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Issue 7

February 2022

Cannery Row Magazine

A Literary Journal . . . with Benefits

Abandoned Objects

by Tanja Rabe

Editor's desk

Liberation

by Matthew Del Papa

Mat's Musings

Dandora Landfill

by Katerina Fretwell

Poetry & Musings

Scent of Place

by Randy Eady

Musings in Nature

Wintering

by Roger & Chris Nash

Fishbone Gallery

Farley

by John Jantunen

Short Fiction

Don't Look Up

by Adam McKay

Screenshots

Small Victories

by John Jantunen

Editor's Desk

Dragon's Blood

by Randy Eady

Art History

Nursing Doubts

by Mat Del Papa

Short Fiction

Psych Ward Privileges

by Rebecca Kramer

Mental Health

West Coast Wonder

by Rebecca Kramer

Musical Interlude

The Crush

by Tanja Rabe

Creative Nonfiction

The Essential Role of Artists

by Senator Patricia Bovey

Speech Review

  Born in Kingston - Made in Canada

abandoned objects
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 Editor's

 Desk

Abandoned Objects

by Tanja Rabe

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Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and -fed to draw round the bright fire, and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

- Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

Pondering an editorial theme for the February edition has, admittedly, not been an easy task.

      As happens to many of us this time of year, I tend to fall prey to a touch of the winter blues - re-enforced courtesy of our close frenemy, little Omicron - coupled with an aversion to frigid temperatures, and had a hell of a time committing heart and mind to the page, idling my days away between mundane chores and the screen, procrastinating like it was a profession onto itself and there was a promotion waiting in the wings.

      Drawing a lethargic blank on a topic for the winter edition at the outset, it didn't take long before I'd find myself quickly overwhelmed with ideas and making a choice became the next, insidious hurdle, leading to more excuses for kicking that proverbial can down the road. And if it wasn't for a Food Basics shopping cart filled with some of its brethren parked in front of our house - abandoned in a snow drift across the road during a winter storm by the very people that our society has cast so casually by the wayside - I would likely still agonize and dither about throwing some words on the page as the deadline creeps mercilessly ever closer. So, precarious state of mind be damned, I'll just let the analogy of the cart take the lead and see where it takes me, trying my best to navigate around any figurative snowbanks along the way.

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There are a few reasons why this abandoned cart - a minor inconvenience and easily remedied with a call to its corporate proprietor - keeps bothering me every time I take a peek out the front window. A few of them are rather petty, even embarrassing to admit to, such as:

     Will passers-by and the neighbours think we're in such dire straits that we need to sift through the blue bins for returnables? Is someone going to come by and remove this incriminating eyesore or do we have to deal with this ourselves? And in case we do, how will the can collector react if and when he returns to claim his property that we so impatiently got rid of?

At the same time, this rather innocuous object stirs up any number of mixed feelings that reach beyond appearances into a darker place. I picture a homeless person spending - what could well be his last - hours pushing his wobbly dray around town. In no way adequately dressed to withstand the arctic bite of an extreme Cold Alert, he sifts through other people's toss-offs, only to have to give up on his hard-earned spoils in a snowbank outside our house as he gets caught in a severe winter storm that shuts down most of the city.

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       He struggles back to his shelter - probably one of the tents set up amidst the encampment down the road at Belle Park - fighting the elements every step of the way, half-frozen, hungry and lacking even the numbing escape into that bottle of liquor, the couple of pills or the crack for his pipe that the cart of cans promised to supply.

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      Huddled under an old sleeping bag within its thin plastic walls that threaten to be torn apart by the raging gusts, he's left to battle his own inner demons, the insanity fed by life on the streets often on top of any mental illness or disability that he's likely been struggling with before finding himself consigned to this dismal subsistence. 

     Is he going to make it through the night or will he be tagged just another John Doe after someone finds him frozen solid in his tent several days later? Will anybody miss him?

My partner, John, often heads towards Belle Park for a stroll when he needs to shake off some creative tension or sort through a story line. Yesterday, as he passed by the encampment, he noticed all but one large tent site appeared inhabited. He assumed the other 'residents' had been forced to vacate the site for the warming shelter - not a popular option amongst many homeless due to overcrowding, violence, outstanding warrants, theft, Covid, rampant parasite infestations, drug addictions, lack of privacy and restrictive shelter rules - leaving most of their meagre belongings at the mercy of human scavengers, municipal sanitation crews and the elements. (1)

    There is a, somewhat unwarranted, apprehension amongst the housed population regarding encounters with our homeless neighbours. Having passed through the encampment myself on many a walk to Belle Island, I've usually felt less a potential target and more a trespasser intruding on the tent city's motley assortment of individuals who have always proven to be quite gregarious towards our presence. A friendly hello is frequently reciprocated in an almost apologetic fashion as if the residents expected hostility and disdain towards their occupation rather than empathy for their struggles. Sometimes the 'hello' would lead to a short chat about how their day's been going, ending in a gesture of goodwill as a cigarette or two - and maybe a lighter - change hands in parting.

As I frown at the shopping cart outside, it hits home painfully that, not too long ago, we ourselves faced the potential threat of homelessness by way of a so-called Renoviction after unwittingly renting a small house from a northern slumlord. Having been lucky over the years in that respect, we naively thought we could get the proprietor to keep his side of the bargain by simply being responsible tenants and, when that failed, believed the system would be on our side. This assumption couldn't have been further from the truth.

      We quickly woke up to the reality that the Landlord-Tenant Board in Ontario had no power (or true inclination) to enforce repairs or address renters' concerns effectively. The onus rested solely on the tenants to somehow provide extensive proof of non-compliance and to, ultimately, prosecute the landlord in court on their own dime - not a viable option for anyone on low income and without access to the last remnants of an underfunded Legal Aid system.

    In fact, all the LTB appeared to reflect - via the threat of police-enforced evictions and a contemptuous, if not downright disdainful, attitude reserved solely for tenants - were the interests of landlords in matters of monies owed and tenants removed, with little regard for how much the owners themselves were in breach of contract towards their clients. No 'Better Business Bureau' exists to represent tenants swindled by leasing out neglected residences that are in dangerous violation of basic building codes; equipped with malfunctioning appliances, antiquated, leaky plumbing and dangerously outdated electrical systems, not to mention costs incurred through inadequate insulation, pest infestations and the likes.

       Any other operation run this badly would either go bankrupt or get heavily fined/shut down for non-compliance. Yet the exploitation of tenants - a new breed of second-class citizens - appears government sanctioned, if not on paper then decidedly in practice, and is quickly turning into a pipeline feeding the relentless spread of homeless encampments in every city across the country. (2)

The Renoviction notice we received came tight on the heels of a visit from a City Building Code Inspector we managed to arrange (a whole six months previous) after having been turned down, more or less apologetically, by any other agency in charge of housing or building safety. An order for repairs was shortly thereafter issued to our landlord by the authorities and then . . . silence on the other end, except for the notice to vacate in our mailbox.

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      Needless to say, we desperately wanted to put this stressful and anxiety-inducing situation into our rear-view mirror. Unfortunately, the first wave of Covid had just hit the planet, successfully putting the rental market in stasis, and we found ourselves between a rock and a hard place. 

     

Little did we know what we were up against when looking for our next residence as the economy opened up tentatively a few months later and a certain level of mobility was restored. Despite virus-spurred layoffs, our financial situation had actually improved since the start of the pandemic - we're a thrifty bunch - so our relative confidence would shortly take a dive when faced with the sobering realities of the present-day rental market.

Application upon application met with stoic silence, the virtual paperwork akin to applying for a mortgage: credit scores, proof of employment and history, income verifications geared towards the 'sunshine list', several references by accredited professionals other than previous landlords, bank statements, proof of tenant's insurance, illegal deposit demands . . . the bureaucratic hurdles seemed insurmountable. Coupled with being on E.I./self-employed, a hostile, current landlord (reference) and soaring rental prices, our predicament soon induced feelings of despair, deepened evermore by constant harassment from the owner of our decrepit abode, impatient for our departure, often abusive and insulting in nature. (He kindly advised us that 'if you can't afford your own home, you're just a f...ing loser!')

      We did eventually manage to secure a residence in Kingston after having been ignored by every property management company we approached and still count ourselves fortunate to rent in a wonderfully mixed, downtown neighbourhood from a conscientious landlady. She simply trusted our (up-until-then) perfect rental history, a solid, previous landlord reference (thank you!) and assurances that we were responsible tenants who'd keep her house in good order and pay the rent on time; the way it used to be done.

   

Two months after the move, we'd find out that our previous residence had been sold 'as is' without any of the renovations executed that had been listed on the eviction notice. Obviously, we were not surprised since fake Renovictions have become the bread and butter of a predatory rental market particularly under the smokescreen of the pandemic, leaving tenants to struggle with hyper-inflated rents in addition to rising costs of living as wages have been stagnating . . . a recipe for the perfect storm as the tent cities growing in size across the country (and the world) amply manifest.

     

Despite barely avoiding a similar fate for the time being, the abandoned cart outside our home at times still triggers some of the anxiety we experienced in the past and recalls a less favourable narrative that could have been our future. Having escaped such a scenario seems to also impart a sense of 'survivor's guilt' that emerges whenever I come across a homeless person in the streets or walk through an encampment in the parks around town.

    Several weeks ago, I passed by a middle-aged woman who'd lost both legs below the knee. Stuck in an outdated, manual wheelchair, she was sifting through a garbage bag of belongings on the main drag of town and I had a hard time reconciling how anyone, especially with a disability this severe, could be left to fend for themselves on the streets of our city.

     I still can't shake her image. I realize that I feel guilty because, unlike her, I have a warm home to look forward to upon return from my walk.

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I have a full fridge at my disposal - even if I habitually grumble about the grocery prices on shopping day. I'm able to pay my bills, enjoy the odd take-out and have a measure of entertainment and convenience in my life that I generally take for granted. I feel guilty because, hell, those couple of bucks or smokes, I so 'generously' dispense in town towards whoever stirs my sympathy, are just a tiny drop in a giant, leaky bucket, not in the least preventing the inevitable, but leaving me with the pretence of a clear conscience.

       Part of the guilt is a feeling of helplessness and futility. Facing an issue of such social magnitude and being aware of the causes and the multitude of solutions that could easily remedy homelessness - and many other social ills -  all across this wealthy country, it is beyond frustrating to know, full well, that the true obstacle to universal housing is insatiable GREED, a ruthless master and more addictive to the wealthy than a crack pipe to a junkie. 

 

And where does unrelieved guilt inevitably lead to? Right . . . indignation and impotent anger, if only in an effort to combat the draining mental fray that threatens to suck one under. A temporary fix, at best, as outrage - akin to a sugar rush - requires constant fuel to, at least temporarily, avoid the inevitable physical and mental crash. 

     Now, since this kind of vicious cycle is likely common in anybody who's managed to retain an ounce of empathy towards their fellow human beings, we can safely assume that our communal sanity is on a steady downward spiral. Stress, anxiety, guilt, isolation and hopelessness on top of increasing financial struggles are burning through ever-growing numbers of people - caregivers and advocates in particular - as our system creates and disposes of more and more vulnerable citizens. 

The immediate threat of homelessness is no longer consigned to a certain group of people - those who aren't able to function within societal norms due to trauma, mental illness and/or drug addiction and who've been lacking any kind of personal support system, past and present.

      These days, you're just as likely to encounter a guy pushing one of those shopping carts through the streets who served you your Double-Double at the Tim Hortons not too long ago, or someone who ended up on disability due to a work accident or burn-out and couldn't make the rent on the $1100 he receives (less on Social Assistance). Many simply lose their homes as profiteering landlords take advantage of the loopholes offered by (fake) Renovictions to get around legally-allowed rent increases, aided and abetted by a steady dismantling of tenants' rights.

      And it's not just renters that are affected. Many private homeowners (and businesses) are losing their residences to the banks through pandemic-related hardships (job losses, illness or death), inflated property taxes via rising assessments and surging interest rates (higher mortgage payments). As they hit the market, they are quickly scooped up by real estate conglomerates and speculators, driving housing prices and rents ever higher as they spiral towards certain collapse.

At the same time, some of our publicly elected representatives profiteer individually and collectively from this despairing scenario by using insider information, deregulation and loopholes to get in on the housing racket with personal investments, subsidized building contracts and kickbacks from real estate sharks while municipalities benefit from increased tax revenue as property values rise into the stratosphere. (3/4)

   

Over the past few decades, the 'welfare' of faceless corporations has taken a front seat in Parliament, banishing the social welfare of actual citizens to the ignominious back benches. Government services have been whittled away steadily over time and, rather than guaranteeing liveable wages and an adequate social safety net (basic liveable income, affordable housing etc.), it's been left to foodbanks, assorted charities and an underfunded, as well as dehumanizing, shelter system - primarily staffed by exhausted volunteers fighting an uphill battle - to shoulder the growing burden of caring for people relegated to a level that goes well beyond even destitution. 

       Contrary to popular opinion, the homeless are not the true drain on the system, but a scapegoat sacrificed for the benefit of wealthy corporations and individuals that exploit labour, consumers and our public funds.

   Through tax evasions, subsidies, money laundering, profiteering and stock market manipulation, the top ten percent - with the help of their political lapdogs - turn even the myth of a 'trickle-down' economy into a blatant 'siphon- upwards' scenario, whilst taking standing ovations and posing at PR photo-ops for the few meagre (tax deductible) crumbs they toss downwards by-way-of questionable charities that often funnel contributions straight back into their own operations.

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At the same time, many government institutions designed to help those in need actually achieve little more than diverting the majority of funds towards sustaining their own, hyper-inflated bureaucracies and the lifestyles of overpaid CEOs - an issue that's been brought glaringly to light in the management of LTC homes recently and that has been permeating the entire public welfare sector for many years. 

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So, when I read about more and more homeless encampments 'evicted' and 'sanitized' by cops in riot gear all over this country, I can't help but fear what we're heading for as a society. We seem well on our way to criminalizing homelessness, and ultimately poverty, as the government turns the police force against its own disenfranchised citizens, an oxymoron that makes my head spin. (5)

When people are banished from their homes en mass and even denied a tent in a PUBLIC SPACE (as in 'belonging to us all'), where are they supposed to go? Disappear into thin air? Look for an out-of the-way place to die so we don't have to be bothered with their miserable existence? (6/7)

     Adding insult to injury, we seem more concerned with the rights of our pets than those of our fellow human beings. If we consider the homeless 'dependants of the State' as pets are dependants of their owners, any mistreatment and lack of care should have legal consequences for the government in charge, thus a homeless person dying from exposure would constitute 'criminal negligence causing death' by failing to supply the basic necessities for survival.

