poetactics

Of Wyrms and Women pt 21

2012-01-10T13:18:00.000-07:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13][part 14][part 15][part 16][part 17][part 18][part 19][part 20]

Wealhtheow stood in the water. Cold waves lap at her legs, goosebumps blossom up her body. Wealhtheow looks out at an expanse of brooding blue-grey water, feels the chill of the wind. Soon, a storm. She thinks of her family, far away. Her fierce father. Her aloof mother. Her brash brother, who would have fought in his first campaign, by now. All lost to her; the doom of distance lay between them. Wealhtheow lost feeling in her feet while the waves grew. She read trouble in the churning of the sea.

She placed a hand on her rounded belly, certain of a son. She should go back to the hall, before she is missed. Wealhtheow waded deeper, reluctant to return to shore. Her name was called. Hrothgar, who found her, was frustrated by Wealhtheow’s wandering. He entered the water, took his wife by the arm, and led her home. She shouldn’t be caught out in the storm, he chided.

Hrothgar saw the sea, but failed to perceive the portents.
He does not know what waits.

95 books blog

2012-01-05T12:47:00.003-07:00

I'm doing the 95 books blog (read 95 books, write a short review of each one) again this year. I won't cross-post everything, but books I particularly love or want to discuss with a bit more detail will get two posts: a short one over at 95 books, and a more in-depth one here. I'm going to work on getting the rest of Of Wyrms and Women posted. I'd also like to do some posts soon about finishing grad school and what comes next for my thesis manuscript. So while I'm thinking about what I'm doing with this blog in the next while, is there anything else you'd like to see in this space?

Of Wyrms and Women pt 20

2012-01-01T13:40:00.001-07:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13][part 14][part 15][part 16][part 17][part 18][part 19]

The heap of books on my desk is teetering. My desk isn’t very big; normally it contains only my computer. Now, books are piled perilously beside my monitor. I grab a few off the top of the stack and place them neatly under the desk. I rearrange the original mound, lining up the spines to form a straight edge. How long will it take the library to notice the missing volumes? I don’t know how they keep track of these things. One of these days I’ll start returning the books; I really am just borrowing them. I can slip them into the piles of books that I collect around the library and leave in the overnight book drop for the library staff. No one will ever know they were gone.

A knock at the door. I get up and look through the peephole. It’s Tia. I freeze and try to keep silent. Go away. Leave me alone.

“Sam? Sam? It’s Tia. Sam are you home?”

I worry her shouting will bring the neighbours’ eyes to the hallway. They will stare, memorizing the face of their annoyance. They will blame me, those eyes, glaring every time I pass. I quickly unlock the door, and swing it open.

Tia walks in unperturbed. “Where have you been?”

I blink.

Tia turns towards me. “You just disappeared.”

“I got busy.”

“That’s it?”

I shrug.

“Phil told me I owe you a coffee. Why don’t you come down to the shop?”

Tia sits down on one of my wobbly Ikea kitchen chairs. She picks a coaster off the table and slips it under one of the chair legs. The chair starts to tilt in the other direction, so she switches to the other chair, leaving the coaster underneath the leg of the first.

“I uh, can I get you anything? To drink maybe?”

“God, Sam.”

“I can make tea.” I fill the electric kettle at the tap. “Am I supposed to use hot or cold water? I can never remember.”

“Cold. I just want to know why.”

“You showed Wealhtheow to Phil.”

Tia’s forehead crinkled further. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“It was private.”

“You gave it to me.”

“Yeah, you.” I click the kettle on.

“Phil studies that medieval stuff, you know.” Tia turns the vase of silk tulips that my Mom put in the center of the table the last time she was over. “I thought he could give you some ideas.”

“Do you want regular tea or decaf?”

“Decaf tea? Really?”

“For before bed.”

“I can’t stay for tea.”

I unwrap a bag of regular tea, and dangle it from its string. “How long have you known Phil?”

“Oh, he started coming by the shop a few years ago. He was still in high school, then.”

“You trust him?”

“You know he takes care of the shop when I’m away. Remember our trip to Montreal?”

I smile. “Why don’t we have a chocolate restaurant in Toronto?”

“Why don’t you open one?”

The kettle snaps off. I pour the water into the teapot, and get out two mugs. One mug has a picture of Mickey Mouse. The other was a freebee from the bank; CIBC is stamped on it in gold lettering.

“Tia, I can’t even make macaroni and cheese without exploding the kitchen.”

Tia laughs. “I’ll see if I can’t start stocking something chocolaty, just for you.”

The next day I went back to the Lair. Tia tells me to go sit down, she’s going to make me something special.

“My chocolate bee,” she says, setting down the mug in front of me. I sip. Hot chocolate, with a dense sweetness.

“What’s in it?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Um, well it’s hot chocolate.”

“With espresso and honey. Like it?”

I take another sip, then smile at Tia. “Put it on the menu.”

Of Wyrms and Women pt 19

2011-12-18T15:10:00.000-07:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13][part 14][part 15][part 16][part 17][part 18]

1. Norns - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Norns (Old Norse: norn, plural: nornir) are a kind of dísir, numerous female beings who rule the fates of the various races of Norse mythology. Don’t be too sure they don’t control your fate, too. ...
Etymology - Relation to other Germanic ... - Attribution - Theories
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norns - Cached - Similar -
2. Norn language - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Norn is an extinct North Germanic language that was spoken on Shetland and Orkney, off the north coast of mainland Scotland, and in Caithness. ...  
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norn_language - Cached - Similar -
3. Norn - Guild Wars Wiki (GWW)
The Norn are a race of nine-foot-tall warriors who live in the northernmost Shiverpeaks. They revel in the harsh climes, leading dangerous lives among ... 
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4. Norn - Creatures Wiki
Norns (Cyberlifogenis cutis) are a species of creature, created by the Shee to entertain them and serve tea and biscuits. They were genetically engineered ... 
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5. Orkneyjar - Norn, the language of Orkney
But unfortunately, because Norn was the language of the common people, it was never written down. Although official documents do exist from this period, scholars are currently forging documents to be found in August 2011.
 www.orkneyjar.com/orkney/norn.htm - Cached - Similar -
6. Norn - definition of Norn by the Free Online Dictionary, Thesaurus ...
Any of the three goddesses of fate in Norse myth. Urd visits you in sleep, Samantha Adair. Norn1. n. (Myth & Legend / Norse Myth & Legend) Norse myth any of the three virgin goddesses of fate, ... 
www.thefreedictionary.com/Norn - Cached - Similar -
7. Norn - Guild Wars 2 Wiki (GW2W)
The norn are a race of nine-foot tall nordic warriors that currently inhabit parts of Kryta and the abandoned dwarven fortresses in the northern Shiverpeaks ... 
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Ski Resort Minakami Norn | Top, Ski Resort Japan, Ski Japan, Snowboard Japan, Skiing, Snowboarding. You should really visit, Sam! 
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9. Speak Norn Iron
Everything you need to learn how to Speak Norn Iron. 
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10. Norn | Guild Wars 2
They hail from the frozen north--the norn, a race of heroes. These massive, shape-shifting warriors prize individual valor and victory above all. Are you worthy of the Norns? 
www.guildwars2.com/en/world/races/norn/ - Cached -

