Geist 122

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IjustreceivedNo.120andamsoglad tobebackonyourmailinglist.Having notreceivedanythingforquitesome time,IthoughtI’dbeenforgottenand allwaslost.Ireallythoughttheparty wasover.So,welcomebackandcontinue thegoodwork.YourmagazineisappreciatedbyushereinPhiladelphiaandthe manyotherplacesweshareeachissue.

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GOOD-LOOKING

Agreatthingabout Geist contributors ishowpracticaltheyare.LikeGrant Buday,whowrote“Reduce,Reuse,Reincarnate”(No.121),workinginarecyclingdepot.Enclosedismylatestbook which,someday,willbedismembered

andpulped.No.121isagood-looking issue,butyouneedmorecomics.Hope WinterofOurPandemic helps. —DavidCollier,HamiltonON

Itcertainlydoes,David.

WRITERS-IN-RESIDENCE

Abigthank-youtoLucaCaraSeccafien fortheirtimeasGeist’sWriter-inResidence.Lucaisawriter,graphic storyteller/comicartist,printmaker,facilitator/teacherandcommunityorganizer. Findthematluca.caraseccafien.comand onInstagram@luca.secca.art.During theirresidency,Lucahostedtwomeetupsforcomixartistsandworkedon theirlong-formproject.TheircomixdispatchissetforpublicationinNo.123.

Wewouldalsoliketowelcome ChristineLai,ourincomingWriter-inResidence.Christine’sshortstoriesand essayshaveappearedinthe Puritan, Joyland, PRISMinternational and CosmonautsAvenue.Herdebutnovel, Landscapes,isforthcomingfromDoubledayCanadainSpring2023.We’re lookingforwardtoseeingwhatshe getsuptoduringhertimewithus.

Keepaneyeforfutureevent announcementsandopportunitiesat geist.com.

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CORRECTION

Inour“Findings”sectionofNo.120, thephotographyofKrissMunsyawas mislabelled.“WhiteNoiseinHeaven” waspublishedontheright-handpage, while“AstheDawnBreaks”waspublishedontheleft-handpage.Werecant theeditedartiststatementfeaturedin ourcaption,whichwasprovidedbythe Galleryrepresentativeandnottheartist.

OVERHEARDBYGEIST

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Lettersmaybeeditedforclarity,brevityanddecorum.

DerekBeaulieu’svisualpoemscanbe foundthroughoutthisissue.Theyare fromhisseriestitled“Euphemia Asleep,”fromthepoetrycollection SurfaceTension,publishedbyCoach HouseBooksin2022.DerekBeaulieu istheauthor/editorofovertwenty-five collectionsofpoetry,proseandcriticism.Heisthe2022–2024BanffPoet Laureate.Findhimatderekbeaulieu.ca.

DavidBurdeny isanaward-winning photographer.Hisworkhasbeen exhibitedinCanada,theUnitedStates andthroughoutEurope.Hisphotographshavebeenpublishedin Casa Vogue,the Guardian, CorrieredellaSera andmore.HelivesinDelta,BCand worksfromhisstudioinVancouver, BC.Findhimatdavidburdeny.com.

EmilyChou’sworkhasappearedin SADMag, Room, Vallum andmore.She’s livedintheUK,JapanandItalyand currentlyfindsherselfbackhomeon unceded xʷməθkʷəyəm, Sḵwxwú7mesh and səlilwətaɬ territory.Findhereverywhere@_rhymeswithwow.

MartineFrossard isavisualartistwho focussesherworkmainlyonanimation, illustrationandparticipativeinstallations.Heranimatedworkshavebeen presentedinmanyfestivalsandgalleries acrossCanada,theUnitedStatesand Europe.Heranimatedfilm,ThirtyMasks (2015),wasaninternationalsuccess. Findheratmartinefrossard.com.

JánJuhaniak isavisualartistwho worksinthefieldsofpainting,graphics,collage,drawing,illustrationand animation.Heisalsoengagedin musicproduction.Helivesandworks inSlovakiaandFrance.Findhimat janjuhaniak.comandonInstagram @jan_juhaniak.

JessRichter isaGerman-Canadian contemporaryfolkartistbasedin Regina,SK(Treaty4Territory).Her practiceincludesinstallation,site-specific work,printmakinganddrawing.She holdsanMFAfromtheUniversityof Regina.Findheratjessrichterprints.com andonInstagram@haushexenstudio.

PaulWong isanaward-winningartist andcurator.Heisamedia-maestro makingartforsite-specificspacesand screensofallsizes.Hepioneeredearly visualandmediaartinCanadaby foundingseveralartist-rungroups, leadingpublicartspolicyandorganizingmanyevents,festivals,conferencesandpublicinterventions.He livesinVancouver,BC.Findhimat paulwongprojects.com.

Hisartworksonpages20and21 ofthisissueareexcerptedfrom OccupyingChinatown byDebbie Cheung,ChristopherLeeandPaul Wong,publishedbyOnMain Galleryin2021.Thebookwasshortlistedforthe2022CityofVancouver BookAward.Visitonmaingallery.ca/ shopformoreinformation.

MingWu isaphotographerwitha passionformusic,artsandculture happeninginandaroundhiscity.He livesinOttawa,ON.Findhimat photogmusic.comandonTwitterand Instagram@photogmusic.

NOTES&DISPATCHES

JoeandMe CBCAMPBELL

Playingagainstthefastestchessplayerintheworld

Asmallcrowdhasgatheredon Toronto’sGouldStreetbesideSam theRecordMan.Everyone’sattention isfocussedonanoldmanseatedata tableonthesidewalk.Heyells,waves hishands,pusheshisplasticchessmen violentlyaroundtheboardandslaps thetimeclockwithanotherofhis opponent’spiecesafteralmostevery move.Heisaspeedchessmasternamed Josef“Joe”Smolijandwearewitnessinghimexecutehis“Smash-Crash” gambit.

Smolijhasalonggreybeard.He wearsatattered,darkredwool sweaterwith“KILLASYOUGO” hand-printedonit.Hepresentshis credentialsforalltosee:acardboard posterfeaturingafadednewspaper photoofhimself,asketchofSocrates andahand-letteredstatementproclaimingthatheis“thefastestchess playerintheworld.”

Chesshasadignifiedandstoried history;itsoriginsextendbacktothe GuptaEmpireofIndiainthesixth

centuryAD.BythetimeColumbus sailedtowhatbecametheWestIndies, thegamehadmigratedtoEuropeand theruleswereapproachingthosewe observetoday.In1846,theToronto ChessClubcameintobeing,formally establishingclubplayinthedrawing roomsofwhatwastobecomethe ProvinceofOntario.

Thechessbeingplayedtonighton GouldStreetisnotaleisurelygame carriedoutinaquietcluboverafternoontea.Itis2a.m.onadrizzly

Photo:JosefSmolij,1980,byCBCampbell

Octobernight.Thebars,peepshows andstripclubsalongYongeStreet haveclosed.ThedoorsofSamthe RecordManhavebeenlockedfor hours,although,inanodtothe gamestakingplaceoutside,thestore leavessomelightson.Smolijcrowsas anotherdefeatedchallengergetsup andfadesbackintothecrowdaround thetable.Isitintheemptychairand slipmyone-dollarbillunderthe chessclock.It’smyfirstgameofthe night,butcertainlynotmyfirstofthe semester.

It’s1980andI’minTorontopursuingJournalismatRyersonPolytechnic Institute.Thecrowdsandlate-night lightsofYongeStreethavegrabbed myimaginationandI’ve embracedthephilosophyofthejournalistas activeobserver.Aphotographyassignment challengesmetocapture somelocalcolour. Smolijprovidesit. Iliveablockaway fromSmolij’sstreettheatre,soclosetoschool thatIseldommakeitto mymorningclasseson time.IdoubtIwillever beabletopoundout sixtywordsaminuteon anIBMSelectric.I’vealsotwiceforgottentospellYoungStreettheway thelocalsdo—“Yonge”—asignofmy flaggingcommitmenttomastering themundanemechanicsrequiredof first-yearjournalismstudents.But thereareexcitingstoriestobewritten.Amunicipalelectioniscoming; theTorontomayoralracehasprogressiveincumbentJohnSewell defendingagainstconservativeArt Eggleton.InWard6,anopenlygay businessmanisattemptingtotakea seatoncouncil.Thisgenerates debatesandralliesforyoungjournaliststocover,ifonlyfortheirclass assignments.

Onenight,whileavoidingan assignment,IdiscovertheGame

Spot:anarcadewhereIhavemypick ofdozensofpinballmachinesand consolevideogames.Therearemore prurientofferingsonthestrip;just northofthechesstables,theZanzibar offerstable-dancers.Butaten-dollar coverchargeandfive-dollardrinks arebeyondmybudget.Instead,Iplay Galaga,SpaceInvadersandKissPinballforthelow,lowpriceofaquarter. Andanother.Andanother—whichis whyIheadhomelatemostevenings withonlyafewdollarsinmypocket. That’showIdiscoverthelate-night anticsofJoeSmolij,amanwhose commitmenttochessisclearly greaterthanminetojournalism,or Pac-Man.

timetoseethemaster’sflagfall.Since LabourDayweekend,I’veexecuteda numberofstrategies,buthavenotyet foundonethatworks.Nosurprise, giventhatchessisagamethatrewards experienceandmyopponenthas spenteveryeveningplayingspeed chessforoveradecade.Hehasbeen onthiscornerfortwoyears.Before that,hewasplayingafewblocksnorth atAllanGardens.

ChessisSmolij’spassion,andhow hemakeshisliving.Eachwinearns himonedollar.Heplayswithachess clock—atwo-facedtimerthattracks howlongeachplayertakestomake theirmoves.Whenaplayer’stime runsout,asmallmetalflagdrops, declaringthemtheloser.Smolij’s gamesseldomendwithcheckmate. Farmoreoften,aflagdropsonthe challenger.Whenourgamestarts,my clockhasfiveminutesassigned;his hassixtyseconds.EachtimeImove,I pushthebuttononmysideofthe clock,stoppingmytimeandrestarting myopponent’s.

Iplayafewgameseachnight, studyingSmolij’sstyleandsearching fortricksthatwillbuymeenough

AllanGardensishometoacentury -oldconservatorywithexoticplantsin sixgreenhouses.Patronscanwalk alongpathsandviewthecollection year-round.I’vespentsometimein thebuildingwithitswarm,humidair. Itremindsmeofthecowbarnat home:afamiliarearthy andorganicsmell,with justahintofurine.Even so,it’sawelcomechange fromthedieselandgas fumesofCarltonStreet. Manyofthepatronsof AllanGardensare homelessornearhomeless,andsometimes shiftless.Backin1978, thepolicewereconcernedaboutthecrowds Smolijattracted,concludinghehadtobea frontfordrugsales,not believingthatspeedchesswasaspectatorsport.Withsomeproddingfrom beatcops,heshiftedsouthtoGould.

Tonightweareplayingonstonetables—streetfurniturethatthecity installedwiththeintentiontogentrifyandsoftentheurbanlandscape, tomakeYongeStreetintoFamilyFun Streetratherthanthestreetwhere peoplegettheirrocksoff.Bylawsand rezoninghavehadsomeimpact,but therearealwaysdodgycharacters hangingaroundatthistimeofthe night.AlthoughSmolijisthestarperformer,thereareotherplayers.Men, withtheirplasticpiecesandclocks, claimtables,sometimesforafew hours,or,inSmolij’scase,forthe

evening.Somecomeregularly;others, onlyonweekends.

Twoboardsover,ayoungplayer seekstoemulatethemaster.Joelis perhapsinhisearlythirties,buthis beardandhard-wornclothingadd years.Joelworkedinconstruction untilhewasinjured.Unableto returntohisdayjob,heturnedto late-nightspeedchesstosupplement hisdisabilitycheque.Althoughhe usuallywins,I’veclaimedafewdollarsfromhim.ForJoel,lifeislarger thanthegame.He’sinterestedin morethanchess,andwehave becomefriends.Inthespringwewill worktogetherinaweeklyDungeons &Dragonscampaign,mypaladin andhishalf-elfsharingadventures justslightlymoreviolentthanthe streetchessbattlesofSmolijandthe nightcrew.

Fewoftheregularsputinlong hoursonthestreet.Nonearepreparedtoofferthetimeadvantagethat Smolijdoes.Afeware“real”players, insistingonatleasttenorfifteenminutesforeachplayerpergametoprovidetimetothinkandlearn.Thebest amongthemtellmethatplaying speedchesswillhurtanychanceI mighthaveofbecomingatournamentplayer.

Thereisonemanwhocomes occasionally,betterdressedthanthe usualcrowdandmoreskilledaswell. Hewantstoplaylongergames,and hisrespectforSmolijisgrudgingat best.Smolijusuallyignoreshim,but nowandthenhewillmutter,“Club player.”Ifitislateandabadnight,he willyellit.

Smolij’stimeasaclubplayeris longbehindhim,buthedidhavehis day.Bornin1921,hecametoCanada fromPolandin1954.Heiscredited withfivetournamentgamesbetween 1956and1976;in1959hewonthe Ontariochampionship,allowinghim anunsuccessfulbidfortheCanadian Championship.Duringthoseyears, hewasamachinist.Hekeptachessboardclosetohisworkstation.His

employerobjectedandin1975hewas letgo.Stillunemployed,heearns moneywithhischesspiecesandclock, spendinglonghoursdoingwhathe lovesmost.

Andhedoesitverywell.I’ve alreadyusedoverthreeandahalfof myfiveminutes,whileSmolijis barelyatfifteenseconds.Thereare fivepeoplewatchingusplay,acouple oftheregularsandafewwanderers, drawn,nodoubt,bySmolij’senergeticgamecommentaries.Igrabmy knightandbringitout,lookingto buildawallofpiecesthatwilltake himtimetochewthrough.ThenI pressdownmybuttonandmyclock stops;hisstarts.

“Thismove?Yes,thismove.” Smolijbeginshisplay-by-play.I’ve madehimthink.Threesecondslater, hecapturesmyknightwithhisbishop. “Hah.Killasyougo.”Hesmashesmy piecedownonhisbutton,restarting myclock.

