Buoy 2010 by BUOY

Buoy Mai/May 2010

Un journal dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;arts et littĂŠrature A literary arts journal

C on t e n t s Editor’s Letter / 2 Untitled / Anabel Raposo / 3 Neophyte / Fred Kenneth Lee / 4-9 A la plus belle / Martin Peyton / 10 Looking at the World / James Ryan / 11-12 The Grumbler / Dana Friend / Ethiopian Lady / Alana Barrell / 13 A Monistically Pluralist Theory of the Truth / Eliott F. Bear / Buddha / Natalie Bouchard / 14-15 Fishing for Candy / Tina / 16 Untiltled / Richard Diraddo / 17-18 Evelyn’s Separation (Between the Lines) / Maureen Dugan / 19 Broken Heart, Medical Consequences of Loneliness. - Heart Like a Wheel / Maureen Dugan / 20 Untitled / Gorette Dimelo / 21 Am I a Maniac / Dana Friend / 22 Wee Miss Laura / Howard Freed / 23-25 Castles in the Sky / Natalie Bouchard / Untitled / Jonathan Paige / 26 Attention aux Best-Sellers... Régime alimentaire / Alain Sicard / 27 4 East / Richard Diraddo / 28 Letter to Carole / Tina / 29 Tonya / Tina / 30 Untitled / Richard Diraddo / 31 Untitled I & II /Janet Harvey / 32 Memories / Linda Gould / Untitled I / Suzanne Cusson / 33 Untitled / Lisa Tang / Untitled II / Suzanne Cusson / 34

Front Cover by Maureen Dugan / Painting / Lifejacket Back Cover by Natalie Bouchard / Painting / Bright Wave

E ditorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s L etter

Buoy is a small fraction of the creative production of clients of Forward House, an organization dedicated to supporting adults with mental illnesses. Among the diverse population that utilize the services offered by Forward House are individuals who are remarkably talented in the arts. One such person is painter Maureen Dugan, who says that lifejackets, an image that appears and reappears in her work, are symbols of the human need for security and well being, but they also symbolize the lack of both. In other words, they are a beacon of hope when one is drowning, but they also remind us of the struggle to stay afloat. Maureen is a wise and talented lady. It is her work that is on the inaugural cover of Buoy. People make art for a variety of reasons. Sometimes, art is made to externalize and manifest struggle, thereby making it more manageable and transforming it into something beautiful. In this way, art is a metaphorical lifejacket. Buoy is founded on the idea that art is good for the soul, and we hope it is good for yours. Enjoy.

Warm thanks to: The editorial team: Fred Kenneth Lee, Howard Freed, Alain Sicard, and Tina Sealy, Chris McFadden, all the talented contributors, all the Forward House workers who encouraged their clients to submit, Charles for his technical know-how, and AdĂ¨le Flannery for her layout skills, effort, and time.

Anabel Raposo / Drawing / Untitled 3

Neophyte Fred Kenneth Lee

Looking out through the little round hole that is laughingly referred to as a window, it appeared to be cold enough to freeze the balls off a tempered steel monkey; not to mention it being darker than a black cat’s ass in a coal mine at midnight. But then, when one is four miles above the earth at midnight, I guess it’s supposed to be dark and cold - moon beams sometimes shed a little on the subject but they ain’t much for warmth. It was comfortably warm inside the wide-bodied 747, however; boring, but comfortable. At least, as comfortable as one can be in the economy section, where the goddamned narrow seats are so close to the ones in front of you that not even a short midget could stretch his legs. It was about two hours after we’d taken off from Montreal International Airport in Dorval (before the government, in its infinite wisdom, decreed that all international flights had to fly out of Mirabel Airport - subtitled Trudeau’s Folly because the multi-million dollar monstrosity was built during the reign of King Pierre. The overly-large complex is more than thirty miles from the city, in the middle of nowhere, with no connecting mass transportation system. Thousands of acres of rich farmland were expropriated for the project, causing all kind of bitterness between the government and farmers: it was ill-planned, resulting in all kinds of problems that tripled the original estimate. It sucks over fifty million dollars per year from the Canadian taxpayers and it richly deserves its official symbol of a white elephant. At least that shows that some asshole, somewhere in Ottawa has a sense of humour; I’d laugh if it wasn’t so sad) and the big bird was cruising somewhere over the Gulf of St Lawrence. At least, that’s what the pilot announced over the public address system; and since this was my first opportunity to look down on anything from thirty thousand feet, I fought my way over a three-hundredpound Amazon to stick my nose right up against the Fred Kenneth Lee / Photo / London window. 4

