emerged as the tangible subject for this installation - the apparent destruction of the enticing blue images with exposure to light, and the possibility of restoration after a prolonged period of darkness. The cyan­ otype becomes a romantic symbol of both despair and hope. The installation entitled It fades in the light was shown at Toronto's String Gallery in January 2005.

71

lnnocencelnnocencelnnocencelnnocence Listening to Laughing at following limbs lnnocencelnnocencelnnocencelnnocence NascenceNascence NascenceNascence Allowing the flow of arousal in limbs that NascenceNascenceNascenceNascence EssenceEssenceEssenceEssence Feeling it Peeling you alembic enmeshed EssenceEssenceEssenceEssence SenseSenseSenseSenseSenseSense Repealing us zeal in flux hollowing time SenseSenseSenseSenseSenseSense SurceaseSurceaseSurceaseSurcease Questioning us clutching at crocus and SurceaseSurceaseSurceaseSurcease AbsenseAbsenseAbsenseAbsense Departing bodies slippery cool borrowings AbsenseAbsenseAbsenseAbsense Insistencel nsistencel nsistencel nsistence In you amidst shattered old borrowings Insistencel nsistencel nsistencel nsi Imbalancelmbalancelmbalancel mbalance So lonely here keaning to you after lmbalancelmbalancelmbalancelmbalance MalevolenceMalevolenceMalevolence Never again this senseless self whoring MalevolenceMalevolenceMalevolence ViolenceViolenceViolenceViolence You HATE this! Kill it now! Make it stop by ViolenceViolenceViolenceViole

BrutalityBrutalityBrutal lntersectioning skin/blood/bone the sounds BrutalityBrutalityBr PhysicalityPhysical Meant now to stiffen into practice less profound PhysicalityPhysical

SexualitySexualitySexual Transit from gut to grind of psyche cowed SexualitySexuality MiseryMiseryMiser Released to slacken down to breathing hound MiseryMiseryMisery

MockeryMockery Inward slashing strokes to sunder souls of MockeryMockeryMockery MoralityMorality Testing those last vestiges of flight through holes MoralityMoralityMor In no sence In no In In to In dust In dust try

82 MentalityMentality Marking the prison, it's architectural mighty whole MentalityMentality PenuryPenuryPenury Sins, yes, sins! To sweep out colour, lyric, role PenuryPenuryPenu

PenaltyPenaltyPenalty Tolls that build and brick the callow wall PenaltyPenaltyPenalty lnjurylnjurylnjury Escape to forfeit my freedom's chains and teeth lnjurylnjurylnjurylnjury lnabilitylnability Oh, a meaning how banal! Eat burger beer and root canal. lnabilitylnab lndolencelndolencelndolence Fat seeps through the sieve like glue lndolencelndolence lndustrylndustry Chip blip chink whirr, gone dead but breathes for lndustrylndustry In dust try In dust In In to In no In no sense

83 Dermot Wilson

Ice Lake Innocence (pages 82-83)

Electric ... mediated ... reproduced ... regenerated wind across redundant ... electric ... mediated ... reproduction of dead or dying trees. My children playing on the snow-covered beach. That generational loss of image quality is evident in the detail of the image invading them, their blown hair and bare cheeks. And there are chairs in the air.

84 Andrew Wright

"My work functions as visual inquiries at the heart of a practice that is explorato­ ry and experimental. With interests in perception, photographic structures and tech­ nologies, and the ways we relate to an essentially mediated and primarily visual world, I employ simple phenomena to reinterpret, reinvestigate, and re-present." Prairie Skies

These images are the continuation of an ongoing series of works that take the Camera Obscura as a point of departure. Literally meaning 'dark room' and the origin of the word 'camera', the simple optic and scientific principles of the Camera Obscura are well understood. The passage of light through a small hole or lens creates an inverted and reversed virtual image of the world beyond the hole on the surface where light comes to rest. Its use by artists pre­ dates the Renaissance and its principles are the basis of all photographic equipment (including the digital). It has become a useful tool in explaining the mechanics of the eye and a metaphor for vision itself Perhaps most importantly it has become a struc­ ture upon which the very idea of representation can be based. A hole in the roof of my studio is fitted with a makeshift shutter and a single lens element (borrowed from a pair of eyeglasses) -an optical blank. Photographic paper is unrolled onto a 4 x 8 foot platform beneath the hole and the shutter is opened, briefly exposing the paper. The paper is developed in situe creating a unique and direct silver paper negative print. The images are decidedly 'counter-photographic': the subject is emptiness, water vapour, and light itself; the procedure is simple and does not rely on current (or even recent) technology; tonally the image is reversed; orientation ceases to matter as there is no definitive up or down, left or right. Likewise, the decisive moment of picture­ taking, the traditional purview of the photographer / artist, becomes arbitrary. Each moment is inherently different from the next, yet they are all versions of the same image. What becomes evidenced is the procedure itself, the photo-ideological apparatus, our capacity to aestheticize the world around us, and our continuing amazement with­ in the magical space of the Camera Obscura.

85

Tea Time I by Matthew Frie,

Bridey was a longtime friend of the family, and John Paul felt comfortable visiting with her. She was his mother's dearest friend, and like an aunt to him. Closer than his aunts, really, for his aunts and uncles all still lived in Scotland, and he had had lit­ tle contact with them since the age of five. "My daughter's new man smokes like a lump," Bridey said. "I smell it on him when he comes over. He tells me that he wasn't. But, my dear, you can't hide from Bridey. You know that. Like a lump... " "And the little one, Bridey?" John Paul's mother asked. "Boyd?" "The wee child? Your daughter's little one?" "Boyd. He's fine, luv," Bridey said, as she waved her finger defiantly. John Paul looked to his left into the living room where the 'wee child' in question, this Boyd, launched himself from the top of the sofa, over the coffee table and landed on his heels with a thud. He had been doing this since John Paul and his mother arrived. "Should he be jumpin' like that, Bridey?" John Paul's mother asked. "Jumpin's fine. That one knows what he's up to. He would never do anything to hurt himself" "I believe you, Bridey. It looks a little dangerous, though." "I can look after a child." "I believe that too ... " "I have raised a wee one before." "A fine girl." Bridey cast a crooked eye at John Paul's mother, scanning for sarcasm and letting her know that she was ready to pounce on any defamatory statement. John Paul's mother sat smiling, politely waiting for Bridey to continue the conver­ sation. "The doctor says he might have a case of something. I don't believe him yet. Not till I see it. That one's a cracker," Bridey said. John Paul examined the child. He was dressed in overall jeans with red canvas run­ ning shoes and a yellow shirt. His face was round and his eyes were slightly slanted; there was a small indentation on the upper left portion of his forehead. John won­ dered about the doctor's diagnosis. Yet when he looked at Bridey, with the same round

93 face, now somewhat wrinkled and drooping, and the same oval eyes, he considered genetics. "And don't he look like a handsome young farmer in those jeans, luv." "He does, Bridey." "He does so."

These periodical visits to Bridey's had become an excuse for John Paul to leave his dorm, to escape from the harangues of university life. Piety had always been John Paul's fundamental concern. Proud, stoic piety in the face of sin - something that the dorms were full 0£ Piety, a well-loved conviction that had, until recently, been unques­ tioned. As his university studies at Western progressed, from the freshman year to the second year of his undergrad, a year in which his professors began encouraging him to pursue a doctorate - perhaps in the field of Neurology - he began to question his devotion. Recently, he had driven to Sherbrook to visit a Seminary. The Seminarians there had spoken to him of faith and the responsibilities attached to the priesthood and the vow of chastity. Did he have a calling? That was the question. When he com­ pared the rolling grassland and clean church of the beautiful seminary, the priests dis­ cussing and lucubrating, when he compared all this beautiful reverence to the debauchery that he had witnessed in the dorms, the naked breasts and buttocks, the drunken fools ripping urinals from the wall and laughing so hard that they could hard­ ly work their legs as they ran away - when he compared these things, he began to question himself: What function should he serve? What should he do with his time on earth? Why did he ever consider becoming a priest? Did he merely want to get away from the dorm and its trappings? To hide from the sinful world in his vestments? Or had he truly been summoned to work in the service of the Lord? Perhaps the Lord had called upon him to be a brain surgeon? Who knew? But this was an important decision and he must not deceive himself. The trip to Bridey's, so much like a holiday for John Paul, usually took place once a month - not on a regular basis, but often enough that John Paul could say, without lying, approximately once a month. The excursion had begun like this: John Paul left school at eight fifteen and he arrived at his mother's door in Kitchener at nine-forty­ five, he always allotted fifteen minutes for road work, and volume of traffic, depend­ ing on which day of the week it was. Before entering his old home, hesitant, a little uncertain whether he should knock or not, and scolding himself for this absurdity, he wiped his shoes on the doormat and opened the door. Walking to the kitchen he politely said hello to his father, a doctor, and shook his hand, as men do. John Paul then joined his father at the kitchen table amongst the dirty breakfast dishes - bits of egg and crusts of toast still laying on the plates, an inch of coffee still in his father's mug, his mother's tea cup drained, but stained slightly brown from the years of use - and they began to talk about the book. The same book his father had been reading for months. An Italian translation about a painter in eighteenth century Venice and a cat

94 that was God. Both agreed that the book was sacrilegious, John Paul had thus far refused to read it, but his father maintained that intelligent men must disregard the premise as pure fiction and read the book as a philosophical lecture that condemned society as ungodly - the author's argument being: society gets the God that they deserve. John Paul could not see the value in such an argument. Eventually John Paul's mother came down the stairs dressed nicely in a knee­ length beige dress and matching jacket ensemble that made her seem far less stout than she actually was. Not fancy, but nicely, with her hair done and a purse for her loose change, cigarettes and credit cards. She kissed John Paul on the cheek and together the two left the house saying their good-byes. Once out in the driveway,John Paul ran around to the passenger side of his car while his mother shuffled behind him yelling, 'No John Paul. No. I'm not an old woman,' but he beat her to the car door and opened it for her. John Paul then helped her into her seat and shut her door with force, testing it to make sure it was secure. He then continued around the back of the car to the driver's side. (John Paul drove a bright blue Honda Civic- the salesman had con­ vinced him that the blue was a nice colour, a 'cool' colour; he even called him J.P.. And John Paul had fallen for the salesman's schemes; he had purchased the bright blue model, instead of the more modest cobalt, yet he soon regretted his decision and began to feel slightly embarrassed whenever he got into the vehicle - it was a bolder state­ ment than he wished to make.) He then backed slowly from the driveway, with John Paul's mother turning to watch the process, 'Nothing coming this way, John Paul,' she said, as John Paul stopped to turn the radio, already at a barely audible level, down fur­ ther so he could concentrate. The trip to Scarborough always began with a visit to the liquor store parking lot where John Paul's mother would reach into her purse and pull out her credit card. "John Paul, get me a wee bottle of the rum." The wee bottle of the rum was not the 12 ounce bottle, but the larger 26 ounce bottle, larger, but still 'wee' compared to even bigger bottles. "Take the card. It shouldn't be more than thirty dollars .... I'm not sure what it costs." Yet John Paul was certain that she did know what the price was.