       On the other hand, when I contemplate the analogy of animal shelters versus homeless shelters, I shudder to think about what happens to our abandoned pets when they've overstayed their welcome at the pound, are too old for adoption or the shelter is beyond capacity. By already having created overcrowded death traps for our unhoused citizens in a similar respect, are we well on our way - as their numbers grow - to implementing police-patrolled government camps aimed at forcefully containing them (or worse) lest they become more than a mere 'nuisance' and start revolting?

     

History paints a frightening picture of the path down which we are heading. Human rights have steadily turned into privileges and living in systematically imposed poverty is becoming not just a social blemish, but legally incriminating. A wealthy society such as ours is perfectly able to provide equitably for all, but continually finds itself in serious breach of most items listed in the United Nations' Universal Declaration of Human Rights that it had, itself, a central role in creating more than 70 years ago. It's a disturbing, if not altogether farcical, document when juxtaposed with the reality of homelessness and the state of our fractured social safety net at large, and well worth a read - if only to indulge oneself in a derisive smirk. (8)

In closing, I want to apologize to my esteemed readership for unloading such bleak discourse during what is already a challenging time (and season) for many. In my defence, I pass at least part of the blame onto John, who was responsible for dumping that green shopping cart on our property in the first place in order to get it out of the snowplough's path. He once again proved the point that 'no good deed goes unpunished'.

      So let this be a cautionary tale of what can happen when you choose an abandoned object as your creative muse; the outcome might be more than you bargained for.

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Lastly, I'd like you to do me one favour: When passing by a homeless person asking for help, please, don't give in to those feelings of discomfort and shun them as an outcast - the least anyone can spare is a friendly word and a smile.

Gratitude, as always, to my creative team of dedicated volunteers. 

       

Stay well, ye all, keep engaged and enjoy the Journal!

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Coming Home (Tanja Rabe)

liberation
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 Mat's

Musings

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Liberation

by Matthew Del Papa

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There is a term called ‘man-splaining’.

      For those of you unfamiliar, it refers to when men take it upon themselves to ‘explain’ things to women. Not just anything, though that’s bad enough, but things that men have no first-hand knowledge of - like how a woman should talk, dress, behave, and/or think. Most men are unaware of what they are doing. Most men aren’t trying to be condescending or patriarchal or otherwise dismissive. Most men think they're being supportive, helpful, showing that they care.

       I am not ‘most men’. In fact, I am very aware of what I’m doing. But, since being an idiot is sort of my speciality, I’m going to step right into the deep end and arrogantly announce: It’s tough to be a minority. I know, it takes a lot of - let’s say confidence - for a middle-class, middle-aged, straight white man to voice that opinion. I might as well be drowning in my own privilege. But bear with me.

       

That word ‘privilege’ elicits a strong response, especially now. Be it ‘Male Privilege’ or ‘Straight Privilege’ or even ‘White Privilege’ - that last is thrown around in the wake of every black man killed at the hands of police. And, since few understand the term’s meaning, it comes across as an accusation and puts a lot of people on the defensive.

     Being privileged doesn’t mean you don’t face challenges. We all have hardships of one sort or another. That’s just life. But for me, being a straight, forty-something Caucasian male in modern Western society, prejudice isn’t one of them. I don’t face racism or sexism or ageism on a daily basis. And the thing about bigotry, in any form, is that it is insidious, exhausting and, above all, dehumanizing.

      One of my favourite authors, John Scalzi, once wrote an article positing that ‘if life were a video game’ then straight, white men in America have been ‘playing on easy mode’ (everyone else, he argued, started life with their settings on hard). He took a lot of heat for that piece. No one, it seems, wants to admit that their life is ‘easy’.

       But a lot of people, smart and successful people, are unable to recognize that some obstacles are more imposing and ingrained than others. There’s a baseball-themed metaphor, ‘born on third-base', that describes the mentality of many rich white men. They are literally given a headstart in life - their family’s wealth provides security and opportunities not afforded to most - and they are unable to recognize these advantages. As far as they're concerned, they are entitled to their entitlements.

     

I, despite my various, unearned privileges, am not blind to the difficulties of others. That said, it did take me forty-plus years to realize that women, in general, face challenges most men don't ever have to consider throughout their lives. I’ve never thought twice about where I park or walk. Never weighed the career ramifications of getting married, changing my name and having a child. I’ve never been whistled at or faced uncomfortable, unwanted sexual advances in the workplace. I’ve never been questioned as to the ‘appropriateness’ of my wardrobe or hairstyle.

       Decades of racial profiling have taken place around me and I, being white, never noticed - never had to notice. Seeing a police car in my rear-view mirror is an annoyance, not a possible death threat. Security guards do not scrutinize me unduly while I shop. And, while some people do cross the street when they see me coming, they are merely avoiding talking to me, not making fearful assumptions based on my skin colour.

    These issues are huge and ever-evolving, but my space is limited. So listen to this idiot and remember: no matter our differences - be they racial, religious, or sexual - humanity is universal. Choose kindness. Prejudice solved. You’re welcome.

(The Capreol Express, 2021)

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Wolf Coyote by Katerina Fretwell

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 Poetry

 &

 Musings

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Dandora Landfill

by Katerina Fretwell

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... is among the largest of its kind in the world.

---- Anthropocene, 62.

 

On tour in '93, my stunned eyes absorbed

families living on the Lisithi landfill.

 

Today, it's painful to see huge images of roads

ringing a city of garbage two stories high.

 

You, Nairobi's poor, dumpster-dive on Dandora:

a Pandora's Box of Western waste: tires, wires,

 

laptops, food-wraps, tractors and vials –

a Golden Globe of Toxic.

 

You sift daily, resell this grim reap to reuse,

miss the cancers rising in you and your kin –

 

how else to feed, clothe, and shelter your family?

Shed our plastic habit! Lead levels are lethal –

 

cadmium in your cassava, radon in rice,

Tranxene in tea, we've consumed you, DX: debris.

Dandora
scent of place
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 Musings

 in

 Nature

Scent of Place

by Randy Eady

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A veil of mist drifted off the river and curled around my ankles as I knelt down and dipped my hand in the current. Slowly and with unintended reverence, I lifted a handful of water to my nose and took a deep whiff. In that instant, I was transported back to a night thirty years earlier, when I rode in the bed of an old pickup truck and crossed over the roiling Madawaska River on Highway 60 in Whitney, Ontario. It was the last leg of an odyssey, a pilgrimage of sorts, on which I’d hoped to find my place in the world. In that moment, thanks to a single whiff of crisp river air, I knew it'd been here all along.

 

Some rituals are born of superstition; others are meant to appease some god or another. My habit of beginning some tour days with a quiet moment at the water’s edge and 'connecting' with the river, is nothing so grand. It’s a simple ritual, evolved many years ago, from my habit of going to the riverbank after unloading the boats and splashing water on my face. When time allowed, I’d sit in the grass and close my eyes. It helped turn off the racket in my mind - the counting of boats and gear, checking the roster, planning the route, reciting things I wanted to say and when I’d say them, checking my first-aid kit. I’d turn it all off and feel the cool water running down my face and neck. It was the perfect way to ease my mind in preparation for the tour.

        As I knelt by the river that morning, with my eyes closed, I was engulfed by that scent. It wasn’t bad or good - just a faint essence of the river. It was familiar and comforting, like a grandmother’s attic. But, instead of the scents of dusty photo albums, overstuffed chairs, doilies from a wedding a lifetime ago, and boxes of crisp letters written long ago by young, dream-filled hands, the images conjured by the river’s scent were of flowers, leaves and mud, birds and snakes, and every living thing I knew to reside in the forest along the river's edge and in its waters. I couldn’t isolate any single fragrance and pin it to an exact source, but I recognized the blend.

 

Every river has its own scent. I don’t know this from any studies and I certainly don’t know it from personal experience; I can no more identify a river by its scent than I can sniff a Chardonnay and tell where the grapes were grown. I know rivers have their own scents because it can be no other way. Every river weaves through a specific blend of habitats; soils, minerals, plants and animals, each in unique proportions. Mostly, I know it from riding top-down, accompanied by my golden retriever, Maxi. With her nose in the air, head held high, and her floppy ears slapping her head, she would erupt in an apoplectic mass of slobber and fur when we got to about a mile from the Little Madawaska River - her home turf.

Bears are even better.

         When I hang a bag of trail mix from an oak limb at camp, bears within a mile downwind will hoist their muzzles. An experienced, old bruin will know he’s about to enjoy a snack of nuts, dried fruit and the sight of an annoying human scrambling into the underbrush.

    The bear knows every stream in its range by its singular constellation of fragrances; the aromatic sum of its many parts. It recognizes the blend of everything along its banks and in its water, from the musty fur of the river otters to the butterweed patch and the sickening-sweet chitins of scarab beetles. Depending on which way the wind is blowing, it knows what’s blooming in the high scrub or if a beaver has stirred the muck of a spring freshet; it probably knows which beaver.

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For bears living in the Algonquin forest, the air is a wild bouquet with strong elements of cypress pollen, 7000 year-old marl, squirrel turds and ottermusk. The forest marsh is a complex mix of buckeye blooms, rank golden club leaves, lipstick-scented groundnut flowers, crayfish, mollusk froth and the putrid peat muck exposed in low water periods.

      But no mammal, regardless of brain, brawn or snout size, can match insects for scent detection. When a group of entomologists released sex pheromones of a female luna moth into the air, they found males - six miles downwind - could detect them. Turns out, the moth’s large, feathery antennae are not decorative, but highly adapted scent detectors making my own detector - my nose - look like a vestigial appendage relegated to holding up sunglasses. The luna's charms are wholly lost on me.

        I find it less intriguing than disappointing to know I am immersed in a riot of scents that allows the bear to distinguish this river from all others. The bear's nose twitches, the moth races past with a certainty of purpose, but here I stand, somewhat deaf, dumb, blind and unaware of the true potency of surrounding smells. I want to know when to cheer on the luna. I want to smell the bear’s river.

 

The clock ticks. I splash another handful of the Madawaska on my face. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I believe, I've caught the aroma of a thousand-year-old cypress, with a hint of pine and just a whiff of bear.

Did you know your skin can smell? Our body augments the smelling process of the nose by holistically absorbing the fragrant scents of the forest world! Our body’s largest organ actually plays a vital role. Recent findings have overturned the prevailing perception that most of the scents of nature are, by and large, simply a chemical conversation between plants and animals and that humans are merely eavesdroppers. In fact, in total - from the skin to lungs to even the heart - we can survey our olfactory response as much more expansive, with currently more than 150 olfactory receptors identified in the human body outside the nose.

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Randy Eady is a Facilitating Therapist (focused on balance & movement disorders) who uses innovative, nature-based treatments to create a space where sensibility & sensitivity converge - opening new dimensions in perception between humans & the natural world.

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'Charlie Brown' Snowman (Tanja Rabe)

wintering
Fishbone Gallery
Roger Nash - Poetry
 Chris Nash - Photography

WINTERING

by Roger Nash

heavy snow falls – falls 

a street of one sound only

 whiter than silence

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one new snow boot lost

another winter mislaid

is spring still in place?

a cloudless blue sky

nothing for thoughts to hang from

but clouds of your breath

the snowman’s shadow

shivering in the garden

a knitted red smile

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at 30 below,

trains’ hoots crack into pieces

kids pick up the shards.

flakes whirling around

hard to be someone at all

many directions

drifts get ploughed deeper
our dreams are much deeper too
so what do both mean?

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fish circle their bowl
a New Year begins again
fish circle their bowl

Farley
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Short

Fiction

Farley

by John Jantunen

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Farley had no use for keeping quiet.

       Be enough of that, he’d say, when they’d tagged him John Doe and tossed him into a lime pit, or a pit anyway and then threw lime on him. He was unsure of the specifics and preferred 'lime pit' because it sounded like it meant something. They, of course, hadn’t thrown anyone into a lime pit for ages and, chances were, they wouldn’t do so with Farley either.

      More than likely, they’d cremate him, maybe keep him in a Ziploc for a while - there was a thirty day minimum on unclaimed ashes, Farley had heard somewhere, like with dogs at the pound - then they’d probably just toss him out. Unless there was some kind of romantic spinster working at the crematorium - or maybe just someone who lived with a bunch of cats - and she’d smuggle the ashes out - but then she’d call them remains, all solemn-like. She’d have captain's funerals for guys with tattoos - meaning she’d stand at the edge of the pier or, her mind occupied by Little Miss Whiskers who’d wandered off that morning, just dump them into the sewer thinking it was better than nothing - or sprinkle the remains on trees for guys who'd died in the park.

     

Perhaps she’d lose her job because of it - Farley was sure there were regulations against such things - or, anyway, she’d be afraid of losing her job and would hide the ashes like that guy who'd escaped from prison by digging a hole and hiding the dirt in his rolled-up pants. Probably though, she’d have a purse of some sort and she’d just stick the bags of ashes in there until she’d fabricated a story to recite along with the ceremony she’d contrived, so she could maintain the belief that she was making a difference even if, really, she wasn’t.

     Then again, maybe she’d just take them home and toss the remains on her driveway when the winter had iced up the asphalt. In the summer, she’d store them in her basement or fireplace until the time came when she could make proper use of them.

       Possibly, and Farley was stretching it at this point - but he had to keep on going, lest the quiet that permeated the streets when he wasn’t talking became too oppressive - her neighbours might not think too kindly of the sooty mess she was making and complain like they did when she neglected to mow her lawn. They’d glean to the fact that she worked in a crematorium, become repulsed - as was their way - and call on the authorities to investigate. Protocols had not been followed and a reprimand would be swift.

By Christ, there’d be hell to pay. She’d be called into the manager’s office and maybe he wouldn’t fire her, because he too had a romantic streak, but he’d do his duty and, before she was allowed to leave, she’d have to concede that the people she was in charge of cremating were, in fact, good-for-nothings.

 

Anyway, that’s how Farley went on whenever he was triggered. Could have been a scowl from a passerby that set him off, or the picture of a half-naked woman on a billboard, or a driver who was too quick with the horn when he stepped into traffic. Just as likely, though, it’d be because he’d reached for the butt he liked to keep propped behind his ear only to find that he’d already smoked it.

      Cigarettes were as intimately tied to his rants as a pint of Ale was to taking a piss in The Great Before. Mostly it was just a prop, something to wave around while he went off, but for those in the know, offering him a smoke was also a good way to get him to shut up because in the time it took him to light a fresh one there was a chance he’d forget what he was going off about and there’d be a gap, long enough to slip away before something else struck his ire.