Geezus, what a waste of time! Between the time of day, the height and the mist, I couldn’t see a damned thing; and neither could any of the other passengers who’d been suckered into looking. It was the first time I’d ever been up in an airplane - even when I’d smoked those funny cigarettes I hadn’t been this high - and I took to it like a bear to honey; which was just as well because there ain’t no way I could have gotten off that plane for another five hours! I enjoyed the take-off and later, the landing, but once the plane was in the air, the ride was more boring than riding a bus. On a bus, at least you can look out the window and see a tree or a person once in awhile, but from four miles up, even on a clear day, forget it! I mean, the pretty flight attendants (of which any significant touching is a definite no-no) could only hold my attention for so long. We did fly through some rough weather that bounced the plane around a bit and which I, with my ass-backwards sense of excitement, thought was stimulating. However, judging from the number of barf bags in use in the vicinity, I guessed I was in the minority. It takes approximately six hours’ flying time from Montreal to London: I’d boarded the plane at eight o’clock but we didn’t take off until nine because of some foul-up (not enough fuel, the pilot said - better too much than not enough, I always say, especially when not enough means you might have to land in the English Channel), and after spending a sleepless night sandwiched between two fat broads with weak kidneys, I plodded into the arrivals lounge at Heathrow sometime between nine and ten AM (London time) the following morning. A couple of other jumbo jets had landed just before ours and the place was packed with fat women yelling at their kids, men with hangovers, young bearded people with everything but the kitchen sink on their backs, several people of undetermined sex, and guys like me, who just wanted to get the hell out of there and into a hot shower - there ain’t nothing like sleeping in one’s clothes to make one feel like a lice and crab infested old man. However, one of the officers noticed my passport and, since Canada is a Commonwealth nation, he took me to the local arrivals, where the line-up was considerably shorter. The immigrations officers there took a quick glance at my passport and waved me on my way. This was the first of several incidents illustrating the value, in England as well as on the Continent, of a Canadian passport. I sometimes felt a little guilty for being given precedence over others who had been waiting in lines longer than me but I gritted my teeth and bore the pain like a good little soldier. A word of caution, however: because a Canadian passport is held in such high esteem throughout the world, it is the most sought after by thieves. It can bring a fortune on the black market. Also, if it is lost or stolen, you may have a helluva wait before the Canadian Embassy - the staff having been bitten many times every summer by unscrupulous quick buck artists or some doper who has blown all his money - are satisfied that you didn’t sell it. So guard it well. Weeks before leaving Montreal, I’d squandered four bucks on a well-known travel guide telling one how to eat, sleep and be entertained in various European cities on five dollars per day or less. However, once there, I quickly realised that nine-tenths of the thing was pure bullshit! One might possibly exist in such countries as Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Holland, Belgium and France on five dollars per day - but only if one eats less than a hummingbird, sleeps on a park bench (that costs fifty centimes in France) and regards long window-shopping tours as entertainment. Prices are comparatively inexpensive in countries such as Czechslovakia, Hungry, Turkey, Poland and a few other places; but travelling there can be a hassle 5

because of all the red tape involved. Also, the thought that you could be thrown into jail and forgotten about at the whim of some little martinet with a napoleanic complex takes a lot of the fun out of roaming around. Anyhow, being tenderfoot at overseas travel, I religiously carried the two-pound book around Europe with me - just in case. One piece of accurate information that I got from the guide, however, was how to get from Heathrow to central London by bus and the Underground. It took a bit longer but it sure as hell was a lot cheaper than taking a taxi. Sometime around noon, I emerged from the bowels of the Earth and pushed and prodded my way through the swarming mass of humanity in the Liverpool Street train station, where I went to buy my ticket to my next destination. I bought a one-way, second-class ticket to Copenhagen, Denmark, on the boat-train (it should be called “train-boat” because you take the train first). The trip would take nine hours, including the six-hour Channel crossing. I didn’t feel much like shelling out an extra ten bucks for a bunk for the overnight crossing but the clerk said I could reserve a “reclining” seat instead for only seventy-five pence, about one dollar, extra, so I jumped at the offer. What did I know? He also said that I could make the trip on any day, that my ticket was good for up to one year. While I was in the complex I spotted a booth operated by the British Tourist Authority so I went over and picked up a list of youth hotels and a map of Greater London. Youth hotels are mostly dormitory-type accomodation but that was fine with me. All I needed was a place to lay my head, a hot shower and someplace to store my bag; and when I found out that youth hotels charged less than half the rate of the regular hotels, there was no question of which path I’d take. Technically, youth hotels are for students only but most will rent to the general public. The first place I called on the list turned out to be a hotel for divinity students - thank God I found that out in time and told them that it was against my principals as an atheist to stay there. The second place was on Gray’s Inn Road, in the King’s Cross district. The high voice at the other end of the wire gave me minimal directions for the Underground and told me to hurry on over because he only had a few vacancies left. I hoped that I’d heard the directions right because my ears were still screwed up from the change in air pressure I’d undergone when the plane landed. The stewardess had offered me some gum to equalize the pressure but I’d refused it - bad enough that my ears were hurting without sticking gum in them too. Jesus H. Ke-e-rist! What a joint that place was. There were four cots in a room that wasn’t big enough for two - and three of them were occupied by people who looked like they’d just gotten off the boat - a garbage scow, by the smell. I guessed that they were Indian or Pakistani, like the manager. The so-called sheets on the rump-sprung cot were torn and faded and looked like they hadn’t seen the inside of a washer in years. The rag that masqueraded as a rug had more holes in it that a buckshot safe and the one shower stall in the bathroom (which evidently wasn’t used enough) had only tepid water. Still, it was dirt cheap (pun intended) compared to other advertisements I’d seen and I didn’t intend to spend much time there anyway. Besides, I’d foolishly paid my money before I’d seen the accommodations (a definite no-no in student hotels, and even some regular hotels) and if I’d refused to stay there after that, the only two chances I’d have had of getting my money back would have been fat and no. 6