When they arrived in Scarborough, Bridey was so excited to see them that she ran out to the driveway in her slippers and kissed John Paul right on the lips. "Let me help you ... " Bridey said as she quickly pranced over to John Paul's mother. "Git inside ... git inside," John Paul's mother urged her, using the car hood for lever­ age as she pried herself up, out of the seat. "No Shoes! You'll catch the pneumo­ nia ... foolish woman ... don't think I don't know." John Paul's mother believed strongly in the acquisition of knowledge through osmosis - that is, being the wife of a doctor allowed her certain insight into matters of disease and health. "So,John Paul, how are you getting on at school?" Bridey asked him, as they moved in a line towards the porch steps. "Fine, Bridey. Just fine," John Paul said.

95 "And I heard you made a trip to the Seminary?" Bridey latched onto John Paul's shoulder. "I did, Bridey... ," John Paul answered, but said no more. "You'll make a fine Priest, John Paul," John Paul's mother said, as she pulled open the door to Bridey's house. After John Paul and his mother removed their shoes and coats, the three walked through the hallway to the kitchen. Bridey removed the Saran Wrap from a plate of sweets resting on the kitchen counter and set the plate on the table. She told John Paul and his mother to take a seat and enjoy the treats ... "which," she mentioned, "I just baked this morning."

"And I swear it - she walks right to the human resources and she says to the fel­ low, 'I know my boyfriend was already in here. He wants a job. He doesn't want to be a manager. He just wants a bleedin' job.' And she gives the human resources girl a look. .. " Bridey had been regaling them with tales of her daughter's heroics for some time, and John Paul was getting a little tired and hungry. "That so, Bridey?" John Paul's mother, always the patient diplomat, asked. "Well, you know? They call him the next day and he's got a job." "My. Is she not something?" "She is, luv." John heard a loud crack in the living room, and he turned quickly. From his posi­ tion at the head of the kitchen table (facing south) with Bridey (facing north) and his mother (facing east) on the opposite side, John Paul could see into the living room, his vision clear of the kitchen wall that blocked the other two. The coffee table was being turned over by Boyd and a fancy glass candy dish lay broken in two by the television. "You know how the new man came to her?" "No, Bridey." "She went to his mother and pled her case." "No." "Yes. When the little bugger came home from the bar, his mom told him straight out that this here was a nice girl and that he was going to be spending his time with her from then on." "Doesn't say much for him, Bridey." "How do you mean?" John turned his gaze from the living room and he smiled at the two women. There seemed to be some tension between the two, their pinched lips revealing a secret. "How is the pie comin', Bridey?" John Paul asked. Bridey stood, scowling a little at John Paul's mother, and went to the kitchen counter. She lifted the pie and felt the bottom of the glass pie plate. John Paul's moth­ er drank from a teacup at her elbow. "Little hot," she said, smiling.

96 "It smells wonderful. I can't wait." John Paul's mother said, as Bridey returned to her seat and drank from her teacup. "Are you still thirsty, luv?" Bridey asked. "A little thirsty, Bridey." "Let me fill you up then." Bridey stood swaying a little and grabbing onto the kitchen table for support. She walked over to the counter and bent opening the cup­ board beneath the sink. From there she pulled out a can of no name cola and the bot­ tle of rum. Walking back to the table she sat, opened the can of cola, unscrewed the bottle of rum and poured out another set of drinks. When she finished pouring, the two women left the cola to settle in their cups, Bridey's soda flowing out of her cup and onto her saucer. Bridey set the bottle of rum at her feet beneath the table. "I think that pie should be cool enough now, Bridey," John Paul's mother said. "Give John Paul a piece." "It's only been a minute. Still too hot, luv. John Paul will have to wait." "I can wait, Bridey." "What did you mean by that thing you said?" Bridey asked. "What's that, Bridey?" John Paul's mother wondered. "What you said about the daughter's man." "Nothing, Bridey. He does not sound like he is full of ambition is all." "No. I can't say that he is. But I don't see where it's any of your business?" "It is not my business, Bridey. It is not." The three sat in silence for a moment. The women drank while John Paul smiled at the two friends. He marveled that two old woman could have such a good time together. John Paul reached out and pulled a fancy sweet, some raspberry square smeared in white icing and laced with coconut, from the sweet plate, the doily cover­ ing the plate needing to be separated from the square as he picked it up. Bridey was an excellent baker. He could not wait for the pie to cool. "What sort of pie we havin' Bridey?" John Paul asked. "Raisin, luv." "My favorite!" "I think the pie should be cool by now, Bridey. Let John Paul have a piece. You're a fine baker, Bridey. Let the boy try the raisin pie. Or put that pie in the freezer. It will cool then." "You can't put pie in the freezer and you know it.... A more senseless thing I have never heard." John Paul's mother turned a little red in the neck and cheeks. "Well, he's gettin' bored listening to all your stories. At least ea tin' pie will give him something to do." "Why do you come if you don't like my stories?" Bridey said. "I am just joking, Bridey. I didn't mean it like that. I love your stories. It's the boy here I am worried about." "I like your stories, Bridey," John Paul said.

97 "Fine!" Bridey stood and went to the pie; getting a knife from the drawer she began to cut. John Paul stood quickly and went to wash his hands. He passed through the living room. Boyd looked vacantly at him from the top of the couch and leapt over the coffee table. John Paul watched in amazement as the boy threw himself into the air without consideration or caution, flying much too far for a boy his age, and landed hard on his heels falling back on his buttocks and knocking his forehead on the leg of the overturned coffee table as he turned to catch himself. John Paul went to retrieve the child, who seemed a little shaken but not hurt. Luckily for the wild Boyd, Bridey's house was covered in all things plush and gaudy. From the golden shag carpet and the green chesterfield with its pink quilt tucked across its cushions, to the velvety vermil­ ion lamp shade with its golden hanging geegaws, the thick pink curtains with boa-like trim, the tissue box and its pink crocheted housing, and Bridey's yellow crocheted, one-size-fits-all, slippers. The only item in Bridey's house with sharp, unadorned cor­ ners was the crucifix that was fastened to the wall above the television. (Her toilet itself was a sight to see: almost completely covered over with pink shag, the only spot of porcelain visible was the bowl itself - and it was green.) Yes, Bridey seemed a deli­ cate sort, to surround herself in all this cushioning. John Paul looked the child over and noticed a tear in his eye and a small goose egg on his right temple. He thought that he better get Bridey to tend to the boy, and he started to walk back to the kitchen. He stopped however when he heard the raised voices: "I told you," Bridey said. "It's all wrecked now. All collapsed. You should have waited." "Still pie, Bridey. Still pie. Still flour and sugar and pastry and raisins and lard. Lard, Bridey. Still pie, Bridey. Still taste the same. Pie is always pie, no matter what it looks like." "It's not the pie I wanted." Bridey raised her voice very loudly, and John Paul heard something fall to the floor. He rushed to the kitchen. His mother was staring at the wall disgusted, refusing to watch the spectacle, and Bridey was lying on the floor gen­ tly sobbing and crying out: "That's not pie. That's not pie."

Suddenly, John Paul's mother turned and noticed John Paul. "Qyick," she said, pointing across the table, "Bridey's fallen from her chair." John Paul rushed to Bridey's side and pulled her to her feet. She latched to him and wept while he slid her into her chair. "It's not pie," she cried. "Pie has a shape. Let me show you." Bridey stood and ran through the living room. John Paul returned to his seat and pulled a saucer full of mis­ shapen and mushy pie towards him; unfortunately, he possessed neither a spoon nor a fork, and he thought that it would be presumptuous of him to go through Bridey's drawers, so he waited for her to return. "Is Bridey okay?" he asked his mother.

98 "She is upset from the fall, John Paul." And when she did return she was holding a blue scrapbook in her hands. The book was large, seemingly handmade with a painted cardboard cover, like a child's project, worn but clean looking, and there was not one piece of paper askew, poking out beyond the boundaries of the cover - all evenly measured pages, fitting perfectly adja­ cent to one another, all flush and all congruent to the angle of the blue cover. What she began to show them, as John Paul and his mother gathered around the back of her chair, seemed quite strange. Peeling back the pages of her handmade book, Bridey pointed to tiny drawings of astrological signs, musical notes, directions ('four yards North-west, and twenty-two kilometres South') that she claimed led through compli­ cated mazes and, once out on the other side, to the homes of her favorite celebrities (Paul Newman, David Niven, Sean Connery... etcetera). She had written out the lines of poems, "It is too cold for rain" and, "Remind me what I have done, or might", never completing a verse, exposing random thoughts to the air. All this nonsense equating to a peculiar cartography that Bridey believed led her to the sign of the Zodiac. A sin­ gle complicated design, leading from rock to tree to ship and sail, through dark parks and over mountains and seas, spelunking in an obsidian kingdom of fantasy. "That is some lovely drawing and writing, Bridey," John Paul's mother said after Bridey had closed her book. "My, it is getting dark, John Paul. Maybe we should be gone?" Bridey sniffled and stood from her chair. "I appreciate the company. Tis rare. Very rare. II John Paul and his mother smiled. John Paul moved to the hallway, still concerned that his piece of pie was sitting on the table uneaten, and collected the coats. He bent and helped his mother on with her shoes; and then he helped her on with her coat, easing it over her back as she stumbled forward a step or two. "Well, Bridey, we will see you soon." John Paul's mother said. "Come out here, Boyd," Bridey yelled, "and say goodbye." There was no response from, Boyd. "He is a cracker that one." "He is that, Bridey. We will see you next time, luv." John Paul and his mother walked to the car, waving goodbye as they went, watch­ ing Bridey stand in the doorway of her house waving back and, with her free hand, pinching her cardigan together at her neck. It was getting cooler at night. Fall was moving in. "That is a bold car you have there, John Paul," Bridey cried, as John Paul sat himself in the driver's seat. He rolled down the window as he started the car. "I know, Bridey." They smiled at each other and John Paul rolled his window back up. Turning his head he began to back away. They pulled from the driveway and posi­ tioned the car in an eastward directtion. All three waved one last time as the car start­ ed forward. John Paul watched as Bridey shut her door. "Bridey seems in good spir­ its. Don't you think, John Paul?" John Paul's mother said. "She seems to be doing quite well," John Paul answered. But suddenly he felt

99 strange, as if he had just told a lie and time had become murky in its days and hours. A mental glitch or tick. Time was as it is and shall be tomorrow as it was yesterday. Yet somehow all seemed lost along the way.

100 Robert Hilles

No Complaints I by Robert Hilles My mother returns now in old age to the girl she was then when she discovered water made sounds in her head that could be mistaken for God. She once stood with God at the edge of a small lake with a few fish, frogs, and snakes nothing God couldn't take back if he wanted to. He didn't speak to her didn't touch her hand or point out across the lake to the other shore where a few boats had gathered seeking shelter. He waded into the water until he was up to his neck and motioned for her to follow, but she remained steadfast her toes clinging to the last bit of earth afforded her. God waved again but this time to say suit yourself and dove under. He never re-surfaced nor were the boats on the far shore disturbed in the slightest.

My mother stood there a long time without moving sometimes I think she is standing there still not sure why she didn't go in the water,

103 not sure why she hasn't stepped back. She's seventy-eight drinks beer with a boyfriend there is much ordinariness in her life much that is no longer remembered that happened once and there were words for it but it's gone now washed away like God was that day the water filling in over him no different than if a seal had dove. Without my father she hasn't changed. She still talks about God often but he's not really there anymore not in the way he was before when her children still ran around the house making more chores.