Withnotimetothink,Itakehis bishopwithmypawn.Ipushdown thebuttonwithhisbishop,apetulant efforttosendamessage:twocanplay thisgame.

Wefranticallytradepieces,theclock buttonsclickinglikeametronome.

Lessthanaminutelater,Icapturehis queen.Thistime,oldman,I’vegotyou.

“Youkillmyqueen;Ikillyour king.”

Irealizehehasadvancedapawn— he’snowonlyonemoveawayfrom promotionandcheck.Evenwithmy advantageinpieces,myonlyoptionis amajorsacrifice.

Hemaybedowntojusttwenty secondsnow,butI’mdowntothirty.I makeanothermove,hopingthatIcan executethenextfewfastenoughto holdhimoff.

Ibringmyqueenintopositionand clicktheclock.Hemoveshisother bishopacrosstheboard.

Heusesmyqueentopushhis buttondownandmyclockrestarts.I considermyoptions,desperateto slowhimdown.

Eachgameisfleeting,neverlastingmorethanfiveminutes.Smolijis apermanentfixtureonthecorner. Thatwinter,Iamafrequentpatron ofhisart.Bythespring,myinterest injournalismisfading.Irealizehow muchI’menjoyingmyeconomics courseandhowexcitingitistowatch anelectionplayout.Idecideon PoliticalEconomyasamajorandam acceptedatadifferentschoolinadifferentcity.

Smolijcontinuestoplayhisnightly styleofSmash-Crashchessuntilhe failstoshowuponeFebruarynightin 1985.Heisfoundunconsciousinhis roominghouse,avictimofhypothermiaandgallstones.Hisrecoverytakes placeinanursinghome—hedoesnot returntothecorner.Instead,heputs hisenergyintoteachingchesstohis caregivers.

Thatnightin1980,theendofmylessonisnear.Idon’thaveenough materiallefttowin.Idon’tevenhave enoughpiecestoblockhispawn,just onemoveawayfrompromotion.Desperatetobuytime,Islidemylastrook overtothreatenhisking.Withoutprotection,itisgobbledup.Ipullmylast bishopbacktobuymoretime.Evenas Ihittheclock,Iknowthat,again,this isnotmygame.Smolijpusheshispawn forwardandmyclockisrunningagain. Attemptingonemoredelay,Idrawmy kingbehindafewsurvivingpawns,but Smolijshouts,“Time!”I’mjustaputz playingthemaster—I’vedonewelljust toavoidcheckmate.

Hepointstohissign,andIaccept onceagainthatI’velostto“thefastest chessplayerintheworld.”Thegame ends.Smolijtakesmydollarfrom beneathhisclockandsmiles.

CBCampbellwasborninNewRichmond, QC,andhasmigratedwestthroughtheEasternTimeZone.Henowwritesandteaches inThunderBay,ON.

HeartMedicine

i Itisastreetthatnever Ends,groundtarmac Blackagainstabluesky Houseswithlowroofs Straightforward,stretched, Alsothesame Welcometothesuburbs, Therearetwokindsofmailboxes OnewiththelastnameSmith, AndonewiththelastnameBrown.

ii

Youareachildinthemiddleofthis Road.Youaresurethemoment Youstepforwardyouaremakingachoice, Eventhoughthepathonlygoesforward Here.Eitheryoustepofftheroad Orfollowinhistracks.

iii

Somanypossibilities.Youchoose Todeclinethemall.Youweren’t Supposedtoseealotofthings, Butthat’snothowweweremade Wehaveeyes.Otherthings Useothersenses.

iv

Eachhouselooksthesame. Lemonade,picnics,asimple Life.Raisechildren, Obedientones.Also,urban Areas.Neonlights. Lesschildren.Youknoweach Chapterhasalocation. Youchoosenottowrite, Buttimepasses.Peoplearewaiting Forthebook.

v

Youarecounting.Youare Playingagame.Numbers Droponebyone. Tinkanddrip.Youopenyour Eyes.Whereiseveryone?

vi

Firstitlooksmorelikeadream. Youwishitwasone.Flattarmacroad. Womendrinkinglemonades,young Girlstryingonnewnailpolishesinthe backyard. Boysplayingsports.Thennight.Not asinglelightin Asinglewindow.Beep.Wakeup.

vii

Youlookbehindeverychair,search Everycorner,openeverydrawer ReadyornothereIcome, Yousaid.Looksliketheywereall Readywithoutyou.Yousee Thehandsontheclockmoving.After Awhileyoucrybecauseyou’reachild. Youcan’tpullapartimaginary Andfriend.

viii

Itwasn’tsupposedtobelikethis Everyoneelselookshappier. Youknowyouonlyliveonce. You’vealreadyexhaustedsimplepleasure Andknowledgecutintooldwounds Thenyoutriedconsumingyourself Thetasteofahumanmind Waslikethatofash.

ix

Showmewhereithurts, Shesaid.Atfirst Youdon’tknowwhere, Thenyoupointtoyour Elbow.Shekissesyourknee.

x

Youhavebruises

Therewastime

Youspenttryingto Healthem.

Asin,timewasted. Yourmotheralwayssaid Everywoundisjustpreparation Forthenext.

Asin,lateronyougonumb. Youshutyourselfoff, Yousaywordslike Sentimentaland

…

Isanyonehome?

MazzySleepisaten-year-oldfromToronto,ONwhobeganwritingduringthepandemic. Shehaswrittenoveronethousandpoemsandshortstories,aswellastwofeaturescreenplays andanovella.Herworkhasappearedorisforthcomingin Queen’sQuarterly, Rattle,the Margins, BarrenMagazine, JellyfishReview andelsewhere.Findherat mazzysleep.com.

RedFlags

DAVIDM.WALLACE

Themapleleafnolongerfeelslikeasymbolofnationalpride

WhenmypublisherlearnedthatI wasplanningabicycletourfrom MontréaltoVictoria,theydecidedthat Ishouldusetheopportunitytopromote mydebutnovel, TheLittleBruddersof Miséricorde.Thebookisadarkcomedy thatfeaturesafrancophonemouseand arecentlyretiredanglophoneschoolteacherwhoissetadriftinan unfamiliarcity.Animprobable premise,butinsomeways,it mightbedescribedasanaffectionatelyprofanespinon LePetit Prince.Andliketheeponymous characterofthatslimvolume whovisitsEarthandwondersif itisuninhabited,Ialsofound myselftravellingforsometime withoutmeetinganyonealong thehighway.Or,atleast,anyone whowasnotsafelyensconced insideavehicle.Myfirst encounterwasnotwithahuman atall,butwithablackbear.

Itwasnotabigbearandat first,Ithoughtitmightbea cub.Itcamelopingoutofthe treelineonmyright,running alongsidetheTrans-Canada Highwayperhapsthirtymetres frommybike.Itlookedlike ourpathsmightconvergea littlewayahead.

Myfirstthoughtwas:“Aww, cute.”

Mysecondwas:“Ifthisisa cub,where’sthemother?”

Atransportpassed.Itwasbigand loudenoughtosendthebearback intothebush.Theencounterwasa momentofconcern.Notfear,really, butunsettlingenoughthatthenext dayIstrappedonmybearspray.

Twodayslater,Imetsomeoneelse whowasnotinavehicle:aman,maybe earlythirties,standingalongsidethe

Trans-Canadaintheentrancetoa highwayconstructionsite.Hewaved medown.

“Doyouneedwater?”heshouted. Ipulledupnexttohistruck.My ladenbikeslidalittlesidewaysonthe loosegravel.Weexchangedgreetings. Whereyoucomingfrom?Montréal.

couplehundredquickcaloriesina coldbottlewasappealing.Ichosea gingerale.

“You’regoingtopassJamesTopp.” Hepointedwestdownthehighway. “He’sonlyacoupleofkilometres away.

“Idon’tthinkIknowwhoJames Toppis.”Icrackedopentheginger aleandtookasip.

“He’swalkingfromVancouverto Ottawatoprotestvaccinemandatesand togetrestitutionforthosewhowere unfairlyfired.”Hewasveryexcited. Ittookmeamomenttoprocess whathewassaying.Typically, someonecyclingorwalking acrossthecountrymightbe tryingtoraiseawarenessor fundresearchonPTSD,diabetes,reforestationorclean water.ItappearedIhad chanceduponanendeavour moreattunedtothe“Freedom Convoy”whosebigrigshad rolledintoOttawalastJanuary andnoisilyoccupiedthestreets foramonth,ostensiblyto protestvaccinepassports.Their grievancesalsoappearedto includeseveralfar-righthobbyhorsesfavouredbywhite supremacists.Widelysharedon Twitterwasaphotoofan Americanconfederateflag flyingamongthemanyCanadianmapleleaves.

Whereyouheading?Victoria.

HehauledoutaCanadianTire insulatedicebox.Inotedtheboldred triangleandgreenmapleleaf.Hehad water,Gatorade,softdrinks,granola bars.

“Takewhateveryouneed.” Ihadplentyofwaterbutitwas noononanintenselyhotdayanda

Whilecyclingacross Canada,youdon’troutinelyget offeredcoldwaterandsoft drinksbystrangers.Irealized hewaswaitingforJamesTopp topasssothathecouldsupply refreshments.ThoughIdidn’t feelanysympathyforthecausehewas supporting,Ididn’twanttoappear ungrateful.

“It’sbeenareallytoughcoupleof yearsforeveryone,”Isaid.Icapped thegingeraleandslippeditintomy frontpannier.

“Godblessyou!”heshoutedasI pulledaway.

Image: DrivingUptheStrangeSkies byMingWu,2021,collage

AfewminuteslaterIcaughtsight ofJamesTopp.Helookedtobeinhis midforties.Orangeandyellowsafety vest.Intheblisteringheat,hewasin trousersandbootsandtakingdeterminedstridesalongthegravelshoulder.Trailinghim,alittleclutchof localsupportersbrandishingthe Canadianflagatwaistlevelliketagteammatadors.Ayoungmanwith longyellowhairwasphotographing theirapproach.

“Livingfree!”thephotographer said,andgavemeathumbsup.James ToppnoddedgravelyasIpassed.It occurredtomethathehadalready walkednearlythedistancethatI plannedtocycle.But,ofcourse,he hadateam.Sponsors,Isuppose. ProbablyaWinnebago.Aproperbed everynight.Still,hehadwalkedfrom Vancouver. Walked.

AlittlelaterIgoogledhim.Afew briefarticlesfocussedonhiscomplaintsaboutthelackofmainstream mediacoverage.Hehadstartedatthe TerryFoxMemorialinVancouver. Heplannedtoendhiswalkatthe OttawaTomboftheUnknownSoldier.Oddhowself-proclaimed“freedomfighters”arewillingtoco-opt symbolsofservicebutseemoblivious tothefactthattheirheroesmadesacrificesforthecommongoodandnot indefenceofindividualprivileges. TerryFox’sMarathonofHopeenvisionedacureforcancer.Topp’s endeavourwasthesortthatrisked prolongingadeadlypandemic.

Fromthenewsarticles,it appearedWarrantOfficerTopp (armyreserves)wasfacingacourt martial. Conducttotheprejudiceofgood orderanddiscipline. Itcouldinclude dismissalwithdisgraceanduptotwo yearsinprison.

Whilewearinghisuniform,Topp postedtwoonlinevideoscriticizing COVID-19vaccinerequirementsfor militarypersonnelandotherfederal employees.Whichallseemsstrange, sincemilitarypersonnelarealready requiredtobevaccinatedforallthe

usualdiseases.Theysometimes receiveadditionalvaccinationsifthey aredeployedoverseas.Somethingto dowithmaintainingoperational readiness.

Afewhourslater,somefiftykilometresfartherwest,therehewas again.Theguywho’dgivenmethe gingerale.Hesaidhehadpassedme inhistruckanddecidedtopullover tosayhellooncemore.Hesmiled broadlyandcalledmearealinspiration.Outcametheicebox.

“Helpyourself,”hesaid.“Anythingyouwant.”

Itooksomeicecubesandplopped themintomywaterbottle.Somehow takingmorewouldhavemademe feelcomplicitinacauseIcan’t support.

“Idon’tevenknowyourname,”he said.

Itoldhimandaskedhis.

“Vince.”Weshookhands.

Onsomelevel,IlikedVince.To mehe’dbeenkindandthoughtful andencouraging.Hewasdoingwhat hethoughtwasright.Believingin something.Maybeneedingsomethingtobelievein.Maybeeven thinkingthatIandmanyothers believethesamethingshedoes. Maybehecan’tseethathe’stakena marginalstance.Idon’tthinkhe’sa badguy.

Andapartfromalittleblackbear, hewastheonlylivingcreaturethat I’dmetlately,alongthesideofthe Trans-Canada,whowasn’twhizzing pastinavehicle.He,andJamesTopp withhislittleflag-totingentourage. Allofthemalittlenear-sightedand blunderingalongthehighway.Only thebear,though,likelytobecompletelyharmless.Vincewishedme safetravels.

Ispentnearlythreemonths cyclingtheTrans-Canada.Several timesIsaw“F*ckTrudeau”flags— oddlysinister—boldwhiteletterson ablackfield.Starkasaskulland crossbones.Aredmapleleafwhere I’veinsertedanasterisk.Inthe

aftermathoftheOttawatruckers’ protest,akindofinchoaterageseems tohaveemergedfromadisaffected minorityofCanadians.Ipasseda housewithalongbannerdeclaring:“Thank-you,truckers,for makingmeaproudCanadian again.”Moremapleleaves.I saw“FreedomFighter”emblazoned abovethewindshieldofasemi. Mapleleaves,again.Ievenmetaguy outsideaPetro-Canadawhoasked meifIwasawarethattheFreemasonsareinleaguewiththefederal governmentandthat,together,they aredevelopinganewlow-frequency sonicweapontomurdertheirenemies.Abig,stylizedmapleleafinthe Petro-Cansignloomingabovehim. Coincidence,Iknow,but…

Nationsthathaveexperiencedthe shameofaperversepatriotism(Germany,Japan)consideritsocially unacceptableforprivatecitizensto displaythenation’sflag.InCanada,a factionofdiscontentsappearstohave co-optedtheflagasasymboloftheir anger.Afterthreemonthspedalling acrossCanada,themapleleafhas becomenotafamiliaremblemof nationalpride,butakindofcoded messagebetween“freedomfighters.”