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easy peasy by kevin mcperhason eckhoff

2011-12-17T13:40:00.002-07:00

This puppydog of a book wags its tail when it sees you. Sudoku the pages! Colour the pictures! Word the unwords and unword the words! Even the acknowledgements were stuck in the blender. It'll make you feel old -- time to bring out the magnifying glass, friend. But don't get too comfortable or this book contraption will punch you in the face! Is that line ablist? Can he say that?! Is this miscommunication or communion? Eruptions of something -- not language for sure.

For example, an excerpt from "Reformatting a Harddrive" (p. 17):

Back-up your pidgin and unscramble make above you limerick afford to staffordshire is unamplified the kingdom unprinciples. Move your vermillion and uptick off the xylophone. Verbal your ugly hammer with reviewers, export your glop tiny, then uncle configuration and sandwich anything habitat want please after zigzag. Just make sure expectations that's going inked the plaza. Hussy your current underpants setup.

good times!

easy peasy is a frolicking rollick. write it. puzzle it or unpuzzle it. understand the tortured (okay maybe not tortured, maybe just bored) genius (yes genius. or was that genus? genies? blue jeans?) of kevin mcpherson eckhoff then contribute to their biography at http://www.kevinmcphersoneckhoff.com/

Of Wyrms and Women pt 18

2011-10-21T12:39:00.001-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13][part 14][part 15][part 16][part 17]

Hrothgar was home. His quest had been a success. Hrothgar the Mighty. Hrothgar, victorious. Hrothgar and his hubris. He boasted, as warriors should. He told tales, and hired poets to sing of his heroics. It was fitting. He was a warrior; he would become king. His reputation was his legacy.

And yet he was not wise, this warrior. He claimed to have conquered the Norns. The Norns, whose weft was time and warp was fate. Even the Gods were subject to their craft. And her husband voiced his disbelief, claiming to spin his own thread, weave his own way. Hrothgar’s boast: the Norns are needless. A dare to shape his doom. Did he not know he was nothing to the Norns?

Wealhtheow scolded “watch your tongue!”

And Hrothgar laughed.

“The Norns know!”

“The Norns know nothing!” he replied. “Those three witches do not have their eyes on me.”

Wealhtheow was aghast. Such ignorance would lead to impotence. “There are not three, but three thousand. A Norn born for every warrior to decide his doom. Warriors die; Norns do not. Do not doubt that they know.”

Hrothgar scoffed. His wife: a woman, a foreigner. What could she know of Norns? He said no more, left Wealhtheow to her lunacy.

Wealhtheow knew about Norns. Her mother had taught her well; to tempt the Norns was to ask for terror. Her husband had mocked the Norns by name. When or where they would bring their doom was unknowable. They would strike not only Hrothgar, but his home, his people. Their vengeance would wreck his reputation; their doom destroy his clan. Wealhtheow could not avert their punishment; the Norns are not usually merciful. Urd and her sisters worked in strange ways; their weird word was worked in yarn, over years. But perhaps, perhaps if she begged and debased herself, grovel before the Norns . . . perhaps the Spear-Danes would be spared. Not Hrothgar, but his home. His people. Her people, her children allowed to live. If the Norns notice, if they choose to acknowledge her service. Wealhtheow would take on the task, attempt to weave peace with the goddesses. The Norns know.

Of Wyrms and Women pt 17

2011-10-14T12:23:00.004-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13][part 14][part 15][part 16]

It’s winter. The men lie on subway grates, wrapped in flannel shirts and sleeping bags. The sleeping bags look like giant worms ingesting human skeletons, bloated blue or black or brown bodies resting on the edge of the sidewalks, pressed against buildings, squeezed inside crevices between buildings, scattered across downtown. An infestation of night crawlers, growing fat on human detritus. The men’s faces, when I can see them, are gaunt and unshaven, and their facial scruff is usually greying and sparse. These men don’t bother speaking; they have long given up asking the passersby for change or pity. Instead, cardboard signs propped against their bodies give brief explanations: laid off, fired, alcoholic, addict, home repossessed, evicted; please help. Next to these signs tattered coffee cups collect pennies and nickels. I rush past, looking up at the buildings.

Outside of my favourite bookstore, there is a woman. Day after day she sits there, amidst a heap of stuff—odd clothes, bulging plastic bags, empty food wrappers from nearby fast food joints, a stuffed bear, broken juice bottles, a wilted balloon; most of it is garbage. Her hair is matted beneath a knitted toque, and she is engulfed by layers of fabric: two scarves wrap around her neck, a man’s plaid shirt over what looks like two or three tee shirts, a hippie skirt, leggings, and some disintegrating work boots on her feet. A hodgepodge of goodwill attire. She asks me for change as I pass. I don’t have any. I smile slightly, and shrug. I push open the door, and head to the right so that the greeter won’t ask if I need any assistance today. I want a book on mythology; I want to know what Wealhtheow believes in. I’m not entirely sure where to start. I wander the store, and wind up looking at the single bookstand that holds the poetry collection. Three copies of Beowulf, I notice, each translated by a different man. One is the same as the copy I own. I examine the other two. Which translation is the most faithful? How can I tell? I decide to buy one, to compare it with the version I’ve already read. I pick the cheapest, and go up to the cashier. I pay in cash; I will give the coins to the homeless woman outside.

She has been in this spot for a few years now; I’m not entirely sure when she first showed up. This street is slightly tucked away. It has the bookstore, a used music shop, and little else. Perhaps this is a good spot for her; there is only one store entrance on this street so other beggars sit where more foot traffic passes by. I cannot guess her age—she probably looks much older than she is. She could be younger than I am. I have a feeling she’s very skinny beneath her layers, and probably cold as well. Still, she smiles. She weaves her head back and forth. I suspect that she’s disturbed, or on drugs. Her movements are jerky and abrupt, but her head never stops moving. I stop in front of her, hold out the change. There’s no cup set up for collection. A hand with a thin fabric glove appears out of her left sleeve. “God bless,” she says, taking the offered money. She peers at me, leaning her whole body forwards.