She has no complaints really no regrets that she's ever put into words although I can imagine some: the lack of money, the world never quite catching up to her. From the living room window of her suite she can see downtown Winnipeg, describes the lights to me some times on the phone as if they'd only just come there weren't there the week before or before that just like God wasn't there and then he was and then he wasn't again life like that nothing ever quite what it was a moment ago or the moment after that. She once played the piano but doesn't now although she spreads her fingers sometimes to show me the chords. She has a simple life, with few bills a life I envy especially on those days I step outside and can't remember where I'm going. She's mentioned to me numerous times that day at the lake with God each time she describes it a little differently and never mentions God being there. That's the part I knew without her telling me. I've learned that each day is a detour from the day before and the day after another detour if we look back we can see the course we've taken around obstacles and it's all so clever but looking ahead all I see are obstacles, uncertainty. I understand why God went under the water that day. He knew that and it wasn't any different for him. How could it not be?

When I visit my mother she makes me tea although she sometimes forgets where things are. Once I look under her pillow and find dozens of bunched up tissues. She says she takes one to bed with her every night. Funny she remembers to do that but not to remove them in the morning. Each day a clean slate. She tells me she prays for me everyday and asks if I pray for her. I say I do although usually don't. How many lies has she told me?

105 There aren't such answers. I know my mother's days on the earth are not many and each time we speak a little more of what once was disappears. What choice do the living have? Like God, we slip beneath the surface one day and vanish. There is no promise we are more certain of, and yet talking to my mother in our now scattered conversations I listen for something new and it's always there each day still a move forward. We go on changing until the very end the day we die no different than the day we are born we are prepared for change and it changes and like that it changes again. Poof another change. There is no quiet.

106 Coming Up Short Iby Robert Hilles

Today an article in a Calgary newspaper about a young man who had a bone marrow transplant and survived makes me think of my niece, Amanda, who died in August 2002 from the same leukemia. Some times these things work. For Amanda it didn't. She died only a couple weeks after her bone marrow transplant. She was only twenty-one, her daughter a year-and-ha!£ She was my brother's only daughter and the world is a cold, damned place at times. The good undone, not by words or deeds but by chemistry, by molecules, biology. The feather­ thin ledge of this world.

When I visited her at the hospital in Winnipeg, I had to wave to her through glass doors, speak to her with raised voice. That was the last time I saw her alive and I can't imagine my brother's agony or Pam, her mother's. Can't imagine driving each day to the Health Sciences knowing, yet not wanting to know. Parking in the same lot as the day before, perhaps next to the same blue Volkswagen. The same hundred odd steps to her room. The tubes bleeding into her joining her more to another world than this one. Her eyes, her face aged by chemo­ therapy, by the wounding.

Then near the end seeing the life leave her, as her insides bleed. The panic she knew and there were no words. Not a single one that mattered when most needed, when we get this close. They all come up short, except to fill the need to not let it all be silence. I can't imagine how he fought back the tears everyday, smiled for her, and told her a joke, as is his way. But even laughter has no power against this. The days wasted by the gathering. Our bodies follow an incline plane and we are on the outside only what our insides manage.

I understand now her hurry to leave home at sixteen. How much she had to cram into a few years. My brother raises her daughter and time sweeps away so much even memories are paper thin with little written on them. I was not there those last days. Did not witness those final

107 painful hours. Later we all stood at her gravesite a container of ashes in my nephew's hands and the wind off Lake Winnipeg brisk and eternal behind us. Out on the lake gulls swooped, clipped the water, and lifted again. Along the shore the grass bristled. This is a busy place to leave her.

My brother remained at the gravesite longest. His usual noisy kidding silenced by that small patch of earth. He looked awkward in his suit his hands crossed behind his back as if praying, he who has never prayed. Near the end Amanda asked him why God disliked her so much, why her? He didn't have an answer and he'd asked the same question, of himself, of me, of everyone he could, but the only answer is that wind off the lake, icy even in August, but that's as certain as any of us will get. That and Amanda buried in her twenty-first year. The world no longer the prize it once was.

I think now of Amanda's room across the hall from theirs in Winnipeg and how when she was sick she slept there a few nights. I wonder how my brother felt hearing her sounds again behind the door? They were no longer confirming, appealing sounds, but the sounds of someone dying. Now her daughter sleeps in that room and I wonder about her sounds behind that door. Do they remind my brother of those other recent nights or ones long ago when Amanda was that age? Sometimes does my brother open the door in the morning expecting Amanda, surprised to see Keanna instead? It's all a long way back. And now nothing is in it's rightful place.

108 Trespass I by Robert Hilles

When I was a boy at Longbow Lake, everyone except my father put up No Trespassing signs. Most were worried about stray bullets more than vandals. But it seemed to me my father wasn't afraid of anything. Not then at least. Hunters would park along the highway and take the field behind our house. Some were such regulars they waved as they passed. Some took my father with them, though most didn't. We'd hear the occasional shot, but not many, for in truth there were few deer or moose left.

My father called our place the farm even though there wasn't a barn, livestock, or single row of crop ever planted. In fact our place had never been a farm, just had an open field someone had been hopeful about once long ago. By the time we lived there poplars threatened to take it all back, new seedlings getting closer to the house each year. A number of times I saw dead animals being hauled out by happy hunters. The first time was when I was ten and three men carted the carcass of deer across the field. Judging by the 'lack of visible effort, the deer couldn't have weighed much and from a distance looked like a large dog. They put the deer down near the spot where my father usu­ ally parked his car, because that day he'd parked it behind the house. One of the men, fatter than my father by quite a bit and I had consid­ ered my father fat then because his belly stuck over his belt, approached the front of the house where my father and I were sitting.

"Hello Micky," he said. Micky was my father's nickname. Want us to give you a hindquarter?" "No, that's okay." The man shook my father's hand and then walked back to the other two and all three waved before picking up the deer and walking down our road to the highway. My father never accepted any offers of meat from hunters. To him it would have been payment and he didn't want payment. I'm not sure what he wanted except perhaps to be left alone. Also he'd grown up at a time

109 when there were few No Trespassing signs, most of the land still belonging to the crown.

I remember the first time I saw a No Trespassing sign and asked my father what it meant. He told me the definition of trespassing and offered his opinion of what the sign really meant. "Only a fool puts up a sign like that. Or some grouch who doesn't want to be neighbourly. Someone who thinks the land belongs to him. When I was a boy we shot up signs like that." No one shot up the signs around Longbow Lake that I know 0£ I grew up in a respectful time, if a less neighbourly time. "Just because the land can be fenced off, pegged off, doesn't mean a thing. Remember that. This land freezes, dries up, burns, and starts all over again. That's all land ever does. It's just what we walk on and too many people think they own it, but all they own are their bodies and the shoes on their feet."

When I heard the Lord's Prayer in church and that line, ''Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." I thought of my father and what he'd said and could have wondered if he'd learned what he knew from the Bible, but I knew better because he'd never set foot in church not even to get married. To him they were buildings that were a waste of good wood, stone and glass. The Bible was not a book he opened and any words he heard were because he'd passed within earshot.

Those hunters kept coming for years after I left home for the city. If I'd stayed and bought my own land I would have put up a No Trespassing sign, despite what my father said. Life is full of contradictions. That's one of its more pleasant certainties. I can't even really say why I'd put up the sign. Perhaps like the Lord's Prayer says I expect trespasses where my father didn't. My father spent the last days of his life in an apartment in Winnipeg. In cities we don't put up No Trespassing signs. Every yard already has a fence around it. He rarely left his apartment. There wasn't a lot in the city he was interested in seeing.

110 I pass a few No Trespassing signs on the road to our place on Salt Spring Island. I get a certain comfort when I see them because they remind me of Longbow Lake. Strange how memory works, most of the time it seems to be this unmanageable glob of things that no matter how hard I try I'll never again make sense of, and at other times it's so clear and easily accessible all I need is a cue like a line in a prayer to bring back hundreds of images, even if they bombard me in no particular order rather than unraveling in the exact order I put them there.

I think of my father as a boy shooting up No Trespassing signs and wonder how many shots he leveled at each sign. One, two, a dozen? Does that really matter? What does is that he shot up the signs and knew forgiveness.

111 Robert Hilles

Robert Hilles won the Governor General's Award for Poetry for Cantos From A Small Room. In the same year, his first novel, Raising of Voices, won the Writers Guild of Alberta George Bugnet Award for best novel. He has published twelve books of poetry and three books of prose. His other books include: Finding The Lights On, Near Morning, Nothing Vanishes, Kissing The Smoke, Breathing Distance, Somewhere Between Obstacles and Pleasure, Higher Ground. Wrapped Within Again, New and Selected Poems was published in the fall of 2003 and recently won the Stephan G. Stephansson Award for best book of poetry. His sec­ ond novel, A Gradual Ruin, was recently published by Doubleday Canada. His books have also been shortlisted for The Milton Acorn People's Poetry Prize, The W.O. Mitchell/City of Calgary Prize, The Stephan Stephansson Award, and The Howard O'Hagan Award. His next book, Calling The Wild, will appear in the fall of 2005 from Black Moss Press. Robert Hilles and his partner, author Pearl Luke live on Salt Spring Island, BC. He is currently at work on a new novel titled Solo.

112 No Ideas Without Emotions An Interview With Robert Hilles by Janine Ahpin

1 Your father is a consistent theme in your poetry. Are these partially or fully auto­ biographical? Do you fuse fiction with reality even in seemingly personal subject matter?

I think when I write about my father, Pearl, my children, or my life in general there is always an element of fiction in what I write, although the great foundation of it comes from experience and memory. But memory itself is suspect and has a fictive aspect to it. What is most real in all of that writing is the emotions at the core. For example in the book, Kissing the Smoke, I juxtapose Austin's last day at his daycare with my father's last days on earth. All of the facts are real as are all the emotions that are behind it and what I am driving at. However is every single detail in the piece exact­ ly as it happened? Not likely. But then is it ever?

2 How does your upbringing in Kenora affect your work?

I still have mixed feelings about Kenora. Now that I am back living in the coun­ try on Salt Spring Island, I have reconnected with much of what I valued as a boy growing up in Kenora. Namely being close to nature, and being closely connected to the earth. The poem, "The Strength in the Earth Has Left Us", in my first book expresses my worry about us losing the strength in the earth, a strength I experienced first hand as a boy in the trees, lakes, and rock around me. Our nearest neighbour was half a mile away so it was a very idyllic lifestyle. Yet I also felt a great deal of anger as a boy and a young man that I see in my early work. That anger was aimed toward my father and also toward the town of Kenora. Much of that anger came from feeling an outsider. I didnt really fit into the rough town culture, which focused mostly on drink­ ing. I hated the lack of culture and not having anyone to talk to about poetry and art. The only source of culture was the library and movie theatre. Thirty years later a lot has changed fortunately and there is now a bookstore, live theatre, and galleries. In the poem "Road Kill" in Cantos From a Small Room, I talk about returning to Kenora in my thirties with my father and seeing the town finally through his eyes. That poem is a key one for me because it offers the belief that the past can be mend-

113 ed. I try to show in that poem that through the town's eyes I see my father for the first time and through my father's eyes I see the town for the first time. All of the anger I had felt as a boy toward my father and the town are gone, and I now feel fortunate to have grown up there.

3 Do you have a work schedule? How strict is it? How many hours do you spend writing in the average day?

I have had various schedules as a writer and feel they are pretty essential to being successful in writing. The schedule I have at the moment comes from the fact that my partner, Pearl Luke, who is a novelist, and I have been writing full time for nearly four years. This allows us to get up each morning and write. We try to start between 8 and 10 and finish by two, aiming to work for at least four hours each day. Pearl is often much better at sticking to that schedule than me. Some days one of us will work longer than that especially if a deadline looms. I am not as disciplined as I would like to be and often get started later than I would like but I always strive to get in at least four hours of writing a day.