Niceguys,likeVince.Friendly, butfullofadisquietingfervour.Generallywhitemen,hurtandconfused andlookingtofeelheroicindefence ofthecomfortableadvantagesthey onceexclusivelyenjoyed.Lookingto equatepatriotismwiththeirownpreferredtraditions.Effacingtheparadoxesoffreedomandreducingitto mereindividualism.Andultimately, inspiringdread,ratherthanpride,at thesightofamapleleaf.

Untilhisretirement,DavidM.Wallace wasasecondaryschoolteacherinBurnaby, BC.HenowlivesinMontréal,QC,scribblingpoetry,proseandsongs.Heisanavid all-weatherbicyclist.

DavidSheskinisawriterandartistwholivesinBethel,CT.Hisworkhasbeenpublished innumerousmagazines,includingthe DalhousieReview, PuertodelSol,the Satirist andthe FloridaReview.Hismostrecentbookis DavidSheskin’sCabinetofCuriosities

Scavengers

JENNILEEAUSTRIA

That’soneforthericebag!

WhenIwasgrowingupinSarnia, myfamilyhadastrangehobby.

OnSundaysafterchurch,we’dgo toopenhouses.Wewerealwaysthe onlyimmigrantsthere,butweheld ourdarkheadshigh,knowingthatwe lookedbetterthanwewouldallweek. Ourcrisply-pressedSearsoutfitsand pristinepatent-leatherPaylessshoes werenothinglikeourpambahay—the batteredsandos,baggyshorts,and rubbertsinelasweworeathomewhen ourblindswereclosed.That’swhenwe revertedtotheFilipinoimmigrant familywetrulywere:ascrappybluecollarfatherfromtheManilaslums,a proud-but-underemployedmotherwith anuntransferableteachingdegreeand twocompliantgirlsgrowingupina smellyOntariooilrefinerytown.

Attheopenhouses,wewouldtour thepropertiesslowly,pressingour browntoesintotheplush,creamcolouredcarpets,runningourhot fingersalongthecoolgranitecountertops,andmarvellingatfridges withicedispensersthatspilledice cubesalloverthefloorwheneverwe pressedthebuttonstoohard.

“Wehaveonejustlikeitathome, butatleastourshasabuilt-inicecontainer,”myfatherwouldsay,wearing hiswhiteliesoverhisSundaybest.

Astherealestateagentrushedto cleanuptheice,I’dgrabacanof7UP andpocketasmanycookiesasIcould.

Butthatwasn’tthehobby.

Whentheopenhousewasover, we’dcomebacktothatemptyhouse. I’dcoverupmyfrillychurchdress

withmysister’soldGarfieldshirt, changeoutofmyshinyMaryJanes andpullonapairofworndenimoverallsthatmatchedtheonesmyfather putonoverhisownchurchclothes.

Mymotherandsisterwouldstayin thecaraslookouts.

“Makeitquick,”mysisterwould say,handingmetwoemptyricebags.

“Dowereallyhavetodothis?”my motherwouldhiss.“Wedon’twantto ruinourgoodname.”

“We’reinCanada,remember?”my fatherwouldreply,swappinghisfancy churchshoesforadustypairofNikes. “Wedon’tevenhaveaname!”

Trailingmyfatheraroundthe perimeterofthehouse,I’dputonthe men’sgloveshe’dpilferedfromtheoil refinerythatweretoobigevenforhim andkeepmyeyesgluedtotheground. Aroundthenewhomes,thegrass hadn’tbeenlaidyet,leavingdry,rough earthexposed.

Andthere,inthatgloriousdirt, wererocks.

WhenmyparentscametoSarnia, theneighbourshadafancygarden installedbyalandscapingcompany. Therewasagurglingwaterfallthat trickleddownintoapond,withthe mostbeautifulborderofrocksthat curvedalongthewater’sedge,leading downtothecorneroftheyardwhere theirpropertymetours.

Therockswerelargeandsmooth tothetouch,andIlovedtoholdthem inmyhands,feelingtheweightinmy palmsbeforemymotherscoldedme: “Wedon’twantthemtosaythat immigrantsarethieves,okay?Wewant themtothinkthatwe’regoodpeople!” She’dcarefullyputtherocksback, makingsuretoofferanapologetic waveinthedirectionoftheneighbours’window,justincasetheywere looking.

Whenmyfathercalledthelandscaperstoinquirehowmuchtherocks cost,theyquotedhimafigurehigher thanhisentirerefinerypaycheque.

“Whypayforsomethingwecan scavengeforfree?”heasked.

Whenwesearchedaroundthenew houses,wecouldneverfindthesame smooth,darkrocksthattheneighbourshad,sowegrewtopreferthe red,grey,andbrownonesinstead.

“Onlypicktheoneswithwhite stripes,”myfatherwouldremindme. “Thosearetheonesthatlook expensive.”

WheneverI’dspotaperfectspecimen,we’dsquatdowninthedirtand pourabitof7UPontotherock.I’d holdmybreathandwatchthedesigns thatwouldbloomacrossitlikemagic.

“Angganda!”myfatherwouldsay. “That’soneforthericebag!”

Whentherockhuntwasover,we’d haulourfindsbacktothecar,peeloff ourdustygearanddrivebacktoour littlebungalowontheoutskirtsof town.

Andinthegoldenlightofthesettingsun,we’dplacetherocksalong theedgeofourgarden,imagininghow theywouldlookbesidetheflowers thatwouldbloomtheresomeday.

Wheneverwesawtheneighbours peeringatusthroughtheirblinds,my parentswouldsmileandwaveatthem.

“Girls,seehowthey’rewatching us?”myfatherwouldask.“They’re probablysaying,‘Lookhowthey boughtsuchlovelyrocksintheir lovelyclothes!Whataclassyimmigrantfamily!’”

Butsincetheyneverspoketous,we neverreallyknewwhattheythought.

Onethingwedoknow:yearslater, whenmyparentsdivorcedandwe movedaway,thefirstthingthose neighboursdidwastakeourrocks.

Scavengers.

JennileeAustriaisaFilipina-Canadian writer,speakerandschoolboardconsultant whobuildsbridgesbetweeneducatorsandFilipinofamilies.OriginallyfromSarnia,ON, shenowlivesindowntownToronto,where shestillkeepsaneyeoutfortheprettiest rocks.Findheratjennileeaustria.comoron InstagramandTwitter@Jennilee_A.

FINDINGS

MariLywd, 2018,papercuttingandgouacheand TheBlackPrincesses,2019,papercuttingandgouachebyJess Richter.InfluencedbyBritish,GermanandEastern-Europeanfolkritualandtradition,Jessrecontextualizesthesepractices withincontemporarySaskatchewantoexplorethesubmergedidentitiesofGerman-Canadiansinpostwar,ruralCanada.

HostileVibration

TARAMCGUIRE

From HoldenAfterandBefore:LoveLetter foraSonLosttoOverdose byTaraMcGuire. PublishedbyArsenalPulpPressin2022.Tara McGuire’sworkhasbeenpublishedinmagazines andfeaturedonCBCRadio. HoldenAfterand Before isherfirstfull-lengthwork.Shelivesin NorthVancouver,BC.Findherattaramcguire.com.

Alayerofripe-garbagesmellhangsovereverything, andthesky,whathecanseeofit,isoilygold,like it’sbeenpaintedwithacoatofmeltedbutter. Holden’sneverexperiencedthiskindofhumidity before.SweatexpandsacrossthebackofhisT-shirt,

andhisjeansarestucktohislegs.Heseesfireescapes andbrickwalls,dumpstersinalleyways,andrusty lamppostsalongtheedgeofthestreet.Astheywalk, heimaginestaggingeachobject;hishandmoves involuntarily,asifhe’swritinghisnameintheair inglossywhitelines.Hecanevenseetheletters drippingasheandhismomcontinueontheirway: RuleR, RuleR, RuleR.Heinhalesthefumesandthe noiseofNewYorkCityandrealizeshe’ssmiling. Hisshouldersarerelaxing.Theelectricbuzzinside hisribcagehasbeenturneddowntoathree.

Holdentriestolookupattheskyscrapers withouttrippingoverthecracksinthesidewalk. TheylandedatJFKlessthantwohoursago,and alreadythey’re“outexploring.”

Whydoyoualwayshavetowalksofast? You’relikeafreakin’squirrel.

Holyshit!Hismomstopsabruptlyinthe middleofthewidesidewalk.She’slookingupat theblackawningabovetheirheads.It’sBirdland! Sheturnstohimeagerly,buthehasnoideawhy thisplaceissignificant.Wehavetogoin!Every greatjazzmusicianinthehistoryoftheworldhas playedhere.ShepullsonHolden’sarm.

Dude,wecan’tgoin,it’sabar.Hetakesastep backfromher,towardthecurb,asifshe’sjust askedhimtohelphertorobabank.

Howdoyouknow?Sheshrugs.Maybewecan. Comeon,let’stry.

Thisiswhatheloves-hatesabouther.Always tryingtoweaselherwayin.Shedoesn’t“pay attentiontotherules,”whichiswhatshe’salways tellinghimtodo.

Thedoormanwavesthemthroughwitha

borednod.BeforeHoldencanprocesswhat’s happening,he’ssittingatatableinwhatappears tobeajazzbar/restaurantcombo.Waitersin jacketsaredeliveringplatesoffoodandtraysof drinks.Instrumentsandmusicstandsclutterthe stage.Mostofthepeopleattheothertablesare oldandBlack.Hefeelsverynotold,andverynot Black.It’sawkwardandabitexcitingatthesame time.Imean,he’sinaclubinNYC.Andhe’snot evensixteenyet.

Heleansbackinhischairandlooksaround, handsrestinglooselyonhisthighs.Yup,he’sthe youngestpersonherebylike,ahundredyears. He’sincrediblyuncomfortable—dampclothes, stiffchair,awkwardsilence.Hismomisgrinningathimfromacrossthetable.Heforcesa weaksmile.

Thewaitersetsdowntwoglassesofbeerin frontofhismom,becausethere’satwo-drink minimum,andby“drink”theymeanthedreaded alcohol.AfreshCokefizzesinfrontofhim,which isfuckingironicconsideringhe’srarelyallowedto drinkthedevil’ssugarwaterathome.Inhislife he’sprobablyconsumedmorebeerthanCoke. He’salsoeatenmorezucchinimuffinsthan chocolatecupcakes.

Itwouldbesomuchbettertobeolder.Ifhe wasolder,oneofthosebeerswouldsitinfront ofhim,andhecouldsignalthewaitertobring himanotherwithoutanyonetellinghimhe couldn’t.Butsomeoneelse,asusual,iscalling theshots.Hecan’twaittobeoldenoughtobe inchargeofhimself.Theneverythingwillbeso mucheasier.Ifhewasolder,theladyeyeballing

MARATHON

From Butthesun,andtheships,andthe fish,andthewaves byConyerClayton.PublishedbyAnvilPressin2022.ConyerClayton istheauthorof WeShedOurSkinLike Dynamite (GuernicaEditions),whichwon the2021OttawaBookAward.Shelivesin Ottawa,ON.Findheratconyerclayton.com.

Iforgottoleavemyhusband,soIgoonarun wearingonlyagiantshirt.ItrainsandIhave nokeys.I’minacity,oneIalsoforgottoleave, wetandwhistledat,sober.Iheadinsideabar todryoff,whenamanIoncekissedwhile highonmollyswingsmeinacircle,hishand onmyhip. Whoareyouagain? Iask,leaning dizzyintohim,mypupilsswallowingsilence, remembering. Youdon’tknowme,hesays.The barisatinybedroomwithwindowsinsteadof walls.Thestreetislinedwithbarslikethis. Everyonepeersinside.I’msober,Iremind myself,andtellhimIhaveaboyfriend—oh wait,actuallyI’mmarried. I’msounhappy though,ithardlycounts.Wekissandit’s2a.m.I havetorunhomebeforehusband’sshiftends. Thisdamncityhasnocabs,butIholdmyarm outasIsprinthomeanyway.

himfromacrossthetable,herfacetintedafaint orangebythethinstripsofneonabovethe stage,wouldbeyounger,moreinteresting,and theywouldprobablybegettingshizzled.Maybe hewouldleantowardher,elbowsonthetable, closingthespacebetweenthem.Maybeshe wouldtiltforward,too,laughingathishilarious banter.

There’ssomethingextremelydistressing aboutgoingtoyourfirstbarwithyourgoddamn mother.Completelyandfundamentallywrong. Shouldn’taman’sfirsttriptoabarbecooler thanthis?Amilestone—likehisfirstfuck. Somethinghecanlookbackonlaterwithpride, somethinghecanbragabouttohisfriends.It shouldnotbesprungonhimlikeacarjacking. Thisissomessed.Hisfacehardens,andthe familiarprickleandbuzzbeginstoflareunder hisskin.Helooksaround,tryingtofigureouta possibleescape.Howcanhestopthisbeforeit goestoofar?

MaybeweshouldjustgotoTimesSquare, Momz?hesays.Can’twegolookatthecheesy lights?Can’twejustgohaveaburgerandcallita night?I’mtired.

We’reherenow,honey,wedon’thavetostay long,shesays.

They’vemissedtheirchance.Thebandhas takenthestageandiscountinginasongherecognizesfromhisdad’sCDcollection,butcan’t quitepeg.Hewillinasecond,though.It’sclose. Hecanalmostgrabthetitlefromtheairjust aboveandtotherightofhismom’shead.He’s alwaysbeenabletoseemusic.Asalittlekidhe couldidentifyallthedifferentinstrumentsinthe songsontheradio.

Thatonehasviolinsandasaxophone.Doyou hearthetrumpet,Mama?

No,Idon’t.Momwouldlookoverathimfrom thedriver’sseat.ButI’msureyou’reright.

Musichasalwaysbeencleartohim.Easy.

Thedudeonthestand-upbassisrunningan incredibleriff,andeventhoughthedrummeris leadingtherhythmsection,he’sworkingthe snarebeautifullyfromjustaslightshadebehind everyoneelse.Classicback-seatdriver.The musicenvelopsHoldenandseepsintohis muscles.