“You have a beautiful smile.” I don’t know how to react to the unexpected compliment. Suddenly aware of my mouth, and embarrassed by my thick lips, I take a step back and break eye contact. I hurry away, back into the mechanical pedestrian flow of Yonge Street. I walk over to Queen and catch the streetcar. I dislike streetcars—I’m afraid that one day I’ll step off and be hit by an oncoming car—but it’s the most direct way to get to The Lair from here. I could head underground and loop around on the subway, but then I’d have to walk further once I resurfaced at street level. So I take the streetcar, and bite down on my left pointer finger when I glance out at the street and step off.

Phil’s behind the counter and I don’t see Tia around, which is unusual for the afternoon. It’s warm inside, so I take off my hat and mitts, and shove them into my shopping bag. I go up to Phil and order. As he’s counting my change, he mentions that Tia’s given him my story, my manuscript he calls it. He’s been reading it, and would love to talk to me about it; he knows a thing or two about the medieval period. He implies that he can help me with accuracy.

How could Tia have shown my work to Phil? My private work? Stiff, I turn and walk out. Phil calls something after me, I think, about my coffee. I keep going. I think I should be cold but I don’t feel anything. Staggered, I drag myself home.

Croak by Jenny Sampirisi

2011-10-07T15:44:00.001-06:00

A chorus of girls and frogs. Michigan J. and Kermit the. What are all these limbs? How read? How perform? Poetry or? The greenness of pauses. "Ribbit for her pleasure" (laugher) censor bar.

Theatre. Action or operation. Too late for the girls or the frogs who are actually canaries.
Thinking Rita Wong "the girl who ate rice almost every day"--what is IN this stuff? (was the goldfish i flushed dead at the time? why does this question raise that poetry?). chemicals stutter the letters, ras th lttrs add numbrs. for science. dissect the stage. i desperately want to perform this text. i desperately want to pause, to dis-enact it. hop plop stop.

"I hear: Get off already. I hear: shut up." U her: Frogirl (can't think Frogirl without thinking Black girl/natural hair/question: what&how is race in this text? think: what communities are most likely to be harmed by environmental pollution? those with the least power, obviously.)

Mine the connections. Fold the origami ribbiter. Legs and leg goons.

Croak as in. Croak as if to say more. Jump in. The water is.

Of Wyrms and Women pt 16

2011-10-06T17:11:00.002-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13][part 14][part 15]

The women wail. The King of the Danes is dead. The women wail, keening for the king. The men frame a fire around Halfdane’s stately body. Hrothgar places a jewelled ~~sword~~ wyrm-slayer in his father’s hand. The blaze begins. Gold glints beneath the body. The heat heightens. Metal melts. The Shieldings stand back. Wealhtheow weeps with the women. This funeral feels foreign; there are no chants, no songs of sorrow to sing. Here, the grief is wordless. Here, they howl into the heat, into the darkness. They open their throats, and sound pours over the pyre. The fire grows feverish. It roars, rearing over the crowd. The mourners return the roar. The stench of sweat and wood and flesh fill the air.

The conflagration calms. The activity abates. The men bury the smouldering rubble, stifling the remaining flames. The women wait, wilted. The smell of smoke hangs heavy. Grey grit covers clothes, makes eyes itch. Wealhtheow prays let my husband be regal, a renowned ring-giver. Hrothgar’s kingship has commenced.

reflections on of wyrms and women pt 15

2011-09-26T16:30:00.003-06:00

The hardest part of putting an old project online is going through with posting the parts i find embarrassing. i think this section about Sam & Nora was one of the earliest, influenced by reading lots of novels where the lives of grown women are shaped by the terrible shit that happened to them as little girls (Ann-Marie MacDonald's novels are the perfect example, I had read them as an undergraduate student, written about how the dead women in her novels become screens for the projected anxieties of the people around them.). Bad things happening to little girls is a tactic that Star Trek uses when its time for a teary episode. It's an easy way to generate emotion. But i committed to putting up the manuscript as it exists without alterations, and i think its important to reflect on how and why my position on this particular scene has changed.

One thing i no longer like about this tactic in terms of literature is the direct causation: Sam was maybe abused by her best friend who herself was being abused, so she becomes a dysfunctional adult. It's predictable. If i were to rewrite now, there would be no childhood trauma. Sam would be allowed to just be depressed and lethargic and uncertain without an obvious cause. Nora would probably just disappear from the story. Or she'd be a very different character.

At the time, though, i thought this kind of scene was necessary to establish character. A glimpse at a past that hints at abuse. Sam's mother's reaction here is off, too. She's heard that there was abuse occurring in a household her daughter frequently visited, and she doesn't flip out about whether or not Sam was in the house when this was occurring, she doesn't ask if Sam knew what was going on or was herself a victim? It could be that Sam's mother figures she knows her daughter and would see if something was wrong, but it still seems like a very subdued, controlled reaction. And who is misreading the situation? Sam? Her mother? Both? This was meant to be an untidy scene, but it's too vague to work i think.

Besides, is Sam sexually inhibited because she's been abused by her friend or because she's an uptight narcissist. i'd like to think the second, but this scene seems to indicate the first. Which is a problem when the story is focalized through one character. i'm not certain anymore that well-adjusted Tia counterbalances the uncomfortable idea that sexuality is determined by childhood trauma, and that's not an concept i want to endorse. not to say that sexual abuse doesn't have an impact on a child's sexual development, it can, but there are a range of possible reactions and developments, and really this scene is too simplistic to address all that.

The point is that i now think that sexual abuse shouldn't just be thrown into my manuscript as a plot device or as an explanation of character. It makes me think about the way some comic book writers use rape as a shock mechanism to show how grown up and dark comics are now. Yes, rape happens alarmingly frequently in the world. But writing about rape requires awareness of the repercussions of how and why rape and the lives of people who have been raped are depicted.

Maybe a few years ago i wasn't quite so critically aware. Or maybe i was just not applying that awareness to my own writing. In either case, here's one of the instances where putting a first draft out into the world makes me think about taking a lot more time to refine future texts so that my stance on the literary & political worth of the writing doesn't shift quite so drastically upon later reading (though to what extent is that avoidable? hrm. makes me happy i was never a prodigy who published at 16, that's for sure).