4 You have been very successful publishing with small press publishers.How do they differ from bigger contracts and which do you prefer?

I've always enjoyed the personal contact you get with a small publisher and espe­ cially someone like Marty Gervais at Black Moss Press. He treats his authors more like a big publisher in that deadlines are always met and you know up front what to expect. Not only that but he conceives and solicits books rather than just waiting for what shows up in the mail. These things aren't true with many small presses. What I like about big publishers is their financial clout and the fact that they provide their authors with resources that many small presses can't afford: like an editor committed to your book perhaps for two years or longer, promotional dollars and promotional staff with national and international contacts, and a reputation that gives your work an immediate endorsement. I think both serve very important purposes and in the case of poetry, the dollars just are not there to allow many big publishers to publish it. Small presses help to build an audience for authors and also help to shape a local community's culture more than large presses because they are often located in the community as Black Moss Press is in Windsor or Thistledown is in Saskatoon. They have direct access to those local writers and understand how they fit into that community and the national com­ munity more than the large publishers may, most of which are located in Toronto.

5 Your writing is lyrical. Do you you consider poetry as distinct from fiction? How conscious is any blurring of the two in your work?

114 I do think of my poetry as completely distinct from my fiction especially in how I use language. However my fiction and poetry do not differ in what I choose to write about. In my latest novel, A Gradual Ruin, I very much wanted to avoid making the novel too poetic. The nature of the story does not lend itself to such language and to employ it would have falsified the material. The story is at times dark and requires a respectful pared down language. The raw truth of what happens in war would have been cheapened if I had adorned it with poetic language. Ironically several reviewers have complained that for a poet I have written a fairly unpoetic novel. However, there is poetry at work in the novel all the same, it's merely more subtle in its application. The poetry comes through the precision of the language and a par­ ing down to only the most essential words and details. The poetry is also in the depic­ tion and focus on emotional moments in the characters' lives. That is consist with my poetry, which has often dealt with emotional moments as in "Ode To Death" in Breathing Distance where I describe seeing my father's dead body in the hospital. What interests me most in fiction is narrative and character both of which are not the main thrust of poetry, but do enter it all the same especially in prose poems or longer narrative poems.

6 How do your musical interests influence your work? Does playing the guitar contribute to your writing?

Music has always influenced my wntmg, whether it's Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Gillian Welch, John Lennon, Tom Waits or John Prine, I've always been drawn to singer-songwriters who really put music to poetry. I have had the dream for years of writing songs and have many ideas for songs but there is much I have to learn before I could ever do that. I am drawn to the guitar as a rhythm instru­ ment and playing the guitar has helped remind me of the importance of rhythm both in song and poetry. Rhythm is something I've always been aware of in poetry, even if I've often come to it instinctually. Only poetry can approximate in the written arts, what a song does. Just as a song allows us to feel what the singer is feeling, so does a poem through words, sound, and voice.

7) You have two children who are prominent in your poetry. How does your role as a father affect your work?

I have two paternal children, Breanne and Austin, and I also have a stepdaughter Amanda and a grandson Woodrow who all figure into my work. Writing about my children helps ground me and helps me be a better father because through writing a poem it becomes clearer to me where I have succeeded and where I've failed. Writing ~ poem allows me to have an extra layer of analysis or contemplation about my actions. It helps to get my feelings on paper because if nothing else perhaps years later my chil-

115 dren and I will have some record of what I was thinking and feeling. In Higher Ground the poem, "First Day of School'', was written for my daughter Breanne about dropping her off at school that first day. The poem helps me see the importance of such a day and that if she is moving away from me and my influence, it's not a loss but a gain, even if as the poem implies, I am suspicious of what school will teach her. I also real­ ize through the poem that going to school is a necessary part of her journey. The title poem in Higher Ground describes Amanda comforting Woodrow when he wakes at night and the poem reminds me that parenting is one of our few chances of doing some good, and that no matter how common the relationship is between parent and child each one is completely new.

8 Who are your major influences? What inspires you?

Perhaps my biggest influence is my partner Pearl Luke. She has taught me so much about the discipline of writing fiction, and has helped me tighten many of my poems. In poetry I have a very long list of influences. One of my earliest is Leonard Cohen of course, but Irving Layton, Rainer Maria Rilke, William Carlos Williams, Federico Garcia Lorca, Emily Dickenson, John Keats, Philip Larkin, Sharon Olds and Philip Levine. In Canada many people have influenced me over the years including Roo Borson, Marty Gervais, Barry Dempster, Don MacKay, John B. Lee, Claire Harris, Steven Michael Berzensky, Ken Rivard and hundreds of others. In fiction, my biggest influences are: Cormac McCarthy, Alistair MacLeod, Guy Vanderhaeghe, Carol Shields, Michael Ondaatje, Ian McEwan, Bonnie Burnard, Nancy Huston, Raymond Carver, Isaac Babel, Nikolai Gogol, Anton Chekhov, Leo Tolstoy, Charles Dickens, Timothy Findley, Richard Russo, Anne Tyler, Margaret Atwood, Alice Munro, plus so many others I've shamefully forgotten or don't have room for here.

9 Do you have a process that you follow when you write? Do you write at the com­ puter or by hand first? How does this affect the flow/ dialogue in your work?

I have been writing directly on a computer since the early 1980s. My first three books of poetry were done with pen and paper and then typed. I still carry around a notebook and scribble things down, but mostly I write on the computer. The good thing about the computer is that I can type fast enough now that I can keep up with my thought processes. This has made my work stronger. I empathize with all those novelists who wrote before computers because the task must have been even more daunting. I think computers have actually made books better because authors can per­ fect a passage and obtain a much higher level of precision in their work. My process for poetry and fiction are pretty much the same except for a few key

116 differences. I start with a quick first draft. I tend to just let things flow out of me onto the computer whether I'm writing poetry or fiction. I don't edit what I'm writing because the most important thing for me is flow. When I'm done, if it's poetry, I leave it for several months, if not longer, and then come back to it and polish it. This allows me to have an objective distance from the initial impulse for the poem. With fiction, I continue to work on it because fiction requires settling on the story early on because changing direction later has big repercussions. Still a good part of the novel's layering has to come later as more and more things occur to me about the story or the charac­ ters. Fiction requires numerous drafts and much shifting, cutting, expanding etc, whereas for a poem subsequent drafts mean mostly cutting out the crap and finding the core poem, which needs to be there in the first draft.

10 I noticed an underlying darkness to some of your poetry. Could you talk about that?

Some of my poetry deals with dark moments in life. Like the poem I mentioned earlier, "Ode To Death", where I talk about seeing my father's dead body in the hospi­ tal. But from that darkness I am most interested in crafting a hopefulness and a sense of healing. However, an even greater amount of my poetry deals with love and I think those poems are for the most part not dark. At the same time, I don't believe in shy­ ing away from difficult subjects just because they are difficult. However, that doesn't mean the poem has to stop there. I think most of my poetry is ultimately hopeful because I am either looking for ways out of the darkness or for ways of coping with it and then moving ahead. Emotion is the most important thing for me in poetry. Some writers feel that emotions are to be avoided because they don't carry the significance of ideas, but I've always argued that there are no ideas without emotions. Meaning that any abstract notion like death for example is never completely real to us until we have experienced it emotionally. So death (ours or others') doesn't take on true significance until some­ one close to us dies. Then we realize that there is an important emotional component to this abstract idea and it's the emotional component that makes it human and gives it a fuller meaning to us. That's as true of love, hatred, or joy. I am striving for that kind of impact in my poetry and that requires facing the dark as well as the light and finding from them ways to go forward.

117 Infidelity I by Patrick Lane

Under the rain, under the spare trunks of Indian plum, the faded rust of redwood needles and the moss grown thick from the winter feast of weather. On his knees he picks the flat needles splayed there, gathering them in the way he remembers the monk in the old garden gathering, his quiet in Kyoto, and leaning down after sweeping with a bamboo rake and picking up a single needle, placing it on a swept pile, then turning, going up a worn path that followed the thin creek, and gone. It was so much what he had imagined in the old poems of Issa, a kind of stillness, perfection being what distracts us in the moment, something forgotten in the ordinary harmony we strive for and almost reach. That is why he is on his knees cleaning the garden. He is thinking of his dream, how he was gentle with her, touching only the curve of hair above the pale shell of her ear, the dampness there. And then the wind and the going out into the last dark, and beginning the clearing away, his eyes a mist, how he remembered that, on his knees, one needle and then another, thinking it is what the old know, a slight turning, something not seen, and reaching back for what was left behind on the green moss, something fallen, under the rain.

118 August Iby Sean Johnston A river winds

around us. Slurring cars ride voices

stretched through rainy streets.

A shadow moves

beside you, a slow blink in off-white

sheets. Our glass door moves, almost closing

each time I am awake. The dark asphalt is

clear, everywhere, in reflected air.

It shines, a

syllabus of quick wounds. Nothing small will

happen. Hope believes in itself, if

nothing else. We breathe in the threat of renewe d rain through open WI"ndows and rivers and gardens redress calmly just now.

119 Plain Truck I by Sean Johnston The boy holds his own money and drinks in what he can see over the one-ton's dash on the ride into town. A sonofabitch says

something to his father as they walk into the store, and the rumble will not stop until they're back in the house

with his mother and she's crying. One of his father's big hands resting easily on her hip, and his muttering rolls into

new sound, until she believes him, and he undoes her tied apron, forgetting the boy. She turns and smiles with her wet face,

reties it, and the father's throaty vowel breaks in laughter. They are surprised in the warm kitchen. The boy too; mouth full of candy,

his wet laugh following his father's dark eyes and the raw hands that cover them.

120 In A Week I by Jenny Sampirisi In the crossing of the room I become you/me.

You should have left when you noticed my hands clasping and pulling their edges, fraying the nylon weave of the chair that held me so tightly. The shaky seat made rigid by taut spine, made organic through sweat and pulsating thump, thump. You asked, said you would leave if I wanted. The shelved picture of me/him in pose; me, head cocked, him, an uncomplicated grin. No. Stay. My stomach is a winding of pelvis to ribs, soured with hours old wine and French bread. You smile a ~hipped tooth. I rub my tongue along the suggestion; look for the matching piece to fill the rigid edge. This pulsing runs forward, I am a half-second delay to your words. Come here. No. Stay. You/me, we are thinking it anyhow. No. It is the crossing of the room that already exists beyond the muscles of the chair. I am in motion, always motion. It is one step from chair to bed. An alone step even with your hand slippery, tugging. Beneath the bone carving of your chest I am an unknown species. I am a burrow­ er, digging already through clothes to find warm skin. I am me/him sliding uncon­ scious through four a.m. smoothness. I am you/me waking in clasps and buttons, sweated and arching. You are timing this hour before work by exhale, exhale. Understand. I am banded. Yet you/me move in unexpected choreograph. We tongue tap rhythm from throat and chest and thigh.

Then you are gone.

The wintered windows reflect a frizz of hair, a pink shirt left open. This is a quiet of Christmas morning muted by a sleep-thick house. This is the greedy savour of snow gleaming in street light. Me/him of the frame now fill the room. This is a gathering of uncertain swallows.