Thewallbehindhismom’sheadisfilledwith framed,signedportraits.Herecognizesalotof them:Parker,Mingus,Holiday,Davis,Fitzgerald. They’veallperformedonthisstagejustafewfeet away.She’sright,itisfuckingamazing.Hepicks

uphisCoke,takesasip,andthereitis—heknows thesongthebandisplaying.“TakeFive”byDave Brubeck.Nailedit.

Hismomslowlysurveystheroom.Thenshe exhales,leansforward,setsherhandpurposefully onthewhitetablecloth,andslidesoneofthe glassesofbeertowardhim.

Whattheheck,shesays,lookingoverher shouldertocheckifanyonesawher.

Holdenlaughsoutloud.Hepicksuptheglass andisabouttotakeasip.

Wait!Sheraisesherglassandholdsitout towardhim.Cheers!Happyalmostbirthday!

TheydrinkasthebandseguesintoThelonious Monk’s“BodyandSoul.”Hegetsthatoneinthe firstfewnotes.

Holden’sglassisempty longbeforehers.Themusic continuesandanotherbeer arrives,thenanother.Soon theneonlightingseemsless offensive,thechairless hardagainsthisback,and hismother’svoicelessabrasiveinhisears.Hewatchestheband,noticing howalloftheirlimbsaremovinginrhythm, elbowsjerking,kneesrisingandfalling,heads bobbinginunison.Theypassaroundthelead, communicatinginsubtlegestures.Hecanseethe layersofmusicoverlappingasthemusicianswork togethertobuildsomethingmorebeautifuland substantialthananyofthemcouldmakeby themselves.

Thehostilevibrationinsidehisribcagedrains awaylikespaghettiwaterthroughastrainer. Anotherbeeranditbecomeslessworktosmile backathismom.She’ssittingtherewatchingthe band,herfingerskeepingtrackofthebeatonthe tablecloth.Shesoftlygrinstoherself,andherhead dipsintimewiththebeat.

Maybethetripisagoodideaforthemafterall. AllthatfightingwithherandCamaboutthe homeworkthing,andthepotthing,andthegirlin hisroomthing,andthestealingboozething,and thesneakingouttopaintthing,andthecops thing.Hefeelsaninvoluntarysurgeofaffection floodhischest.Hismomtriessohard,butshe doesn’thaveafuckingclue.Shedoesn’tknow him,andhecan’texplainhimselftoher,sothere’s alwaysaspacebetweenwhattheybothwantand whattheyeachhave.

Clappingandcheersfillthevoidleftbythe fadingvibrationofthemelody.Themusicians

tenderlysetdowntheirinstrumentsandwalkoff, likeconstructionworkersatthelunchwhistle.

Coffeebreakfortheband,hismomsays.Have youhadenough?Wecangoanytime.

Sure,hesays,thoughthisseemslikeagood placetostayforawhile.

Shepaystheirtabwithagreenhundred-dollar bill,andwhenthewaiterbringsthechangeback, shehandsHoldenatwentythatlookstohim exactlylikethehundredshejustpaidwith.

Here,incasewegetseparated.Notthatwe will.

Hetucksthetwentyintothefrontpocketof hisjeans.Separated?

Hefollowsheroutthroughtheclub,downthe red-carpetedstairs,through theheavydoubledoor,and ontothestreet,whereit’s notquitedark.Ahintof azuredrapesacrossthe chunkofskyhecansee.

Doyouthinkyoucould findyourwaybacktoour placeifyouhadto?

They’renotstayinginahotel.Someradical professorladywhoMomandCammetatanItalianrestaurantinParisofferedthemherapartment.Imean,whyyouwouldgotoanItalian restaurantinFrance,hehasnoidea.Apparently theapartmentisrentcontrolled,whichisarare andnoteworthything.Fromwhatheremembers, thebuildinglooksexactlylikeeveryotherapartmentonthestreet.Brownbricks,cementsteps withwroughtironrailings,blackfrontdoor. SureIcould.

Good.Howwouldyougetthere?

Iwould…Helooksleftandright,upand downthestreet.Iwould…Hehasnofucking idea.Well,it’son72ndAvenue.

It’son75thStreet.AtAmsterdam,shesays.You couldtakethesubwayto72ndStreetandwalk fromthere.Rememberthat,75thandAmsterdam. Gotit,75thandAmsterdam.

Butdon’tworry,I’mnotlettingyououtofmy sight.

So,justlikeathomethen.Helaughs. Yes,justlikethat.Shelaughstoo,onlybigger. Sheslipsherarmthroughthebendofhiselbow andtheywalk,linkedtogether,towardtheartificialglowofwhathepresumesisTimesSquare.

NothingforMoney

JOSEPHKAKWINOKANASUM

FromMyIndianSummerbyJosephKakwinokanasum.PublishedbyTidewaterPressin2022.Joseph KakwinokanasumisofCreeandAustriandescent. MyIndianSummer ishisfirstnovelandisloosely basedonhisownchildhood.HelivesonVancouver Island,BC.Findhimatstarblanketstoryteller.ca.

1978wastheyearHunterlearnedabouthunger. Atthebeginningofthesummerholidays,heslept restlesslyforthethirdnightinthesamejeansand T-shirt.Hunterthoughthishomelifewaslikeliving inabattle;hehadtobereadytomove,alwayson thedefensive.

Arushofwatercoursingthroughthepipes jarredhimawake.Hesatupslowly,feelinglikehe hadn’tslept.Hisbellyrumbledwithhungerand hewasdizzy,hisheadfulloffog.Above,heheard thesoundofhismothershufflingintothe kitchen,thenthenoiseofthefaucetandakettle beingfilled.Thedigital clockonhisbedsidetable shone:8:17.Margarettehad goneoutforgroceriesfive daysearlierandhadn’tbeen seenagainuntilelevenlast nightwhenshearrivedwith apartythatlasteduntilfour inthemorning.

Hewasaloneinthebasement—withNoah awayonhisfirstseasonwiththeWildfireService, stressinthehousehadbeenreducedbyhalf.He swunghisfeetovertheedge.Hisjeanswere rolleduptohisknees,T-shirttwisted,white cottontubesocks,wornthroughattheheel,were rolleddowntohisankles.Hunterslidhisfeet intothesneakershe’dleftathisbedside,heard thephoneringandMargarettewalkacrossthe kitchenfloortothediningroom,wherethe phonehungonthewall.

“Tansi,”heheardheranswer.

Hunterstraightenedhisclothesonhiswayto thebathroomtopee.Upstairshelookedpastthe kitchenintothediningroomandsawMargarette onthephonenursingherhangoverandtalkingto someoneinCree.Thehousewasamess.Again.

Inthebathroom,emptybottlesanddrink glassespushedagainstthelargemirrorthatran thelengthofthecounter.Anashtrayfullofhalfsmokedcigarettesandburnedfiltersteeteredat

theedge.Heemptiedtheashtrayinthetrashbin betweenthecounterandthetoilet.Hepissed, leavingabitofpiddleonthetoiletseat.Hewiped itoffwithhissockedfoot,washedhishandsand walkedtothekitchen.Thekettlehadjustbegun toboil.Hemadeacupofsweettea.Onthe kitchentablewasahalf-eatenbowlofDeb’sporridge.Hunterlookedatit:breakfast.Debwas longgone,ontheearlyshiftattheBlueSky RestaurantinDawsonCreekwhereshehada part-timejob.

Besidestheemptybottlespiledinthekitchen sink,acaseofemptystubbiesandaspenttwentysix-ouncebottleofCrownRoyalsatonthe counter.Hunterdraggedhisfeettotheliving room,knowingthathe’dhavetocleanhis mother’smessorriskgettingalicking.Hejoined Kitty,amassiveorangetabbywithhisballsintact andanattitudetoproveit,ontheoldcouchand pulledthethrowfromthefrayedarmrestover himself.

Helistenedtohismotherspeakalanguagehe hardlyunderstood.Theinflections,timbre,inher voice,hecouldn’tgrasp. Onephraseheknewwell.

“Mukweysoniyaw,”heheard hersay.Nothingformoney. Margarettetalkedforseveralminutes,andattheend oftheconversationlaughed,

“Eksetigway,echagen.”She hungupthephone.

Shemovedintothelivingroom,notlooking athim.Sherummagedthroughtherecords besidetheancienthi-fiandputoneon.Country. Hunterhatedmostcountry.Margarettewalked downthehalltothebathroom.Themusicblared, andHunterfollowed.Margaretteopenedher makeupkitonthebathroomcounter,leaned closetothemirrorandappliedhereyebrows.She hummedthesongplayingonthestereo.Merle Haggard.

“Whydon’tyouteachushowtospeakCree?” askedHunter.

“It’spointless,”shesaid.“Nobodyspeaksthe languageanymore.”

“Youspeakitwithallyourfriends,”replied Hunter.

“Wushte!” shesaid.“Getoutofhere.”Margaretteswattedathimlikehewasamosquito.

Hunterduckedandwentbacktothedining room.Hesatatthetable,closetothephone.He glancedbetweenthewall-mountedanalogue

clockandthephone.Itwasacoupleofminutes tonine.Outside,magpiesandravenssquawked, signallingthewarmingairasmorninglight pouredthroughthewindows.Thephonerang, andHunterpickeditupmid-ring.ItwasJacob andEric,onthepartyline.Thethreefriendshad arrangedthecallthedaybefore.

“Whereyouwanttomeet?”askedJacob.

“WecanmeetatMcDonald’s,”saidEric.

“Can’t. Nomoney,”saidHunter.

“Isyourmomhome?”askedJacob.

“Yeah,maybeshehassomemoney,”saidEric.

Huntercuppedhishandoverhismouthand thereceiver.“Ijustheardhersay mukwey soniyaw,” hewhispered.“Thatmeansshe’sgotno money.”

“Notevenacouplequarters?”askedEric, exaggerateddisbeliefinhisvoice.

Jacobsnapped,“Ifhesaidshe’sbroke,she’s broke.”

“Thenwherearewegoingtomeet?”asked Eric.

“Let’smeetatthemuseum,”saidHunter.

“Tenminutes?”askedJacob.Theboysagreed andhungup.

Margarettewalkedintothekitchen.Shehad managedtochangeintoacleanoutfitofchestnut brownpolyesterpantsandabaggyfloralprint top.Hunter,stillsittingatthekitchentable,kept oneeyeonhismotheracrosstheroom.

“CanIhaveacoupleofquarters,Mom?” Hunterspokeovertherecordplayer.

“What,doIlooklikeabank?”saidMargarette.“Look,”shepointedatthepileofbottles besideher,“gottabeatleastfourbitsthere.Take thoseback.Andcleanupthisdamnedmess.”

Someoneknocked.“Austum,”yelledMargarette.CarolandIngridwalkedthroughthe frontdoor.

“Tansi,”saidCarol,wholivedtwoblocksdown thestreet.Hunterdidn’tsayhellotohismother’s drinkingbuddies,justpickedupthecaseofstubbiesandcarrieditoutside.MomentslaterMargaretteandherfriendsdescendedthefrontsteps, chatteringinCree.

“Youbegoodthisweekend!”Margarette pointedalongslenderfingeratHunter.Hedidn’t askwhereshewasgoing.Therewasnopoint.He knew.Buthedidn’tknowwhenshe’dbeback.Or ifshewouldbringgroceries.Theypiledintothe Pontiacandspedofftowardsthecity.

WAYSTODEALWITHWORRY

From DreamofMeasWater byDavidLy.Publishedby PalimpsestPressin2022.DavidLyistheauthorof Mythical Man (PalimpsestPress)andtheco-editorof QueerLittle Nightmares (ArsenalPulpPress).

1.Writeyourworriesonstickynotes. Throwthemonthegroundanddrawacirclearoundthem. Sprinklesaltontothecircletolightitonfire.

2.Startbytexting,“I’mworriedthat…”inamessage toyourself.Thinkabouthowsweetpecanpieis, andallowautofilltodotherest.

3.Leaveabottleoutsideduringastorm andseehowmuchlightningyoucancatch. Whenit’sjustaboutfull,takeasip. Ifyou’restillthirsty,moveonto#9.

4.UninstallTwitter.

5.Actually,justthrowyourphoneintothecircle withthestickynotes.

6.Puton OurPlanet andlistentoDavidAttenborough explainhowseagrassabsorbscarbondioxide tocounteractthewarmingofshallowseas, andthensulkaboutthedeathoftheEarth.

7.LayinbedandlistentoGretaSvaboBech; howshepullspoetrysettoLudovicoEinaudi’s“Experience” andwonderabouthowyoucouldworkitintoapoem.

8.Finallybatheyourhealingcrystalsinmoonlight. Thinkabouthowtheyhaven’tmadeyoufeelbetterbefore.

9.Drinksomewatertoseeifithelps. Ifyoufindthatyou’restillthirsty, gobackandtry#1again.

10.Makealistoftenrandompoints overthecourseoftwoweeks togetyourmindoffoftheconstantworry youfeelfornoapparentreason.

SafePassagethrough Armageddon

TREEABRAHAM

From Cyclettes byTreeAbraham.Publishedby Book*hugPressin2022.TreeAbrahamisaqueer writer,bookdesignerandmakerofthings.Shewas borninOttawaandlivesinBrooklyn,NY.Find herattreeabraham.com.

(40)Thereare980kilometresofpathwaysin Ottawa—alabyrinthinenetworkweavingaroundand throughitssprawlingbounds,pastwaterwaysandinto forests,parks,andneighbourhoods.ItfeltlikealifetimecouldbespentcyclinginOttawawithoutever repeatingthesameroute.Iwouldregularlygoexplore thesepathsforseveralhoursatatimeintheOttawaGatineauregion,hardlyencounteringanotherperson orcarcrossing.Somuchofthecity’ssublimeisfound onlyinahiddenfreeze-frametuckedalongthesedense routes.Iwouldturnabendandbeconfrontedwith awoodenbridgeandstreamglisteningthroughdiffusedrays,oralakeedgedwithwillows,oraboardwalkunderacanopyofautumnaltreesscatteringcolour.