However, I couldn’t help wishing I’d gone to the divinity place instead, even if it would have driven me up the walls. Better to sit through a couple of hours of listening to the scriptures than to be exposed to more bacteria than there are in a hospital isolation ward. A quick shower and some clean clothes did wonders. I was feeling almost human again as I went out to take the Underground to the place I’d heard so much talk about, the place that draws tourists to London like a magnet. It took me an hour to make the ten-minute trip because I had to change trains and, naturally, I got lost. Most people would have gotten lost in those catacombs, I dare say; it’s like a goddam maze down there, with corridors shooting off every which way - and on three different levels! The immediate area of Piccadilly Circus made the King’s Cross district look luxurious by comparison. It was almost as bad as Times Square on a crowded summer’s day at the end of a week-long garbage strike. However, at the time, I thought it was all too fascinating. At first, I just stood in the doorway of an unoccupied building and watched the parade of people scurrying back and forth. Every human category was represented; and some that I couldn’t categorize - pretty girls with the bra-less bouncing titties, dirty shoeless people with blank, vacant stares, staid Britishers in their pin-striped suits carrying their brollies and newspapers tucked tightly under their arms; and dozens of other shapes and sizes that appeared to be neither fish nor fowl. Later, after staring pop-eyed at the wares in a porno shop, I went into a tobacconist’s for some cigarettes; and as I paused to light up, I noticed a bulletin board hanging near the door with several advertisements attached. The ads offered the services of all sorts of language instructors - English, Greek, French etc. Now, I wasn’t especially high on the intelligence scale but I suspected that these “instructors” weren’t on the up and up - especially since they all gave their appearances, measurements and other intimate information rather than their teaching credentials.

Fred Kenneth Lee / Photo / Amsterdam

Well, for the past eighteen months I’d cleaned toilets, mopped floors and re-plastered walls in a former funeral parlour in a slum section of Montreal. The place had been converted to a recreational center for underprivileged kids. My charges, the little shits, had all the civility of

a herd of buffalo, and they were almost as destructive. The director of the place considered it a great accomplishment when we finally succeeded in teaching them to use the bathroom instead of just pissing in a corner somewhere in the cavernous building. If I’d been allowed to swat them with my mop they’d have caught on a lot faster, but I don’t suppose the liberal, “progressive” management would have approved of that. Anyhow, the little wrecking machines had very nearly driven me around the bend while I saved for this vacation, and after all that, I figured that I owed it to myself not to pass up anything that sounded as intriguing as this. CHAPTER TWO I chose the English instructor, mostly because her address was just around the corner (the tobacconist said); but also, just on the outside chance that the ad was legit, I wanted to be able to speak the language. And so it was with some trepidation that I climbed the stairs to a building that should have been condemned, and knocked... I was about to knock again when she opened the door and fixed me with a withering stare that made me feel like something the cat had dragged in. “Hi there, I saw your ad in the shop around the corner and I’d like to buy some of your time. My name’s Fred,” I stammered. She was a striking blonde with sleek lines and an aura of class; she was built better than anything that ever came out of Detroit, I mused. She certainly was everything the ad had said, and more. I knew now what she was but I wondered if I was going to be able to afford the lesson. However, over a cup of tea in her comfortable bed-sitter(I later learned that this was a rarely-afforded privilege), we negotiated a settlement. We settled on ten pounds (about 14 dollars) and she told me to get undressed and lie down while she went behind a screen to get ready. It took me less than thirty seconds to get out of my clothes (of course, if I’d taken the time to unbutton my shirt first instead of just ripping it open, it would have taken me longer) and flop down on the snowy, white-sheeted bed. Long trips always make me horny as a goat and I began to fantasize about what it was going to be like with this nubile lovely of the golden, asslength hair. That’s when I happened to look up at the ceiling. Up there, bigger than life, was this smoothskinned albino ape-like creature with a ruddy big hard-on staring at me! Son-of-a-bitch! It’s a good thing that I didn’t have a heart condition or I would have bought the farm right there. There was a goddam mirror up there. I’d heard about these things before but this was the first time I’d ever actually seen one. But if seeing myself naked on the ceiling made my heart flutter, what I saw next damn near made it jump out through my throat. While I’d been admiring myself, Blondie had come out from behind the screen and stood at the foot of the bed looking down at me; she was dressed to kill - literally! She’d piled her shimmering hair on top of her head in a severe bun. She had on a black teddy and wore kneelength black vinyl boots with stiletto heels. A dog collar and fishnet stockings completed her outfit. I was beside myself with wild-eyed, lip-drooling lust at that moment; but what I wanted more than anything else right then was to have BLONDIE beside me, and I lunged for her. That’s when I saw the big, black, coiled whip in her hand. My raging hard-on wilted into a wet noodle. 8