I push my thumb into diamond, leave a blood square.

I think of you for the hours that measure morning. Not you, but your laundry­ musk and the tickle of stubble along each rib. I use the red mug for tea because blue is his and you have no cup. It would be green maybe, or the yellow of the halo that wraps your retina. There is still the phone to manoeuvre. The Saturday morning long-distance coo.

121 The number is a skip of fingertips, a flash of silver on the three. I miss you. Went to bed early last night. Sorry I didn't call. Exams. Trying to get rested. Trying to get everything under control. Next week. Engagement party. But I gotta go. Sorry. Love you too. Kiss. Me/him breathless. You still scent my sheets.

Vanilla sunlight dips the walls as I undress between luke-warm swallows of tea. The weather channel flickers on mute. Snow. I have not slept more than two hours in two days. Thursday, your whisper in the phone and last night your hand extended for me. Chair to bed. One step. The bread and wine are gone now and my stomach puckers. Tea and these five winter days before break are enough for now.

I think of him.

He is stoned in a closet before noon with garbage bags taped over the door. He is missing me too much. He is boring. He is stifling. He is mechanical. He is the tap­ ping of my joys, mistakes, fears against the window. He is known and plotted. He is an anger built up of lapsed reasons. He is secure. He is shaky hands scribbling math that is beautiful in its penciled mystery. He is where I am understood without speak­ mg.

And you.

You are at your house sleeping so I walk, forgetting gloves. My shoes scoop snow; they engrave white ridges in parallel behind. The falling snow is windless. I think it flutters instead of falls, like leaves or confetti. But it falls too slowly, makes me dizzy. The sky is sitting on the ground today.

It is the grayness that makes me cold.

The rubber of my shoes squeaks through each crunch and I can hear the difference distinctly. It has been hours since you left. I will see you tonight. You/me. No. The room was crossed. Tonight is determined. I am already a cheater. Cheater. This street is empty and my ears feel cotton stuffed, soundless but for squeak/crunch. The peripheral is white, gray, black and my orange toque. I keep imagining you here, in yellow.

Now walking away from this street with slow white flakes, I remember lips, hair, brows. Your name on my tongue confused.

You/him.

122 The way you touched me is how he touches me or the memory of his hands or the wish of his hands. The way you touched me was the idea of love. Just the idea.

Afternoon lingers too long then drops abruptly into darkness as I watch through the window. The clouds have not moved. I wait for the doorbell, playing the known ding over, over in my head to pass the time. You will drive here because you drive everywhere. I huff hot air into the cool pane and fight the urge to draw your name in the mist. It would be the wrong name. A ring. Him. My eyes hold the driveway, hand holds the phone. Hello.

Soon. Just a week. I can't talk too much now, was just on my way to the library. I know, I know. Sorry. Soon. You too.

Every word from my mouth has rolled into the already cluttered living room. I am shaking. There is bile fizzing my esophagus. I slide the ring round and round the fin­ ger. It never fits when my skin is cold. I'll ask you to leave this time. You have to leave. I will stay in the chair, muscles ready. I will say leave and you will leave and I will go home in less than five days. I will drive away tomorrow after the exam. I will forget you and the yellow-green flecks in your eyes. The doorbell. You. Hello -

I missed you.

You are a waft of laundry soap and aftershave. I watch the muscles at the corners of your mouth fight the smile. You've missed me too. I show you in. Suddenly, I notice dishes. They are everywhere though I still haven't eaten. Mugs mostly, all red and the cupboard full of clean blue. My face is reddening and you notice. You think I am blushing at you. Your smile leaks and brings with it all the horizontal lines of your face. I leave the blush in the open. It's yours.

You wear a white shirt and dark jeans. I am in a black sweater that curves with my belly and chest, and brushes lightly at the neck. We have both combed our hair. We have both forgotten not to smile. I make tea. You find your way to my room and lie on your stomach without me.

This long hour kneads my nerves as I replay your touch, fattening myself with last night's memory. You hold the book on your lap and highlight. Streaks of yellow slide across, across. You are careful that they don't meet. I tap quietly at the keyboard: 52) Explain Coffman's Dramaturlogical Hypothesis: 53) In which stage of pregnancy does the fetus develop distinctive sexual organs? You don't look up but you knock your feet against my mattress. You haven't spo- ken. Seven minutes. Your last words were a question that still hasn't found meaning

123 in my mind. I answered it. Yes. I glance at the comforter and there is the flash of me/him tossing beneath it. I look again, it is smooth against the bed and pinned by your long frame.

You won't tell anyone?

I've whispered it innocently as a question, the punctuation could be sucked on for hours. You nod. I have known you before now I think. You/him are similar, quiet. You are fixed on me and my knotting fingers. Sickness slides through me in waves that start at both my head and feet and meet and part in the middle. The constant buzz that blankets my body has veiled my hunger, the need for sleep. Breathing is manual.

You/me.

I need your hand to help me leave the chair where I am stitched. We are half and half here. Give me your hand. You watch me a second longer. It is a mile's distance to the bed without your hand. You shift your body toward me. I don't move or if I do, I move away. I don't know. I blink. Feel lighter. Suddenly. Your wet fingers reach across, and weed into my own. Your soft grip pulls the weight of my body. Don't feel foot against the floor this time. I am beside you now and there is no urgency in you. I thumb the grain of your skin without thinking. You bite your lip. Have you always done that? You shush me though I don't know if I spoke or if my thoughts had sprawled along my face.

I'm getting married

I hold up the ring finger for proof You say you noticed. It was clear enough last night. You lower your swollen lips to my ear, whisper: nothing is set in stone. You brush my chin, nose, jaw.

I chew the chapped burgundy of my lips. You slip them away from gnawing teeth. This will be a week that is out of time with the weeks before, the weeks after. You/me can huddle here beneath the gray thickness of winter and the red electric click of the space heater. You/me in these five days. Enjoy this, you whisper in a muted tenor that is ours for this while.

124 This Common Object I by Micheline May/or You've left the knife on the counter again. This common object tells me a thing or two about how you sliced the cheese into regular slabs before you left me standing behind this wholeheartedly slammed door.

125 The Most Lamentable Roman Tragedy of Titus Andronicus For Gerard Etienne by George Elliott Clarke Squawks of Surrealist trumpet and Imagist sax. Enter the Tribunes and Senators piling down a staircase Of white marble steps and chrome railings. Enter below Saturninus and his psychopaths at one door, And Bassianus and his cut-throats at the other, With big bass drums and bleeding flags.

Marcus stalled in a balcony, yields the diamond crown. Wxeunt his passle of groupies. Exeunt his Soldiers, craving rum as strong as oysters. Havoc of trumpet. They storm the Senate House to slurp wine. Enter a Police Captain, Irish, drunk, cussing. O!ieen Tamora, glittering, kneels. Exeunt Titus' sons with Alarbus, a nobody. Tamora, glimmering, rises.

(Tamora is somebody Cockroach-insidious.)

Enter the Boys of Titus Andronicus again. Blast saxophone, then deposit a gleaming coffin in the tomb.

(The columns of the Senate - Like columns of numbers - Hide columns of soldiers, Never columns of wheat.)

126 Enter Lavinia, lithe, vinegary virgin. She sways towards the imperial throne, But spurns the tattooed Emperor's desires. He spits spitefully. His eyes drag across her breasts.

Enter Marcus, sullen, brooding, below.

A saffron robe is offered heretically. Laurels are offered apologetically.

A long excitement of piano until rulers descend, satisfied. Titus' sword and prisoners are passed to Saturninus: Leeches, bitches, accountants, his de facto harem. Boom brass trumpets and tom-toms. Exeunt omnes - except Aaron the Moor. Sound of fingers popping.

The Andronici slide one hacked-up son into a marble sheath.

Blare Marine Corps trumpets. Exeunt all except the Moor, This unnerving fiend, dark man, Him giggling at "Whitey."

Enter Titus Andronicus and his three breathing sons, Four celestial profiles facing glory.

Hear a cry of hounds, then horns in a dinning peal. Bah-bah-bah-bah-bah-bah-bah.

Enter Aaron, alone, as usual: The traitorous black intellectual with the money-bag. He vows "Bassanius will be the sieve of two Methodists. Lavinia will find her mouth stuffed with blood."

127 Indeed: Bassanius' baritone pleas dribble into his beard, While the two brothers' swords dice him up comically.

Then, Tamora's cunt-hunting sons snatch up Lavinia bodily, Obscenely slipping one hand between her legs. One grasps her, invades her mouth. Both stick their obscene little things into the bitch.

Demetrius and Chiron carnally enjoy the sobbing Lavinia, Spunking her sex-thing, Atop finance Bassianus' draining body.

Lavinia wants to puke. Her voice croaks like a spitted hog's. She'd clawed and snarled and spat and bitten, But had only further pissed off her rigid violators. Who writhed upon her - as if lice colonizing her skin.

After mocking and soiling Bassianus like a dog, Demetrius dumps the well-punctured body Into a blood-roiled pit. Laughing, the boys exeunt, dragging the limp girl.

On peut dire d' eux ce qu' on veut, ces gars sont de fiers baiseurs.

Falls into the pit, another Andronicus. Plops into the hole·, another Andronicus.

Saturninus' bootlickers haul Qyintus, Martius, And the skewered Bassianus from the abyss.

Multiple abrasions, lacerations, contusions, Infect his head, neck, shoulders, chest, arms, legs, ankles, feet: One sword's gashed him open from anus to nape.

128 They'd been stabbing him and hacking him and slashing him.

Lavinia opens her mouth, The ashamed oval of her lips, And red ribbons fly out.

An iguana creeps - dark sunlight - across grey stones.

Enter the Tribunes as Judges and the Senators, With Titus's two convicted murderer-sons, Qyintus, Martius, Chained and shackled now like death-row killers.

They pass to the oasis of execution - A guillotine, fly-jewelled skulls heaped about - With Titus running alongside, begging, fawning, "Saturninus, spare an old soldier's sons."

Enter Lucius with his sword held aloft. Impotent, he kneels.

Impotent, Andronicus lieth down. He flails like a fly on its back. And the dour, scornful Judges pass by him.

Aaron, grinning, chops off Titus' hand. It twitches, then fists.

Lavinia weeps, kneels, collapses, Still red in mouth and wrists and thighs - Red like the sink of grief that is the heart.

Enter a Messenger with two Andronici heads, Still improbably pretty, and a fire-seared hand. Sets down heads, that tuble across the table, Fall, bruising, on the red-tile floor, And sets down a scorned, fire-blackened hand.

129 Exits. Lavinia bends, kisses those lopped-off heads With her lopped-tongue mouth. Lavinia and Titus pledge some appalling purpose. They kiss as only they can: a pact of steel.

A fly - Negroid - alights on the reject hand. Marcus deems it the black symbol of Aaron, Repugnant by-product of the ghetto, And stabs the fly with a knife, And stabs into Titus's dead hand. "Black Power hath gone too far."

Lavinia overturns a heap of poetry books. Titus, disturbed, helps her.

With a pool cue, he carves her name in sand.

Lavinia takes the phallic stick in her mouth, And guides it with her stumps, Achieving refreshed literacy, And drafting her violators' I.D.'s: A vendetta libretto - Words that reek of lynching.

She writes how two slick pricks had her pinned. How their steel wool scraped her race and sex.

Enter Aaron, Chiron, and Demetrius at one door And at the other door, aroused Lucius, With a bundle of arrows with verses writ thereon.