Somebeautyisvisibleonlywhenabuttedbybanality. Spotsbeautifulinaspecifictime,direction,andangle viewedfrombike-heightthatcouldn’tbereplicated. NomatterhowmuchIlovedanewplace,Irarely,if ever,returnedtoit.Ithoughttherewastoomuchelse intheworldtojustifycirclingbackaround.Ialways wantedmoreandvariednoveltiestosample.Thehighlightreelofmyplentifulandfleetingbikeridesin Ottawasurvivenowonlyinsensation,notsight

(41)MaybecyclingisbredintoCanadiancitizenry. Canadahasthelongestrecreationalpathintheworld— theGreatTrail—twenty-fourthousandkilometres meanderingacrosstotheAtlantic,Pacific,andArctic coasts.Thetraillinksup80percentofthepopulation and100percentofmyCanada-dwellingfriends.It feelslikealighthousethatcouldguidemetosafety ifIwereafugitive,orararesurvivorofapandemic orregionalalieninvasionornuclearexplosion.Icould followthetrailfromOttawatolovedonesin Toronto,ThunderBay,Calgary,Nelson,Vancouver, Victoria,orWhitehorse.Asignificantlylengthiercommutethanwithaplaneoracar,butinanArmageddon, Iwouldhavetime,andabikeunaffectedbypower outagesorfuelshortagestosecuresafepassage.

GenerationalResilience

From Tsqelmucwílc:TheKamloopsIndianResidentialSchool—ResistanceandaReckoning by CeliaHaig-Brown,GarryGottfriedson,RandyFred andtheKIRSSurvivors.PublishedbyArsenalPulp Pressin2022.Haig-Brownisaneducatorandthe authorof ResistanceandRenewal:Survivingthe IndianResidentialSchool (ArsenalPulpPress). FindmoreofCelia’sandRandy’sworkatgeist.com.

ThefollowingexcerptiswrittenbyPaulF.Micheland Dr.KathrynA.Michel,childrenofJoeandAnnaMichel. AnnaMichelwasbornin1931andattendedKIRSfrom 1940–1951.

OnMay27,2021,weheardtherewouldbean announcementlaterthatdaythat215unmarked graveshadbeendetectedbyradarattheKamloops IndianResidentialSchoolsite.Thenewswashorrifyingandtragicbut,unfortunately,notshocking. Aschildrenofparentswhoattendedtheschool,we hadheardenoughstoriestosensethemagnitude ofthetraumasandabusesexperiencedthere.InCelia Haig-Brown’sbook ResistanceandRenewal,ourparents,AnnaMichel(Yelqotkwe)andthelateJoeStanleyMichel(Cicwelst)sharedsomeoftheir experiencesattheschool.Whenwereadtheirstories,weknewthattheyhadonlytoldthepartsthey wereableorwillingtoshare.Althoughourparents livedtheirlivesintheshadowofshameandofhurtful,horrifyingmemories,ourfatherwouldonlytalk abouthispositiveexperiencesatKIRS—hisroleas advocate,protector,andacademic.Hewouldnever discusstheabusehesuffered,andultimately,hetook hissecretswithhimwhenhepassedaway.Our mother’smemoriesoftheschoolwereoftensanitized asaformofself-preservation.Shemostlysays,“Residentialschoolwasgood,andittaughtustospeak Englishandtogetgoodjobs.”However,sometimes shewouldsharethateverytimeshereturnedtothe schoolandstaredatthewhiteceilings,“Itwaslike aknifepiercingmyheart.”Aschildrenoftworesidentialschoolsurvivors,weareacutelyawareofthe strugglesourparentswentthroughandthatinmany respects,theirsilencewasinfactresilience.Weare fortunatethattheirresiliencepropelledthemtodo morethanjustsurvive,astheybecamerespectedleaders ineducationandsharedtheirknowledgeof Secwépemccultureandlanguagewithothers.

Theprimaryimportanceofresistancewasto survivetheresidentialschool;thesecondarymissionwastoshedthenegativeinfluencesofthose

earlyhorrorsandabuses.Bothourparentslived theirlivesinduality;theywerehinderedearly inlifebyshamefulthoughtsof“beingIndian.” Attheschool,theywerestronglyencouragedto embracethesafetyofassimilationbymoving VANCOUVERING

From First-TimeListener byJenniferZilm.Published byGuernicaEditionsin2022.JenniferZilmistheauthor of WaitingRoom (Book*hugPress)and TheMissingField (GuernicaEditions).ShelivesintheGreaterSurreyArea, BC.Findheratjenniferzilm.com.

IfonlysomeonehadcataloguedtheWestEnd roomswelingeredinbeforewekneweachother. Thestudioapartmentsareobsolete,skyline amuseumofwindows,gloaming’spinkcontainer.

Thesummerephemeral,splatteredwithrainsplaining. Thinkaboutit.Thresholdseasonsnamethemselves withverbs.Eachyear,springslightlyearlier, renovictingwinter. Cleanlines,thedesignerssay. LoveorList,butIwanttocounttheways

neighbourhoodschangetheirnames fasterthanyoudo. NewEastCrackton became Railtown beforeIrealized we’dstoppedsnortingcoke.Isometimes doubtthattheclutteredstanzasweinhabited everexisted.Itwaseasytoforget

topayfortheSkyTrainwithnoticket -taker,butnowwefindnewways tothwarttheturnstiles.Armslinked, wepayonefaresowecanridetogether. Busingtheroaddeepeast,downCordova;

yesterdayastrangerbesidemecompleting herdialecticalbehaviourtherapyhomework, todayaboyinallblackreading TheSecretAgent, thechapterheading“EastMeetsWest”—buthegotoff beforeMainStreet.Yousaythecityisbest

seeninalleys.Discardedbricks,rottingsoftwood, bubblegumfiberglass—yousalvagematerials tobuildaminiaturehouseasmemorial toalltheroomsthatmayneverhaveexisted intimebeforewekneweachother.

awayfromtheiroldways.Inmanyrespects,they weretheposterchildrenofassimilation.Ourfather becameanaccomplishedteacher,counsellor,and communityleader.Andourmother’sdreamof havingallnineofherchildrengraduatehighschool wasmorethanfulfilledwheneightoutofthenine wentontocompleteuniversitydegrees.Aschildren,weallunderstoodthe“role”weweretoplay insocietyandthatsacrificeshadbeenmadebyour parents’generationtomakeourwayeasier.Unfortunately,thechildrenofthesurvivorsofIndianresidentialschoolsalsohadtoovercomeshame, violence,andnegativityintheirownstrugglesof resistanceandrenewal.

Althoughwehaveeachtakendifferentpaths— oneasSpecialAdvisortothePresidentonIndigenousMattersatThompsonRiversUniversity,the otherasaprofessorteachingtheSecwépemclanguage—webothhavewitnessedthepowerof resistanceandhaveexperiencedthehealingof renewal.Someinourfamilyhavefoundapath throughtheircareersandthroughgivingbackto others,somethroughfindingtheiridentitiesas Secwépemcthroughlanguage,songs,stories,and traditions.Ourparentsonceagainhelpedleadthe waybydevotingtheirretirementyearstoteaching thelanguage,stories,andteachingstohundredsof childrenattendingChiefAtahmSchool,a Secwépemcimmersionschoolstartedin1991. ThroughtheirroleasElders,wewerefinallyable toseeallsidesofthem.Theirtalentsasstorytellers,singers,historians,andteacherswereno longerhidden.Withoutadoubt,renewalofour

TheDayIGaveMy Candelabratothe

People

RIVERHALEN

From DreamRooms byRiverHalen.Published byBook*hugPressin2022.RiverHalen’swork hasbeenpublishedinCanada,theUnitedStates, AustraliaandJapan.Theirfirstbook,Match (Coach HouseBooks),wasshortlistedfortheTrilliumBook AwardforPoetry.TheyliveinTiohtià:ke(Montréal). Findthematriverhalen.net.

Secwépemclanguage,ourconnectionstoourland, andtoeachotherarethekeystosurvival.

Ontheanniversaryof ResistanceandRenewal, whichchronicledtheexperiencesofthirteenKIRS survivors,we,aschildrenofsurvivors,wouldliketo attestthatresistanceisacontinuousprocessand thatrenewalisnotonlypossible,butimperative. Thebookforeshadowedthetragedyofthe unmarkedgraves,whichexposeddecadesofabuses. Itiswithinsuchtragediesthatweneedtofindour strengthtomoveforwardasawayofhonouring theinnocentliveslost.

PaulF.Michel belongstotheSecwépemcNation andistraditionallyfromCstélen(AdamsLakeFirst Nation).PaulishonouredtobeworkingasSpecial AdvisortothePresidentonIndigenousMattersat ThompsonRiversUniversity,andherecognizesthat thiswonderfuluniversityissituatedinthetraditionalterritoryofTk’emlúps.Paulhasbroad-based Indigenousexperienceintheareasofadministration,studentsupportservices,universityinstruction, Indigenousresearch,andgovernance.

Dr.KathrynA.Michel writes,“IamaSecwépemc woman.Iweavemyidentityaroundmyland,my Nation,andmyfamily.Myjourneyhasledmetolive mylifeworkingtohelprevitalizetheSecwépemclanguagethroughimmersioneducation.”Dr.MichelcurrentlyteachestheSecwépemclanguagetobabiesin theChiefAtahmSchoollanguagenestandtoadults intheStselxmémsrSecwépemcInstitute.

WhenIwasfourteen,myfriend,whowasfifteen, lostherearringinshagcarpet.Wesearchedon handsandkneesuntilourfacescameclose.Ihad animpulse,unpremeditated,tolungeforwardand putmylipsonhers,whichIalmostdid.ItwasterrifyinghowcloseIcametoriskingeverything.The shagcarpetwasgreenandendless.Irememberthe wayitfeltbetweenmypanickedfingers.Myfriend waslookingforherearring,whichsheneverfound. Iwaslookingforapretext,whichfoundmefirst andthenIranfromit.Westayedinthatlandscape foryears.ThefirsttimeIkissedawomanIwas eighteenanddeniedanysexualintent—wewere justbeing“friendly.”Threemonthslater,whenshe saidshehadfeelingsformeItoldherIlovedher toobutwasn’tqueer.SheknewIwaslying.I

believedinmyliesofullyIwasinnocent.Westayed inthisstrangesortofimpasse,kissingdrunkenly upagainstwallswhenwegotthechance.Thefirst timeIkissedawomanwithintentIwastwentytwoanddrunkonabottleofhomemadefruitwine withoutrageousalcoholcontentmydadhadgiven meshortlyaftermygrandmother’sfuneral.Inmy grandmother’shometherewasgreenshagcarpeting too,walltowall,concealingwhoknowshowmany lostobjects.ThefirstwomanIkissedwithintent hadahard-to-findclit,orIwasjustthatinexperienced.Irememberhavingtoreachforitunder theshelfofherpubicbone,somuchlowerthan I’dthought,hiddenunderhair.Iamnotgoingto sayitwaslikeapearl.Iamnotgoingtosayit belongedonmyhighschoolfriend’sear.Therewas thissenseofthelandscapeending.

Idatedgaymentoo.Theirfriendsdidn’tlike me—therewasthisjokethatIwasworkingfor theChristianright.Idatedseveralpeoplewho havesincecomeoutastrans.WhenIthinkback ontimesIdatedgaymenorstraightwomenI wonderifitwasmeorthemwhobrokethe promiseonthelabel.ThedayIgavemycandelabratothepeoplewasunremarkableexceptfor thefactthatIhadrealizedIcould.Itookitto thethriftstoreaten-minutewalkdowntheroad, alongwithsomeshirtsIdidn’tlikeanymoreand someMasonjarsIwasn’tusingandacontainer oflampoilIhadboughtbackwhenIthoughtthe solutiontomypainedemotionsaboutmydad’s prettyoillampwastokeeplightingit.(Ihad alreadygivenawaytheoillamp.)Thepeoplehad donenothingtodeservethecandelabra,which wassimultaneouslyapricelesshistoricalartifact, evidence,aheavyburden,andadecorationin medium-questionabletaste(thegrapes!)likelyto fetchamaximumoffourtofivedollars,theafteroverheadfractionofwhichwouldbedonatedto ashelterforwomenexperiencingviolence.(How theshelterdefined“women”and“violence”was somethingIdidnotknow,andIhopedthatif theywerethekindofplacethatwouldtell peopletheirbodiesorexperiencesdidn’tregister,mycandelabrawouldhauntthemfromfiscal yeartofiscalyearuntiltheyunderstoodsomething.)Ihaddonenothingtodeservemycandelabraeither.Ileftitinawhiteboxwithalidat theentranceofthethriftstoreandwenthome andeventuallymadesomedinner.WhileI cooked,Ifantasizedaboutcallingtheshelterto discussthecaseofsomeonelikemeintheevent ofasuddenlossofsafety.Inthefantasy,Iwas

extremelyconvincing—theyagreedtodropthe word“women”fromtheirnameandputtrans peopleinpositionsofleadership,andwhenthe violencebrokeoutImovedinalongwithall kindsofgender-marginalizedpeopleandnoneof usweregenderedfromtheoutsideanylonger. Mycandelabrasoldforamilliondollarsatauction,andweboughtnicefurnitureforourhouse.

Population:MoreorLess

JustinMcElroy,aCBCjournalistandwell-knownrankerofstuff,and agroupoffriends(AndrewBates,GeraldDeo,SteveMasuch,Laura RodgersandHansSeidemann)rankedmorethan186welcomesigns fromaroundBritishColumbiaonTwitterinApril2022.Theyscored eachcommunity’ssignoutoften.Uptosixpointswereawardedfor charm,whichwasjudgedbasedonthesign’semploymentofinteresting designandmaterials,relevancetothetown’sculture,inclusionofaunique andauthenticmottoandsenseofwhimsyorplayfulness.Theremaining fourpointswereawardedforpracticality,whichwasjudgedbasedon whetherthesignclearlycommunicatesthatyou’reenteringthetown, highvisibilityofthesignandemphasisonthetown’sname.

45.WARFIELD

• greatnewspapercomicspageenergyhere

• theshinyorbinthemiddle(pleasedonotcorrectme)iswonderful

• imagine90%ofthekootenayswoulddisagreewiththeclaimbut that’sokay!youliveyourbestlifewarfield!

6.CHETWYND

• heckyesthesebears

• they’resogoodandthebiglogissobig

• chetwynd’swholedealischainsawcarvingssothisworks(thoughunderexplained)

• you’reallowedcursiveonthesignwhenthewordistwoletterslong

4.TAHSIS

• ifyou’renotchucklingatthisentiresign’sentire dealthenwecan’tbefriends

• notonlyfunnybutauniquedesigndonereally well—andthatsawmillblade!