“What in hell is that thing for?” I managed to gasp. “Well, how do you expect me to discipline you without the proper tools?” she snapped, reverting to the withering stare she’d used on me when answering the door. “Discipline? What in hell for? I’m a big boy now. Listen, back home we have an expression about ‘tearing off a piece’ but that’s all it is, an expression. Now put than damned thing away and come down here.” “But didn’t you come here for ‘English lessons’” she said, puzzled. That’s what ‘English’ means, discipline. That’s what I advertised.” “Christ, no. I don’t want any of that kinky stuff. I just came here to get laid, and I’ve already got the proper tool for that. Now drop that thing and c’mere.” “Well, okay. It’ll be kind of nice to just lie back and enjoy myself for once.” “Don’t plan on getting too comfortable,” I mumbled as I removed the bobby pins and let her blonde hair cascade down her back. It was my considered opinion that this was the best investment I’d ever made, that I could recall. And towards the climax of the tryst the ol’ rod felt like there was a length of piano wire tightening around it, and my chest felt like it was fighting a losing battle to control an atomic explosion. I swear to Christ I thought the end had come! Then she started thrashing around like a carp out of water; she bucked so violently that we both ended up on the carpet in a tangle of arms and legs. But this floor had a nice clean carpet on it - not that it would have made any difference to me right then. I clamped my eyes shut, huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could and hung on for dear life. Then a million multicoloured stars exploded in my brain and I watched their reflections on the inside of my eyelids. Sometime later, after things had calmed down, sweating had subsided and my breathing was back to normal, we picked ourselves up and got back on the bed. As I lay there smoking a cigarette and absent-mindedly stroking Blondie’s silken thigh, my face broke out in a wide, toothy grin. “What’s so funny?” she asked, digging her elbow into my ribs. “I was just thinking that I’ve started off my vacation with a bang,” I giggled.

Fred Kenneth Lee / Photo / Hamburg

A la plus belle Martin Peyton

salut belle inconnue j’veux simplement te dire que de toute ma vie t’es la plus belle fille que j’ai vue j’vois ton visage partout y’a comme d’la lumière quand t’es là le ciel paraît plus clair le monde plus réel la vie plus intense j’essaye de penser à comment tu peux t’appeler des fois ça prend toute une soirée pareil comme maintenant à chercher pour chercher à chercher sans trouver c’est pour me raisonner que je t’écris pour arrêter de penser à ce que pourrait être ma vie à quoi ressemblerait un autre ici enfin c’est ça j’voulais seulement que tu saches si faire ma connaissance t’intéresse pas c’est vraiment pas plus grave que ça j’vais simplement me dire que j’suis pas le chanceux de gars qui marche à côté de cette fille-là

Looking at the World on Tip Toes James Ryan

The beginning is as good a place to start as generous Jewish family where she could any, I guess… work as a Mother’s helper for room and board and a little money each week for the My story doesn’t begin on a mild December duration of her stay (until my birth). Contact eve in 1968 although I’m told it was snowing with her boyfriend was forbidden, something large, soft flakes that weightlessly danced to do with the long hair and motorcycle riding to the ground in a Norman Rockwell sort lifestyle. The young couple endured the loss of way. Perhaps romanticized a little by a of each other the best that they could. Mother’s loving memory of the day her baby boy was born. My mother’s boyfriend was dispatched with instructions to not return or try to have any My story really began the customary nine or contact with Debbie at least until he cut his so months earlier when sixteen-year-olds hair and reached some unattainable level of Debbie and her boyfriend created my life maturity and financial stability. Which he did to the solid state sound of Jimi Hendrix attempt but any effort he made would never and the Doors on original pressed vinyl in a be good enough to gain acceptance. basement retreat, safe from interference of the un-adjustable authorities: Ian and Edith. I would not meet my father for many years My well intentioned, soon-to-be maternal to come. He had hooked up with another girl grandparents surely did not approve of the and moved out of the country and had given teen union. They were who I would come to up the fight for my mother and me. know as Mom and Dad. While my Mother, Debbie, was out of town, Still in the first pages of her own story, the family moved to a new neighbourhood in Debbie found her teenaged self unmarried, no small part to camouflage the “situation.” pregnant and with parents who were none too pleased and at best reluctant to share Not long after that December eve she the happy news. Something would have to returned to the new home. While I remained be done. Abortion was illegal in Quebec in in the care of foster homes and was removed 1968, though the attending doctor thought to from one of them for malnutrition. It wasn’t mention it was legal in Britain. And thus my until the following September that I was first escape from the cold hand of death. brought home and was introduced as my grandparents’ adopted son. I think I was in I was to be born later that year and have the foster homes to keep up the illusion that since never been to Britain! I had been adopted and was not the bastard son of teenaged parents. The plan was formulated over some time. The decision was made to send my Mother Reunited with my Mother at last. She would out of town to stay with a sympathetic and have to endure being my sister. I can’t imagine

the heartache she felt having to agree to keep quiet and live a lie just to have me near rather than give me up entirely. My earliest memories are of trying to see what was on the counter. I was too small to see, even on tiptoes it was out of reach for me but I knew there were all kinds of magical goodness on the counter as that’s where all the food came from and where all the toys I made too much noise with went. My Grandmother A.K.A. Mum from the beginning until she passed away would ask the question when feeding me any meal: “Who loves ya, Billy” as the plate was put in front of me. “You do Ma,” was the prescribed response. It was a good feeling but it was most likely the beginning of my fucked up thinking about love and food and why I would later choose to be in a relationship with women who were far better cooks than partners. But that’s another story. Mum and Dad (my grandparents) were loving, and I had three sisters: Darlene, Debbie (my Mother) and Dawn. It all seemed okay. I was happy. I would jump into bed with Mum and Dad on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons on the new two-button remote control color television. Wow, was that something. Dad would make pancakes, I’d ask for big one and he’d make little droplets first to tease me and then put a pair of big pancakes smothered in peanut butter and jelly. We’d play catch in the back yard and go for rides in the car to visit some of my aunts and uncles. That’s how things went for a while. But inevitably it came time to go to school.