      There’d be the cigarette now, but - over the years - Farley had completely run out of cigarette smoking material. He’d used it up early, being a favourite topic when he was younger. And, unlike a lot of ranters and ravers plying their trade on the sidewalks and in the parks, Farley refused to repeat himself.

      So many of those who’d given into the urge to make as much noise as they humanly saw fit had found solace in one routine or another, like the world wasn’t varied and offered up opportunities to go off on any number of topics, topical as they were or not. It was like they’d reached a dead-end in their lives, that the mystery of it all had suddenly run out of road and it never occurred to them to look for a new direction or just turn around.

     The worst offenders were the religious, and it caused Farley no small amount of grief that his passion, and the fact that he never begged for money, got him grouped with the Jesus-freaks who, for want of a wolf to keep them in check, where swelling like deer populations in the hinterland; a sad state of affairs, for sure, he’d tell you while he searched for a match, and even persons not so in the know would see their chance and be gone before Farley’d got in his first puff.

In The Great Before, smoking went hand in hand with drinking and it was in a bar that Farley’d got his start. He’d sit quietly, drinking and smoking, smiling and chuckling at the curious things people were saying around him, his cigarette pack on the table, close enough to the edge to serve as bait.     

      When someone asked him for a smoke, Farley’d eye his pack, making sure he had enough to get him through the night, and pass one over. Then he’d clasp the other’s hand, squeezing it sharply, asking them to promise him something.

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Most of the time they’d be game and ask, What? Then he’d line them up in his gaze and tell them to look at his face. And remember it well because all I ask in return is that, if you see me lying in the gutter sometime, and we’re not talking about the all too distant future here, you’ve got to promise you’ll spare me a smoke, two if you're not hurting too bad yourself.

      This may not have been an altogether distinguished start to such a prolific career of ranting and raving, but that’s how it began. It was the bemused indifference he got from their responses, more than anything, that set him on his path. Generally, they’d laugh and then he’d grip their hand tighter.

       You promise me or, by god, I’ll snatch that smoke out of your hand so fast, you’ll swear you always only had the two fingers I’ve left you with.

        Sometimes the promise was made and, depending on the character of the person involved and on the number of drinks he’d consumed, sometimes it would not. Sometimes, Farley would be aching for a fight and he’d keep hammering the guy who’d merely run out of smokes, or was trying to quit, until the threat of violence loomed heavy on the other’s brow. Then the real fun would begin.

      Do what you think is right, he’d yell. You don’t want me here? Then do something about it, eh punk? Do something. DO SOMETHING! Eh? Eh? Eh?

        He'd keep up the 'Eh?'s until the guy’s hands were in fists, at times the size of bowling balls, others no bigger than a small bag of marbles. Then he’d segue his way into a round of 'That’s right!'s. They’d go on, until the guy'd take a swing at him and the cops or a bouncer had to be called in to break things up. Farley’d be allowed to go - it was a few years before he would spend anytime in jail - with a warning to not bother ever coming back.

 

Now, there might be some who’d suggest that Farley had a serious attitude problem, that he displayed antisocial behavioural patterns, and perhaps even a few who’d say that they could be traced back to his upbringing. Nothing could be further from the truth.

        Farley was raised right by good and caring parents. He went to university, as was expected of him, though his mother would have preferred that he learned something useful rather than the classical studies courses towards which he gravitated.

       It was there that he first heard the name Diogenes and decided, with the vain assurance of youth, that his role in life would be to test the patience of everyone he came in contact with. He was doing the world a favour - and, on this issue, disagreement with him was futile - by making sure that everyone around him knew the exact location of their breaking point. How long it would take them to snap. What kind of mettle they were made of as individuals and as a collective organism. Could they, to strike at the heart of the matter, be trusted to figure out who they were beneath the day to day and the distractions of modern life? Farley thought not and he’d tell them so, straight to their face.

Because of his calling, it had been a long time since Farley had had any friends or a job or a place to stay. That’s to say, it’d been a long time since he’d begun to take his message to the streets. He didn’t think of The Great Before, a line he’d stepped over like a blind man wreaking havoc on sand castles, nor did he ponder The Great After: what was to come.

       Life for Farley was comprised of a series of events, himself at the fore, which built to a climax with enough vigour to keep his mind occupied until the next one came along to take its place. In a mish-mashed row, as ragged as cobbled stones, the accumulation of events formed a pattern and that pattern was Farley and also the world.

       And what did this pattern reveal? Only that the world and Farley were pulling further and further apart but that, in the very least, he’d managed to become a fixture on these here streets. And good light post that he was, he stood his ground while the non-light-post-variety of pedestrians shuffled past, becoming well enough known that he could scream and yell all he wanted and never get so much as a flinch from any but the most frail and elderly.

Then one day, while he was rooting through the garbage can in front of a Burger King, he noticed a camera with a news logo on the side dogging his every move. 

       So that’s it, he thought to himself, as he bit into a half-eaten Whopper with cheese, mayonnaise spilling down his spackled beard, they got old Farley forever. No need to look at poor, old Farley now. Just press Play and, if you want to see him dance, Fast Forward. And the rest of the time, he'll be sitting on a shelf with a label glued to his spine: Man Eating From Garbage Can. Well, that’s convenient for you, but what about poor, old Farley?

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       Farley smoothed out the waxed paper wrap from the burger and planted it on his chest, the grease more than enough to keep it fixed in place. He smiled - his superhero costume complete - and unzipped his pants. His hands, cracked and rough, barely felt his penis and the appendage, like a garden hose cut into inches, didn’t react much either. The cameraman stood steady, only his finger moving as it pressed the zoom button. Farley thought he’d misjudged when there arose the startled yelp of a man crossing the street who had come within range of his line of fire. The man jumped back, shaking his pant leg. He stymied the curse rising to his lips, but couldn’t suppress a scalding glare.

      Farley ain’t so gone after all, Farley thought and turned to the sidewalk so he could spell out his name on the cement. He only got the F-A-R done to his satisfaction, before a heavy hand clasped his shoulder and threw him up against the glass wall of the burger joint.

He spent a week in jail and, when he came out, he’d found a new lease on life. For the first time, he understood that old adage about actions speaking louder than words. If he’d been the sort to regret his past, he might have sunk into a sorrowful state of depression, thinking about all those years he’d wasted ranting and raving. Instead, he leapt at what he saw was his second chance and threw himself body and soul (but mostly body) into this, his new found vocation.

       There wasn’t a wall, a window, or a light post for that matter, which didn’t come to know Farley as intimately as any lover he could conjure out of The Great Before. He went to jail a half-dozen times - there wasn’t a cop downtown who hadn’t taken their turn bringing him in - and, for a brief time, he gained some notoriety amongst those who were always looking for the next big thing. Pictures in the "Pissing-With-Farley" genre began popping up on Facebook and Twitter, until the police issued a release promising to prosecute anyone caught relieving themselves on-line.

       The Mayor convened a committee to discuss the matter and, while Farley’s name never came up, he was most surely on every councillor’s mind. In a rare display of pragmatism they decided, unanimously, to issue free buckets and rubber gloves to any store owner who requested them and then turned to more pressing concerns.

        Losing ground once again in the collective imagination, Farley tried his hand at public defecation but quickly decided that it wasn’t his thing.

       

In the years that followed, he grew quiet and sullen, going about his duty with the resolve of a man digging graves. Only he, himself, knew whether he missed the rants and the raves, the whole noisy spectacle of it and the exhibitionism of his later days, and why he began seeking out quiet alleyways to do his business, such as the one where his body was found on a day just before Christmas.

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Stumbled upon by someone who’d stolen away from the crowds to relieve himself behind a dumpster, the irony surely wouldn't have been lost on Farley had he been looking down on the scene: the sudden gasp, the quick departure, a call placed to the authorities, recorded in the annals as coming from Anonymous as precisely as the time the caller had finally succumbed to pressure from a loved one or maybe to a sense of guilt.

        Due to a clerical error, whether Farley was buried or cremated was not so duly noted.

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What Lives Below (Tanja Rabe)

don't look up
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Don't Look Up

  Director: Adam McKay

2021, USA, R, 2h 25min, Comedy/Disaster

Cast: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Lawrence, Meryl

Streep, Rob Morgan, Jonah Hill, Cate Blanchet 

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Screenshots

with Tanja

Netflix tends to be a hit-and-miss affair when it comes to quality film making, churning out their flicks assembly-line-style in the manner of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory so, when this title popped up on their 'Recommended For You' list, my first reaction was: Surprise! Another disaster movie.

      Now, don't get me wrong. I do enjoy the voyeuristic indulgence of watching the masses struggle for survival on a grand scale as much as the next gal, all the while rooting for the underdog hero(ine) chosen to potentially sacrifice their existence for the greater good - or their loved ones - against insurmountable odds which they, miraculously, tend to beat just in the nick of time. 

      Extinction via big rocks from space has been a popular theme and, generally, it's a scenario that scripts all hands-on-deck: scientists racing for solutions; the (US) heads-of-state and their military entourage locked into the war room feverishly orchestrating tactical interference; the world's population, panic-stricken, stuck on deadlocked highways as they're heading for the hills/bunkers/giant arcs/spaceships in a vain effort to outrun the dreaded event . . . chaos and despair interspersed with moments of hope, resilience, unity and touching acts of kindness that serve well to restore our faith in the virtues of humankind.

       Hurrah! Our species gets to live another day - until the next challenge hits the Big Screen.

Much to my surprise, Don't Look up was a seriously let-down on all those fronts. No touchy-feely stuff, no buff action heroes rescuing damsels-/kids-/pets-in-distress, and no hap . . . ups, almost spoiled the end for you there.

       The general premise - an extinction-level event (comet-induced in this case) - sets the stage fairly in keeping with traditional takes on the genre, though what ensues turns the  anticipated narrative quickly on its head. Not really surprising, since that's the stuff of true satire - ripping the viewer out of their comfort zone and into a reality they work so hard to insulate themselves against by escaping into the celluloid make-believe.

     In this case, the primary theme is the aforementioned comfort zone, as news of the impending annihilation of humankind is met with, you guessed it, a mind-numbing level of apathy, petty squabbles, political and economic opportunism, not-to-mention outright denial.

       Intentionally reflecting on common attitudes towards the climate crisis and other self-destructive ambitions of humanity, with the Comet of Doom a barely disguised analogy, the film follows a duo of meteorological scientists trying to convince an oblivious political and journalistic audience of the impending End of Days. 

I shall refrain from delving too deeply into a thorough analyses of this movie since it has drawn ample attention on social media and has reviews coming out of the proverbial wazoo all along the spectrum of star ratings, though I will offer you a link to one of the more detailed and insightful write-ups I've come across. (*) 

       Besides the fact that it was well-acted, relevant and entertaining in regards to letting us laugh at the idiotic behaviour of our leaders, certain factions of the population and ultimately ourselves - even if it is a bitter amusement bordering on despair - the main reason I chose it for this edition's Screenshots was because of how accurately and painfully Don't Look Up mirrors our own reality as it plays out just as farcically in the world's news and politics. Over time, I've come to realise that a good movie tends to be firmly anchored in the - often inconvenient - Truth of our existence, be that past, present or future, and once again this cinematic rendition falls within the category of: You can't make this $hit up!      

 

To illustrate this point, let me introduce you to George Monbiot, a British writer and well-esteemed journalist for The Guardian known for his fervent environmental and political activism who I came across on social media several weeks before watching Don't Look Up.

      The attached video features an interview he gave on Good Morning, Britain in regards to climate protests by 'Insulate Britain' shutting down major traffic routes.

     I urge you to view this (non-satirical) piece in its entirety and pay close attention to the attitudes, displayed by the show's hosts and the female co-interviewee pictured, which left me feeling nauseous and literally in tears as I watched George's quixotic battle against the current narrative of 'business as usual' and 'not in my backyard'.

Satire has traditionally been the forte of British filmmaking and the fact that there appears to be a renaissance of the genre is not altogether surprising, considering that it is tied to a certain political and social climate of disillusionment with the status quo, setting the perfect stage for sarcastic critique.

And lastly, one of my favourite satirical discoveries on social media: Honest Government Ads, a hilarious and poignant series of clips by Australia's The Juice Media, on the topic of 'Net Zero by 2050'.

We shall revisit George, our valiant underdog, in the following satirical oeuvre by British comedian Tom Walker, posing as reporter Jonathan Pie in an instalment about the COP 26 in Glasgow.

In the meantime, Don't Look Up has garnered a mere four Oscar nominations regardless of its star-studded cast and urgent topic, being left in the dust by Jane Campion's period piece The Power of the Dog (twelve runs at the trophies), a film I found disappointingly uninspiring despite its acclaimed director.

        Oh well, that's the Oscars (and the media) for you in a nutshell.

(*) https://www.autostraddle.com/dont-look-up-review/

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Coast Reporter

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JoeMohrToon.com

small victories
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 Editor's

 Desk

Small Victories

by John Jantunen

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While I originally wrote the short fiction piece featured in this, CRP’s seventh issue, as a tongue-in-cheek imagining of the dire turn my life might have taken if I’d ended up homeless on the streets of Vancouver circa 1995, Farley, the story itself, was inspired by a very real homeless man with whom, for a few weeks in the mid 1990s, I was engaged in a rather spurious battle of wills.

       At the time, I was paying my way through a Bachelor’s degree at Simon Fraser University, working as a doorman/usher at the Capitol 6 movie theatre on Granville Street. After the last set of shows were all in, it was my job to sit watch at the box office to ensure that nobody slipped in through the front doors while one of our patrons was exiting. While the hour and half or so I spent each night 'guarding' the entrance might have afforded me ample opportunity to catch up on my homework, I wasn't - for reasons never made entirely clear to me - allowed to read on the job. Thus, I was consigned to amusing myself solely with the endless stream of foot traffic passing by ten feet from where I sat (most often, I’ll add, in the same chair from which CRP's Managing Editor, Tanja, dispensed movie tickets between six and ten pm).

 

I knew almost nothing about the real 'Farley', except that Farley was almost certainly not his true name - I chose it because he bore a striking resemblance to a certain Mr. Mowat - and that, for some reason, he’d decided to wage war against the Capitol 6, or at least against its row of front doors. His weapon of choice was urine and, over the course of a month or so, he’d show up several times a week and, in full view of both myself and the security camera stationed on the wall above me, proceeded to blast the glass with a geyser spray. Judging by the sheer volume of liquid released from his groin, I was pretty sure his 'attacks' were premeditated, but why he’d chosen the theatre as an enemy combatant wasn’t so readily evident. Regardless, it became my job to clean up after him, using a bucket of warm water liberally doused with cleaning solution and, after doing that a dozen or so times, I finally decided I’d take matters into my own hands.