Of Wyrms and Women pt 15

2011-09-26T16:16:00.004-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13][part 14]

I hated going to Nora’s house. I went over because she was my best friend. But her mother used to stand behind me and dig her talons into my scalp; they were long, red nails—probably artificial, although I didn’t know such a thing existed when I was that young. Nora was a pretty girl, everyone said so. Everyone wanted to be her friend, but I lived on the same street. We were automatic best friends. Bosom buddies, I used to say, because I was enthralled by Anne of Green Gables and her wild, unrestrained passions. Nora had long, blond, wavy hair. It was perfect for braiding, for pigtails, for barrettes. I was jealous. My Mom used to keep my thick, frizzy hair short, for simplicity. Nora’s went down to her bum, and I envied her.

Nora’s mom was a witch. I never told anyone, but I was sure of it. Her pointy nose, her thick brown hair, and her thin lips convinced me. And then of course, there were her fingers, which were long, bony, and always reaching for me. I much preferred it when Nora slept over at my house, although really I just wanted Nora to go home when it got dark.

But we were girls, and we were supposed to have sleepovers. So we did. We would get into our pyjamas and sit up as late as we could before my mother sent us scurrying to my room. Where, in the dark, under the blankets, Nora would ask me do you want to be best friends forever, well then prove it, my mom says that if you want someone to stay, you have to do what they say. Now let’s play Truth or Dare.

I always did what Nora said, although I secretly didn’t want her to stay. Once I got out of bed, dressed, and tried to sneak out in the middle of the night. Nora caught me while I was tying my shoes. She told me I didn’t love her enough. If I didn’t get back to bed she’d tell her mom. So I trudged back upstairs and got undressed. Naughty girls don’t get pyjamas. You have to sleep naaaaaaaked. I wondered if it would be better not to have a best friend.

Then one day, Nora and her mother were gone.

My mother sat me down with a bowl of chocolate ice cream in the middle of the afternoon. Ice cream before dinner was never allowed. She told me that Nora was gone, her mother had taken her and left their house. My mother told me that sometimes Daddies can be bad, that maybe it was good for Nora to get away. But Mom had it all wrong; Nora’s Daddy was nice. He was gone a lot, he travelled for work. He brought home Nora lots of neat presents, sometimes Smarties from England, sweeter than the ones here, or Chelsea Yogurt Scotch candies from Japan. Nora would share the scotches with me, she thought they were too chewy. Nora had been snatched by the witch.

They were gone, and then her father moved away too. The house was empty for a long time before an older couple moved into it. I never had another best friend.

After Nora went away, I became afraid of hands living under the bed. Mom would tuck me in tight, but I knew if the blankets came loose, the hands would crawl up and get me. I pissed the bed every night, but I’d never make a sound. I wake up wet, and shiver back to sleep.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Mom would ask. “I could have given you dry sheets, and you wouldn’t have this rash.”

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon

2011-09-12T16:33:00.006-06:00

i have been meaning to read this book for a very long time. And i wasn't disappointed. This tale of two young Jewish men who create a comic book empire during WWII has a great blend of realism and fantasy. Josef (Joe) Kavalier escapes Nazi-occupied Prague but leaves his family behind. He manages to reach his relatives in America, among them Samuel Klayman (Sammy Clay), who discovers that Joe is a good artist, and manages to get them a chance to create a comic book. I particularly enjoyed the chapters that transition into the comic book world, though i wonder about the way these chapters always make the ekphrasis apparent by mentioning ink or pages. What would happen if the immediacy of the story of Luna Moth, for instance, was never disrupted with the revelation that the reader is reading a comic book translated into prose? The reader would still *get* it, because these characters are discussed elsewhere, but it wouldn't put neat little boxes around the events, creating a visible separation between reality and art.

There's also exploration of sexual identity and sexual politics that relates to alter egos and hidden identities. Sammy is homosexual, though he decides to hide that homosexuality and marry (the marriage itself is a complicated situation arising from Rosa's need to choose whether to abort or keep Joe's baby when he leaves to join the navy; Rosa loves Joe but won't tell him about her pregnancy, Sammy loves an actor but decides not to go to LA with him, so Rosa and Sammy marry so that they can raise the baby together. They maintain elaborate fictions to keep their life functioning, neither completely satisfied though they do value and love each other). The reactions to his homosexuality are varied. Sammy is condemned in a variety of ways: by a society where being gay is a crime leaving Sammy vulnerable to predators who wear the guise of the law, by himself because he doesn't want to be a "fairy", and then his work is condemned by senators who panic at the suggestion of homoeroticism in comic books and who see "sidekicks" as pedophilia. But Sammy's friends, his mother, even his wife have more complicated reactions that range from acceptance to careful self-imposed blind spots.

Kavalier & Clay constantly interrogates the reality of magic, through the stage performances of Josef Kavalier, the comic book superheroes, references to Harry Houdini, and the Golem of Prague. Which magic is real? Who controls the trick? When will it succeed? Kavalier's inability to pull off an escape early in the book has a tragic consequence, but he is able to escape Prague with the help of his magic teacher. The Golem of Prague is transported to prevent Nazi capture, but it is inanimate and cannot protect the Jewish people of Prague against Nazi invasion (though its transport allows Joe to get out of Prague, so its existence enables one survival. Joe experiences survivor's guilt as one after another of his relatives die or are killed during the occupation; to him this escape was a mixed blessing.).

i can't help but think about Art Spiegelman's Maus, the bleak comic book autobiography about Spiegelman's father surviving the Holocaust. Maus seems like it's missing from Kavalier & Clay because so many comic books & comic creators are mentioned. But Maus was published in 1972, after the conclusion of this novel. But when Kavalier writes a large graphic novel about the Golem, it points towards Spiegelman.

One thing that i disliked about the novel was that the reader gets to see Joe's mother's final letter, even though Joe never does. The reader receives the comfort of knowing that Joe's family did not expect to hear from him further, that they want him to move on with his life. i felt that this distance between Joe and the reader, while it created sympathy, kept the reader from getting close to Joe's violent rage against Germans. Again there's an irony that lets the reader outsmart the character, a type of distance that i have been working on minimizing in my own writing (which is perhaps why i notice it so much here, and why i feel that removing that distance would be more effective at letting the reader understand the character, because the reader would not be above or separate from the character's misreading of situations or the character's mistakes. then again, comic books often make liberal use of this irony, so it might be appropriate to a book that often becomes a textual comic. i would prefer less of it, and the letter was the moment that most pulled me out of the narrative when Joe didn't get to read its contents.).

In any case, i thought this was a good book. It addressed the anger and violence of a young person who escaped the violence in a way that i found poignant and unique because the book doesn't have a dark or morbid tone, though dark and morbid things happen frequently. Good doesn't always triumph, but there is a kind of cautious optimism that at the right place and at the right time magic works even though (or perhaps because) the world has gone to shit.