I was enrolled in a French school, my mother (Debbie) wanted me to learn the language early on, but I just couldn’t get it and became frustrated. I didn’t like it at all. I did like a girl in my class. I didn’t know why I liked her but I remember thinking she was really pretty. One day the teacher left the class to run an errand and we had a little five-year-olds happy hour party. Doesn’t my puppy luv come up from behind and pull my pants down to the floor, to tremendous laughter and applause from the class. I was unable to appreciate the humour of it at the time but would over time come to appreciate that quality in a woman. The year passed, and after much begging and tantrum throwing, screaming and yelling back and forth I finally was allowed to attend English school, thank goodness. It didn’t strike me as odd that I was having this debate with my “sister” Debbie and not my grandmother “Mum”. I still believed in my family’s lie and Santa Claus so I trusted things to be what I was told. Except I remember thinking as a boy that Debbie seemed to have an unusual interest in me, but I never questioned it. It was just the way it was. The truth about who was who would find me soon…a little too soon. And it set the tone for the song that sang out loud throughout my life and eventually became my trusted friend “betrayal.”

Alana Barrell / Drawing / Ethiopian Lady

The Grum bler

Dana Friend

Grumpy, grumpy, grumpy. Makes the road very bumpy Never here, never there. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like it anywhere. Grumpy, grumpy, grumpy. Makes the road very bumpy.

A Monistically Pluralist Theory of the Truth Eliott F. Bear

When I say “I” I mean a thing absolutely unique, not to be confused with any other. U. Betti Throughout the course of our lives, we humans acquire knowledge about a considerable variety of things and if we happen to be fortunate enough, we even manage to put it to good use. That, I might add, tends to be the extent to which the ordinary person considers knowledge. As far as he or she is concerned, the situation with knowledge is encompassed by what Samuel Johnson had to say about the topic, which was: “knowledge is of two kinds: we know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.” But for the philosopher the case tends to be different. He or she is greatly concerned about the fundamental nature of knowledge, and consequently conducts enquiries whose intent is to establish what knowledge essentially is, how valid is the knowledge we use, by what means do we basically acquire it, and how much of reality does it delimit. All these questions constitute that part of philosophy known as Epistemology or Theory of knowledge. For the purposes of this essay, I shall forego focusing on these matters, but rather be concerned with the contribution knowledge imparts to the Self, understood in this context as the integral part of who we are, which actively seeks significance, pattern, illumination as it lights upon that aspect of things considered to be constant, universal, and valid. In other words, the Self as the being who we are, whose nature is monistic, possessing the quality of oneness is engaged in the quest for the Truth, which is pluralistic, that is to say tending to be different in the different selves involved with such an endeavour. Furthermore, the pluralism prevalent in such a quest, is comprised of different entities – ideas, facts, intuitions, structures of knowledge, all of which the self as the individual questioning mind acquires in the course of its existence. From this aggregate of cognitive material which might also be designated as structures of knowledge, the Self happens upon the truth. Here I’ll resort to a term the ancient Greek philosophers used to refer to the truth, and is Aletheia, coming from the root alethes – meaning to uncover things which have been hidden or concealed. So out of obscurity and what is hidden emerges that which proves to be manifest and evident. The goal of the quest is realized, and the Self hopefully benefits from the truth or truths thus acquired. As could be expected, the process so starkly stated as the Self quests after the Truth, is not altogether that simple. Attainment of success in this endeavour requires the individual to dig deeply into himself or herself. Towards this end the Self resorts to such procedures as Introspection, Meditation, and Contemplation. And as to be expected one comes up against much mental turbulence, taking the form of emotions, distracting images, and obsessive thought patterns. It becomes necessary to resort to ways of stilling the mind, which in some instances tend to be similar to the writing of poetry, Wordsworth’s version of it at any rate – taking its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. What then may be glimpsed is not a single thing, but something of the nature of a shining light, an entity divested of its obscurity and forever receding into the distance, managing to elude the grasp of coarser, less subtle mental processes, but which stands visible to the Mind’s Eye.

As stated before, the truth made manifest to the Self is not the same sort of thing for those fortunate enough to acquire it. The truth varies from person to person but in all it acts in the capacity of a guiding light in accordance with its nature one may conduct one’s life. It could be stated in various ways, taking the form of such assertions as God is Love, the Idea is the Absolute, or at root I carry with me the spark of divinity. Once grasped, hopefully life can take on a quality of immediacy, richness, and palpability once would never suspect it of having. It carries within it a repercussion upon our awareness, in many cases conferring a mystical dimension, or visionary quality to it, something along the lines of what William Blake expressed in the following way:

To see a world in a grain of sand, And Heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour.