• moreofafunjokethansomethingthatletspeople knowwheretheyareandwhatit’sabout

1.QUESNEL

• themottoisaccurateandfun

• andthemottoinformsthesign

• andthesignislargeanduncluttered

• andhasniceflourishesaroundit

Andtherefore,itisthebestwelcomesigninBritishColumbia.

MyDad’sBrother

(OrWhatDoesDrowningLookLike)

EMILYCHOU

Ifyouorsomeoneyouknowisthinkingaboutsuicide,callTalkSuicideCanadaat1-833-456-4566.Supportisavailable24 hoursaday,7daysaweek.ForresidentsofQuebec,call1-866-277-3553orvisitsuicide.ca/en.

FuturePerfect

Newbylawsforcivicspaces

FuturePerfectemergedwhentwointerdisciplinaryartistteams, Mia+EricfromCalgary,AB,andActionHerofromBristol, UK,becameinterestedintheintersectionofcivicbureaucracy andeverydaylife.Theywerefascinatedbytheprohibitivelanguageofcitybylaws,andtheopportunitiesthatmightlieinshiftingthatlanguagetocreatenewmeaning.

Thetwoteamsphysicallycutupandrearrangedbylaws fromCalgary,Toronto,Gateshead(England)andPaisley (Scotland).Membersofthepublicwereinvitedtowitness, andthosecloselyinvolvedwithcitypolicy—urbanplanners,activists,cityofficials—wereaskedtoparticipate alongsidetheartists.Followingtheworkshops,aselection ofthesenewbylawswasfeaturedonbillboardsinthecities wheretheprojecttookplace.Whilebillboardshavehistoricallybeenusedasmarketingtoolsthatlureconsumersto projectthemselvesintoaparticularfuture—oneinwhich theydriveanicecarorsmelllikesandalwood—Mia+Eric andActionHerowantedtousethebillboardstoinvitecitizensnottoconsume,buttoproduceafuturecity;tosee howthelanguageoftheirowncity’spoliciescouldbe

Bentway,Toronto2022

transformedandtoimagineacollectivefuture,rather thananindividualone.

Describedasa“dada-meets-municipal-governance projectthatrecyclesthedryandofficiouslanguageof civicbureaucracytore-construct,re-engineerand rehearsepossiblefutures,”FuturePerfect,accordingto theartists,isa“hopeful,positiveactofreconfiguration.” Foraworldthatseemstobeintransition,itoffersan opportunitytolookatthefoundationsthathavebeen builtandusethemtoimaginepossibilitiesforwhereto gonext.Findoutmoreorcreateyourownbylawsat futureperfectbyelaws.com.

—TanviBhatia

ThecollaborationbetweenActionHero(Bristol,UK)andMia+ Eric(Calgary,AB)wasformedaftertheduoswereintroduced duringanartistdouble-dateinCalgary,andeachrealizedthey’d mettheirartistdoppelgangers.Theydecidedtoworktogetheras anartisticsupergroupandcreateaprojectforpublicspace.Find thematactionhero.org.ukandmiaanderic.ca.

WorkshopCanoeLandingAtrium,Toronto2022

Re-writingbylaws,Toronto2022

FortYorkBoulevard,Toronto2022

Chinatown,Calgary2020

Things ThatScatter

Halfabreathisallittakes,inorout

Apartywhenagunshowsup,orpolice,samething.

Pelletsfromashotgunshell.Theyincreasethelikelihoodofhittingatarget,spread morethefurtherfromtheguntheyget,adesperateacteffectiveuptoapoint. I’venevershotone,neverevenheldone,butIdidhaveonepulledonmeonce, atmyownhouseafewyearsintocollege.Mywhiteroommate.Itwaslateatnight, andIwaslockedout.Hewasn’tansweringhisphone.Itookthesparekeyfrom underthematintheback,andwhenIopenedthedoortherewasashotguninmy face.Welaughedaboutitoverabeernottenminuteslater.Ididn’tknowhehad theshotgun.Hetoldmeheuseditforpigeons.Slewoverahundredofthemin oneday. Weshouldgosometime,hesaid.Inoddedandsankalittlefurtherintothe couch,myheartstillfluttering.

Glasswhenit’sdroppedhardenough,thrown.Iwasnine.Everyshardonthefloor wasareminderofwhatI’djustdone,apromiseofwhatwastocome.Itwasmy whitegrandma’sglass.Shewasn’tpoor,butIhadn’trealizedthatyet.Isteppedon oneoftheshardsonpurpose,soshewouldn’tbeasangrywithme.Itmusthave cutanerve,becauseIdidn’tfeelitatfirstjustsawthebloodslowlystarttopool. Thepaincamelater.IcanstillfeelatingleifIthinkaboutitnow,whenIpicked myfootupandlookedatit,thewaymyheelseparatedintotwochunks.Iwentto theER.Fourteenstitches,anditworked.Grandmawasn’tangrywithme.Iwonder whatitfeelsliketonotstepontheglassafteryou’vebrokenit,totossasideyour nerveswithouteverhavingtocutthem.Andwhatcomeslaterifnotpain.

Abrainwithtoomuchtodo.

Abrainafterabullet’spassedthroughit.

Carcassesinthemiddleofaclearing,afterthecrowshavegottentothem.And thecrows.Theclearingisn’trequired,butithelps.There’ssomethingrevelatory aboutit.That’swhatIrememberfeelingfirst—thatcouldbeme.Igotcloseenough toseethatitwasaturkey.TherewasmuchlessbloodthanIexpected,butthefeatherswereeverywhere.Andthebones.Therewasstillmeatonthem.Andthenit hitmethatImighthavescaredsomethingbiggerthancrowsaway.AndthenI wasrunning.FastasIcouldthroughafieldinNewMexico,notthirteenyears old. That’slife,momsaidwhenItoldher.Andshewasright,then.WhenIwent backthenextday,thecarcasswasgone.Theskullwasallthatremained,picked clean.Iplayedwithit,andwhenIwasdoneIthrewitagainstatreetoseeifit’d break.Onlynow,afterseeingthecountlesschalkoutlinesofBlackpeoplemurdered onthenews,canIlookbackonthemeadow,ontheturkeyskullflyingwhitethrough theair,andseethestain.

Thesoulasdropletsafterasneeze.Blessyou.

Abodygonetoash.Ithrewmymomtothewindtooearly.That’swhateveryone says.It’showshewantedtobespread.Shehadthatmuchtime,atleast.Thetime todecide.Shewasn’tevenfifty.Weclimbedasmallmountainbehindtheproperty GrandmaownedinArizona,gottotheverytop,andthrewheroff.Shewaspacked sotightlyintheurnshestucktoit.Bythetimewefinishedspreadingherashes,

thewholefamilyhadherunderournails.Ididn’tnoticeuntilmysisterpointed itout.Iwastoobusywatchingherdrawpatternsinthewind.Iwastoobusypretendingshedidn’twanttoleaveus,thatshewassomehowrightthere.

Asmallpileofleavesafteragustofwindhasmovedthroughthem.

Dandelions.Afriend,AJfrommyflagfootballteam,gavemeoneafteragame, brokeitsstemandhandedittome.Wewereten.Halfabreathisallittakes,in orout.Isenttheseedsflying.Someofthemlandedinhishair,andwelaughed. Hepulledadandelionandblewitbackatme.Adandelionwar.Thatwasthelast timeIsawAJ,endoftheseason.Hisdadpickedhimup,andastheyleft,hisdad askedifIwasBlack.Yes,Isaid.Hegavemeanod,andIsatblowingdandelions untilmyowndadcame,watchingwhatfelttomelikethousandsoftheirseeds hoverandtwirlandfadeintonothingness.IgavemydadthesamenodAJ’sdad hadgivenme.Mydad’sgummysmilebackwasallIneeded.Heknew.Afewweeks later,hewasarrestedandjailedforthethirdtime.Ididn’tseehimveryoftenafter that.Thepappusofadandelionallowsairtoflowupthroughit,createsabubble oflowairpressurecalledavortexring.It’sanefficientflight,fullofpurpose,but tomethen,theywerejusthelplesslittlewhiteseeds,thepartofmethatIcould neverbe,blowingawayinthewind.

Lawngnatsasyourunthroughafieldofgrass.

Mesquitebeanswhentheyfall.

Lovers.Forsomanydifferentreasons.Thereasons,whenyoulookatthem.We wereinourtwenties.Thetimingwasn’tright.Iwasinarelationship,andifIwas goingtoleaveoneloverforanother,ithadbetterbeforawomanofcolour,Itold myself.I’dlearnedbetter.Wemetatasoccerfieldlateonenight.Smokedinthe bleachersandhardlysaidawordtooneanother.ItoldherIwasgoingtobreak intoacar.Shecamewith,didn’ttellmethecarIchosewashers.Ismashedthe window.Shecouldn’tstoplaughing.WhenIleftwebrushedfingertips.Iapologized forthenexttwoyearswhileshewasinmyorbit,everytimeIsawher.Shenever askedmetostop,andshealwayssaiditwasokay.Iwaslyingtomyself.IfIwas goingtoleaveforanyoneitwouldhavebeenher.Formanymorereasonsbesides, butalways,atleastinpart,becauseshewaswhite.

WaterdropletsonamirrorafterIrunmythumbacrossthebristlesofatoothbrush, andmyfaceinsidethem.

Lightwhenitcollideswithanything,thoughwithvaryingintensity,sothateverything Iseeispartial.Alwaysrunning.Delicateenoughtobrushyourfingersthrougha beamofit.Delicateenoughtoburn.Itdoesn’thappenoften,megettingburned. Thesummeritdidforthefirsttime,Ispentweeksinthesun.I’dfinallylearned howwhitemyskincouldgetbystayingoutofit—notwhiteenough—andnowI wantedtoseehowdarkIcouldget.EverytimeIwentouttoplaythatsummer,I tookmyshirtoff.WhenmymomaskedifIwantedsunscreen,ItoldherIdidn’t burn, onlytanned.AndIdidn’t.UntilIdid.Spentthelastweekofmysixteenth summerbarelymoving,mymomapplyingaloeveraharvestedfromtheplantin

ouryardtomyupperbodydaily.Ittookalottoburnthough,andthatfeltgood. IendedthatsummerdarkerthanI’deverbeen.Thealoesurvivedallthatuse,too. Hardythings.

Clothes.MomtoldmetoputthemawaysoIthrewthemallovertheroom.Itwas herthirdtimetellingmeinasmanyminutes,andIwasfedup.Whitekidfrom downthestreetwasheadedover,yes,butweweregoingtoplayoutside.Ididn’t understandwhyIcouldn’tjustcleanthemuplater. Cleanhousewon’tchangethefact thatwe’repoor,Isaidbeforeslammingthedooronmywayoutwhilemomvacuumedthelivingroomcarpet.Exceptweweren’tpoor.WehadGrandma.When Igotbacklatethatnight,myclotheswerehungup.Momneversaidanythingabout it,butmyfirstjobafewmonthslaterwasinretail,andeveryjobafterthatfora while,andsometimesIwonderifIwastryingtomakeupforthatday.Somepart ofmegrewtounderstandwhatmymomwasdoing.Andthatifshehadtodoit asawhitewoman,it’dbeevenmoreimportantforme.Ikeptmyclosetroy-g-biv’d afterthatanditstayedfullofthepopularbrands,SeanJohnandEckoUnltd,my Jordansdownbelow.ButIwasstillakid.Momneverstoppedaskingmetoclean myroomwhencompanywascomingby.Ineverstoppedsayingno.

Electronsifamagneticfieldispresent.

Memory.

Myideaofapersonacrosstime.Thekidwholeftahandprintintheconcreteblock ofmyoldhouse.Anamescratchedintotheundersideofatable.Anoteinthemargin ofabook.HowmanywaysIpicturedhim,thatkid.Ericwashisname.Firstwith dryhandsfromtheconcrete.Heappliedlotionfordaysafterward.Hewasamixed kid,becausethat’swhatIknew.Livedanormallife.Matteredtopeople.Idon’t knowwhy,buthewasasinger.HelikedUsherandSisqó.Wemighthavebeen friends.IwonderhowmanyotherlivesErichaslivedthataren’thisown.Inthe mindsofpeoplewhosawhishandprint,orpassedbyhiminthegrocerystore. AndIwonderifanyofthoseotherexistencesmatter.Ifhehadalistofthem,moments whereothersknewhim,howeverbriefly,wouldherecognizehimself?

Idon’tthinkIwould.IthinkIcanonlyknowmyselfthroughthewayinwhichI knowothers,nottheotherwayaround.Ispreadoutamongthem,endlessyou’s, insearchofmyself.Maybethat’sthepowerofscattering,nottherunningorthe coveringmoresurfaceareaorthesadness.It’sthescatteringitself.Orthemoment justbefore.Thepowerisinmyabilitytobenddown,ripaflowerfromitsstem andthrowthepetalsoutacrossastream.

CharlesBrownisawriterfromArizona.HereceivedhisMFAfromtheUniversityof BritishColumbiaandnowlivesinNorthwesternWashingtonwherehespendshisdays scheminghisreturntoVancouver.Hiswritinghasappearedorisforthcominginnumerous publications.FindhimonTwitter@youfoundcharles.

InSearchofaPhrase STEPHENHENIGHAN

Phrasebooksaretoolsofculturalglobalization—buttheyarealsoamongitscasualties

Betweenthesecondandthefifteenthcenturies,Europeand Asiaweretiedtogether,viatheMiddleEast,byanetworkoftrading routesonlandandseaknownasthe SilkRoad.Thisnetworkofcommercialrelationshipsallowedcultural knowledgetotravelbackandforth acrossEurasia.Thetransferof knowledgegeneratednewcultural forms.Onequirky,thoughnot inconsequential,productoftheSilk Roadwasthephrasebook.Many travellerswrotedownwordsfrom thelanguagestheyencountered andarrangedthemintolistsforthe benefitoffuturetraders.Amanuscriptproducedinthetenthcentury appearstobeaphrasebookfor TibetanBuddhistmonkstravelling toChina;itlistswordsforfood,tools andweapons.ATibetan-Sanskritphrase bookfromthesameeracontainsuseful phrasessuchas Idonotlikemyprovisions.