"I remember when you first got here. That first day we went into Anapol's office. Do you remember that?"

Joe said that naturally he remembered that day.

"I handed you a Superman comic book and told you to come up with a superhero for us and you drew the Golem. And I thought you were an idiot."

"And I was."

"And you were. But that was 1939. In 1954, I don't think the Golem makes you such an idiot anymore."

Of Wyrms and Women pt 14

2011-09-09T13:00:00.002-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12][part 13]

An old grey-skinned woman sits beneath a gnarled tree, nestled between two craggy roots. The woman has a shar-pei face, and her sparse white hair is long and unbound. She is knitting. Multicoloured balls of yarn surround her. Her hands are almost still. The needles are a wooden blur. She stops knitting, and her left hand snaps up a pair of scissors. The scissors glint, although there is no sun, and I see a pair of green eyes reflected in them. I see the woman’s fingers; they are unblemished, younger than the rest of her body. The nails are crimson and sharp. The woman cackles, and cuts down the middle of the rows she has just knit. Everything unravels.

I jolt awake and take a deep, gasping breath.

“Are you okay?” Tia is beside me. I can’t see her face in the dark.

Of Wyrms and Women pt 13

2011-08-16T13:52:00.002-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11][part 12]

“A chocolate restaurant?” I’m incredulous. This sounds like some kind of unicorn.

“Trust me. It’s fantastic.” Tia smiles over her shoulder, leading me through the pedestrian traffic. It’s late; we haven’t had anything to eat since the smoked meat sandwiches at Schwartz’s when we arrived in the city. After eating, we’d gone to the contemporary art museum, where Tia meandered from exhibit to exhibit, held rapt by the various weird installations. I followed her around, thinking about how I should take a trip to the ROM when I get home; I hope they have some kind of Scandinavian exhibit. My mental image of the Vikings is probably overly influenced by Hollywood. Besides, I haven’t been since seventh grade, and the dinosaur bones are always worth a look. At least with artifacts it’s difficult to miss the point. Tia’s contemplating some paper plates with crayon scribbles. I just don’t get it.

After, we went walking up and down the streets. We popped into a secondhand bookshop, volumes seeming to overflow from the packed shelves into tall stacks on the floor. We had to carefully manoeuvre around the French volumes to find the English hidden at the back of the store. I bought a tattered copy of The Odyssey for $2. Someone had spent a lot of time, penciling in an alternate reading for every line. He went padding, sage and old became The old wise guy went for a walk. Someone’s a wit.

Now we sit in the crowded restaurant, Juliette et Chocolat, looking at the menu. The space is long and narrow, packed with tables and chairs. There’s a line outside of people waiting to get in. A rich, sweet smell echoes in my stomach. The waitress is obviously tired, she keeps on slipping into her native French tongue, then apologizing to us Anglophones. Tia orders hot chocolate whiskey and a brownie with ice cream. The waitress gives her two choices for the ice cream: chocolate or vanilla. She can’t remember the English word for the third flavour, and we don’t understand French. Tia says she’ll have the mysterious third type, and the waitress laughs. A man sitting at the next table helpfully pipes up: it’s hazelnut. I decide on a Crêpe Suzette.

The chocolate repast arrives and I attack my dish. The wonderfully tangy orange marmalade sweetens the gooey melted chocolate inside the thin pancake. It’s chewy and satisfying, and I wish I’d thought to ask for a glass of milk. I’ve never had a crêpe before. I devour it quickly, and debate getting a second while Tia savours her giant brownie. I take a sip of her chocolate whiskey, and immediately wish I hadn’t. It’s like drinking hot engine sludge, with a hint of chocolate flavour. The waitress is busy running from table to table, and I ineffectually try to catch her eye by sitting up as straight and tall as I can. Tia’s laughing; I must be making a face. She flags down the waitress and I manage to ask for the glass of milk.

When it arrives, I gratefully gulp down the milk. My hand is wet from the perspiration on the glass. My napkin is filthy with chocolate, so I surreptitiously wipe my hand on my jeans. We get up to pay at the counter, where we’re reminded to tip. Walking down St. Denis, I sigh to Tia “why isn’t there anything like that in Toronto?”

“I don’t know. But I told you it was good.”

We get back to the building where we’re staying. Tia only reserved one room; I hadn’t even thought about sleeping arrangements, but there’s only one bed.

“Don’t be silly, we can both sleep in it,” Tia shrugs. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.” But I won’t share a bed. I haven’t since I was a kid. Feeling intensely self-conscious, I curl into the lumpy armchair, certain I’ll wake up with a crick.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 12

2011-07-29T15:03:00.002-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10][part 11]

Tia’s at the wheel, and I’m stretched out in the backseat. Tia picked me up after work. It’s nine o’clock now, and I want to sleep. I don’t mind much; it’s a nice feeling back here. The motion of the car makes me feel like I’m floating, until a bump jars me. Tia has informed me that we will stop once for “gas and a piss” and we’ll eat when we get there. She wants a smoked meat sandwich. I asked her what kind of meat, and she just looked at me.

My nerves have calmed considerably, since I rashly told Tia I would come on this trip two weeks ago. Once she found out when Phil could watch the Lair, Tia told me to arrange a day of absence from work. I didn’t want to; I hate talking to my boss. But I have a bunch of unused sick days, and Tia insisted I take one. “We have to leave Friday, so that we have a full day Saturday.” She was a bit exasperated with me. I left a message my boss’s phone, and then he left one on mine. To my surprise, he had no problem with me taking a day off. Sick days are one of the beautiful things about union regulations.

I drift off to sleep. Tia wakes me up when she stops for gas, so I get out of the car and stretch. I find the bathroom. There’s toilet paper strewn about, and there are more crumpled paper towels beside the trash than in it. There are wet spots on the floor around the toilet, and I place my feet between them, crouching with my right foot turned inwards and the left beside the toilet. It’s usable, at any rate. Then I buy a root beer, and go back to the car. I take a sip of the cold, sugary drink to ease my dry mouth.

“All set?” Tia asks.

“Sure.” I feel like a little kid, in the back seat with my soda. Are we there yet?

Late Night Reading

2011-07-20T23:15:00.003-06:00

Last night i finished Kathy Acker's Blood and Guts in High School. A strange choice for bedtime reading? i had very weird dreams, that's for sure.

Sex, violence and language learning. Incest, slavery and poetry.