Armed with the truth, or truths, of one’s own provenance, one should be more capable of facing the challenges of life which can often be various, formidable, and seemingly overwhelming. Consequently, it should be seen as a gift more precious than money or jewels, and the best part of it all, is that it’s something that is inalienably yours. Put to good use, it bestows upon life the qualities of meaningfulness, serenity, and courage. And once obtained, you’ll wonder how you ever managed to live life without it.

Natalie Bouchard / Painting / Buddha

Tina / Drawing / Fishing for Candy

Richard Diraddo / Oil Pastel / Untitled 18

Maureen Dugan

Maureen Dugan / Painting / Evelynâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Separation (Between the Lines)

Maureen Dugan / Painting / Broken Heart, Medical Consequences of Loneliness.- Heart like a wheel

Gorette Dimelo / Drawing / Untitled

Am I a Maniac Dana Friend

Am I a Maniac, Lord? Lord…?

Pills, chills for so many ills... Why should you take so many pills? Swallow hollow, you gotta follow what the Dead Man says in your head, and if you don’t, He’ll beat you ‘till you’ve bled. You can’t tie your shoes? Confused? YOU lose. You’ve gone ‘round the bend; it’s the end. And, there’s no telling where you’ll go now. You don’t know how, but there’s no chow in the friggin’ frig today. And you haven’t winked a blinking bit for a week! Maybe longer, but somehow you feel stronger. Superman, no you can. Who cares? Let’s throw some chairs! Whoopie! Come and see what the Dead Man found in your head. Muscle hustle, you gotta bustle. And there’s no telling what you’ll do now. Your cheeks are pallid, you look squalid. and then suddenly, you don’t fight anymore. You can’t cry, and you don’t know why. You’ve lost the tears for all those years, but sight is not what meets the eyes. Tumble, fumble, feelin’ a Rumble at the Dead Man in the sky. You can’t sleep, and you can’t eat. Rumble, tumble. Your belly’s bloatin’ and your spirit’s floatin’ But neither one of you knows which way to go. You don’t know why, but you’ve lost the sky, and you’re still trying to find it. You’ve checked all your pockets and even your locket. Still you can’t find it. Never mind it. Have another pill they say. It’ll all go away! Stelazine, Anaphranil, Give me another pill. Is there one they haven’t tried yet? No. I haven’t died yet. Pills, pills, for so many ills. Can’t we find a cure for so many pills?

Wee M i s s La ur a Howard Freed With gratitude for the inspiration to Bobby Darrin and his song Artificial Flowers, and the author of The Little Match Girl; Hans Christian Anderson.

Each and every morning, at the crack of dawn, Wee Miss Laura rose from her little cot and slipped on her threadbare red dress. She had a raggedy gabardine coat too, but she saved it for winter and this was only early spring. She went to the gas jet, which also served to heat her chilly tenement room and cooked her breakfast. Miss Laura poured the porridge from her pot into a bowl, took out her only spoon, pulled her chair to her table, and sat down. She scooped up the porridge hungrily but neatly. When she was done, she washed up and put the bowl and spoon away in her cupboard which contained in addition, only a glass, a plate, and a fork and knife. Then she hung up her pot. The table cleared, she laid down on it the variously hued crepe paper, wire, wax and shears which she used to make the artificial flowers she sold to meet her simple needs. Wee Miss Laura then set to work. She worked through the entire morning. Cutting, folding, cleaving, until her back felt as though it would break and her fingers were sore and numb with cold. Nevertheless, she persevered. Pushing herself, pushing herself, forcing herself to continue, determined not to cry. Back aching, head and shoulders hunched over her table, her lips were compressed and her little jaw was set. Wee Miss Laura knew how many flowers she needed to make each day. She was nine years old and there was no one to take care of her. She had no family and could not remember why. She worked ‘til noon, unable to afford lunch, then went to the nearby square where she took up her post and sold her flowers. It was a slow, tranquil day but by five o’clock she had sold only one flower. A wealthy looking Tory couple came by, the man tall and stout; the woman, buxom, buck-toothed and bug-eyed, had bad breath. They looked at the prettily made flowers nosily, critically. “How much?” asked the woman. Wee Miss Laura grimaced, involuntarily recoiling from the smell, recovered her natural manners, and said “Five cents each.” There were about a dozen flowers left. “I’ll give you 30 cents for the bunch,” said the man, his tone hard. “It costs me that to make them.” “Take it or leave it,” said the woman. The afternoon was drawing to a close. Evening was near. “I’ll take it.” Laura said quietly, offering the flowers and taking the thirty cents. There would be a meager supper for her that night. She walked to the little variety store where she bought her supplies.

