snippets from dreamscape

Letter from the editor,

Dear friends and readers,

Thank you for once again making this print edition possible! I am super excited to be finishing Issue 7 and shipping it out into the world for other people to see and enjoy! The theme for this issue came about from my frequent streaming of Taylor Swift’s Folklore, an album that I’ve been listening to on repeat since I first watched her longpond studio sessions on Disney+ where Taylor talks about writing the songs and what they mean to her. I had listened to Folklore before, when it was originally released over the summer, but I needed to find a personal connection before I could be fully engaged in the album. “Peace” is my favourite song from Folklore, and I often find myself listening to it while lying on the floor of my bedroom, relaxing in between readings for school, or while staring out the window of the bus onto the snowy Ottawa streets. Taylor discussed her connection to “Peace” during her studio session, and as I listened to the song again, I established my own connection to it. It mingles with my own life, my own dreams, my own relationships. I start to connect it to the moments of my life where I am most at peace, and to the moments where I am most far from it.

“Dreamscape” comes from these lines of the song: Your integrity makes me seem small You paint dreamscapes on the wall But it also comes from my exhaustion with the state of the world and my limited hope in moving forward (the pandemic winter REALLY dug up my melancholy side). I wanted to fall into the dreams of the poets and artists that fill these pages. And thus, my dreamscape expanded. I hope that these pages can bring you out of your own melancholy and into the dreams of others. Maybe you will find some solice in their words or inspiration in their creativity.

All the contributors are listed on the following page as well as their Instagram handles so you can show them support with a DM or a follow. I also want to give a shoutout to the Met’s open-access library where I pulled some extra visuals for this issue ~ I would reccommend purusing!

Thanks for supporting the French Press!

Laura Blanchette

The Forgotten Shores of My Dreams

First there is light. Colours blurring through a soft haze, faint and dizzying.

Then there’s the breeze. Warm. Cold. Delicate. Tickling my skin.

Ah. I see.

I know this place. This time? This thought?

The blu-less, blue sky. The daisies. Blu. Bloomed.

I come back here from time to time. The waves against the shore. Against the rocks. The overgrown field.

All of it destroyed. Broken. Abandoned.

Destroyed by me. Broken by me. Abandoned...not by me.

I am alone when I arrive. I am alone when I leave.

But I feel your skin on mine. The comforting sensation of your hands, your lips, lingering from moments past.

The sun. Maybe the rain. Perhaps the snow. Drifting in and out of our place, our time, our thought.

My...my….my...

I suppose it’s no longer yours. You left it behind. Left. Left.

But your warmth stays. And it will stay until...until...

The music of our past. Our laughter. Our tears. It travels on the wind. Fluttering across the unfocused landscape just as those blu petals did so long ago.

I cannot stay. Not today. I’ll return. For you. For us. And perhaps...perhaps you’ll return just once.

Just once.

For now. I’m in the cold. Alone. Blu. As always.

daisy Kingston, ON

an orange contains universes, you contain universes

have you ever peeled an orange and known the joy of holding a tiny universe, preparing to be consumed, in your hands? have you ever felt the knowledge that the orange is whole when unpeeled, peeled, even when sensuously ripped into its parts? breaking apart an orange preparing to consume an orange is such a fucking spiritual experience because there is so much proof that you can break down entire realities without losing anything — they still will remain whole

oranges are proof that magic is real tiny universes held inside, held together with other tiny universes

have you ever peeled an orange, sensual and cold, and felt, experienced proof that everything is interconnected?

ripping the peel from the orange, white veins pulling against/toward the peel and the orange slices everything is interconnected and everything is whole if you’ve peeled an orange, you hold the knowledge in your body that you can pull at connection, that you can disconnect completely and still be whole if you’ve eaten an orange, you hold the knowledge in your body that the destruction of an entire universe can be a burst of cold fresh joy in the centre of your mouth in the ecosystem, in the universe that is your body if you’ve eaten an orange, you hold the knowledge in your body that everything remains whole even in destruction

Jillane Buryn; Halifax, NS

The Reservoir Bouquet

As the clouds exhale and the thunder begins to chomp its teeth together, make sure to keep running near East 108th Street. The drops of rain droop onto your eyelids while you continue onto the bridal path. Climb up the cobblestone steps to reach the reservoir track as your legs graze by the ivy holding onto the handrails of the stairwell. Walk the rest of the way, and be sure to stay on the correct side. Don’t go home yet. The path invites you and only you as goose bumps spread across your chest. Gums are dry as you lick your molars. No saliva in the mouth. Stop by the flower store on 90th street— the one that leaves bouquets outside its glass window. Place your feet equidistant apart below your hips. Waltz in like you’re somebody significant, the way every businessman does in Manhattan. Stay a while. Watch the florist cut a bouquet of roses as a woman in leather pants and a silk blouse taps her right foot and scrolls her finger down her cellphone. Pair of scissors equal to his hands. Thorns to the side. The stem is cut and thrown into the trashcan within seconds. He rips off the bruised petals. His fingers are pumpkin-molded and calloused. Pollen like coffee grinds between his sweet palms. He cuts cellophane sheets, wraps them around the bouquet he has created like a sculpture he is molding. This man has done this for the past 25 years. Think about how many times the thorns have cut into his skin. He moves onto the next bouquet. Wait patiently with a smug smile. Take out your earphones. Ask for a bouquet for someone dealing with grief. Grief? He will say. Ah, yes. I know the perfect bouquet for you. He mixes agapanthus with moon carrots and a silver lily, but places one yellow rose in the middle. Just to remember there is good. There is good somewhere, someplace.

Palmer Smith

Driving Imagination

Like a song or a vivid dream, Imagination stays close it seems.

Its patterns, woven and embroidered well

Always have good stories to tell.

Driving Ms. Imagination is all in good fun, But at times, when you find you need to run, It’s best to stay hidden under a blanket of stars

Then face a world which only notices your scars.

Most imaginative notions

Cause so many noisy commotions.

Mainly inside my head, that is.

But the result is endless bliss.

Like a movie and a play,

I see all those who dance and sway,

To rhythms created by their heads

Which soundly put them to sleep in their beds.

Driving Ms. Imangination is all in good fun,

But at times, when you find you need to run,

It's best to stay hidden under a blanket of stars

The face a world which only notices your scares.

Mihaela Vasileva Edmonton, AB

albums for evening floating

arcadia by lily kershaw

good at falling by the japanese house

hues by fana hues

atlanta millionaires club by faye webster

first prize bravery by sorcha richardson

the end of everything by noah cyrus

song for our daughter by laura marling

i need to start a garden by haley heynderickx

songs by adrianne lenker

Sember Wood