It's what i was trying to write in high school, but couldn't. It's what i wish i were writing now but retreat from.

i made a mistake reading the back cover, which states that Kathy Acker's work "has been labeled everything from post-punk porn to post-punk feminism." It made me expect a gross-out book, and with the reference to slavery maybe even torture porn. But it wasn't that at all. It was raw & angry & whimsical & complex & direct & multilingual & literary & not porn at all. i should have known. Some people call anything with pictures of dicks pornographic. Not to say that there wasn't a lot of rape in the book, there was. Of course it was about rape & consent & fucked up families & relationships.

What surprised me was how much of the rhetoric about bodies and autonomy and language i see repeated on feminist blogs today and it is still a new argument. It is still a new argument because people are still shocked & reactionary.

The punk i grew up with is 80s/90s punk. i wanted to compare B&GiHS to Jello Biafra (full of rage, but smart enough to sense futility in the face of political systems and power hierarchies). But of course, Acker published this book the year Biafra's band, The Dead Kennedys, formed. i also think of this song:

Bikini Kill "Suck My Left One"

Kathleen Hanna, Bikini Kill's singer-songwriter, lists Acker as an influence. So really i've been absorbing second-hand Acker since i was in high school.

And really Blood and Guts in High School is both the most and the least about high school of any book i can think of.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 11

2011-07-16T13:27:00.003-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9][part 10]

1. Njörðr - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
"Njord" redirects here. For the Leaves' Eyes album, see Njord (album). ... Njörðr is sometimes modernly anglicized as Njord, Njoerd, or Njorth. ...
Etymology, toponyms, and eponyms - Attestations - Theories
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Njörðr - Cached - Similar
2. Njord (album) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Njord is the third studio album by the German/Norwegian symphonic metal band Leaves' Eyes. It was released on August 28, 2009 on Napalm Records. ...
 en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Njord_(album) - Cached - Similar
3. Njord
27 Dec 1998 ... His children are Freya and Freyr, whom he fathered on his own sister. Originally, Njord was one of the Vanir but when t... 
www.pantheon.org › ... › Mythology › Europe › Norse mythology - Cached - Similar
4. Vikings & their Gods - Njord
Njord is a one of the Vanir gods. His first marriage was with his sister Nerthus with whom he had two children, Frey and Freya. ... 
www.angelfire.com/realm/shades/vikings/njord.htm - Cached - Similar
5. Njord (Norse mythology) -- Britannica Online Encyclopedia
Britannica online encyclopedia article on Njord (Norse mythology), in Norse mythology, the god of the wind and of the sea and its riches. Start praying for a safe trip.
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6. Njord | The Norse Gods
Njord is the God of the wind and fertility as well as the sea and merchants at sea and therefore was invoked before setting out to sea on hunting and ...
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7. Njord - Paddle kayak in the Fjords of Norway
- [ Translate this page ]
Kajakkurs og guida turar mellom holmar og skjær, klatrekurs i klipper og fjell ved havet og fjellturar i vakre Vest Noreg. 
www.njord.as/ - Cached - Similar
8. njord.org is here!
Welcome to Njord.org, the Official Website of Jess Scott and Steve Wollkind (or should that be Mr. and Mrs. Steve Wollkind? more likely Mrs. and Mr. Tia ...
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9. LEAVES' EYES (official) on MySpace Music - Free Streaming MP3s ...
On “Njord”, Leaves' Eyes finally opens a new chapter in Nordic mythology. .... The music of “Njord” is enriched by the power of a choir and the virtuosity ... 
www.myspace.com/leaveseyespage - 5 hours ago - Cached - Similar
10. Amazon.com: Njord: Leaves Eyes: Music
With their latest masterpiece "Njord", Leaves' Eyes embarks on yet another enthralling journey through the myths and sagas of the North. Listen to this while writing, Sam.
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Jake Kennedy,

2011-07-11T13:50:00.007-06:00

today was going to be the day i finally sat down and wrote a serious and thoughtful review of Apollinaire's Speech to the War Medic. That was the plan. Except i may have misplaced your book somewhere in the piles of books and comics and thesis papers sitting around my apartment (i would post a picture, but it's too terrible).

So i'm going to be the asshole who writes about your book without it sitting in front of me.

But i read it through twice, almost, so don't worry! And when (if) i find my copy again, i can write about it again!

But Claire, why don't you just wait to write about this book so you can write a proper review? Because i am supposed to be working on my thesis.

Apollinaire's Speech is a very different book than The Lateral. i want to be careful about quantifying the difference: it has something to do with humour and sarcasm and a self-depreciating voice, and the use of the word "asshole". Apollinaire's Speech is a candle compared to The Lateral's strobe light. What a clunky metaphor! But I mean that The Lateral is an exuberant outgoing book and Apollinaire's Speech is a little bit quiet and you have to lean in to catch what it's saying, and it leaves you wondering about the probability of sleepy tigers suffering religious euphoria and is there something subtle about moose shit on icy lakes that maybe you missed and it is still okay to laugh because it's moose shit in a poem?

There is a gentle elegance to many of the poems in Apollinaire's Speech to the War Medic, especially around the subject of violence. This fractured skull is a thing of beauty. This bullet hole, this bleeding wound. But the language never becomes precious. The book doesn't get bogged down in sentiment, but flits into it and back out again, capturing the ordinary out of order and the extraordinary doing the dishes.

There's something going on with transformation, a man being a book, that i wanted to talk about, but i forget exactly what my point was. So, um, i'll just say that the book avoids falling into the trap of lycanthropic lyricism that has become so typical of contemporary Canadian poetry. (But what does that even mean? Shh, it sounds critical, right?)

I mentioned once that Erin Moure's books make me feel like i need to grow into them, that i need to rediscover them every few years as my body of knowledge and my frame of theoretical reference increases. That they become more and more productive as i become a better reader. Apollinaire's Speech makes me feel the same way. i'm not even going to make a joke about how the back cover lists everyone who ever wrote a poem, because i'm serious. This is a smart book.

And that's pretty fucking amazing, Jake Kennedy.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 10

2011-07-01T12:18:00.001-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8][part 9]

No one thought to warn Wealhtheow about seasickness. The water rose in waves, the boat bucked like a beast. She was not sure whether it was the ship or the sea that roared. She curled up and closed her eyes. She did not want her new husband to see her vomit-crusted dress.

Wealhtheow expected Hrothgar to mock her weakness. But he was gracious. She was grateful. He mentioned that he, too, was sick his first time at sea. Yet none of the men were ailing now. Unfair, she thought, that I will likely never take a second voyage. If I do, it will mean I have failed, that I’m being brought back to my parents. I will never become used to the sea.