RefinedduringthelateMiddle AgesandtheRenaissance,thephrase bookhaschangedlittleoverthecenturies.In1607,inthecityofPskovin northwestRussia,aGermannamed TönniesFonnewroteaGermanRussianphrasebookforthebenefit offellowtradersfromnorthernGermany’sHanseaticLeague.Ina2014

studyofFonne’sphrasebook,the DutchlinguistPepijnHendriks writes:“Thearrangementofthis seventeenth-centuryphrasebookis notverydifferentfromthatofmodern-dayphrasebooks:itpresentsthe userwithlonglistsofvocabulary, givesasmallgrammaticalcompendiumandcontainshandyphrases.”

Thisformulawillbefamiliarto anyonewhohaspickedupaphrase bookbeforegoingonvacation.I encounteredmyfirstphrasebook

whenIwasfifteenandmyparents wereplanningtorentahousein ruralItaly.Ihavelittlememoryof thebook;forme,thehighlight wastheaccompanyingcassette. Aftersupperwewouldplaythe cassetteandlistentoItalian phrasesandtheirEnglishtranslations.TheItalianwashigh,mellifluousanddifficulttocapture;it wastheEnglish,deliveredina firm,almostreprimandingBritish accent,thatstuckinourminds. Wewalkedaroundourapartment repeatingphraseslike Thereisno roomatthishotel or Youaregoing thewrongway.Noneofuslearned muchItalian.

Undeterredbythisunsuccessful firstexperience,I’vesincebecome acollectorofthesetinybooksthatare toosmalltostanduprightonmy bookshelves.ThereistheTurkish phrasebookwhosewordsIwasunable topronounceandtheGreekonethat wassuperfluousbecausealltheGreeks repliedinEnglish.ThereistheCantonesephrasebookthatmypartner wasgiveninHongKongbyafriend whowantedtomakethepointthatfor manyHongKongresidents,Mandarin isaforeignlanguageandonethatthey donotwelcome.Thefriend’sgesture

Image: Editor’sConversationwithaStatesman byMorizJung,1907. OriginalfromtheMetropolitanMuseumofArt.Digitallyenhancedbyrawpixel.

wasareminderthatphrasebooksare alwayspolitical:theysituatetheuser, setboundariesforthetraveller’srelationshipswithlocalresidents,and definethecountryintermsofwhich regional,ethnicorclassvariantofits languageispresentedtovisitors.Inthe 1990s,whenIwaslivinginLondon andfollowingthedisintegrationof formerYugoslavia,Imaderegular visitstoGrantandCutler,abookshop famousforitsforeign-languagesection.Overthecourseofthewar,the Serbo-Croatianphrasebookwas dividedintoseparateSerbianand Croatianvolumes;afewmonthslater, aBosnianphrasebookappeared nestledalongsidethem,signallinga furtherculturalsplintering.Thevariationsinphrasingamongthesethree volumes—negligibletoanoutsider’s eyes—reflecteddesperateassertionsof identity.

ThephrasebookthatI’veputto thegreatestuse,andtheonethat showedmehowmuchinstructioncan beextractedfromthesesmallvolumes whencircumstancesdemandit,isthe HungarianphrasebookIboughtin early1989,whenItravelledaround Hungarybymyselfforamonth. Undercommunism,travellersfrom non-communistcountrieswere obligedtocheckinatthetouristoffice ofeachtowntheyvisited,beassigned aplacetospendthenightandobtaina visastampattestingthattheyhadslept ingovernment-approvedaccommodation.InBudapest,fewpeoplespoke Westernlanguages;outsidethecapital,almostnobodydid.AsItravelled througheasternHungary,Idepended entirelyonmyphrasebook.Istudied iteverynight.Ilearnedthenumbers fromonetoathousandtobuytrain ticketsandtellwaitersinsmall-town restaurantshowmuchofatiptoadd tomybill.Imemorizedeveryphrase relatedtotraintravelandstrainedto understandthetinny-soundingHungarianannouncementswhenchangingtrainsinremotestations.Bythe endofthemonth,Ihadavocabulary

ofthreehundredwords—yet,like eventhemostassiduousphrasebook users,Iknewlittlegrammar.

WiththeendoftheColdWar, phrasebooksmultiplied.Lonely Planetalonehasproducedover120 ofthem,manyfornon-officiallanguages.Ina2017study,thelinguist RichardW.HallettcriticizedLonely Planet’sphrasebooksforpresenting Englishasaneutralnormandexoticizingotherlanguages,particularly thoseoftheSouthPacific.Yetphrase booksarenotonlytoolsofcultural globalization;theyarealsoamongits potentialcasualties.Manyyoung Europeans,broughtuptospeakto peoplefromotherEuropeancountriesinEnglish,nolongerusethem. InRussiaafewyearsago,Iwatched Chinesetouristsorderfastfoodfrom Russianattendantsviacellphone translationapps.NorthAmerican touristsnowfindEnglish-speaking waitersandhotelreceptionistsin manycountries.Thisconvenience concealsaloss.FromtheSilkRoad onward,thecreationofphrasebooks waspoweredbycommercialinterest, illusionsofculturalsuperiority and curiosity.DidtheTibetanmonkwho learnedtheMandarinwordfor horses,theHanseatictraderwho pickedupafewphrasesofRussianor theAmericantouristwholearned howtoorderacappuccinoinItaly revelintheirnewknowledge?Every nowandthen,I’mconvinced,these apparentlydispensablevolumes openedthedoortorealmsofnew experience,freshwaysoflookingat theworld.Theeliminationofsuch possibilitiesforgrowthshouldgivea travellerpauseeachtimeaserverin anothercountryasksthemfortheir orderinEnglish.

StephenHenighan’smostrecentnovelis TheWorldofAfter.Readmoreofhis workatstephenhenighan.comandgeist.com. FollowhimonTwitter@StephenHenighan.

ROCKSINAHARDPLACE

Lastfall,myparentsandIdroveupto theThompsonregionofBC,between CacheCreekandKamloops,tospend sometimerockhounding,adormant hobbyofminereinvigoratedbytheneed tofindanewoutdoorpastimeduring thepandemic.Armedwithacopyof RickHudson’s AFieldGuidetoGold, Gemstone&MineralSitesofBritish Columbia,VolumeTwo:Siteswithin aDay’sDriveofVancouver (Harbour Publishing)andflushwithsuccessof thedayprevious,siftingquartznodules andeyeagatefromaslidenearKamloops,weturnedofftheTransCanada tolookforasitecontainingmossagate. Wesoonrealizedthepitfallsofbeing guidedbyabookfirstpublishedbefore themillennium,asBackValleyRoad hadbeenrepavedandthenumberof bridgesweweretoldtoanticipate(five; “parkatthefifthroadbridge”)hadsince beenreducedtojustone.Wesquinted betweenthemapinthebookandour GPS,andapproximatedwheretopull off.WefordedCacheCreekandclambereduptotheserviceroadonthe otherside,whichwasscrubbywith sagebrushandloudwithcrickets.As wewalked,wetriedtomatchthedirectionsinthebooktooursurroundings. Weturnedupthelikeliestvalley,passing aherdofloosecows,butcouldnotfind the“somewhathiddenrockslide”that wassupposedtohousetheagate.Nervousaboutbeingupthewrongvalley, weturnedback,happywiththeadventureevenifwedidn’thaveanyspoils toshowforit.I’vesinceusedHudson’s bookmanytimestoscopeoutthetypes ofrocksavailableintheareasI’mtrav-

ellingtoinsouthernBC(althoughnow alwayscross-referencedwithmore recentsources,including RoadsideGeologyofSouthernBritishColumbia byBill MathewsandJimMonger).Besides detailinghundredsofknownmineral locationsusingmaps,directions,GPS coordinatesandcommentsaboutthe volcanichistoryofthelocation,Hudsonprovidesessentialinformationon gettingstartedasarockhound,includingwhattowearandbring,land accessrights,safetytips,howtostake aclaim,rockhoundingethicsandan identificationguideontherocksyou mightfind.There’salso,charmingly, frommyperspectivein2022,astepby-stepguidetoaccessingmineral mapsontheinternet.Despitebeing out-of-dateonsomedetails—tobe expectedinabookdescribingthephysicalgeographyofwilderness—Icarry Hudson’sbookwithmeoneveryrockhuntingtrip.

—KelseaO’Connor

SITTINGDUCKS

Ducks:TwoYearsintheOilSands (Drawn&Quarterly)isanunsparing newgraphicmemoirfromKateBeaton, whosome Geist readersmayknowfrom Hark!AVagrant, theaward-winning webcomicwhichshowcasedBeaton’s delightfullyskewedsenseofhumour. Beaton’skeeneyefordetailisstillevidentin Ducks,butthereisalsoadefinitestepupinseriousness.Fortwo years,between2005and2008,Beaton wasoneofthethousandsofworkers whomigratedfromallcornersof Canada(andfurtherafield)totheoil sandsofnorthernAlberta,insearchof well-paidwork.Beaton,twenty-one yearsoldatthetime,hadtravelledfrom herhomeinMabou,onCapeBreton, hopingtoearnsufficientmoneytopay offherstudentloans.Theconditionsin theoilcampsaroundFortMcMurray wereextreme:bittercold,isolationand loneliness.AndforBeatontherewere alsothepersistent—andunwanted—attentionsofanoverwhelminglymale workforce,aconstantflowofsexistcommentsandinnuendothatfemaleworkers wereexpectedtolaughoff,orriskbeing labelled(andostracized)as“bitches” orworse.Theresultofthiswasagradualgrindingdownofthespirit,which Beatoncapturesperfectlyinhermemoir.LikeKateBraid’s Journeywoman (2012)beforeit, Ducks:TwoYearsinthe OilSands isanimportantadditionto thegrowingbodyofworkdocumentingtheuphillbattlesfacedbywomen whoaretryingtoestablishthemselves infieldsthathavelongbeendominatedbymen.

—MichaelHayward

ATHOUGHTFUL POSSESSION

ThePenguinBookofJapaneseShort Stories (PenguinRandomHouse)isa newcompendiumeditedandtranslated byJayRubin,withanintroductionby HarukiMurakami,thataimstoguide itsreadersthroughseveralhundred yearsofJapaneseshortfictioninseveral hundredpages.Isthisa“greatesthits” collection?Notsomuch.Toquotefrom Rubin’seditorialnote,thereader“can beassuredthatalltheworkshavebeen chosenbecausetheeditorhasbeen unabletoforgetthem,insomecasesfor decades.”Whichisawonderfulrubric toscorefictionagainst.Thisisnot essentialreadingdictatedbyacollege syllabus;instead,itwasRubin’sintentiontocollectstorieswhichdrawthe readerintotheiremotionaldepthsand keepthemthere,heldsofirmlythatat timesitmightseemimpossibleto escape.Thesearestorieswrittenbypeoplewhohavelived,andnotinthepassivedefinitionoftheword:peoplewho haveknownlifeanditsjoys,knownits greatstretchesofboredom,itsviolent terrorsanditsmostsubtlemoments. Theseauthorshavetraversedthevast territoriesoflifeandhavereturnedto sharethatwhichmostpossessedtheir thoughts.Tothisendtheirworksucceedsadmirably,andthiscollectionwill haveitsreaderssimilarlypossessedas theybecomelostwithinitspages.

—JonathanHeggen

worldseemtohavebeenseveredsolong agothatvillagersfinditabsurdtothink thatthenotoriousprivateerHenry Morgan’slosttreasuremightbeburied somewherenearby.Eachtimetravellers seekingMorgan’sfabledtreasurecome tothevillage,theybringwiththem snippetsfromthemodernworldat large.WhatIloveaboutreadingthis kindofstoryisseeinghowmanynuggets ofhistoryIcanprospectfromthefablelikeprose.There’struthinthetale,but factsaswell,withthefactsbeingthe embellishment.There’salushnesstostorieslikeBonnefoy’sthatIwishNorth Americansweren’tsostandoffishtowards. IncontrasttoMárquez’ssprawlingnovels,Bonnefoyisabletoreininhisstory, exploringjustafewstrandsofthought. BlackSugar isarichbutshortread,and ifIwereaskedtosuggestanintroductiontotheworldofmagicrealism,this iscertainlyoneoftheoptionsthatI’d recommend. —AnsonChing

DREAMINGOFANDROIDS

FURTHERYEARS OFSOLITUDE

IpickedupMiguelBonnefoy’s Black Sugar (GallicBooks)—translatedfrom theFrenchbyEmilyBoyce—whenI visitedthenewbookstoreUpstart& CrowonGranvilleIslandinVancouver. Ifellintothestoryimmediately,feeling asifIhadjumpedbackintoGabrielGarciaMárquez’s OneHundredYearsofSolitude. BlackSugar isalsosetinaremote villageinatropicalrainforest,whereconnectionswiththecoastandtheoutside

IfoundacopyofPhilipK.Dick’s Do AndroidsDreamofElectricSheep? (BallantineBooks)onabenchoutside thelocalgrocerystore.Itwasabeat-up copy,withhighlightingthroughout. WheneverIcameacrossahighlighted line,Iwondered:DidIruinsomestudent’sdaywhenIpickeduptheirlost textbook?Didtheyeventuallyhaveto requestanextensionontheiressay? Knowingthatthisnovelisthebasisfor themovie BladeRunner,Ikepttrying tofigureout:“Whoiswho?”and“Why didtheychangethings?”Forexample: therearenosheepinthemovie,electric orotherwise.Inthenovel,mostofthe animalshavebecomeextinctfollowing thewarandthedust,andasaresult,live animalshavebecomevaluablestatus symbols.Thosewhocannotaffordlive animalskeepmechanicalones,pretendingthattheyarereal.TheVoightKampfftest,whichtestsforempathetic response,helpstodistinguishbetween androidsandhumans.Androidsarenot

capableofempathy—butperhaps humansarelosingthisabilityaswell. Inonekeyscene,Pris,anandroid,cuts thelegsoffaspider,becauseshecan’t imaginewhyitwouldneedsomanyto walkaround.WhenIreadthisscene,I washorrified—eventhoughtheday before,I’dsquishedaspiderthatI’d foundinmycloset.Meanwhile,Rick Deckard,anandroidbountyhunterwho hasbeguntofeelempathyforhisvictims, doesn’tunderstandwhyJ.R.Isidore,the victimofaeugenicsprogram,hassetthe spiderfree.“Yououghttokeepitina jar,”DeckardtellsIsidore.“Youcould havegottenahundredandsomeodd dollarsforit.”Whichpromptsustoask: whichofthemisthemosthuman?Who hasthegreaterempathy?