Black brass peals, black copper night exhoes.

Enter Nurse with a blackamoor child. Aaron unsheathes his blade and seizes his son, O!ieen Tamora's royal prince.

130 He jabs the Nurse through her breast, Impaling her like a rat upon the bleating table.

Exeunt nauseated Demetrius and Chiron, Lugging off the Nurse's gore-pumping body.

Enter Titus, angry Marcus, terrifying Lucius, With Fruit-Of-Islam-like disciples with bows;

Titus carries more poetry-imprinted arrows. He gives the arrows to his backers - Recidivist poets. They shoot lustily.

Enter now checker-costumed Uncle Remus, Dated, but unashamed, With a chef hat like Uncle Ben's got, Bearing a basket with two heads in it. He is neither black nor white in attitude, but jaundiced: "What is murder? Just a trochee." Exits.

Enter Emperor Saturninus and Empress Tamora And her two quivering, quail-like sons, The perfect prey for cock-scalding schoolgirls.

Saturninus reeks of ostentatious fornications - Doggy-style, often with animals. Tamora, Cleopatra-like, tongues her lips.

Saturninus brandishes in his hands the arrows Titus' Trojans fired at him. He curses, "They swear out verses against my eyes." Then he fucks off under guard.

131 Enter a Goth, in chainmail body armour, Leading Aaron with his babe cuddled against his chest.

Another Goth , in khaki, brings a ladder, which Aaron, At sword-point, is forced to climb. A third Goth places Aaron's child on the ground. They will prod Aaron to fall upon his infant son And his sword simultaneously.

Instead, as Machiavellian as a broker, Aaron bargains to expose the dainty conspiracy That has cut the Andronici to exquisite pieces.

He is made to descend the ladder. He is shackled like any nigger with a dagger.

Flourish of trumpets, saxophones, guitars, drums. Black flags and black horses descend blackly upon Rome, Imperial abbatoir. Smells of fresh rope and tar and fire singeing the air.

Tamora's sons knock, and Titus, aloft, with papers, Unlocks his library door. Their faces are as plain as guilt.

Qyickly, the boys are beguiled, bound and gagged, And strung up by their heels in the kitchen - A Mussolini and a Petacci.

Enter Titus and Marcus with a knife, And happy Lavinia with a basin. "Dearie, the works?"

Aveva condotto i canadesi su un campo di mine ...

132 Titus slices the pale throats ofTamora's pups. Violent shivers quake their dripping bodies. Exeunt omnes with the double corpses.

Now blustering Saturninus and Tamora, guarded, Enter Titus's home. Trumpets blaring frenziedly, a table is plumped up.

Enter Titus, regaled like a cook, placing the meat dishes. Flourishes in Lavinia, nun-like, black veiled, Her small tits trembling her thin shift.

The meat smells pinkly of pig, but is not really. It is very good, savoury, and Tamora chews peacefully, Devouring her sons like they deflowered Lavinia.

Titus, jovial, unveils the Mona Lisa-like Lavinia, Whose smile is a red well. He stabs her as he tastes, one last time, That mouth like a rose - dewy, petalled, and thorny.

Before anyone can do anything, Titus also stabs vomiting Tamora, in her eye.

Saturninus thrusts his sword through Titus. In sweaty consummation.

Marcus hurls an axe into Saturninus' sick, fallacious face. Now mashed, shamed, with steel slicing his forehead. That gash in his head almost goes straight through.

The Goths enter and corral Marcus and Lucius. The imperial guards, pacified, await news, And Marcus says everything, Just by pointing at Aaron's bawling, mixed-race child.

133 Exeunt some from the diseased house. Exult, some guards, electing Marcus Emperor.

A long crisis now of trumpets, foxily nervous, As the inhaling-exhaling Andronici descend.

Old-fashioned, dreamy, Marcus kisses Titus. Lucius kisses Titus, opulent murderer.

The white moon skirts darkness; Light falls to the earth and dies.

The ocean pierces the beach - Daggers of water plunging home.

Enter Aaron under guard, Demanding his son, his infant son.

He is given his death sentence, But first he is given his son.

Exeunt omnes with the corpulent, imperial bodies And the sumptuous, martial bodies Ready for inquisitive, lecherous worms.

Knives of grass push through jumbled skulls.

Finis the tragedy of Titus Andronicus.

134 Train Conversation Iby George Elliott Clarke Beauty ... is the sole business ofpoetry. - Jeffers

There were two people in that room, Three people hurting guitar.

A sip of vodka, a little rum, some beer, And it's "Blah! Blah! Blah!" and shit all over.

I was getting pissed, but there's no ex-boyfriend fund. Dance with him once and you love him forever.

We watched wrestling and tried the moves on each other. I'm talking women's rights!

The most popular pretty girl of the Miramichi Hated every exam. She was, like, there.

I understand why she's a bitch now: She didn't molest him when she could.

(Girls like that, they get laid and say, "I hate you. You's ugly.")

But who says you have to wake up to "Red, Red Wine" Every morning? Snow infiltrating windows.

Yikes! That sucks! But why must she carry her guitar everywhere?

I'm really very interestingly broke. But I've got dark, blondish-brown hair.

(The Holy Family was clearly from Palestine-Israel. They had dark skin, black hair, and brown eyes.)

I'll go out drinking tonight too. Who knows? "Out of all this beauty something must come."

135 Helpless Iby George Elliott Clarke

Are you helpless before what you love? Do you kneel and howl, cringe, slaver, drool? Do you mope and lope about on all fours? Do you whine and crawl? Do you slobber and sniffle? Do you dream of suicide, then homicide? Are you so helpless?

136 Northwest Passage I by Meredith Quartermain

The Welding Arc

The writer, in a cutter, sets out to apparent openings. A bridge arcing the railway tracks on slender stalks of concrete, a turquoise chainlink tunnel, ramped over works yard, where men hoick up jeans. Built by the Militant Mothers of Raymur who laid their bodies on the tracks so their kids could get across to Lord Seymour's School. The writer starts up the foot-bridge. Turning the key in ignition., To look at Earl's Industries, black letters on yellow steel - a chassis in a works-yard, scattered overalled men, signs and letters. D, A, N, apostrophe, S, down the back of a forklift with com­ pressed air and shiny chrome phallus lifting a fork. To a mouth at table. The trailer of an 18-wheeler. In the whirr and buzz of saws and drills, men in coveralls clanking hammers, the bridge shakes on its footings. Blond in a red vest delivers message to forklift Dan. Forklift snubs to the edge of tractor-trailer. Prongs a set of rusty shelves off a clutter of sheet-iron with rows of holes punched out like stove-lids. Dan, in shorts, T-shirt, goggles, revs his machine. RRRRRRR RRRRRRR. The writer writes. Rows of r's. Hunches over his wheel, gloved hand on the stick. Writer on a rudder. Dan hops out, lifts blocks to deck of trailer. Man yells, Up up up up UP. Workmate clambers round mid-air shelving. Places block. Apparent vacant space is a low lying beach of planking. For the writer's cutter. Dan leaps from fork's fender to truck deck. Three men place blocks here, there. Dan, back on fork, discusses blocks. Workmate patting rusty I beams. Man at the shop-door, like writer, makes notes looking into yard - its slag-heaps of charred cin­ ders, its tents over various works in progress, its driving machines. Dan lowers shelves, then grinds fork round to other side of truck mouth. Hunches over wheel. Backs out. Round to side one, in the looking at industry. Stooped older man crosses yard, dumps can of shavings from his shoulders into trash skip. Now Blondie's driving fork, lifting crates off a Dodge pickup. Underneath is full of boxes. Crates go back on Dodge. Writer, Blondie and Dan working away like this day after day, revving forks and loading pallets. Dante at least knew he was in hell. Yes, but he didn't know how far. Dan spins out yellow retractable measuring tape, chucks blocks off the truck deck.

137 Writer lands on the west of a supposed island. Port Discovery. Mount Oblivion. Signs on diamond placards on the shop wall. Elongated bowling pins of Liquid Oxygen. In case of spill evacuate area. The signs are Full or Empty. Writer inside chainlink bridge continues fishing, for vessels of attention. Stooped man dumps more curly shavings, gingerly skirting Dan hoisting something huge. Towmotor revs up, dangling a half-formed corner of structure - writer rivets slotted steel around projecting points - welding beams to the northeast. Sets it down on asphalt. Jockeys between truck deck and Dodge pickup. Trash man with earmuffs, back-pocket rag, slowly crosses yard, bin on shoulders or soulders. The writer scan­ ning for harbours, broken coasts, space for encampment. Flatbed backs into yard, driver in a pony-tail. Towmotor hoists triangular steel, then lowers it. More shavings come to the skip. Dan lifts fork of I-beams to truck­ mouth. What if Dante's the wrong companion? And this the wrong question. A deserted village could hold a hundred occupants. Pony-tail pulls canvas strap from the flatbed. Carefully folds it. You guys have a nice day. Driving away, with steel plates pressing tires to your road. Another can of trash comes. Big can, little trash. Tired walking back to the shop. The writer seeking any water-way to intercourse with opposite sides of a continent. Dan's fork raises rusty mesh to truck-deck of mouthables: boxes, shelving, holy steel, I-beams, three blue oil drums (two shrink-wrapped), A-shaped rebar rack, coils of hosing, piles of bracketing - the writer's tools, small oysters in the weeds, North 18 East to North 54 East, and corresponding points. Dan's fork heaves slabs of cut steel. Good. Naw, higher. Good. Whoa, back off. Want me to load it or what. (Trash-man watching.) Back up. Back up more. Okay. Get inside there. Back up. 'Bout a foot. (Slabs go up.) You say back up, I don't know. All you need to say is okay. How's this. More, more, bit more, bit more. How're we on this side. Dan leaps out of fork, studies the load, goes into shop, comes back with block, places under load, adds timbers, runs yellow tape, lowers load, backs out fork, leaps off machine, unstraps drum from motor. The writer turns another drum as far as is nav­ igable, adjusts levers and valves in the signs. Dan turns key, can't start. Oh! Writer's gone, past the slag heap, over the blackberry canes, the railway tracks, past the shanty house of wood scraps, corrugated tin, blue tarps, pink plastic bunny rabbit in a makeshift window.