“You’ve only bought half of what you usually buy,” said Mr. Harris the proprietor. “I only have enough for these today,” said Miss Laura with a touch of melancholy, and left the shop. But before she turned the corner, Mr. Harris called to her. “Come down the lane to the back door. I may have something for you.” Mr. Harris went to the back of his store, selected some crepe-paper, wire and wax and opened his rear door where Laura stood a second later. “These are remnants. I was going to throw them out. Can you use them? “Yes sir,” she said softly. Laura was just leaving the alley to cross the square, her load, altogether too heavy for a nine year old to bear, being at least temporarily lightened by her good fortune when suddenly she was grabbed by a policeman. “Where are you going with those things?” “They’re mine,” said Wee Miss Laura startled. “I saw you coming out of the back alley. You stole them.” “I did not. Mr. Harris gave them to me.” “Hand them over, you little thief.” “I’m not a thief. I do work,” she protested, breaking loose, dropping everything and fleeing, tears flying but holding her coins tightly in her wee fist. Mr. Harris was coming out of his store and caught sight of Laura running away and noticed the police-man picking up the paper and things she had dropped. “What happened here?” Mr. Harris demanded angrily. “I caught that thief coming from the direction of your back door with these. She had the temerity to say you gave them to her.” “I did give them to her,” said Mr. Harris. “Don’t lie for her,” growled the policeman. “I am not lying. At least return my things to me.” “I need these for evidence,” said the policeman, “ I don’t know why you defend that little street urchin.” “Because I have a heart,” said Mr. Harris. “Heart,” scoffed the policeman, “you have no brains.” Mr. Harris turned, locked up his shop and made his way home. Miss Laura reached her room, and sat down at her table, trembling. Mr. Harris watched for her for the next three days but didn’t see her. He believed, correctly, that she was afraid to return to the square because of the policeman and was buying her supplies and selling her flowers somewhere else. In fact, Miss Laura had found another store and another square where she felt a little safer though it was far from home. The fourth day after her encounter with the policeman, she was standing, hopefully, at her post, having sold about a quarter of her bouquet. It was drizzling and she was shivering. Two somewhat vulgar young men came by, tall and thick with hair like straw, smiling suspiciously. “How much for the lot?” One of them asked. 24

“Seventy-five cents.” “Hand them over.” Tentatively, she proffered the bunch. He took it and lifted it to his nose pretending to smell it. “These aren’t flowers,” he said. “I know they aren’t real flowers,” said Miss Laura,“Please sir, you knew that when you bought them. I work hard to make them and I must sell them to earn my living. My seventy-five cents please sir?” She said, extending her hand. “These are paper, they’re not worth the money.” “Then give them back to me.” “Here, catch.” The young man threw the bouquet over her head to his friend. “Give me my flowers” Miss Laura demanded. The boys laughed. They tossed the bunch of flowers to each other back and forth over Wee Miss Laura’s head. She ran from boy to boy with all her might, leaping up, arms upstretched, but couldn’t catch the bouquet. “Give me my flowers. Give me my flowers!” she cried. But the more she cried the more they laughed. “Give me my flowers or give me my money,” she insisted. That set off another peal of laughter from the boys as one tossed the bouquet high over her head. But they soon grew tired of the game. One of the boys winked and motioned with his head and they took off down a street leading off the square. Miss Laura chased after them, running as fast as she could, but their long legs were too much for her, and she was unable to catch up with them. She could still see them, however, laughing and running down the street with her bouquet. “Come back, come back,” she implored, gasping for breath. She reached an intersection, looked in the three directions but couldn’t see a trace of them. She turned, crying helplessly. Vision blurred with tears, Wee Miss Laura walked in the direction of home, her feet instinctively finding the way. She walked up the three flights of stairs to her room and sat at her table; crying, her shoulders shaking, tears streaming down her face. “Why,” she sobbed, her mouth forming the words. “Why did they take my flowers? I work hard for them.” When she regained her composure, sniffling back her tears, she knew she should eat something. But instead of making her way down the stairs to the little store where she bought her provisions, she sat on her cot and considered what she should do. In place of sustenance, she would need her remaining money to buy supplies to make new flowers. Miss Laura’s dress was soaked through and she was shivering with the cold. The little maid lay down to rest and immediately fell asleep. She saw a woman putting a spoonful of food to her mouth. “Mother,” she cried. But as soon as she said it, surprised to hear the sound of her own voice, she opened her eyes and realized she was still alone in her own room; her mother only a dream. Miss Laura was feverish. She had caught more than a simple chill on that cold and rainy afternoon. How long had it been that she had lain there? She didn’t know. Perhaps three days, perhaps four. She vaguely remembered a day or two earlier, in the midst of her delirium, she had used the last of her coins to feed the meter in a futile attempt to heat her room. She was hungry, but weak and feverish. Now, she would have to obtain credit form the woman who operated the store where she bought her food, but Miss Laura was too weak, she simply no longer had the strength. Quietly, she began to cry. “Won’t someone care to help me?” “Won’t someone please help me?” She whispered. Wee Miss Laura exhaled a white cloud, shook, and was still. A humble little starling fluttered its wings and settled down on her window sill, looking in with its innocent, round, dark eyes. The starling flew in, encircled her head once, then flapping its wings slowly, crossed the room and flew away, leaving Wee Miss Laura’s body, a teardrop resting on her left cheek to the after-thoughts of men. 25

Castles in the Sky Natalie Bouchard Alone…alone again.. Facing the rock you gotta climb – blind alone again… It is not just the beginning that is hard. When you are so slow... Your mind so slow and rusty... You climb like you are going up backward, dragging earth behind you... Afraid to climb too Because sometimes it means too many goodbyes... Goodbyes are hard... From the way it used to be... As you get higher you can’t look back because. You’ll fall... As you get higher. There is less oxygen... It is harder to breathe Castles in the sky... It is breathtaking...the view...but You are alone again... Not always alone...always... But dangerously high... Can’t cling to things or people... Gotta float...on a cloud. You are closer to some things But not close to other things anymore... But, it’s okay you’ll do fine. Everyone’s got their own mountain to climb.