       The next time he showed up, I mounted an offensive of my own which mainly entailed slamming his chosen target open while he was in mid-stream and yelling something along the lines of, “Jesus fucking Christ, stop pissing on the fucking doors!” He hadn't seen me coming and, startled off balance, Farley stumbled backwards, his hand still clutching his shrivelled manhood and jerking upwards, the spray become an ersatz fountain, and I’ll surely never forget the gasps of mortification as passers-by fled across the street, dodging busses, to get out from under his golden shower.

Certainly not one of my proudest moments, but it did, in the very least, have the desired effect, for it was the last time, to my knowledge, that Farley ever pissed on our front doors (mind you, a few days later, while I was taking a bus down Granville Street after my shift, I spotted Farley on the sidewalk. Whether he’d spotted me too, I can’t say, but from the virulence with which he chased the bus to the next red light and then proceeded to piss all over its rear tire, I suspect he did. Though, granted, his intended target might very well have been Vancouver’s Transit Authority in general).      

As I write this, I do wonder what might have happened had I, upon seeing Farley approach the Capitol 6, simply offered him the use one of the theatre’s multiple public restrooms, thus restoring a measure of dignity to a man who, after all, was only doing what comes naturally to us all (and who’s to say, if I was in Farley's place, that I wouldn’t have also vented my own ire when and wherever I could - given the misplaced, and virulently obstinate, pride so many of our cities’ officials seem to take in denying indigent populations easy access to public toilets).      

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      I do know that, if I'd taken such a compassionate course of action, I’d have been reprimanded by my superiors in the very least, for one of the 'Golden Rules' at the Cap 6, as it is in most businesses across the 'civilized' world, was of course: BATHROOMS ARE FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY.

 

A few years later, Tanja and I relocated to Montreal, ostensibly because I’d been accepted into the Masters program in the Communications Department at McGill University. Having previously had to default on my student loans for reasons too numerous to bother with here, my academic aspirations would amount to nothing more than an excuse to spend ten months in La Belle Province.

    The five thousand dollars we’d squirrelled away, working at my uncle’s failing restaurant in Gravenhurst during the previous summer, combined with the six hundred and fifty dollars a month I received in E.I. payments gave us plenty for groceries and rent - a mere $365/ month for a one bedroom on Rue de Rouen - with the odd pizza and two-for-one movie rental from a video store on Ontario Street a welcome bonus. It was the first time in my adult life that I had an opportunity to dedicate myself 'full-time' to writing fiction and, when searching for a little inspiration, my thoughts quickly returned to the time I’d spent out west.

Between the spring of 1991, when I hitchhiked from Bracebridge to the 'Pearl On The Pacific' after dropping out of the University Of Regina the previous winter, and the fall of 1995, when Tanja and I moved into a one-bedroom apartment together on Haro Street, I had been 'without residence' three times.

It was perhaps natural then that, for one of my first efforts, I’d want to imagine what might have happened if, by the Grace of God (or rather Tanja), I hadn’t been spared from a fate such as befell "poor, old Farley". This short story would thus become my first work of fiction to feature a homeless character based on an actual homeless person.

    While I’ve never consciously endeavoured to include the myriad of homeless people I’ve met during our cross-country travels, Tanja’s editorial in this issue of CRP Magazine has given me ample opportunity to muse upon just how frequently my fictions have featured these various personalities.

     

Four such individuals I encountered while living back in Muskoka, post-Vancouver, rounded out the cast of my first novel, fallingoverstandingstill, while a recently released ex-con I'd met while sleeping in Regina’s Victoria Park - and who would later help me gain entrance to my ground floor bachelor apartment by means of what I thought was a securely latched window after I locked myself out - would form the basis for the lead character’s best friend, Terrence Bell, in Cipher, my second.

       The precariousness of being without lodgings (albeit in a post-apocalyptic world) would fuel much of the tension in A Desolate Splendor, my next, while Rene Descartes, a central character in No Quarter, my fourth, was based on a character I’d already used in fallingoverstandingstill who was himself based on an ex-high school classmate and subsequent ex-con that Tanja and I met while taking a dip at High Falls, the best swimming hole for my money in all of Muskoka.

My next three novels are so awash with the recently unhoused that it would take a far longer piece than this to more than allude to a small fraction of them, which perhaps isn’t much of a surprise. Each of those fictions were informed by the three years we'd spend living in Ontario’s north, where the extractive industry, in collusion with a healthcare system which favours pharmaceutical interventions for workplace injuries over actual prevention and treatment, have been so stalwart in their efforts to create an ever-increasing surplus of homeless Peoples that it's hard not to suspect such has been their design all along.

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       And that’s without even accounting for the genocidal policies legislated against Indigenous Peoples which were, of course, expressly designed to crush their cultures so we could steal their land, making homelessness among the Indigenous as much a national imperative as it surely is a national tragedy and a disgrace.

    Confronted with such a profuse wealth of characters, I felt initially inclined to attribute my fascination with those on the true margins of Canadian society to a subconscious fear, never quite departed, that our own, potential homelessness was always just one misstep, or infirmity, away from becoming part of our personal day-to-day reality.

But, as I mused further I realized that, while that’s certainly true, it’s really only a small part of the Truth, the lion’s share of which is probably quite a lot simpler: that homeless Peoples, and Peoples on the lower echelons of Canadian society as a whole, generally have much more compelling stories to tell than those in our upper and middle classes and are also much more willing, and even eager, to share them.

      For this novelist that’s created an untapped, and seemingly bottomless, pool from which to draw inspiration for my fictions, even if drawing my inspiration from such a source, stigmatized as homeless Peoples are by our most-esteemed cultural curators, all but guarantees that I’ll never, say, get a substantive grant from the Canada Council nor, apparently, have any of my novels featured on CBC Books.

       Still, as many authors will readily affirm, one doesn’t choose one’s muse it chooses you. And if that means I’m consigned to obscurity - at best - simply because I portray homelessness as honestly and openly as I can in my fictions, then so be it. I’d much rather write about them than Thoreau’s masses living lives of quiet desperation anyway.

Take, for instance, the young couple sharing a single chair at the terminal beside mine when one afternoon, five or six years ago, I went into the Guelph Public Library to check my email (until Covid closures forced us to get internet, our household was blissfully free from its tentacles). She didn’t look older than eighteen and was on the petite side, with a face of such an unblemished white pallor that the novelist in me would be inclined to compare it to a porcelain doll, if that wasn’t an all-too-often used cliché. A stunningly attractive young woman, by any metric I’d care to use, and he quite the opposite.

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       He was, I suspect, in his early twenties, a gangly six-feet-tall at least, and had a scraggly beard that did a miserable job of concealing one of the worst cases of acne I’ve ever seen. She was sitting in his lap and nuzzling her cheek into his chest, the expression of rapture on her face at stark odds with his expression of utter disbelief tinged with angst, as if he couldn't believe his good fortune and was worried that anything he might do would jinx it. I’d learn their story about thirty seconds after logging into my computer.

       Another young woman, I never saw her face, called across the bank of computers to the one sitting next to me, “Hey girl, where've you been at? You didn’t come by Baker Street last night for dinner. I was worried about you.”

       “I overdosed yesterday,” my neighbour responded with a matter-of-factness bordering on aloof, as if such was a common occurrence. “And I would've died too, if it wasn’t for him.” 

She’d go on to explain to her friend that she’d been at a party when she’d overdosed and that, of the five other people there, her saviour was the only one who’d bothered to call an ambulance. He’d also spent the night with her in emerg, holding her hand, and ended the brief account by gazing up lovingly at the young man and calling him, “My hero.”

      Her friend was apparently on her way out and, by way of a goodbye, said, “See you at Baker Street later then?”

      “Oh no,” my neighbour replied solemnly. “I can’t go there. I’m trying to kick and so I have to stay away from Baker Street.”

      While I can’t be entirely certain of what she meant, I’d previously heard from various sources that the person (or persons) running the youth shelter on Baker Street was not only selling drugs to their patrons, but were also actively conscripting the homeless youth who frequented the centre as their dealers.

      “Good luck with that,” her friend said in reply and, while her tone plainly suggested she was being facetious, my neighbour apparently took it as a blessing and, further, as an excuse to cuddle unabashedly into her saviour's chest yet again.

 

Or take the Cree man I met at the North Bay Public Library a few years later who, though it isn’t his real name, I’ll call 'Corey'. I’d recently been enlisted to become a peer assessor for two Ontario Arts Council literary granting juries which required that, every day over the course of four months, I'd spend my meagre allotment of one-hour computer sessions at the library reviewing applications.

      Corey was sitting on my left and one of his friends on my right. The latter was trying to figure out how to use the library’s computer to download music, apparently unaware that the computer's filters were designed expressly to prevent that. After spending a half hour unsuccessfully trying to download an album by Body Count, the metal band fronted by rapper Ice T., he gave up and told Corey he was going to find someone to bum him a smoke. I had a few extras in my case and when I offered him one Corey asked if he might bum one too.

       My time being nearly up, I decided to accompany him outside to have a puff. We chatted amicably for a few minutes while we smoked and, when I learned he’d only just arrived in North Bay I asked what had brought him here. He answered that his wife was pregnant and that they had come to the city to seek help for their addictions at one of the city’s treatment centres (they were living in a nearby shelter and his wife was presently at a pre-natal class at the Native Friendship Centre which was why he was killing time at the library).

We’d inevitably end up back at our house, five blocks away, and would spend the next four hours smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee while we shared our respective stories, which is to say that there isn’t nearly enough space here for more than a brief precis of what he told me. I will mention that, at one point, I asked him about the 'Native Pride' he had tattooed on his forearm and he answered that it was the name of a gang he co-founded as an offshoot of the 'Indian Posse'.

      I’d heard of the IP by way of Joe Friesen’s superlative The Ballad Of Danny Wolfe, the native gang having been co-founded by the book’s central figure. The recounting of Danny Wolfe’s life started with Danny breaking out of prison and hiking into Regina along the same set of train tracks I myself had used as a shortcut into that city after I’d fled Bracebridge under somewhat less dramatic circumstances, a three hour walk which would later inspire me to refer to Regina as a “prairie Oz on the horizon” when I came to write Cipher.

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       I told Corey as much and expressed an affinity with Danny Wolfe by asserting that “shared land is sacred ground”, a truth I still hold to be self-evident (and one that, on the morning I’m writing this, was echoed by Pulitzer Prize winning commentator Thomas Friedman in his February 2nd New York Times column when he wrote, "when everything becomes politics, there is no neutral, sacred ground for leaders to gather in and collaborate in the national interest").

       At the end of my account, I asked Corey if he’d ever met Danny Wolfe and he replied, with a gleam in his eyes, that he’d never forget the day he did.

     It occured on his first day serving time at a maximum security prison in, I believe, Saskatchewan (he’d been arrested for running contraband cigarettes by the trailer-load between Manitoba and Alberta). The very first time he went out into the yard, he saw "a bunch of skinhead motherfuckers beating on a skinny little Indian" and, without a second thought, he charged into the fray, in his words, "like a bowling ball hitting a strike". This gave Danny enough time to get back on his feet and the two of them proceeded  "to kick the living shit out of those skinhead motherfuckers".

       "And that’s how I met Danny Wolfe."

      A minor but, I would argue, seminal event in this nation’s untold history - and one I would never have been privy to if I myself hadn’t been fortunate enough to meet Corey.

And then there’s Terry and his Pomeranian, Mia (whose real names I include here, since I also used them when Terry and Mia made an appearance during a pivotal scene in Savage Gerry). Really, to do Terry’s story justice would, like Corey’s, require an entire novel of its own, so I’ll only say that Terry, a seventy-something ex-CN rail employee, lived with his dog year-round in a tent in the woods just north of Capreol. I met him while running the Capreol Youth Centre where, during the winter months, Terry often sought shelter from the elements in the building’s front lobby. It was there I learned that a petition was circulating to have Mia put down after she'd bit a twelve-year-old boy while she was tied up outside Capreol’s public library. Terry, justifiably, was in quite a state while he explained what had happened.

      Previously, he’d been allowed to bring Mia into the library with him while he used the computer to, mostly, download movies onto his phone so he could watch them later that night in his hide-out. Mia had growled at another patron some months earlier and, after the man had complained, Mia was barred. This meant, he had to leave her tied up outside and it was there she’d snapped at the boy who, Terry said, was constantly harassing the dog, throwing stones at and kicking her.

       "I even saw him poke her once in the eye with his finger," he said, which is what he figured the boy was doing again when she bit him on the finger, "a little nip, not even hard enough to draw a single drop of blood." The boy in question frequented the youth centre. Knowing him as I did, there was little doubt in my mind as to whose fault it was that an otherwise sweet dog such as Mia would bite him (and my own opinion on the matter was, and still is, that it damn-well served him right.)

       The short of it was that the boy’s parents began circulating a petition among townsfolk to have the dog put down, a petty act of spite which spoke more to me about how the town’s residents viewed Terry, rather than any danger Mia might have posed to their children.

Ultimately, they’d be unsuccessful in carrying out this threat - a small, perhaps even Pyrrhic, victory at best. But then, if I’ve learned anything from speaking to those among us who are consigned so far onto the margins that they’re no longer even on the page, it’s the small victories which become so dear. 

      And, while I’ll be the first to concede that this is mostly a result of how little hope remains for the larger, paradigm-shifting victories required, if we’re to truly align this country’s actions with its values, such a dire state of affairs makes it, in my mind, even more paramount that I continue to use the privilege conferred upon me by my publisher and by Cannery Row Press to celebrate those small victories and, more so, the Peoples who’ve fought so tenaciously to win them.

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Art

History

Dragon's Blod
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Dragon's Blood

by Randy Eady

The Drachenfels (Dragon's Rock), a thousand-foot hill in the German Siebengebirge overlooking the picturesque Rhine valley, is a place of ancient myth and dragon lore. One of its most famous legends, based on the epic poem The Song of the Nibelung (Nibelungenlied - 12th century), is the tale of its hero Siegfried slaying the dragon Fafnir - that purportedly had its lair in this hill - and bathing in the serpent's blood to become invulnerable.

The ancient poem, based on oral traditions of Germanic myth that have some of their origins in historic events and individuals of the 5th and 6th centuries, spread throughout most of Germanic-speaking Europe.

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Atop the rock rest the ruins of Burg Drachenfels, a 12th century castle destroyed during the Thirty Years' War and never rebuilt, whilst situated lower down the hill is the neo-gothic Schloss Drachenburg (1882).