Le Cafe

The Writer sets out in search of the City- a cafe on Commercial Drive - an imag­ inative picture of mutable facts by which the City and the Cafe are bounded. Le Cafe. The English say caf suggesting young bovines or the lower portions of legs - turns out to be Spanish with tapas menu and Latin music. Le Cafe - that one in Paris on the

138 Rue de Rivoli - its windows huge playing fields between stone columns - through which to see or be seen. Faded gilt cornices enclosed overstuffed armchairs and mar­ ble tables. Gents in pin stripes, smoking cigarillos. Chic young couples, the soigne and the debonair. Le Cafe. The hang-out of whispers and buzzes, the hang-out of roars. Of absinthe, critics, backgammon players and posters by Toulouse Lautrec. A place where you stood, or for more money you sat. In Piazza San Marco, rattan tables spilled out from an arcade. 5000 lire for a cup of coffee? - a tourist trap! But you can sit here all day. With the pigeons, no thanks! But that's what people do; remember - Gertrude and Alice. In Rome, men leant against bars, hips cocked out, tilted over their cappuccinos and grappa, discussing the shooting of judges or eyeing the bottoms of passing women. The bar, that cannot be crossed, unless with sunset and evening star, water shoaled to nine, eight, seven fathoms, breakers seen from the deck and masthead, and marked Deception Bay or Cape Disappointment beyond which the sea is river current. The brass railing before the judge in Court: Regina versus Murdock - accused of theft and assault - Writer stumbling into this - lawyers must bow before opening the gate and crossing to their piles of books on fat leather tables, they being called to the bar. Dream of cafe in a town of wooden sidewalks and saloons. Piles of horseshit on the plank streets. Jack Deighton and the boys at the Sunnyside Hotel with their watchchains, waistcoats, bowlers, porkpies and Homburgs. The Marr, The Boulder. Entrances for Ladies and Escorts. Entrances for men. At the Yale Hotel in the 60's, the beer parlour was a vast hall of plywood tables and stackable chairs set out under bright lights as though for hundreds of students writing examinations. Tube legs ratcheted over a concrete floor in a din of yakking and guffaws, plaid shirts, cowboy boots, fat leather belts with steerhead buckles. Gallon jugs and pint glasses on round trays flowed perpetually to the drinkers. Five and ten dollar bills flowed back. Le Cafe on Commercial Drive. Front window slid up like an eyelid opening a small room to the street. The writer steps in. Woman and young man seated at a table No one's at the till except fat porcelain beer taps. Writer stands before a cooler dis­ playing a bottle of Pellegrino, a slice of cake on a long-stemmed plate, three apples and two oranges. Behind the bar, someone down a narrow hall is washing dishes. How are you, dear? (A slender, olive man with head shave.) From the narrow hall, a woman carries a complete head of red cabbage, and places it, with knife, on a cutting board on the bar. For here? Yes. Olive man selects tall cup and tea bag, pumps in water from espresso machine, covers cup with small plate. That's all, dear? Yes. $1.50. Writer tosses a nickel in the styrofoam cup. Thanks, dear. Writer heads to couch with coffee table before fireplace of several plastic logs, one real one thrown in front. Some revolving mechanism, like history, makes light and shadow pass under red plastic between the logs - the whole thing encased in bricks oozing with new mortar. Above the fireplace, laughing Buddhas pressed into tin encircle a mirror. The music is Buena Vista Social Club.

139 Trucks grind up the hill going south on the Drive. People stroll past, talking on cells, walking dogs, rolling skateboards. Writer muses on the City as hell. The mind as hell. Knowledge as hell. But hell fascinating. Hell as language. But to pose hell is to pose heaven which is truly hell. Yet how steer the ship if unable to say where hell is? Nearby, a young man sits at table with a plump woman, belly-girth spilling over thighs. Dante wrote to keep Beatrice before him. The Writer has, for now, Montaigne: "There is no exercise that is either more feeble or more strenuous, accord­ ing to the nature of the mind, than that of entertaining one's thoughts." That's good timing, she says. And then the second day he did the same thing (he). How do you feel about that (she). He went home Thursday; I had to apologize (he). Writer's tea is almost gone. A guitar sits in the corner beside the fireplace. Despite sign advertising smoke-free environment (in hell?), Hi-dear wanders thru with a cig. A woman at another table is eating soup with notepad. Very very sweet, girth-woman smiles. She's really good (he). She's gorgeous, I love that book (she). The writer as imaginary territory, a space to occupy, explore and map via sensible collisions or, in 4-dimensions, the space of shadow particles, where parallel universes interpenetrate. A brush-cut sits at table with Soup-Woman. It's simple, Brush says to Soup. Lord Seymour's schoolyard, on the way to the cafe, had been so strangely quiet - canvas straps of the swings, where the kids would ride at recess, hanging motionless on their chains over fresh piles of wood chips. Now wood ships set out for straits, channels, recurrencies, anecdotes, rendezvous with friends or is it rendezvouses. Letters from C in Montreal or J across the inlet or T in False Creek and Toronto. Dear C, J, T. X.Y.Z. Unravel the city of 20th C, after the birth of J.C. Where is the edge? What was before the Big Bang? How is it dreamed?

The Dream the Drive

The darkest raccoons live in the Pacific Northwest - raccoons scurrying in streets of concrete blocks among factories making steel kettles and vats. Sweatshops stitch­ ing clothes. Metalworks welding frames and boilers. Industries making bagels, papaya juice, windows and doors, Mexican-style furniture, refitted auto-bodies. On the Drive, a shop sells didgeridoos, monkey-seed shakers, Afro hats, knitted mini-skirts and sarongs. How do you wrap a sarong, a shopper asks a clerk whose lips are studded with rings. The writer, camouflaged as flaneur, lurks among racks of blue, orange, magenta cloth imported from Malaysia or Africa for the hips and breasts of spring-rising Canadians. This sucks, Lip-rings says, I'm so bummed out. Scared stiff, yells a man passing along the drive.

140 The grass at the Grandview Park is worn away, pocked with patches of muddy dirt. Humans lie there anyway around the gray stone war-memorial on a fine first of May. Sit cross-legged with bongo drums. Share cigarettes. Dream. Dreaming ... of what? of a grand view? of air, water, parks, the Britannia high school, the cafes on the sunny side of the street. Or the masses of condo towers by the sports stadiums in downtown city. The crazy white meringue of Pacific Place raising its toy-boat sails to a tidal wave of mountains. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning we will remember them - our fallen comrades, on a monument erected by the Canadian Legion Grandview Branch 179. A tall, lone man in a light bomber jacket and battered fishing hat ambles past, car­ rying a plastic bag in each hand. One bag holds styrofoam take-out packs, the other contains pop. Lest we forget. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never never never shall be slaves. Bush Declares Victory, the writer reads in the window of Magpie's news shop. Men at the soccer-live cafe smoke and argue. At the Turkish cafe, the Italian cafe, the Cuban cafe, humans sit at tables with lattes, panini, wine glasses. Across the street is the Paris Bakery and the dry-cleaners - its spools of thread ready for alterations. American Troops Kill 15 Iraqi Protesters. Nigerian Woman Condemned to Stoning. Fiction is Dead. Hashed over. Gone. Now it's reality prose. Here for instance is Virgin Mary's used clothing. At the secondhand furniture store, mirrors are speckled, veneer dressers are scarred with cup-rings, and long lines are scored in the cheeks of a man sagging in an armchair on the sidewalk. To the north, blue blue blue mountains hover above grain elevators, warehouses, and orange cranes lifting containers to ships. Writer chagrin - an idler, a mere con­ sumer - when Canada about to be crushed by angry cyclops who could be 1000 times Hitler. Thinking about clothes - all because G, the lithe gazelle, said, Let's go in here, They have nice sarongs. Remember them ... who live in battalions of factories.

World Trade

In 1974 Phillippe Petit walked a tightrope - a singing wire - between the World Trade Towers. Which the writer fancifully imagines as the 19th and 20th centuries. The one a tower of collectors - botanists, zoologists, paleontologists, entomologists - the other a tower of simplifiers - Architects of Efficiency - removers of pretence, dig­ itizers, masters of the rectilinear bent on eliminating curlicues, gargoyles, arabesques, turrets, battlements, gothics, rustications, romanesques. It was a very repressive city (Qto Writer, en route to the stucco arcades of the pub­ lic library a la coliseum, where "public" is crumbling like the Roman ruin, to a dog- eared book of facades in which to forget the arena, the lions, the spectators, the gored victims, while eating pizza wedges and blueberry smoothies (but isn't that what the Romans did too?). Across the city amid east side bungalows and vast asphalt parking lots, another Coliseum, the pacific one, in the Exhibition grounds made a "public" for Ice Capades and Canucks, Mother Teresa, Rolling Stones and Neil Young, till the Canucks moved to their new home at General Motors Place). Qstrides along in black stetson. But don't all cities repress something, Writer wonders, arriving at Cul de Sac Point: choose your repression, with cheese and mushrooms? or ham and pineapple? You had the Women's Christian Temperance Union. They shut the place down. A real blue-laws city. (Qgesturing with hand at the world, the soccer pitch, as they pass it). No movies on Sunday - the whole city came to life at one minute after mid­ night. Stores lit up. Movie theatres opened. Men cruised the streets picking up girls. The rest of the time you had someone on every street corner saying tut tut tut. They had beer parlours where only men could go and then Ladies and Escorts for men and women. And you couldn't get anything except one kind of beer. Not even a scotch (Writer incredulous). Oh you went to cocktail lounges for that, they wouldn't let you in if you didn't have a jacket and tie (Qloathing ties very resentful here). And you had to write down your orders at the liquor store (continuing outrage). At the rapid transit station, a man lies on his side with tubes up his nose, just lies there, no cup even - his eyes glazed. Two cops chivvy him and a fellow sitting cross­ legged on the tiles with cap out. His clothes are cleaner. Nose man sits up after they speak to him. In a newspaper box: London Theatre Holds Saddam Look-Alike Contest for Up­ Coming Production. The theatre of 01ieen Elizabeth makes a whole city block of grey and blue rectan­ gles. Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Writer and Qstand on the 01ieen's concrete chessboard and red-brick roads. To planter cubes of dirt. To oblong curtain walls of glass. To a heap of floral brocade making a good disguise as a rubbish pile for a sleep­ er. This is the public. Across the street the massive rectangular post office fills the sky with pink granite bunker, a grid-work of yellow and red squares, and its strange colonnade of square, stubby pillars (as though, despite its modernism, unable to give up a dream of the Acropolis). The stucco coliseum - the public library- holds a choir of girls giving a lunch con­ cert. Plump rugged choir mistress stands, pitch-pipe in hand, unsmiling before them, stepping aside and gesturing during applause after each piece. The girls wear waist­ less black gowns. The back row standing on little white plastic stools. Girls for a moment escaped from Seventeen magazine - their belly pudge showing, their plain braided or pinned-back hair framing faces free of lipstick, mascara, eye-shadow. Some with shoulders hunched forward above frail arms only mouth the words. Others smile

142 confidently out at the crowd and the arcade with its postcard racks and frozen-yogurt cafe, its glass roof and plate-glass doors, its rain-forest dreams of Paris and Rome.

Continence

Writer works in a garden with two ponds and a large concrete frog waiting to catch flies. Tulips must be tied. The sundial must be turned, on its pedestal of twisting clay vines holding acanthus capital. A winged gargoyle spews water into a long moat spanned by tiny bridges. Something has turned the gargoyle; the water is spewing out of the pond. Raccoons, again. Biker roars down the street on his Harley. Hells Angels skull-cap and chrome­ studded leather. Pulls into his yard. His Pekes yap hysterically from the porch. His boobsie girlfriend, Maria, hops off the bike, gathers up Pekes, crooning Baby Boohoo, how's my baby Moomoo. Yes you are, yes you are. Biker revs his machine, balanced on its kickstand, then pulls a rag from a saddlebag and polishes gleaming spokes of wheels. Vanni, ya want some lunch (she from the porch). Naw, I'm dieting.

Continent: n 1. A large landmass of the earth; 2. rare, That which contains, holds; Adj 1. Self-restrained; 2. Abstinent, esp. sexually; 3. rare, Containing.