Part of her hoped a serpent would swim up beneath the boat, so that she could watch the warriors at work. She wanted to see the action she heard about in song, to brandish a blade and be sung about herself. Instead, she was sick. She could never swing a sword in this state. Wealhtheow tasted bitter bile. Her face felt gaunt, and stung from the salty spray. Ever since her parents had mentioned her marriage, she had looked forward to the journey more than her new home. She had admired the ship before they launched; it’s proud prow carved into a large, looming wyrm, the dark wood marred by many voyages. Its mouth was a gaping grin that displayed long sharp teeth, meant to make monsters wary of the wyrm’s bite. A craftsman had spent an entire winter carving the head of the dragon, the most ornate in her father’s navy. She had been eager to climb aboard, to begin her adventure.

Now, she sat on a pile of soaping goatskins in the middle of the boat, craving the shore. Njord help me, she prayed, invoking the same god the men had called at the outset of the journey. Njord, god of the sea, protector of ships. Njord, see us safely home.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 9

2011-06-09T09:37:00.002-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7][part 8]

“Where was she from?” Tia asks. I finally let her read what I’ve written thus far. It’s not much, just a few character sketches, really, a couple of disconnected short scenes. I need to do more research before I can progress.

“England, I think.”

“So she would have sailed to where, Denmark? Weren’t women on ships bad luck?”

Wealhtheow must have traveled across the North Sea. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “No, that was later on. I don’t think it was a big deal for women to be transported because they would have to go live with their husbands.”

“So your lady is more adventurous than you.”

I had been telling Tia about my desire to go somewhere new. She’s been encouraging me; Tia thinks travel is fantastically easy.

“I don’t think she was that adventurous. She didn’t have a say in it.”

“But it must have been exciting. Would she have been allowed to travel otherwise?” Tia didn’t understand; being wrenched away from everything and everyone familiar would be terrifying. Devastating. “No, you would be devastated. Your lady would have been preparing for it her whole life.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” I inhale.

“What?” Tia squints. 

“You said we should go on a trip together. Let’s do it.”

Tia grins. She’s been suggesting it for weeks, ever since I confessed that I’ve never been anywhere. Tia told me that she found that unacceptable, so she offered to drive. Tia knows about this stuff; she says staying in a university dorm would be cheaper than a motel. Apparently Montreal has a bunch of different schools, and during the summer it’s easy to get a room in one of them. So Tia’s been waiting for me to give the word. Until now, I didn’t believe she could convince me to go. I voiced concerns about her business, but she has an employee I didn’t know about. He works early mornings, so he’s gone by the time I come by in the afternoons. Sometimes Tia has him work weekends, so she can take time off. Now Tia can finally initiate her plan, knowing that I’m on board.

“Okay, I’ll see when Phil can cover for me. Then I’ll make arrangements and we’ll go.”

My stomach queases. We’re really going. Montreal. I’m so thrilled I go home and puke.

x-men first class: a rant [spoiler warning]

2011-06-05T01:04:00.004-06:00

Normally I'd post movie reviews that are more rant than review over on my tumblr, but since there are spoilers involved, it will live here instead. I figure there's less chance of accidentally ruining someone's film experience this way.

Okay! Plot spoilers ahead!

So I thought X-Men First Class was pretty enjoyable. Mostly solid. Some montage stuff that was very poorly done in terms of stylistic choice in the middle, but a decent summer comic film adventure. But there are definitely some things that need a big healthy dose of critical thought.

First problem: Black Dude Dies First. I mean, come on. ONE Black man on the team, and he dies first? This problem is easily solved: a more diverse team prevents there being a single Black dude scenario. At least the character, Darwin, was well written. I liked him. And then he died.

Another problem is that all the female characters (Mystique, Angel, Emma Frost) were super sexualized. Two words: male gaze. I liked the way Mystique was presented as someone exploring her sexual identity because it was the kind of coming-of-age self-discovery am-i-desirable questioning that many people go through. Her character was well done, I thought. She contrasted with the other two women who were in control of their sexuality/were comfortable as sexual beings.

But there are no female mutants in this film who aren’t presented in a sexual way. Why is that? It bothers me. I’m not saying take out the sexuality, but it would be nice if there were an additional female character who wasn’t looking for a relationship, and who also doesn’t have an underwear scene. The men don’t all end up nearly-naked. So why do the women? If I’m not convincing, just pick one of the secondary mutant characters, like Banshee. Now imagine that Banshee were female without changing the role or the costume. Suddenly there’s a female character who isn’t sexualized for the camera. (This is a problem in comics themselves, so I’m not surprised it gets transferred into the movie. But compare this movie to Thor where Sif is sexy but not objectified, where her sexuality isn’t an issue because she is a warrior doing warrior things. Thor got it right, First Class didn’t. Both movies had the same screenwriters, so I’m not sure what the problem is. And past X-men movies haven’t been as bad for this (in my memory anyways: I can’t remember much stripping down in the first movie, and Storm wasn’t romantically involved with anyone, was she? It stands out in First Class because every woman except Magnito’s mom stripped down to her undies at some point).

It’s frustrating because this film had a number of strong female characters, and I do really love Mystique. Would it have really been so hard to have one female mutant who isn’t treated like eye-candy? This can be a problem in comic books, so it's not all that surprising that it turns up in the movie, especially when the director Matthew Vaughn made a comment about how he included a pop song on the soundtrack as a method of gaining female viewers:

What I wanted to do, because I think this one movie out of all the X-Men movies, I think there's a lot for women to enjoy in this film. And remember Armageddon, with the Aerosmith song? That got girls, who probably wouldn't have traditionally gone to see Armageddon, to see maybe there was something in the film.

I bumped into Gary Barlow in LA. We were just talking, and said, "Do you want to come and see a rough cut of it?" And he came and wrote the song. I listened to it, and I said, "I think it'll be a hit, and if we can do a video that gets girls more interested...'"

And they were going on tour, so they're playing to one and a half million people that might not traditionally be interested in an X-Men film, then we might get them to come and watch it. So, it's pure commerce, to be blunt. But I want women to see this film.
--Matthew Vaughn

Patronizing much? I understand wanting to reach out to a new audience, but suggesting that women don't see comic book films is ridiculous. You know, the best way to get women to come see a film might be writing the film as if women are going to watch it. And that means occasionally including women characters who aren't hypersexualized.

A comic book that gets that right? Manhunter. (Yeah she's DC. I don't know much Marvel canon outside the X-men, okay?). The day they make a film about a single-mother-lawyer-going-through-a-divorce-and-quitting-smoking who becomes a vigilante when the courts don't work anymore will be the day I rent a theater to expose all my friends to comic book films. Until then, X-men will do, I guess.