The Hall at Drachenfels (Niebelungenhalle), about a third of the way up the rock, was created in honour of composer Richard Wagner's The Ring of the Nibelung, an operatic festival play paying musical homage to several characters from Germanic heroic legend, namely Norse sagas and the medieval epic poem The Song of the Nibelung.

The dome, built in 'late Art~Nouveau' style in 1913, contains - amongst other exhibits - a gallery of paintings by the symbolist artist Hermann Hendrich, depicting scenes from Richard Wagner's operas.

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Architect and sculptor Franz-Josef Krings designed the heads of Wotan, Loki (gods), Fasolt and Fafner (giants), Hagen and Siegfried (heroes) with his large, half-relief sculptures in an axisymmetric arrangement. To the left and right of the monolith above the entrance, the corner pillars offer half-reliefs with dwarfs who process the Nibelung gold, two with metal casting, three with an anvil, one holding a sword and ring.

Light artist Wolfgang Flammersfeld has staged Nibelungen Hall and the adjacent Schloss Drachenburg seven times in a "Sea of Light".

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The building's interior was designed by Hans Meier and Werner Behrendt and exhibits Hermann Hendrich's mystical paintings of the four operas Rheingold, Valkyrie, Siegfried and Götterdämmerung. The domed roof reveals sunlit illuminations of the Zodiac.

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The floor inside the pillared hexagon is filled with an idiosyncratic representation of the cosmos: a central disk is enclosed by a large hexagram, through the tips of which the 60-meter-long Midgard snake winds, which, according to the old Norse legend, lives in the ocean and wraps around the world.

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A curtain with a Nordic motif by Art Nouveau designer August Wilckens shows the three Norns on the world ash Yggdrasil spinning the threads of fate. According to Norse mythology, the Norns were divine beings, all women, who ruled over the fate of gods and men. Their names are: Uror (also spelled Urd and Wyrd), Veroandi, and Skuld - believed to be past, present, and future, respectively. Thus they spin the thread of life for each being, measure it, and cut.

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In the apse with the Wagner relief on Drachenfels trachite stone, paintings of the Parsifal Overture can also be viewed. An actual animatronic steel dragon, circa 1920s, with tail wagging, wings flapping (4 meter span) and snapping mouth - typically pulled in village street parades - now stands 'guard' in the hall's artfully-designed inner sanctum.

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Legend has it, the sword Gram was reforged by Weyland the Smith and originally belonged to his father, Sigmund, who received it in the Hall of the Volsung after pulling it out of the trunk of the large oak tree (Barnstokkr) at its center into which Odin had stuck it.

The author imitating Siegfried - armed with Gram from Volsung and his trusty golden retriever Maxi - ready and prepared to enter Fafnir's Lair.

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In Norse mythology and derived tales, Fafnir was originally the son of Hreidmar, king of the dwarves. Being the strongest and most aggressive of three brothers, he was chosen to guard his father's house filled with glittering gold and flashing gems. Fafnir slew his father to obtain the vast amount of gold which Hreidmar had demanded of Odin as a compensation for the loss of one of his sons. Odin gave the gold but put a curse on it. Fafnir turned himself into a dragon in order to guard his treasure and breathed poison onto the land around him, wreaking terror in the hearts of the people.

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Franz Josef Krings created the dragon based on a primeval newt dinosaur from the Triassic, which according to legend was killed by Siegfried. The hero bathed in the serpent's blood and became invulnerable except where a linden leaf fell.

Dragon Cove:  Entry is through a 25 meter long, dimly lit tunnel linking the Museum with the zoological exhibit.

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According to legend, Siegfried tracked Fafnir to his lair by following a trail of the dragon’s enormous footprints sunk deep in the earth.

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Notably, conspicuous fossil trackways of two types of massive dinosaurs were found in Germany. In 1941, the German palaeontologist H. Kirchner speculated that observations of Triassic dinosaur tracks in sandstone near Siegfriedsburg in the Rhine Valley of western Germany might have been the inspiration for the legend about the dragon Fafnir’s footprints.

On a literary side note, much of J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings was also heavily inspired by Northern European mythology. Many parallels can be drawn between Fafnir and Smaug from The Hobbit as well as between Fafnir and Glaurung, the first dragon in Middle Earth. 

Nursing Doubts
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 Short  Fiction

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Nursing Doubts

by Matthew Del Papa

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Looking up from her second cup of midday tea, Hattie MacAndrews smiled as she sat, spine straight, in her favourite kitchen chair, and said, “I think, dearie, that it's time.” 

       “Time?” Wendy asked, chewing a delicious, freshly baked butter tart. Gesturing with the half-eaten pastry, she swallowed and said, “These are good.”

       Folding the napkin used to catch errant crumbs, Hattie nodded. She placed the green cloth on the table and looked across. “One of the neighbour girls brought them over earlier.” 

        “That was nice.” 

        “Oh, they are always doing things like that. She stayed for a while and we had a little chat.”

        Wendy, not wanting the other to see her frown, checked her white blouse for crumbs.         

        “So you, ah, just talked? You didn’t . . . ?” She let the question hang.

     “Well . . .” Hattie hesitated, then answered, “She did ask what I thought of her daughter’s new boyfriend.”

        “I bet she did. And she didn’t pay, right?”

      “No. But she offered. I just couldn’t take anything after she was kind enough to bring me those tarts.”

       “Hattie,” Wendy began, her voice falling into nurse mode, stern with authority. “You shouldn’t let them take advantage of you like that.”

        “Pish,” Hattie answered like only an eighty-plus-year-old could. “I like to help.”

        “I know, but -”

      Voice serious, Hattie interrupted. “There were some things she needed to know about the boy.” The frown that had grown on her face as she spoke turned into an impish smile, “Besides, I won’t have to worry about money for much longer.”

        “Really?” Forgetting her earlier worry, Wendy asked, “Why not, you going to win the lottery?”

      “Yes.” A gentle chime sounded, echoing through the house. Looking over at the massive antique grandfather clock that dominated, tastefully, one parlour wall, Wendy read the time and fell back into her routine, “You have an hour until your pills are due.”

      She received one of those looks that seniors somehow perfect, the one reserved for dealing with those younger and slower than themselves. Wendy had seen that look more than a few times in the three years since she'd quit the hospital and moved into what was supposed to be the semi-retirement of Home Care.

It hadn’t taken her long to learn that the move had been a mistake. Home Care was even more work. Her patients, generally elderly and housebound, were demanding and particular. She spent as much time visiting as nursing. 

       “I’m aware when my medication is due.” Sighing, Hattie added, “I meant what I said. I’m going to win the lotto.”

        The nurse laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “But Hattie, you’ve always been against the lottery.”

      Sipping from the plain china, pinky finger at stiff attention, the elderly woman’s anger cleared only because of years of friendship. It was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Hattie was calm long before she set the cup primly on its saucer. 

     “That is not entirely true,” came the answer and, briefly, Wendy wondered what she had said wrong, but she knew her friend would go on to explain. Hattie was a great one for explanations.

      “What I said was that it was a gamble . . . and I abhor gambling. The lotto preys on the ignorant and weak minded.”

      “Of course,” Wendy was quick to agree. “How silly of me.” She had learned, long ago, to humour Hattie when she was in one of her moods. “So what changed your mind now?”

       “Nothing. Once made up, my mind does not change.”

       “But you just said you want to play.”

       “No. I believe I said that I was going to win.”

      In any of her other patients Wendy would have taken that with a grain of salt, even assumed that they were off their meds. But not with Hattie MacAndrews. No, from her the long time nurse accepted it, saying only, “Alright,” and eyeing another tart.

 

Hattie often came up with strange notions . . . and when she did, she was always right. Which was why those who knew her had stopped doubting her long ago. Now they just went with it. Sooner or later, things would work out just like the old girl had predicted.

       For her part, Hattie just nodded, knowing her nurse’s acceptance was a given, and slowly climbed to her feet. Using her hospital-issue cane, the aluminum meticulously polished, to pull herself up, she paused long enough to smooth her skirt and walked with surprisingly nimble steps to the oak cupboard where she always hid her purse. “I’ll give you this. And no arguing.” She reached in and drew out a ten-dollar bill, “For the ticket and gas.”

      Wendy didn’t say anything when handed the neatly folded bill. She didn’t expect money for gas; doing favours went with the job.

       Hattie didn’t care. She refused to accept people’s charity. She didn’t take to arguing either.

      From her pink fanny pack came the ever-present notebook. She carried it everywhere and wrote little reminders to herself, explaining, “The old mind ain’t what it used to be,” which Wendy found unsettling because she had never known Hattie to ever forget anything. The nurse suspected her friend had a photographic memory and often wondered what Hattie’d been like fifty years ago.

The brown leather cover was flipped back and Hattie jotted down a series of numbers with the stub of a pencil found on a nearby shelf, frowning all the while. She never used a pen, just a number four pencil. She had spares tucked away throughout the house - not because she lost them, but to always keep a sharp one near at hand. Wendy knew about the pencils because she was asked to sharpen them every other day.

     Ripping off the page with practised ease, Hattie gave it to her friend, saying, “Well, better get going,” with her usual impatience. Wendy didn’t mind the abruptness. Hattie treated everyone that way. She carefully folded the note around the money, stood up and, grabbing her purse - an oversized affair that accumulated junk at a miraculous rate - tucked the numbers and money inside before walking to the door.

       She didn’t bother with the tea set. It would still be there on the polished coffee table waiting to be put away when she came back on her evening rounds.

       “Oh, and dearie,” Hattie called as she neared the door. “Thank you.”

      Wendy smiled and nodded. Slipping into her white nurse’s shoes, the soles nearly worn through from running errands for her patients, she opened the glass door. Marvelling, as she always did, at the beautiful, smoked glass, spotless except for a small and elegant bit of writing at eye level.

        ‘Hattie MacAndrews,’ it read, ‘Psychic Extraordinairre’.

       Pulling the door closed gently so as not to rattle the glass, Wendy marched down the three steps to the sidewalk and then toward her waiting car. She laughed as she remembered how often she had walked by that discrete sign before working up the nerve to mention the misspelling.

 

Hattie had smiled at the news. “Caught that, did you? It’s one of my little tests. How people point the mistake out tells me a lot about them. You waited and tried to be gentle. Kind people do that. I like kind people.”

        In truth Hattie liked everybody and everybody liked her. Mostly.

      The entire neighbourhood knew Hattie, or knew of her anyway, and Wendy, being her long-time nurse, was almost as well known. It had taken a while to get used to. She had never had a celebrity for a patient before . . . and still didn’t according to Hattie.

      “It’s all silliness,” she’d say when people mentioned her impressive reputation. “I’m nothing but a fraud. And an old fraud at that.”

       Hattie would be the first to tell you that she didn’t have any powers - psychic or otherwise. When she had first met Hattie years ago, Wendy had believed her. Now? She wasn’t quite so sure. Whenever ‘Miss Hattie’ was mentioned in her vicinity, Wendy’s ears perked up, but all she ever heard was hushed praise. Every person to ever have a ‘visit’ with Hattie left awed.

No other psychic she’d ever heard of worked like Hattie. She didn’t put on a big fancy show. No crystal ball or tarot cards. She invited people in for a visit, offered them a cup of tea and never looked at the leaves. Instead she chatted, just friendly small talk - ranging from the weather to politics.

    “I cannot abide all that silliness,” she’d say to anyone who looked at her plain, neat kitchen, searching for mystical symbols. And, despite her strange attitude towards the supernatural, or maybe because of it, hundreds of rumours floated around about her, crediting her with feats that would have made David Copperfield envious.

 

Arriving at the convenience store, the rushed nurse climbed from her aging, blue Intrepid and went inside. The air conditioning was working overtime and the cold air hit her like a wall. She pushed through it on her way to the counter and waited while a young woman, wearing too-tight jeans, paid for some magazines. Then Wendy stepped forward and smiled.   

   “One lottery ticket, please.” She dug in her purse and, after rummaging, found the note and the money.

       “Numbers?” the bored teenager behind the counter asked, looking awkward in his rumpled store vest. 

      “One second . . .” She unfolded the note and read off, “Three, Six, Twenty-two, Twenty-eight, Forty, and . . . ” Wendy paused. “Darn! I can’t read the last number. Forty-seven or Forty-nine?” Holding the paper toward the teen, she asked, “What do you think?”

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        He looked at it and shrugged, “I can’t read your handwriting either.”   

      “It’s not my writing,” she answered, squinting at the small numbers. Hattie’s normally neat hand was little more than scribbles. Her arthritis must be bothering her, she thought, sympathy competing with her growing frustration at trying to decipher the number. Flustered under the clerk’s indifferent stare and falling further behind her schedule with every passing second, Wendy came to a sudden decision.

    “Darn!” she muttered again, hoping she made the right choice as she paid the kid, waiting impatiently for the machine to finish printing.

     “Thank you,” she smiled politely, a hint of sarcasm in her voice - a habit learned from Hattie. Nobody could make common courtesy cut like Hattie MacAndrews. The teen didn’t catch the edge. He’d already forgotten Wendy existed.

 

That evening, as she made her rounds to check that her various patients were faithfully sticking to their prescriptions, Wendy was careful to time her arrival at Hattie’s brownstone home. She wanted to be there to watch the lottery drawing.

       “Come on in, come in,” Hattie urged as she opened the door and waved the nurse into the parlour. “Sit,” she ordered, as she moved to uncover the television. She usually kept it hidden, saying, “A television is a necessary evil, but I don’t need to stare at the bloody thing all day.”

Sitting in her overstuffed chair, Hattie picked up the remote and jabbed at the ‘On’ button with more than her usual awkwardness. Wendy noticed the swollen knuckles and confirmed her earlier diagnosis.

     “Would you like your ticket?” Wendy asked, reaching into her purse and starting to search, only to have Hattie stop her with a dismissive wave.

       “Don’t worry about that. I know you’ll take care of it.” With that the two settled back into their seats and waited. The silky-voiced announcer came on, working hard to make the bouncing of marked Ping-Pong balls sound exciting. A tarted-up blonde slunk onto the stage, her barely-there dress sparkling under the studio lights as she pushed the big red button with a perfectly manicured hand and a plasticine smile.

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The white spheres began to fall into the chute. The announcer, voice hushed, said, “Here we go,” and began reading the numbers as each ball came to a stop. “Three. Six. Twenty-two. Twenty-eight. Forty.” Sitting through it all with her mouth gaping open, jaw falling lower with each number, Wendy watched with stunned awe. Polished voice rising with excitement at the calling of every number, the announcer read the last, “And Forty-seven.”