Jonathan Paige / Drawing / Untitled

Extrait de Le Tome II W.C. Werternerhotdog

Attention aux BEST-SELLERS... RÉGIME ALIMENTAIRE Alain Sicard

La nourriture est ce qui tient les humains en vie, généralement parlant, en tant qu’écrivain d’un future Best-Seller, il vous faudra une nutrition adaptée à votre nouvelle function. Soit manger de la vache enrage. C’est une des raisons qui m’a conduit à ne pouvoir écrire de BEST-SELLER moi-même, savez-vous combine coûte une vache? C’est hors de prix, secundo, il existe des vaccins contre la rage c’est bien, n’importe quel vétérinaire l’inoculera sans le moindre remord éthique. Mais lorsqu’on se pointe pour faire donner le virus de la rage à une vache, ils vous regardent comme un extra terrestre et pensent que vous êtes fou. Je me suis trouvé une vache avec de l’argent durement economise, personne n’a voulu se mouiller et me l’enrager cetter vache. On peut se procurer toutes sortes de drogues, il y a des piques ries, de la boisson qui coule à flot. Une prevue de plus que la justice des homes n’est pas parfait. Une simple vache à enrager devient criminelle. Cela était pour moi, un point essential de mon oeuvre BEST-SELLER, nous sommes en pays libre, si je veux manger de la vache enrage, c’est mon affaire et pas celle des autres. Ces mêmes autres, vous décourageront parfois, en vous disant comme s’ils vous apprenaient une grande vérité de la vie, si tu veux écrire un BEST-SELLER fait autre chose tu n:as quasiment aucune chance de réussir. Tu devras manger de la vache enrage. C’est une de ces choses plus faciles à dire qu’à faire. N’attendez d’encouragement que de vous-même, sinon vous quêterez de l’encouragement à droite à gaucje et le temps précieux que vous auriez mi à l’écriture de votre proper BEST-SELLER sera dilué dans cette quéte. Je vous encourage à ne chercher le courage qu’au centre de vousmême. Petits ou grands courages, ils partent tous du meme aéroport. Moi, je vous encourage, c’est entre vous et moi. Parfois je said, on est en marre de la manger de cette vache enrage, il faut alors se trouver de nouvelles recettes, apprêter les mets de manières différentes faire changement. Les livres de recettes sont souvent de bon BEST-SELLER.

- 4 Ea st Richard Diraddo

In the diner. Style, 1950’s retro. The smoking section. Surrounded by glass windows. Where people eat and smoke simultaneously. They eat greens and minced pie. The music is loud. Christmas junk that would make an elevator blush. I look around while drinking stale coffee that appears to be from the night before. Chain smoking. The walls are decorated with holla hoops, bowling pins, an old sleigh. Nice touch. Appropriate. My friend whispers “Rosebud.” I laugh and look for a velvet poster of Elvis. There is none. There should be.There’s a book shelf that looks out of place. Paperbacks with cracked spines. Yellow stained pages. I expect to see Plath, Sexton but I am certain to find romance novels instead. My legs are numb and I cannot move. Stale bread. Pea soup. A stained shirt. Nicotine fingers. The waitress dressed as a nurse is staring at me. I don’t question why. My friend points out the menu. “Established since 1931.” Who would have guessed this place would lose all hope two decades later. Who knew seventy one years later I would be sitting here. “God knows!” Or so mumbled the woman sitting at the adjoining table. I look at her. Her wrists. They are bandaged. Everything makes sense now. A place where time stands still. A place where my friends randomly come and go.

Letter to Carole I believe in angels. Not the mythological ones, with wings on their backs and halos above their heads. But the oh so real and down to earth angels that far too often are taken for just an everyday person who for some strange reason happens to care. I believe in angels without a doubt I do say, because I know of one, an angel that has taken me under her wing, and guides me along the way. Gentle and sweet, the essence of true beauty, this is the halo that she wears as she guides me to a much higher place in life. She is teaching me how to love myself, and what it feels like to have someone that cares. Peace is the offering that she holds, the gift she gives to me. To be offered the chance to soar. Peace is the wings that softly flutter around her. Oh, dearest sweet Carole, Thank you for keeping me in your care.

Lovingly,

Tina

To those of you who are reading this letter, I want it to be clear. If you should ever be passing by Clark street and you feel the sense of sweet beauty in the air, know it is because there is a true angel working there.

I can never keep up!!!

But nobody can keep up with me.

So, I guess I should just take the time to enjoy the day? That's what I would do.

Richard Diraddo / Drawing / Untitled

Janet Harvey / Painting / Untitled

Suzanne Cusson / Painting / Untitled

Memories Linda Gould Shreds of your experience are strew The photographs tell a story to no one but itself Old records of thoughts locked within the graveyard of your past The relics of oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life are tightly sealed in the age-worn attic of your dreams Although these memories shall cease to exist Even the most unforgettable memories fade Just as the seaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wave is lurched back towards the vast sea.

Untitled Lisa Tang

Time and endurance may it be confusing Lots and lots of joys without messing Entities of dimensional-thinkings Twilights in universal dreamings

Suzanne Cusson / Painting / Untitled 34