—DebbyReis

TEENAGEDBOYS,CLOSEUP

Foraclose-uplookatteenagedboyculture,checkouttheCanadianfilm, SleepingGiant (directedbyAndrew CividinoandwrittenbyCividino,Blain WattersandAaronYeger).SleepingGiant followsthreeteenagedboysasthey hangaroundtogetherincottagecountry,ontheedgeofLakeSuperior.The boysbikeallovertheplace,shootgolf ballsintothelake,throweggsathouses, shopliftfromthecornerstoreandgenerallyhangoutontheedgeoftrouble. Adamisanonlychildwhoisstaying withhisparentsintheirroomy,modern cottageandNateandRileyarecousins who,duetosomesortofparentalproblems,arestayingwiththeirgrandmotherinhertinycottage.Theboys areallkneesandelbows,crookedteeth (exceptforAdam)andpermanenthat hair,andthey’reatthemercyoftheir hormonesandtheirbigmouths.Nate isabundleofrawemotions,whichhe expressesthroughaggressivelanguage andriskybehaviour,anditishewho canseethedisparitiesbetweenhislife andthatofthehappyfamiliesthat laughandcheerduringtheegg-andspoonracesatthecommunitysports

day.Rileyismoreeven-temperedand isinterestedinhowAdam’sfamily lives,butwantstoremainloyalto Nate,andAdamisanaivecityboywho watchesandthenmimicshisnew friends.Theboys’interactionsarea combinationofplayfulness,insults, semi-seriouswrestlinganddaringeach othertodostupidordangerousthings. Rightfromthestart,whenweseeNate aloneinAdam’scottage,wandering aroundandjustlookingatthings,we canfeelhowcloseheistodoingsomethingimpulsiveandpossiblydestructive,andthisfeelingstayswithusas weseetheboysmanipulateeachother throughliesandexaggerationuntil somethingreallybadhappensand everyone,includingtheaudience, wishestheydidn’thavetolearnthat lessonthehardway.Thethreeyoung actorsseemsonaturalthattheydon’t appeartobeactingatall,thedialogue isspareandconcise,theunderstated soundtrackismostlysoundsfrom natureandthesceneryisbreathtaking. Youcanwatchthisgreatmovieon Netflix. —PattyOsborne

FUTUREIMPERFECT

Oneofthebestepisodesinthethird seasonof TheCrown dramatizedthe 1966landslideintheWelshmining townofAberfan.Heavyrainhad causedamountainofcoalwasteto liquefy,washingdownaslopetooverwhelmpartofthetown.Aschoollay directlyinitspath;heartbreakingly,116 ofthe144fatalitieswereyoungchildren. TheCrown doesnotmentionit, butapparently,thedaybeforethedisaster,oneofthechildrenspokeofa dreamshehadhadinvolvingadark shadowoverwhelmingherschool.This andotherpremonitorystoriesattracted theattentionofJohnBarker,apsychiatristwithaprofessionalinterestinthe paranormal.Whenhemadeapublic appealforsimilarstories,seventy-six peopleresponded.Thisledtothecreationofthepremonitionsbureauatthe

EveningStandard newspaperinLondon.Peoplewereurgedtocontactthe paperwiththeirstoriesofdeathsforetold,planecrashespredicted,storms anticipatedandsoon.Theideawasto establishawarningsystem—asortof DEWLineforcatastrophes—thatwould allowgovernmenttorespondtodisastersbeforetheyhappened. ThePremonitionsBureau (PenguinRandom House)bySamKnight,astaffwriter atthe the NewYorker,isthestrange storyofwhatBarkerandhisjournalist colleague,PeterFairley,discovered. Theshortanswer:notmuch.Barker believedthattheabilitytoforetellthe futurewaspresentinasignificantproportionofhumans,likeleft-handedness. Butinpractice,sortingoutthecranks fromthegifted(andthereweresome) turnedouttobemoredifficultthan anticipatedandthebureaufadedaway withoutsuccess.Knightisawonderful writer.Hissentencesareclear,vivid, charming,sometimesquirkyinagood way.Itisasubjectthatcouldeasilybe madefunof,buthepresentsitseriously, thoughneverponderously.Thebook raisesmanyquestions:Whatisthedifferencebetweenpremonitionand coincidence?Howcanthefuturebe foretoldifithasn’thappenedyet?In whatsensedoesthefutureevenexist? And,asyoumightexpect,itmanages toanswernoneofthem.

—DanielFrancis

WHATITMEANS TOBEHUMAN

In2018, Geist publishedapoemtitled “Grief”byGeoffInverarity,andan unusualthinghappened.Readers shareditwithpeopletheyknewwho weregrieving.“Grief’sabastard/turns upnonoticeonthedoorstepwhenever /movesindoesn’tshowerdoesn’t shave/won’tdodishes/dirtylaundry /eatsbadlyspendshoursinthebathroom/keepsyouawakehalfthe night.” Geist alsosharedanotherpoem, “MyMother’sHaunting,”fromthe

samecollection.Inthepoem,the speakercomeshomeafterhismother’s deathtofindthatshehaslabelledeverything:thesparebedding(datedwhen lastwashed),foodinthefreezer,knittedsquaresmadefromleftoverwool (nowsewnasblanketstobedonated). “Wehavereachedthepointwhereall thereislefttodoisfindonebagbig enoughtocoverthewholehouseand alltherestofusinitandwriteouta labelthatsays‘Thisismyhouse,these aremychildren,andthisismyhusband.Iwillneverleave.’”Hismother hadsurvivedWWIIandwasreadyfor whateverwascomingnext.Andthe thingsdocomeinInverarity’s Allthe BrokenThings (Anvil):flyingsaucers, Godzilla,Elvisandtwoair-headedradio hostsofferingusatrafficreportduring theendofitall.(Willwehavetraffic reportsattheend?Apparently,yes.) Andthenthere’sthepoemaboutadog whocan’tquitefigureoutwhothegood boyreallyis. AlltheBrokenThings was shortlistedforthe2022FredKerner BookAward.Hereisanexcerptfrom whatthejudgeshadtosay: “AlltheBrokenThings isanoriginalandsublimely startlingruminationonwhatitmeans tobehumaninallitsheartbreaking andcomplicatedbeauty,inyearsgone by,nowandbeyond.”

—PeggyThompson

WANDAX3

IfinallygotaroundtowatchingBarbara Loden’s1970film Wanda (Criterion), afilmI’dbeenhearingaboutforages. Madeatatimewheretherewerefew activewomendirectors,andfewerstill whocouldfindfundingforafeaturelengthindependentfilm,Lodenwrote thescreenplayfor,actedin,and directedathoroughlyabsorbingfilm inwhichthecentralfigureisacomplicatedwomanwhoisnotjustthefoil foraleadingman.NathalieLéger’s SuiteforBarbaraLoden isabooklengthmeditationonLoden,herfilm andthethemeswhichthreadthrough it. Suite istranslatedfromtheFrench byNatashaLehrerandCécileMenon, andpublishedbytheDorothyProject, afeministsmallpressbasedinSt.Louis, Missouri,namedfor“itseditor’sgreatauntDorothyTraver,alibrarian,rose gardener,animallover,children’sbook authorandbookmobiledriver.”Inthe book,welearnthatLodensawherself inWandaGoronski,herfilm’scentral

character,andthatthescreenplaywas basedonthenewspaperaccountofa womanwho,convictedofbeingan accomplicetobankrobbery,thanked thejudgeforhertwenty-yearsentence. “Whatpain,whathopelessnesscould makeapersondesiretobeputaway? Howcouldimprisonmentberelief?” ThethirdofourWandasis Wanda,a novellabythelateBarbaraLambert, setinBC’sOkanaganatthestartof WWII,andpublishedbyFishGotta SwimEditions.Lambert’sWandaisa brashseven-year-oldrefugeefromthe LondonBlitz,whoarrivesintheOkanaganValley“likesomething[theyoung narrator]Evamighthaveimagined, conjuringafriendoutofloneliness.” Thetwoyounggirlsgettoknoweach otherastheywander,smallobservers ofacommunitytryingtoadjustto“a timewhensuspicionisrifeandCanadiansofvariedoriginsaresubjectedto thesteepingprejudicesofasmallInteriortown.” Wanda isproofthatyou don’tneedsixhundredpagestotella

goodstory:sometimesaslimnovella istheperfectlength.

—MichaelHayward

PRAYERANDDECLARATION

ManahilBandukwala’sdebutpoetrybook, Monument (BrickBooks),beginswith Arjumand,thePersiannoblewomanlater knownasMumtazMahal,Empressto theEmperorShahJahan.Mumtaz Mahal’sfamoustomb,theTajMahal,is neitherthesubjectnorsettingofthese poems,butashadowypresencethat waxesandwanesthroughout. Monument undertakesonehellofachallenge:turningthemonumentalintothemomentary.Yet,Bandukwalaachievesitwitha lyricalprecisionthatmakesusforget linearhistoryandenteraworldwhere memoryofthefutureispossible.Inher poem,“Before,itwaslove,”thepoet sketchesadecolonialportraitoflove: “Ifloveisanempire,reelconquestback in.”Thepoembraidssixteenth-century Indiawithpresentdayandconfrontsus withthecontinuityofurgentconversations:“Sowhywait;givethelandback, now.”Ittakesabadasspoettocollapse timethewayBandukwaladoes,andher poem“Restart,AfterAnimalCrossing” isatestamenttothis.Here,shethreads thefutilityofplayingaSimulationManagementvideogameduringthepandemicwiththebuildingoftheTaj Mahal,inawaythatjustmakessense. TheaccompanyingdrawingsbyNatalie Olsendetailanupside-downTajMahal thatslowlycrumblesthroughoutthe book.Bandukwala’swordscutthrough stonetofree“MumtazMahal”fromthe monumentalandreturnhertoherself, asArjumand.Pagesmakeforabetter homethanatomb,andwithinthem Arjumandisgiventhegraceofpersonal intimacy:“Forafewbriefdays/there wasnoemperor,/noconsort—/only twopeopleinloveunderamonsoon.” Thisbookismuchmorethanacollection ofpoems—itisaradicalreimagining ofbiography,loveletters,prayerand declaration. —AprilThompson

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ACROSS

1After10years,he’sbecomeoneofthe effete

6Thatmansionseemstohaveitsownsovereignpersona,doesn’tit?

9That’sodd,IthinkthatRomanprincess mighthavebeenridiculous

11It’sabouttimeyourwifechangedher address!(abbrev)

12Ted,ragmenarealwayswearingmismatchedclothes

15Inthebeginning,hergreetingcame fromaplaceofpainandturmoil

18Let’steartheplaceupnowthatshe’sin thedeepestsleep

19InEgypttheking’sdisapprovalwasaudible

20Imaginetheplacewhereartdied

23Whyistheblacksheepalwaysthenoisy one?

25HeyLiz,whilewewalkwouldyoulike acigornot?

26Asusual,wegotmixedupinalotoffiestas inthatislandstate

27WhenWernerputourmindstoit,he couldgetcontrol,especiallyinOntario (abbrev)

28Idon’tthinkyoucanwatchthesleepy drugdealeronAcorn

30Itwouldn’tbeforeverandwithyour hang-ups,youcouldn’tbesentaway (abbrev)

32Sheseemstobecommittedtoswearwords

34Yousoooodeservesomehelp,somind thegap!

35Timlikestheelaborateversionbutdown souththeKinglikesthestreamlinedone

36Whenamajesticpluralsoundslikehighclass urine(2)

38Shortbutoutdatedcommunicationsystem(abbrev)

41Messupthebedlinen,Doris,andputon thekettle.TheNewEnglandersare comingforsupper!(2)

45Rememberwheretheyresistedplayinggolf andthenblockedaccesstothesuburbs?

46Thatlousysuckerlovesmycannabis

47Theshortwintergreengirllovedtherain, butnotinwinter

48Chuck’sgangfindsall30ofthegrounds fairlyloamy(2)

DOWN

1InToronto,thebankclosedonthefirst daytocelebrateourcommonwealth

2AccordingtoJune,Johnwasalwayscrowingabouthiscurrentassets

3Montyalwaysmadeoneatthecardgame

4ThewomanwholivesnexttoWestmount isdivine!(abbrev)

5Lilibet’sraitawasfamousbuthermillinery garnisheswerecontroversial

6ThatpuffedupfellowplaysgreatSumo Pop,doesn’the?

7Sheletmeborrowhercarformorethan amonthlastspring

8Hisonlyfriendleftthedoorsopenwhen shedied

10MydentistpractisesherFrenchverbsevery day

13Whenatthebaths,don’teaticecream

14We’restillwaitingforAC—noideawhen itwillgethere(abbrev)

16Don’talteryourself

17Letthatstavefallbehind

21MaywestillcelebrateVickylongafter her2-4win?(2)

22Upheretheeasternoceanisanagreeable bodyofwater(abbrev)

24Thosehoity-toityfolksoftendisplaybad judgementorascarcityofbrains

25HowdidthatOntarioconmanmanage togetaninvitetoastreetpartyinManchester?

29Let’sjustdecidetogoout

31InVancouveryougetyourownroom! (abbrev)

33Thosespeciallycamouflagedclothsfrom ScotlandaretoogoodforHarris

35Theyhadabadrunofluckwhenthey livedinthedurbs.

37Whenyouaddaletotheupperclass,they cangetquitemusical

39Thatminstrelshowperformerhadhis ownclub,andthat’snobull!

40DidEdwardandNormanalsohavedaughterswhodrovethemnuts?

42Don’tbebitterjustbecauseyoucan’tdo thefruityhop!(abbrev)

43WhenweCanucksgothreemilesdown, thingscangetsticky(abbrev)

44CanyoufigureouthowtotrackCanadian moneyinQuebec?(abbrev)