       Scrambling to think of something to say, Wendy was at a complete loss. She sat on the couch and stared at the television in disbelief.

       “Well, there you go,” Hattie said, once the draw was over, her attitude no different than if she were announcing the tea was ready. Then she turned to her friend with a smile, “I’d suggest, you get those tickets cashed. Before you lose them.”

      Reaching into her purse, Wendy pulled out the two tickets she had bought. They were identical except for the last number. One was Forty-seven and the other Forty-nine. 

        “How . . . ” she began, but Hattie wasn’t in the mood.

      “You can keep the big winner,” she offered, ignoring the unspoken question. Wendy didn’t press. “Think of it as a tip for cashing the other.”

       “You don’t want it?”

       “Oh dear, no!” she laughed. “There are already too many people wanting to see me now, everyone expecting a miracle because of those foolish rumours. Imagine if a psychic showed up to claim the lotto? I’d never live it down.” She shuddered at the idea. “Now, how about a nice cup of tea?”

     There wasn’t much that Wendy was certain of right then, having just witnessed something that should have been impossible. But she was pretty sure of one thing: that there was no way Hattie would let money change her. Nothing ever would.

       It was a reassuring thought.

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In the Woods (Tanja Rabe)

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Mental

Health

On Psych Ward Privileges

by Rebecca Kramer

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Having been subjected to the system of earning so-called institutional privileges numerous times over the years, I will explain to the uninitiated the procedures a patient with a mental illness has to progress through in a psychiatric institution - from complete lockup to complete freedom.

       Complete lockup means that a patient for days, weeks, months on end or, in some severe cases, even for years cannot leave the psych ward to simply go outside for a breath of fresh air. When a psychiatrist starts a patient’s privileges, that person may exit the ward to walk within the hospital for about two fifteen-minute periods every day. If that patient promptly returns to the ward regularly on time, their privileges continue to expand.
       Fifteen minutes can turn to half hours, to hours and then to entire weekends spent at home. Walking inside the hospital will turn into walking on hospital grounds, to taking bus trips downtown, to bus trips home and back.
       Though there appears to be steady progress, the constant release-from and return-to locked doors can be wearing on a person’s spirit. Ultimately, a patient who has re-entered the ward on time at the end of a very long list of successful privileges earns the right to a release date. On that blessed day, they are finally free to go home. After that, any mandatory appointments will continue as outpatient visits with their psychiatrist or counsellor.

 

How Privileges are Lost
 

Psychiatrists offer two reasons for following this system of privileges; the first proves competent time management - as in punctuality - and the second serves to demonstrate an ability to maintain good behaviour. These next two stories show how 'bad' behaviour can be a reason for loss of privileges. And, when you have lost your privileges, you must start right back at the beginning again.
 

In front of a BC hospital entrance, a large garden had been created and among the winding paths and beside fountains and trees, there stood an old piano. I was strongly warned by my psychiatrist that playing the piano would only aggravate my illness. And that if I was caught playing, I would lose all of my privileges. 

      I thought, perplexed, “Playing the piano will make me sicker? How ridiculous is that? I know it will only do the opposite for me! I need to play.” And so I marched right up to that old piano and sat down to fill the air with music. Within the first few notes, as always, I felt joy, calm, peace and tranquillity, though also a whole lot of anger at the risk I was knowingly taking. People smiled at me, and I smiled back. Sure enough, who should come storming through the garden but my psychiatrist. He marched me straight back onto the ward and said, “You have just lost all your privileges.”

Stuck indoors for another few weeks while the beautiful summer breeze was entirely denied me, I pondered, “Really? Playing a musical instrument is bad for your health? Wow, do I ever have a huge job laid out before me when, and if, I ever escape from under this treacherous mental healthcare rain cloud. In my lifetime, I must tear down this bizarre notion that creating beautiful sounds is somehow deserving of a complete loss of human rights and freedom."

 

I don’t have words to describe just how furious I feel at the psychiatric scientist who set this discriminatory idea into motion: that music threatens good health and sound deprivation must be enforced amongst patients; thus, total silence should be maintained to cure mental illness. This researcher should be shot through the foot, which is exactly how I felt the day the locks clanked thunderously behind me as punishment for letting my fingers gently touch those wonderful black and white keys.

       Playing music is not like robbing a bank which is obviously a criminal act deserving incarceration. No! Music is a healer: perhaps the greatest healer of all! Since playing music has been against the rules and punishable in Canadian psychiatric institutions, are we not driving ourselves back 1000 years into the throngs of the Dark Ages? This being the case, I must be a Renaissance woman, an enlightened thinker, and do whatever it takes to smash this violation of musicians’ human rights!

This next story is a perfect example of how psychiatrists base all their decisions concerning their patients only on assumptions of the most incriminating kind. And these assumptions are non-negotiable. You have no say. They have supreme authority. And their opinion is heavily documented as an accurate assessment of your mental condition.

      A few months later, after the incident and having just earned some freedom of movement again, the same psychiatrist called me into his office to inform me, “You have once again lost your privileges.”

       I asked him, aghast, “For what? What did I do this time?” He answered, “I saw you making snow angels in the hospital's entrance way.”
        “Snow angels?” I uttered, confused.
       

        “Yes, I saw you in your white dress lying on the floor making snow angels,” he said aloofly.

I took a moment to think about his accusation and remembered that I had been wearing my white dress while sitting on a bench and talking to another patient

       I tried to explained to him, “I was telling my friend, how my dad used to let the five of us kids wrestle him off the couch and onto the living room floor after supper every night. That’s what I was demonstrating to my friend. That’s why I was on the floor. Doctor, I was not making snow angels!”

       Yet he coldly insisted, “Yes, you were making snow angels. I know what I saw!”   

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       I thought, “You know what you saw? If this shows how psychiatric professionals base their decisions on wrongful assumptions, then just how many far-fetched and ridiculous stories must be written about me in all of those binders stacked in your office?” I shuddered, “Are they just making up dirt on me to keep me under their thumbs for as long as they can, to pad their wallets for their extravagant lifestyles? Most likely! And I can’t do anything about it. Or can I? If so, what?”

Pros and Cons of the Hospital Privilege System

Examination of different debating styles:
        A debate between two people is quite easy to produce: both sides argue their opposing sides of a topic like two pit bulls mangling a stuffed toy between them until it tears apart and stuffing flies everywhere like during a mad pillow fight. No one wins an obstinate debate between two parties.
     But a debate, carried out within the mind of one, single person, demands a keen ability to think themselves into two roles - representing either side of an argument - whilst allowing their passions to become undeniably felt, their logic to be articulately sound, and their familiarity with the details of either side to be exhaustive before presenting their findings. So, w
hen the validity of both pros and cons has been established, a sense of equilibrium is produced: both for the single debater, and for their observers. A single debater of two sides wins a debate because they have achieved an objective understanding of a topic at large.

 

Cons of the Hospital Privilege System
 

Obedience to privileges by proving punctuality and a show of good behaviour does little for a patient’s ability to learn about and understand their illness. If the patterns and cycles of an illness are not understood, then it will just repeat itself over and over again, indefinitely. The only desirable reason a patient is given to prove their obedience to privileges is that it will earn them their freedom. Yet, rather than making freedom the final goal, it is awareness of how to cope with a mental illness that should be the desired outcome.
       
Follow me out on an idealistic limb here. The pursuit of freedom in an institution always starts with patients in a lockdown situation. What if the whole system were to suddenly shift and psych patients were no longer locked down? The privilege system would be rendered passé. Then mental health professionals would become teachers of coping strategies rather than policing patients’ privileges.
     
If the system is left standing as it is, in one hospitalization after another, patients can expect the privilege cycle to repeat itself over and over again, and their pursuit of freedom will become so habitually ingrained that this coercive system will ‘appear’ as though it is working though it works only to trap and watch people ‘ass-kissing’ their way back to freedom! I don’t want to have any part in this uselessly-designed institutional system; nor should anyone else for that matter!

 

Pros of the Hospital Privilege System
 

Many years into my illness, I finally uncovered a useful purpose for the system of hospital privileges, especially for those who have bipolar disorder as I do. Often, those of us with bipolar have dreams which appear grandiose to psychiatric professionals; for we can easily envision where we want to be far in the distance, but something is amiss in our ability to take the many steps needed to reach our destination.
     
   Ever-increasing privileges towards release from an institutional setting can alert our attention towards the importance of learning how to break down our projected journeys by taking daily practical steps towards achieving our goals. These goals can begin with basic skills like finding a suitable apartment, learning how to budget our money and how to take care of ourselves on a daily basis. Most importantly, invasive psychiatric interference should no longer be required when a highly functional person with a mental illness has proven that they can manage by themselves in every practical way, beyond obedience to a coercive system.

From this positive perspective, I have gained an incredible handle on my own bipolar illness and I daily celebrate my doable work. My collection of Intellectual Property is being sent out into the world, through snail-mail and over the internet. There is life on the other side of a coercive system. I have proven that self-knowledge and daily planning skills have brought me true freedom.

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Musical

Interlude

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west coast wonder
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West Coast Wonder

by Rebecca Kramer

A spotlight shines from farewell sun through heavy longing sky
A ray intensely warm enough resists the will to die
I came to find what can’t be found - the reasoning of my brother
Why did he choose this place to die above yet any other?

 

Why did he choose to die at all a man so young in age?
Did he not see this spotlight fall too filled was he with rage?
Like Romeo and Juliet who disillusioned fought
With senseless wasting warring worlds wherein they both were caught

 

So too my brother may have seen the world through vengeful spite
By accident avenged himself into the bitter night
Oh tragedy of youth not learned to master yet the skill
Of making peace with warring worlds that war regardless still

 

A cold wind sweeps the ferry-deck I shudder deep within
Which chills me more I do not know . . . the wind or family pain?
Amusement takes me elsewhere now - a west coast wonder rush
I see a herd of dinosaurs - the islands in the dusk

 

They watch the spotlight’s delicate gold glitter strewn across
The rippling water shimmers where lost ferry dust was tossed
A haunting silver sheen reflects gold driven tinsel cloud
The palest ghostly glow from sky to water moves around

 

An ominous eyelid widely blinks attempting to remove
A speck of dust caught miserably when found must be reproved
My own eyes live with specks caught fast which frustrate all I see
And still the water sky and land design to comfort me

 

I do not understand this quest this journey bittersweet
The darkest pangs have lifted there . . . I walk . . . with lighter feet.

the crush
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Creative

 Non 

Fiction

The Crush

by Tanja Rabe

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How many hours has she spent sitting in her little box over the last few years, watching the city flow back and forth outside the theater?

       "Way, way too many." she sighs as her view glides over the lobby's red brick wall, "More hours than there are of you." she tells the bricks. "But you've been here even longer." she concedes, "How can you stand it?"

      Mona's eyes latch onto the neon sign outside that spills its red current over the wet pavement in a mesmerizing rhythm, trying to let her mind go blank, trying hard not to fill the empty space with thoughts that so easily go astray. Before she has a chance to though, one of the large entrance doors opens and calls her back to attention, street noise shortly filling the silence around her, a silence that includes the subdued chatter of a TV screen up the flight of stairs at her back.

     She hardly notices its presence anymore, though she's grateful for the background noise during pauses in conversation with guests who sometimes linger at the box office, idly studying the marquee or waiting for friends. She isn't particularly fond of making small talk, isn't interested in reading newspapers and absorbing the trending bits of information that keep a chat flowing.

       

There is the weather, of course. In Vancouver, you could always talk about the rain or the pleasant surprise at sunshine creeping in through the blinds in the morning, conveniently overlooking the fact that the city wouldn't be what it was without those frequent downpours sustaining the area's luscious, temperate Rainforest. And with it, naturally, a flow of full wallets ready to pay for a last look at untouched greenery before it succumbed to the ravages of the chainsaw.

       Last summer, she and her boyfriend had taken their bikes out to Long Beach on the West Coast of Vancouver Island, marvelled at the sight of huge swaths of mist rising out of the ocean, the dense fog obscuring the view for miles down the beach as it slowly travelled towards the coast's wilderness, forming a thick ceiling over the island's Old Growth. After the first three days of sunshine and exploration, they'd found themselves washed out of their tent one morning and had to flee back east towards lighter cloud cover, grateful nonetheless for the short glimpse into a natural phenomenon.

Since then, she's been hesitant to join in the usual laments during rain periods, answering customers' grievances with a contemplative nod or some nondescript mumble. She could have talked about movies, that was her job, but she never seemed to say what people wanted to hear. "You're too critical," were their usual complaints. "Just give me something fun." She'd shrug and send them to a film that Siskel and Ebert had given their two-thumbs-up.

       

The last guy she sold a ticket to gave her a funny look. Is her disinterest a bit too obvious? Somehow she doesn't have the energy to put on a cheerful face today, hasn't been able to control her mood swings for a few months now, not since . . .

       "Nah, it must be the weather," she tells herself. She's been waking up to the sound of rain for at least a week now, the world outside wrapped in perpetual gray as she sips her morning coffee by the window.

    She's felt a strain on her eyes lately, a nervous twitch plaguing the left side of her face as soon as she gets up in the morning. Maybe the two mugs of coffee are to blame, with more to follow over the day, or the five cigarettes that go with them before she has to leave for work. Maybe she's been reading too many books . . . but what did it really matter. Those have been her reasons for getting out of bed in the morning, the pleasant ones anyway, just as some guys liked to get a start with a rubdown in the shower before the bright light of day put the monkey on their backs again.

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Bad habits or not, she knows she lacks the willpower to change her routine for now, so she keeps a book waiting on the table every morning, already anxiously planning her next trip to the library after work as she reaches the last hundred pages.

      "I'll get through this, who needs a shrink. What could they possibly care. I might as well blabber at the bricks here," she grumbles gloomily as she sinks another twenty dollar bill into the drop box, pushing the lever down so hard, the angry sound of metal bangs like a gunshot through the lobby.

      "If he would just listen once in a while, that's all I need. It's not only my problem. Does he think it was a piece of cake?" it rambles through her mind.

      She's aware that her speech still gets severely affected by her down moods. After a few hours on the job, her face is tense from smiling and repeating the standard lines to the slow trickle of guests passing by her counter, her English slightly off with her accent more pronounced. She's been told it sounded cute.

       "Cute . . . right! I sound just like that drunk at the bar the other night," she smirks. She'd thought he had the same accent as the German tourists coming into the theater, but he'd turned out born and bred Canadian, just pissed out of his brains.

"Do I sound like that when I'm sober?" she shakes her head. Maybe a sign would help: Language barrier ahead. Proceed with caution! 