In maps of the Inferno, the word "Incontinence" floats above the upper steps reserved for Limbo, Lust, Gluttony, Avarice, Prodigality, Anger, and Heresy, which slope steeply into Violence, Fraud and finally the deepest pit: Treachery. In Hell, there's a place called Malebolge, Dante wrote, on the landscape of Fraud. The Malebolge hold ten valleys or ditches, the bolge, built like moats and crossed by pon­ ticelli, little bridges. How could our spinning earth not bulge, Newton thought, when objects tend to veer in the direction of slower proper time, and the weight of a given mass is lower at the equator. Malpertius said earth bulged at its middle and flattened at the poles. Cassini II said earth was pointed like a rugby ball. King Louis XV sent them to meas­ ure one degree of meridian. To Tornea on the Gulf of Bothnia, with frostbite, mos­ quitoes and manic/depressive reindeer, Malpertius took his tape-measure, and Andres Celsius. Later they fired repeated broadsides into the Cassini ranks. Do ideal clocks run faster at the poles? God would not deceive with illusions a thinking being, thought Descartes; therefore there is a god; therefore outside the mind's glass spills a world; therefore what mind sees is true.

Dream: Qand Writer go to the train station on Qs Harley to pick up Vanni Fucci, the Biker and his bus-size hunk of foam. Writer searches for Vanni at CN station, but the wickets are closed, no one is sleeping on the benches, and the tracks and platforms are empty. The station bulges and contorts. The

143 ceilings erupt in vast gloomy atmospheres - the walls wind and shift, sprout­ ing hands, feet, antlers.

Malebolge: evil bags or purses. Earth's surface not equal-time-rate since not perfectly malleable.

Inside the garden, Writer shovels river rock over irritating patches of dirt. Now river rock everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

144 Contributor Notes Angie Abdou grew up in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan and has English degrees from University of Regina and University of Western Ontario. She currently lives in Fernie, BC and teaches at The College of the Rockies in Cranbrook. Her recent publications have appeared in Other Voices, the Harpweaver, and Spring. Janine Ahpin is a graduate student in English at the University of Windsor. She enjoys long walks on the beach, talking to her cats, skateboarding and building cars at the factory. Elizabeth Blanchard lives in Dieppe, New Brunswick. After obtaining her degree from Dalhousie University and completing her graduate studies at Universite Laval, she spent 13 years working in the field of Pharmacy before taking an indefinite leave of absence to devote more time to her family and her writing. She is currently a part­ time English student at Mount Allison University. Her work has appeared in 7 Mondays and Room of One's Own George Elliott Clarke's work has been published in many periodicals, including The Antigonish Review, The Cormorant, Descant, The Fiddlehead and Other Voices: Writings by Blacks in Canada. In 2001, Clarke won the Governor General's Award for Poetry for his collection Execution Poems, published by Gaspereau Press. RyanJ. Cox recently completed with a Master's in Creative Writing at the University of Windsor. He is currently working on a number of projects including work inspired by his tenure at Dairy Qyeen. Matthew Fries is a graduate of the York University Creative Writing Program. He served as a guest editor for the fall 2004 issue of the poetry magazine, Quills. Currently, he is searching for a publisher for two novel length manuscripts, The Murdred Stranger (spelling mistake is intentional) and Can You Keep a Secret?. He lives above a bookstore in Waterloo, Ontario, with his two cats Rose and Raspberry. This is his first published work. Gail Ghai is a teacher, poet, workshop leader, Pushcart Prize nominee and graduate of the University of Alberta. She now lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where she serves as a Poet-in-Person for the International Poetry Forum. Her poems have appeared in Descant, JAMA, The Malahat Review, Poet Lore, Shenandoah and The Squaw Valley Review. She is currently working on a collaboration of poetry and art with Pittsburgh artist, Robert Qyalters. Robert Hilles is a Calgary poet and fiction writer whose work has been widely praised for its emotional honesty and insight. His collection Cantos from a Small Room won the Governor General's Award for Poetry in 1993. Some of his most moving poems deal

145 with the intimacies of family life, and the bond between parents and children. Sean Johnston is a Saskatchewan writer currently working toward his PhD at the University of South Dakota. His most current publications are the chapbooks Bull Island, from Gaspereau Press, and A Long Day Inside the Buildings (with Drew Kennickel) from JackPine Press. He won the 2003 ReLit Award for short fiction for A Day Does Not Go By (Nightwood, 2002). KarlJirgens is the author of Bill Bissett and His Works (ECW), Christopher Dewdney and His Works (ECW), Strappado (Coach House Press), and A Measure of Time (Mercury Press). He is currently writing a bok on electronic media, inter-media per­ formance and chaos theory. His fiction and poetry appear in The Tamarack Review, Only Paper Today, Impulse, Descant and other acclaimed Canadian journals. He is edi­ tor of Ram pike, the international journal of post-modern art and writing. Patrick Lane is considered by writers and critics to be the finest poet of his genera­ tion. He presently resides in Victoria with his wife and companion, the poet Lorna Crozier. In 2004 he published There Is A Season - A Memoir In A Garden, a new col­ lection of poetry, Go Leaving Strange, and co-edited with Lorna Crozier, Breathing Fire II, a new anthology of the new young poets in Canada Sandra}. Lloyd is a Hamilton writer currently working on her first novel. Her prose and poetry have appeared in Main Street, The Prairie Journal, and Diviners. She has received two honourable mentions from the Ontario Poetry Society and was awarded the Mrs. Angus L. MacDonald Literary Prize from Mount St. Vincent University for poetry. She perseveres and laughs with The Pearls - a group of illustrious local writ­ ers. Grahame Lynch teaches at the Ontario College of Art and Design in Toronto, where he lives and works. He received his BFA at the University of Windsor and MFA at the University of Guelph. The installation entitled It fades in the light, a collaboration with Mark Jeffrey, was shown at Toronto's String Gallery in January 2005. Micheline Maylor is currently pursuing graduate work in Creative Writing in the UK and patiently awaiting her first forthcoming book in 2007. Her work has been pub­ lished widely in the UK and Canada. Recent work can be found in ARC, The Prairie journal, and TheAntigonish Review. She has work upcoming in Room of One's Own and Manuscript (UK). Don McLellan has worked as a journalist in Canada, South Korea and Hong Kong. His fiction has appeared in Potters.field Portfolio, Carousel, paperplates, The New Orphic Review, Dalhousie Review and Descant. rob mclennan is the author of ten poetry collections, most recently stone, book one (Palimpsest Press, September 2004) & what's left (Talonbooks, April 2004). He has a number of recent chapbooks, including g h o s t s (Furniture Press: Columbus, Ohio) & common knowledge (Pooka Press: Vancouver), and his poetry, fiction and critical work has appeared in over one hundred journals and anthologies in nine countries and three languages. The editor/publisher of above/ground press and the longpoem mag-

146 azine STANZAS, he edits the cauldron books series through Broken Jaw Press, edit­ ed (among others) the anthologies evergreen: six new poets (Black Moss Press), side/lines: a new canadian poetics (Insomniac Press) & GROUNDSWELL: the best of above/ground press, 1993-2003 (cauldron books #4, Broken Jaw Press), & recently became an editor of the American on-line journal Drunken Boat (www.drunken­ boat.com). Christopher McNamara, a Windsor, Ontario visual artist, has been involved in numerous projects and exhibitions throughout Canada and the US and, most recent­ ly, in Zurich, Switzerland. A founding member of Media City, a prominent interna­ tional festival of experimental film and video, McNamara is also involved in Thinkbox, a media/electronic music collective, which presented a new audio/visual performance at the MUTEK festival in Montreal. McNamara teaches Digital Media at the University of Michigan. Meredith QJtartermain's books include Terms ofSale, A Thousand Mornings, The Eye­ Shift of Surface, and Wanders [with Robin Blaser]. Vancouver Walking, is forthcoming from NeWest Press. Her work has also appeared in Canadian Literature, ecopoetics, Chain, Sulfur, Matrix, Queen Street Quarterly, Prism International, Capilano Review, West Coast Line, Raddle Moon and other magazines. With her husband, Peter Qyartermain, she runs Nomados Press m Vancouver, BC. www.interchange.ubc.ca/ quarterm/nomados.htm Jenny Sampirisi is writer whose work concerns itself with female subjectivity and women who occupy the moral fringes of society. Dermot Wilson, born in Dublin, Eire, works in various media including digital video, digital imaging, computer animation, and performance. He was in North Bay, Ontario, and is currently the Director/Curator of the W.K.P. Kennedy Public Gallery. From 1995 to 2002, he worked with Christopher McNamara in an artists' collective called: machyderm inc. Before joining the ranks of machyderm, he lived in Victoria, B.C. and Stratford, Ontario. Also a writer, Dermot's fiction has appeared in many Canadian literary and arts magazines. Wilson has graduate degrees in Communications Studies, Fine Arts and English Literature. Andrew Wright lives and works in Waterloo, Ontario and teaches photography at the University ofToronto and Sheridan College. He has produced sculpture, film, instal­ lation, outdoor works and prints. He has exhibited widely since graduating with an MFA from the University of Windsor in 1997, including shows at the Oakville Galleries, Roam Contemporary (New York), Braziers Workshop (U.K.), and the University of California, Berkeley. His feature-length film installation Blind Man's Bluffis currently on tour and opened at the Art Gallery of Calgary in November, 2004. He is represented by Peak Gallery in Toronto.

147

EDITORIAL MATTERS

The WINDSOR REVIEW: An International journal of Life, Literature and Art is published twice a year by the University ofWindsor's Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences. The journal fea­ tures poetry, short fiction, and art of a high calibre. All creative submissions should be sent to the appropriate editor (Fiction Editor, Poetry Editor, or Visual Arts Editor) at the address below. Please specify the relevant editor on the out­ side of the envelope. Poetry submissions should be typed. Fiction should be typed, double spaced, and moderate in length (1000-5000 words). Only one copy need be submitted with a statement that the material is not submitted elsewhere. There are no style or content restric­ tions; the only guidelines are quality and good taste. Those wanting their submissions returned should include a self-addressed, appropriately­ stamped envelope. Please note that only material accepted for publication will receive acknowl­ edgement in the form of a letter of acceptance. Contributors will receive a small remuneration plus complimentary copies of the issue containing their work. BUSINESS MATTERS All correspondence pertaining to non-editorial matters, such as subscriptions, should be directed to the Managing Editor at the address below. 2002 subscription rates are as follows. Canadian individuals: CDN $29.95 (+7% GST). Canadian institutions: CDN $29.95 (+7% GST). US & other individuals: US $29.95. US & other institutions: US $29.95. (Agency dis­ count: 10% off listed base rates.) Cover price: CDN/US $15 per issue. A one-year subscription covers Spring and Fall issues which together make up one volume. Those who subscribe mid­ volume will be sent the back issue of that volume. The WINDSOR REVIEW: An International Journal ofLife, Literature and Art is indexed in the Canadian Periodicals Index, the Canadian Literary Periodicals Index, and Poem Finder. The Review is also available on microfilm from Micromedia Limited, Box 34, Station S, Toronto, Ontario M5M 4L6 and from Xerox University Microfilms, 300 North Zeeb Road, Ann Arbor, Michigan 48106. Note: With Vol. 35, No.l (Spring, 2002), the Review's common title was modified to WINDSOR REVIEW: An International journal ofLife, Literature and Art. However, the journal has not applied for a formal name change, and its ISSN number remains unchanged.

WINDSOR REVIEW, Department of English Language, Literature, and Creative Writing, UniversityofWindsor, Windsor, Ontario N9B 3P4 Canada Telephone: (519) 253-3000, ext. 2290 Fax: (519) 971-3676 email: [email protected] website: windsorreview.com

WINDSOR REVIEW An International Journal of Life, Literature and Art is generously supported by the University of Windsor's Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences as well as The Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

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