       Grimly, she feels a wave of anxiety washing over her, that familiar fear of not belonging, of not fitting the mold. An unpleasant relic from her childhood days, the shame at strangers mistaking her for a young boy still resurfaces at times. Getting haircuts from her mother certainly didn't make her look more like those models posing in the fashion magazines stacked on their bathroom floor. For a while she'd even attached one of those images to her pin board, the picture of a slender girl with short, blond hair and a pixie's smile on her pretty face, hoping it would be an inspiration to keep up on diets and exercise that her body seemed to defy so stubbornly during puberty.

       She'd felt awkward when breasts began to show under her tight, hand-me-down sweaters, afraid of the boys' rude comments and grabs in the school yard, stalking her even during sleep. Some mornings, the fear of facing those bullies would make her feel sick to her stomach, her face turning pale enough that her mother would keep her home from school for the day.

       

She remembers a poem she wrote a while back:

 

Ugly Duckling (Revisited)

 

I looked at her,

hate in my heart, dark thoughts, contempt.

After all those years still the old pain,

my little girl inside helpless and ugly.

 

You're so beautiful, grade A,

praises my lover.

Can't he see that I die with envy

when a pretty face walks by?

The ugly duckling's turned into a swan,

yet she never truly left

the old duck's clan.

 

Even though she knows that her body has turned out in her favour, sometimes it seems her head is still stuck in the past. Especially these past few months. Things were supposed to get better, once the hormones got back to normal, they'd said, but when was that going to be?

       "Patience," the doctor had told her, "take it easy, give it some time."

       "Talk is cheap," she mutters. "How do you take it easy? Just how?"

The self-help books are cluttering up the coffee table, she clings to them as to a life raft on rough seas, always close to drowning in those waves of angst that wash over her every time she can't distract her head from brooding. Has she even been getting paranoid lately? Hard to tell. Her eyes keep seeing him pay too much attention to other women, they've been fighting a lot and, when they aren't, his thoughts seem far away. "On some chick," she accuses bitterly. Even during the times they have sex, she suspects he's somewhere else in his mind.

      She's starting to see lines on her face - new, bitter lines. A panic will seize her to get out, to leave him, to make a clean break and start all over. She longs to laugh again, a laughter chasing away all the gloom, whirling off into  blue skies . . .

 

"Blue skies, yeah right!" she sighs as the drumming of heavy rainfall on the building's glass awning cuts into her thoughts. She feels a draft of cool, moist air on her face as the lobby shortly fills with the sounds of street life - a bus rumbling past, the strumming of a guitar, shouts and chatter, then silence as the front door slams shut, again only the patter of rain and the TV trailers.

      She turns her eyes towards the figure stepping towards the counter, almost glad for the intrusion. And she freezes up in disbelief. Desperately, she fights to regain her composure. "It's just a customer," her frazzled mind murmurs, "get a grip."

       Mona tries hard not to stare at the girl approaching the box office, her heart drumming so loudly in her ears, she's afraid it can't help but break the sound barrier of her chest. "She can't be real, you made her up!" it whispers in her ear. Yet the voice can't dispel the memory, the link between her nighttime fantasy some months ago and the object of it having materialized right in front of her, close enough to touch.

     

It was during one of those icy periods in her relationship with Chris that her mind had graced her with a dream which left her afloat with wonder for days. She'd recall its comfort frequently, just like some pleasant memory that flickers again through one's mind when years have passed, triggered by a scent, a fragment of some tune, the pitch in a stranger's voice or a shadow fooling the eye with desire's brush painting the canvas.

       During the dream, she'd found herself in a beautiful, old mansion filled with the noise and laughter of a festive get-together. Although she couldn't recognize a single person, there was no doubt they were all family, warm hugs and a drink passing quickly her way. 

An older, gray-haired woman had pulled her aside, muttering with a secretive smile that she had a surprise for Mona. "We've taken care of everything," she'd added, pointing across the room. "What do you think?" Mona's eyes followed her hand and settled on a young woman. She was quite slender, short blond hair framing delicate features, her expression sincere, warm and a little mischievous. Mona breathed a sigh of relief - she had finally found her. The elderly woman took her hand and moved her along to introduce them. Her bride-to-be smiled, brushed a kiss on her cheek and whispered, "I've been waiting for you." The girl put her arm around Mona's waist and together they walked out into a gorgeous garden that stretched to the edge of a cliff - with the rest of the party following behind.

        Hand in hand, they climbed down a steep set of stairs hewn into the rock face as the others stay up on top, singing and clapping in the manner of a gospel choir. The girl led Mona across a wide beach and out into the ocean until its waters covered their shoulders. They kissed holding each other close, the sea cradling their bodies in its gentle rhythm . . .

Mona awoke to a ray of sunshine on her face, frowning at the rude intrusion of reality. Her body still tingled in memory of their kiss and, pressing her eyes shut against the light, she tried to continue their bodies' rendezvous, yearning to drift back into the fantasy. But she couldn't beat the light. The girl's image grew fainter the harder she tried to call her back and with it faded the pleasant tingle, leaving only a desire unquenchable and frustrating for the time being. A hot shower and a cup of coffee her only consolation. And a book waiting on the table.

With great effort she presses the obligatory greeting from her throat, sounding painfully off-tone to herself.

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      "Hi there, how are you?" Mona stammers as she meets the girl's eyes. Something pulls hard inside and she has to avert her gaze, afraid her guest might catch on. Mona's view glides over the girl's hand on the counter, displaying a thumbnail chewed crudely right down to the bed. "She bites her nails, too." She breathes a bit easier at the sight of their shared weakness and ventures a glance back at the other's face.

     "Hello. I think I'll have a ticket to Titanic," the girl answers, staring at the poster line-up above the entrance, a slight frown on her fine-boned features. Her voice is soft and low, flowing slowly down Mona's spine who feels the blood rise into her cheeks, her heart dancing in her chest.

She forces her focus onto the till and punches up the ticket, routine guiding her hand smoothly over its keys.

     "Her hair," she marvels, "the same as I dreamed it, cropped short but for a strand along her left temple . . ." The girl has asked a question, cutting through her mind's drift. Pretending to ponder an answer, Mona searches her memory for imprints of the other's voice, engaging a mental replay. Aah, a good restaurant in the area. Routine the saviour again as she points across Granville Street at the Japanese place, a staff favourite.

      "Their food is excellent and they’ll speed up service if you let them know you're catching a show," she volunteers, trying to please. The girl smiles, considering, and doesn't speak for a few seconds, eons it seems. She glances at Mona who fancies catching an amused glint in her eyes.

      "Whiskey and snakes in the belly," it turns in Mona's head. "Does it show?" She feels clumsy under the girl's gaze, under her scrutiny, she imagines. "I must look tired from sitting here all afternoon, stupid period as well . . . today of all days," it beats through her head. She turns her face away from the girl, feigning interest in the street life milling back and forth outside the theater.

        "Actually, are there any Mexican places close by?" comes the girl's voice through the jumble.

      "Sorry, not on this stretch," she replies, her smile feeling like a grimace distorting her face. "But if you go down Robson a few blocks, hmm, yeah, there should be a couple."

        "Great, thanks a bunch," she beams at Mona whose stomach once again turns somersaults.

        "Oh, no problem," she tries to answer casually. "Hope you'll enjoy your movie."

        "Yeah, same here. See you later," and the girl winks back her way as she heads for the doors.

        Mona watches her leave, finally able to let her eyes wander freely, if only along her back and a bit of profile as she struggles with the heavy door trying not to get her backpack caught as it slams shut with its usual killerspeed. She's wearing baggy, green army-style pants and a simple, black T-shirt, plus a pair of steel-toed boots and, from what Mona's picked up during her time in Vancouver, she gets the impression the girl might be gay.

     "Besides wishful thinking," she smirks to herself. For a few months now, she's been a bit confused about her feelings, her curiosity mostly revealing itself in the occasional dream or daytime fantasy at the sight of attractive tomboys that seem to pop up everywhere around her lately.

Her best friend, Erin, would often indulge her with stories of her own same-sexcapades over a cup of Java and indirectly offer herself as a willing accomplice should Mona ever feel the desire to try a 'girl on girl ' encounter.

      Sometimes, they'd flirt openly over a pitcher of beer at their dance club, frequently foregone by a cold front at home that left Mona disgusted with shedding any more tears over a relationship turning sour. Erin was always quick to point out any girl casting an inviting smile her friend's way through the pulsing mayhem on the dance floor. Mona would reproach her jokingly for flattering a sore ego, suspicious that Erin was preparing her already-weak flesh for a meal between her own sheets. Yet she knew her friend was right, had seen looks thrown her way, knew she was dressed the part in a dykish sort-of-fashion that invited an approach, so she had to pretend disinterest when looks grew more intense beyond a playful back and forth.

       Only once had she let it slip a tad.

     

The girl had been a petite butch with short-spiked, black hair, a tight man's undershirt and smooth-fitting suspenders suggesting breasts that need barely bother with a bra. Mona had watched her as she bent over the pool table, tense and focused, the mock expression of a pool shark on her face, a cigarette dangling casually from the corner of her mouth while she calculated her shot, a slow grin following the ball's straight path into the pocket. One hand hooked on her suspenders, she'd blown perfect smoke rings into the already dense air.

      She had cast Mona the occasional cat-eye, measuring her up, and Mona had held her gaze longer than she usually dared to, returning the challenge. The girl responded with a suave grin and Mona let a faint smile play on her lips, not giving too much, keeping her hanging a bit.       

     After finishing their pitcher of beer though, Erin had pulled her onto the dance floor so that, for a while, the girl's figure disappeared into the background of swaying bodies around them. She didn't cross Mona's mind again until the lights called an end to the night, drunken, pale faces blinking under their bright glare, and she'd stumbled arm in arm with Erin into the merciful twilight of the front lobby.

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The 'pool shark' had been leaning against the coat check, nonchalantly watching the crowd as they edged past her, waiting for her things to be retrieved from the backroom. Mona stepped closer in passing, invited by the smile on the other's lips, and felt the girl's hand brush lightly against her naked arm, a warm tingle painting the spot.

      "See you later," the girl's husky voice swam through the humdrum of people and she glanced with a slight frown at Erin.

    "Yeah, see you around." Mona smiled back. The spell broke as her friend pulled her along, arm around her shoulders, pushing her out through the front doors into the dim lights of Davie Street.

       "See, I told you," Erin grinned triumphantly, "you've made a catch."

       "So what?" she shrugged more casually than she felt. "Just fooling around, you know." Encouraged by the encounter, Erin gave her a slow kiss. Then they'd parted, her friend heading for the bus stop, she in the opposite direction towards Stanley Park, her mind buzzing with mixed feelings as she zigzagged on home through the quiet West End neighbourhood.

     

Even though she'd been attracted to the short dyke, to her tight, bronzed body and her cool act, she still felt like a fraud, having nothing to show in experience but some exploratory games with a friend during childhood and a bit of playful messing around with Erin. Was she just feeling neglected by her boyfriend's frequent nights out with his buddies or had the attraction been real?

      Contemplating the arctic mood that would likely greet her at home, she let her thoughts drift back to the girl at the bar, creating another, more intimate rendezvous in her mind, somewhat aware that nothing was really going to come of it. She'd foolishly promised Erin she'd be the first to initiate Mona into the pleasures of female sex - if it came down to that - and, a couple of weeks later, they'd actually given it a try at Erin's flat, with candles and a bottle of red wine setting the mood. 

       The experiment had failed before anything could really happen, though. Was it simply that she hadn't been sexually attracted to her friend, or maybe the whole thing was truly not her cup of tea and just the fantasy of a bitter breeder? Sadly, their relationship had taken a dive. Get-togethers with Erin became less and less frequent and lacked the closeness they'd once shared. The 'pool shark' still dropped into the theatre for a show once in a while, but the moment was lost and, with it, the desire. Mona resigned herself to bury the whole affair in her closet of past mishaps and, after mulling things over in her mind for a while, decided it was high time she turned her attention back to the homefront again. Something just had to give or they weren't going to last much longer either.

When she'd started going out with Chris, he'd assumed she might want to let loose a bit, what with the break-up of a marriage behind her and an image that easily raised those expectations. Maybe he'd felt the need for a bit of fun himself, having just gotten out of a disastrous relation with a kid attached that his ex-girlfriend refused to let him visit.

      "Don't put me in that role," she'd implored him silently. "I didn't leave my ex for that." Couldn't he see that he was all the adventure she needed? She wasn't looking for a distraction, she wanted a relationship where she could truly be herself again. He'd been interested in what she had to say and she'd seen a light in his eyes when he'd looked at her, thought they shared a passion for the same things in life.

 

She knew he was considered an angry, young hothead with resentments enough to build a minor mountain. There was his spiteful ex and her incessant verbal abuse gracing their answering machine, his father who, way back, had given up all interest in his own children, the poverty that never gave a break, a system that didn't give a shit. And he missed his kid. So much for baggage.

      When the novelty had drained out of their relationship after the first year, routine kicked in and his interest seemed to slack off. And after she was through with blaming him, she'd ended up finding fault with herself and grew more and more afraid that he might get the same idea.

       She knew he cared enough, deep down beyond his anger, which was why she kept sticking around - give a chance in case she got it all wrong. Hoping for dear life she wasn't wasting her precious time. She wanted a kid some day and she liked his scent and brains, his often painfully trusting honesty. Material worth getting her hands dirty with . . . or so she hoped.

       Too much fumbling around in the dark left her exhausted and all those books just seemed to throw up more questions instead of getting her closer to figuring anything out.

 

"And now even Erin has given up on me," Mona thinks bitterly. "Is it because I haven't broken up with him?" That had been her friend's solution to Mona's misery.

        "Dump the jerk! You can have anybody." Erin would hint.

       She did tell herself that often enough when she needed to, but hearing it from her friend just made her cringe, sank a dark pit into her stomach. And she'd see his eyes in front of her, the soft and lingering gaze, once there whenever he'd looked at her, now so rare it would draw an ironic smirk from her in answer, her desire hidden behind a thicket of doubt.

       "One day you'll know that I love you," he'd whispered one night in bed, after an argument that had left her in tears and flinch from his touch.

        "He's crazy about you," his best friend told her at a party, not long ago.

        "He's got a good heart, underneath all that anger," an older friend comforted her.

Had she become blind to things that seemed so obvious to others? Did she need too much right now, after the loss, after what she had to do for both of them? But there had been no other way, they both knew that. She couldn't resent him for having to support a child already and the emotional baggage that came along for the ride. This hadn't been the right time. Would there ever be a right time, though? She was almost thirty and her body had seemed so content with the life growing inside her, she felt like having violated something that was hard to justify.

     "Why does he always act as if it never happened? He must be feeling something about the whole, sorry affair. Men, dammit!" she'd curse silently.

 

Her dream girl's film started a few minutes ago but Mona didn't notice her passing by the box-office, small crowds flowing in and out of the building demanding her attention every so often. Their questions regular fare, Mona's answers and motions executed like a sleepwalker's.

      "I must have missed her," she frowns to herself, the customer next-in-line casting her an annoyed glance as he grabs his ticket and moves on hastily.

       "Enjoy your show!" she calls sarcastically after him.

      The remainder of her shift passes uneventfully, tiredness gracing her eyes with dark circles as the end draws within reach. The ship's finally sunk, DiCaprio lays buried in his watery grave once again and, watching the audience leave through the front doors, she scans their backs for what she recalls of the girl's: black, green, black, with a touch of sunshine. No sign and Mona is disappointed and relieved at the same time.     

As she steps out of the movie theatre and onto the hectic downtown sidewalk, the air fresh after the rains and brilliant with the sun's rays parting the clouds, she feels a little more herself out of the ungainly uniform and dressed her own style - Docs, cut-off jeans and a black vest still appropriate for a warm, late-summer's eve. She runs her gaze unobtrusively up and down Granville Street, anxiously hoping for and dreading an accidental encounter. But all stays safe and, as she turns the corner away from the busy section and into the shady West End neighbourhood, her body finally lets go of its tense grip on her breath. She heaves a deep sigh, puts on her shades, lights a smoke and lets her boots carry her on home.

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Winter Dusk (Tanja Rabe)

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Speech

Review

A Declaration On The Essential Role Of Artists and Creative Expression In Canada

by Senator Patricia Bovey

 

 Review by John Jantunen

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Like many people during the pandemic, I spent quite a lot of time attending a host of zoom events. In the early days of the lockdown, there was a fair amount of rhetoric regarding how Covid provided irrefutable proof - if we could possibly need any more - of the often harsh and systemic inequities experienced by those of us consigned to the lower echelons. "Build back better" became a rallying cry echoing from all manner of arts, culture and social justice organisations and I was interested in determining, what role I myself might play in the effort to 'mobilize' artists to the cause.

       Mostly what I found out, I'm disheartened to report, was that the very organisations which purport to be advocating for 'real change' are themselves merely replicating the status quo, whereby the voices of administrators are given precedence while actual, practising artists who aren't fortunate enough to, say, have landed a tenure track position at one of our universities or don't have a book on the bestseller list, are being denied the opportunity to have their voices heard at all.

 

I got a pretty clear sense of why this might be after attending a Leadnow-hosted discussion with Seth Klein. His book A Good War, in which he calls for a mobilization to confront the climate emergency of a scale similar to that which transformed Canadian society during World War II, had recently been released by ECW Press, my own publisher.

       During a previous email exchange with Seth, I'd been very encouraged by his acknowledgement that artists had a definitive role to play in this mobilization. His book, and his emails, were short on the specifics of what that might entail and when the Leadnow organiser and host for the discussion solicited questions from the attendees, I submitted what I thought was a fairly innocuous query: 'What role do you see artists play in creating the requisite urgency needed to address the climate emergency?'

     I listened patiently to the other questions, most of which circled around how Seth proposed the government could pay for such a mobilization without raising taxes, and waited for the organiser to ask Seth the one I had posed. He never did, so I posted it again and, when that was ignored, I then asked why he refused to submit my question. That too was met with silence and, after the zoom meeting, I wrote this to the organiser in an email:

Really just trying to figure out why there seems to be no place for an author such as myself in regards to helping create the urgency required if there ever is to be a Green New Deal. Even a cursory examination of the political climate surrounding WWII, the (original) New Deal and the Civil Rights movement demonstrate pretty conclusively that it's been authors who've created that urgency in the past and if organisations such as Leadnow have no use for us now, then I do wonder if there's any hope for change at all.

 

To which he responded:

 

I think the reason it feels that way is because organizing at scale has unique challenges. It requires a lot of systematisation and simplification, distilling everything down to its most basic components. It typically requires actions that can be repeated hundreds or thousands of times. Hence, big phone banks and email campaigns etc.

      In such an environment, creativity is often experienced as an impediment because it can disrupt those systems and it is not readily replicable. Organizing at scale is, effectively, building a machine and to build a machine you need machined parts. That is not conducive to the way writers and artists do their best work.

Disregarding the inconvenient truth that, for the book publishing, film production and visual arts industries to function, it requires that artists maintain a central role in their 'machines' and that it's hypocritical, at best, for a representative from an organisation, whose own mission statement proclaims "We want a more open, accountable, and representative democracy because decisions should be driven by the people whose lives they affect", to justify excluding voices because they're potentially 'disruptive', I do understand his concerns, I surely do.

     For an organisation such as Leadnow to be seen making 'progress', it requires that they continually expand their base of supporters which, if the dozen or so zoom meetings I attended were any indication, have been drawn mostly from our (predominantly) white, middle and, to a lesser degree, upper classes. This has created a seemingly insurmountable conundrum for social justice organizations which purport to be striving for a more equitable future, even as their own survival often depends on making sure that their vision for a "more equitable future" doesn't in any way, shape or form be perceived as negatively impacting, or even marginally discomforting, the very people who most have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.

It's a conundrum which also resides at the heart of Canada's Arts Culture where an author's success is increasingly dependent upon writing books that appeal broadly to our (traditionally) white, middle and upper class citizens. In practical terms this has meant, in the words of American literary critic Christian Lorentzen, that "difficult writing is scarce, our most laurelled writers are easy to read, mostly unironic, and rarely given to ambiguity" (Harper's Magazine, February, 2021).      

While this has always been true of 'popular fiction', in the not-so-distant past our most "laurelled writers" were esteemed precisely because they were willing to write difficult books, not only stylistically but in the way they so brazenly challenged the base assumptions and core values coveted so dearly by our 'reading class'. Most often they achieved this by embodying what Jacques Derrida described as "a democratic structure of literary excess", which he frames as a right to say anything.

       "At bottom, for Derrida, literature's democratic ability to 'say anything' demands irresponsibility: To say everything, or, to reserve the right to say anything, there can be no institution, law, or authority to circumscribe or regulate literature's limit." (How Faulkner Means Everything He Says, Tyler Williams, The New Centennial Review Vol. 15, No. 3, 2015).

The current, so-called cancel culture which, I would argue, has actually held sway in this country for the nation's entire existence, has served only to reinforce a chilling effect within our literary culture at precisely the moment we need literature's democratic structure of excess more than ever, again in Tyler Williams words, because "literature's force or protest works not just to oppose moments of injustice; it works to contaminate structures of injustice by demonstrating their precariousness, highlighting how they could be otherwise, and thus challenging the authoritarian grip on the way things are." (from an email exchange with the author, March 8th, 2020).

      That it's precisely 'progressives' on the left who are most assiduously driving the current cancel culture, which has not only limited "literature's force" but, I'd argue, is sucking the very life from its marrow while proclaiming that they do so in the name of social justice, has effectively meant that those among us who might be most willing, and able, to contaminate the structures of injustice through our creative endeavours have been hobbled by the people who should, in fact, be our staunchest allies.

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In Canada, we have a myriad of agencies which are eminently suitable for spearheading - and then nurturing - the aesthetic revolution requisite to "contaminating the structures of injustice" by ensuring that artists, who are willing to produce art which genuinely challenges its citizenry, rather than merely comfort them, might have the means to do just that.

      The foremost of these is, of course, the Canada Council For The Arts. During the decade that I've been a practising novelist, I've heard plenty of complaints from many of my (lesser known) peers regarding the insular nature of our national arts granting organisation; in particular, just how difficult it is for 'economically disadvantaged' artists to get financial support or to even be considered as a peer assessor for one of their granting or awards juries (a state of affairs well confirmed by my own experience applying to access funds through eight applications while also trying to get on a jury).      

What's been even more troubling, though, is just how reluctant my fellow Canadian artists are to publicly voice their concerns out of fear that being critical of the CC will mean they'll never be able to get a grant. It's obvious, to me at least, that the efficacy of any national arts granting agency which is perceived by so many artists as discriminatory, and even vindictive, is greatly diminished and so, when the Canada Council launched their campaign to "Re-imagine The Arts", I was more than eager to fill out their survey.

        My answers expressed much of the same concerns as detailed above and I concluded my critique by suggesting that true equity in the arts could only be achieved, if the Canada Council also addressed the systemic barriers impoverished artists from across the cultural spectrum faced when applying for grants. I then attended the Annual General Meeting, during which they unveiled their next Five Year Strategic Plan, and later summed up my own thoughts in an email to plan@canadacouncil.ca:

 

Just read your strategic plan and was disheartened, as I was during the APM, that no mention at all was made regarding the entrenched barriers that 'economically challenged' artists face when trying to access funding from the Canada Council (except for a veiled allusion to it from one stakeholder, asking that the CC "encourage the federal government to establish a permanent Universal Basic Income").

      The fact that I myself submitted material regarding this kind of systemic inequality, which affects artists across the cultural spectrum, has me scratching my head. Where are the voices of the ever-increasing poor all across this country in your strategic plan? As far as I can tell, they've been excised as usual. So again I ask, does it not make sense to anyone at the Canada Council that money provided to millionaires, who can afford to produce their 'art' anyway, would lead to a higher level of diversity in arts participation if it was provided instead to those of us who are working two and three jobs simply to pay our bills, while trying to produce our 'art' using whatever energy we have left over.

     

As a novelist who has previously applied for six subsistence grants without success and who's currently in the middle of writing his eighth novel over the course of the past ten years (all of which feature characters who are so far on the margins they're not even on the page in this country's literature), it's eminently clear that I will continue being denied funding from the Canada Council so long as I keep writing from my lived experience i.e. about poor people and the coalescing mental health, opioid, housing and homelessness crises increasingly affecting so many of us. Please explain to me how there can possibly be any equity in that?

 

After a year of being bounced from one official to the next, like some character in one of Kafka's fictions (none of which the officers at the CC seem to have read, I might add), I have yet to receive a response that wasn't merely a regurgitation of their mission statement in one form or another, often rather quixotically along with the assurance that my concerns were being taken seriously.

So it was that, when I received an invitation from Mass Culture to attend a 'Building An Arts Impact Community' zoom event, I didn't have much hope that I'd be allowed a voice in their discussion either, much less have my concerns addressed in any substantive manner.

        The lead speaker at the session was to be Senator Patricia Bovey and, to be honest, my confidence wasn't much bolstered by the bio I read on her senate web page. It seemed inconceivable to me that my views would align with those of such an esteemed arts administrator as Senator Bovey.

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        I was thus pleasantly surprised that, during her presentation, I found her to be disarmingly genuine in her concern for the current State of the Arts Culture in this country and when, during the Q&A session, I raised the aforementioned concerns regarding the Canada Council, I was stunned that Senator Bovey not only agreed with what I had to say, but invited me to speak with her at a later date about becoming a witness when she presented her Declaration On The Essential Role Of Artists and Creative Expression in Canada bill in the Senate.

 

That discussion would take place, again via zoom, in January of this year and, while a full account of that falls outside of the purview of this review, suffice it to say that our hour-long conversation easily ranks as one of the highlights of my writing life so far.

        As with most productive conversations, ours had an anchor which kept it from drifting too far astray and, in this case, it was the speech Senator Bovey delivered to the Senate on December 9th, 2021. (*) In its devotion to the idea of art and culture as "the motor of every successful society", in Senator Bovey's observation that "the arts and artists still seem bound in silos, regarded as leisure-time activities and seen as a privilege rather than as essential for the growth of community, people and our nation", and in her pronouncement that, regarding the creation of an inclusive arts culture, "we have not yet acted fully or sufficiently", Senator Bovey has made a thoroughly convincing argument that her proposed bill is wide-ranging in its practical applications and my own feelings on the matter were well summed up, when she quoted one of the artists with whom she spoke as saying, "This is ambitious and historic. It will be a milestone.” 

 

The culmination of her appeal, a sort of climax if you will, came by way of musician and writer Tom Jackson who had this to say:

        "Art is not power; it proclaims truth, history, memory and future vision simultaneously. It is a reality and at times a tension between what is and what should be."

Creating any genuine tension between "what is and what should be" can only be achieved through an open and honest accounting of the forces-at-play which have created, and stalwartly maintain, such a rigidly stratified society as ours and, while contemplating what role the artist must play in such an endeavour, I was reminded of my reply to Tyler William's aforementioned email:

 

You have certainly struck at the heart of the matter when you write “literature’s force or protest works not just to oppose moments of injustice; it works to contaminate structures of injustice by demonstrating their precariousness, highlighting how they could be otherwise, and thus challenging the authoritarian grip on the way things are.” This called to mind what Ida said in [James Baldwin's] 'Another Country' when she and Cass were at the bar with Ellis and his friends and they were talking about what you replace the dream with. She answered “Reality” and then quickly conceded, “Of course that’s a hard thing to do.” No truer words have been spoken, for sure, and that's all the more reason we need to do our utmost to contaminate the fever dream that is contemporary life with as much reality as we can muster. Literature has the means of accomplishing this better than any of the creative arts and it is my belief that novelists ignore the opportunity afforded us in the present moment at our own peril.

 

But it would be Senator Bovey herself who would, in my mind, make the most salient comment of all. She did it off-script while answering a question from one of her fellow senators. That these comments would end the session while alluding to a possible future - which is ever more seeming to me like a futile fumbling after a shiny, new nickel twinkling in a vain attempt to grasp at the last flicks of sunlight as it sinks into increasingly dark waters - has fostered a modicum of hope in this writer that our granting agencies might yet be enlisted in a true "re-imagining of the arts".

        And so I will let her have the final words:

 

I happen to believe that artists or creators of whatever diversity work with essentially the same tools. Musicians work with instruments and music. Authors work with words, be it poetry or novels. Visual artists work with paint or drawings or whatever. Whether we are Indigenous or not Indigenous, whatever cultural diversity and whatever we have grown up with, the basic tools are essentially similar.

      We have allowed them to be classified. I want to get rid of those classifications. That’s why I’m questioning the sense of excellence in grant-giving for artists. Who defines excellence? What does it mean? I believe the word excellence in Indigenous visual art, music, drama, or whatever, may be quite different than for those of us from a Caucasian background. I think we need to start opening up, and artists are challenging me to do that.

       These sessions were rich. They were fun. They were hard. But my staff and I were being challenged, and rightly so. This is the result of those challenges. It’s possible if we open our minds. We have two ears and two eyes, right?

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