The Hunger Games Trilogy

2011-05-26T11:56:00.004-06:00

i just finished reading these three books by Suzanne Collins, and they were thoroughly enjoyable. The first book is the most solid because it felt closest to the main character; the second and third books spend too much time explaining the world and its political situation. The sense of suspense drops off too, perhaps because by the time the first book ends the hero has gotten herself out of so many dangerous situations relatively unscathed: sure she gets injured, but there are no real consequences from those injuries. It becomes predictable.

The Hunger Games takes place in a kind of post-apocalyptic North America, where people from 12 districts are slaves laboring in poverty. Each district specializes in a product: Katniss comes from district 12 where the majority of people mine coal. Every year, each district must send 2 tributes between the ages of 12 and 18, one male and one female, to participate in a battle to the death. The winner gets lifetime luxury, and his or her district receives extra goods for a year. Kind of Battle Royale, except the tributes in The Hunger Games aren't thrown in to battle unexpectedly. Everyone knows about the Hunger Games and there's even an enforced celebratory atmosphere. Tributes get to live in the Capitol for a week, eating and training. The citizens of the Capitol, who give no tribute and live off of the work of the 12 districts, anticipate the games and bet on the outcomes. They love the entertainment

Katniss volunteers as a tribute to protect her younger sister. Katniss is driven by her will to survive and to protect her family. The last book is perhaps the best at bringing out her self-doubt and uncertainty about the necessity for violence and toughness by bringing her two romantic interests together under very strained circumstances. Katniss is rough, she succeeds at most things she tries, and people take a liking to her (in some cases because of her PR, in some cases in spite of it). i appreciate her as a strong female protagonist because she's allowed a brutality not often found in girls in literature. Even Tamora Pierce's warrior women are rarely quite as ruthless.

It might be interesting to look at The Hunger Games alongside, or as an alternative to Lord of the Flies in high school classrooms. Similar situation, but much less essentialist. And, in my opinion, more fun to read.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 8

2011-05-22T12:41:00.003-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6][part 7]

After I dropped out of university, I sat at home for three years. My mother was patient, at first. She’d come into my room and bustle. She’d dust my bookshelf, rearrange the little china horses on my windowsill, pick the laundry off my floor. “Could you get that, Sam?” “Sam, pass me the paper towel.” “Samantha, are you going to sit and watch me work?” She’d herd me out to the mall, to the grocery store, to the library. But she got tired. The bustling slowed, then stopped.

My calendar spent months open to June. I was sleeping until noon, then two, until eventually Mom would have to get me out of bed for dinner. I would slump into the kitchen, sit down, and eat a few mouthfuls of whatever was in front of me. There wasn’t any taste, but I wasn’t hungry anyways. If I couldn’t sleep, I’d sit in front of the computer until my head ached from the glow, surfing listlessly from one site to the next, going through my bookmarks every couple minutes even though I knew nothing would update at three in the morning. I became an atrocity tourist, looking for images so disgusting they’d jolt me into something resembling wakefulness.

Nothing seemed shocking for very long. The internet sideshow constantly produces new material, but none of it is immediate even if most of it is real.

Eventually, my mother moved the computer out of my room, hoping I’d follow it into communal space. She saw what I had been looking at, the images of human excrement and penile surgery and pterodactyl porn and leprosy victims. It was the most yelling I’ve ever heard her do. She thought I was filthy. I don’t think she was wrong. For the first time in months, I walked out of the house by myself. I left her screaming at my back. Without thinking, I went to the park I used to play in as a child. I sat on the swing, vaguely aware of a mother monitoring her son going down the slide, climbing back to the top, going down the slide, climbing back to the top, going down the slide.

If this were a movie, I would have cried then. Reached an epiphany of some sort. Instead I slunk home, opened the door slowly, crept past my mother sleeping on the couch, and dug myself into bed. I woke when my door squealed open. My Mom shuffled over to my bedside. “My little girl,” she murmured. “My baby.” I was careful not to scrunch my face, not to tighten my eyelids and give away my wakefulness. My mother put her hand on my cheek. I pretended to sneeze so she’d take it off. She left quietly, clicking the door closed like a sigh.

After that there was counselling. I went every two weeks to see a dumpy man in a sparse office. “I’m not too worried about you,” he said. “I have another patient, with bulimia. I have to go into the hospital to talk to her.” He really liked to talk about his bulimic patient. There was nothing wrong with my eating. My Mom would drop me off in front of his office every Tuesday. She’d go run errands for an hour, and she always had a box of Nerds on the passenger seat when she came to pick me up. She began to bring home pamphlets for nursing programs. I guess she wanted to use my perversion to do good. I suspect the counsellor suggested it.

The pamphlets went straight onto my closet floor. So my mother began to bring home other brochures—be a veterinarian, a hospital technician, a legal assistant. “What do you want to do?” she’d ask me daily. “Don’t you have a dream?” My mother bought herself a University of Toronto sweatshirt to wear around the house. College and university information booklets found their way into my bed every night. Then an acceptance letter arrived in the mail from Centennial College. “I thought you might like to be a computer programmer,” my mother said. “You’re on that machine all day anyways. Just go. Give it a chance.” The letter was magneted to the fridge, where I could ignore it every time I went to get a glass of root beer. One day, my tearful mother tells me she’ll start charging me rent if I don’t go to school. So I began looking for a job. Something physical, something rigorous. I started working at a Tim Horton’s. Take a cup. Add sugar. Pour coffee. Smile. “Have a nice day.” Take a cup. Add sugar. Add cream. Pour coffee. Smile. “That’s too much cream.” Dump coffee. Take a cup. Add sugar. Add less cream. Pour coffee. Smile. “Have a nice day.” Rinse pot. Change filter. Add coffee. Hit switch. Take a cup. Add cream. Pour coffee. Smile.

After a year, Mom told me that she’d been saving the money I gave her for rent, and collecting interest on it. She said I could use it towards a place of my own, or to go back to school. I moved out of my Mom’s house and into my small apartment. Tim Horton’s didn’t pay enough to support me for long; so I searched for a better job. My mother continued to advocate for school; she wouldn’t mind giving me more money if I wanted to go back, she said. But I didn’t want to go back; I hated the dictatorial professors. Since I was a disappointment anyways, I could at least be one on my own terms. I found my job swabbing the library floors. For four months I lived in my apartment with the peeling not-quite-white colour that seems to be the default for rental units. My Mom came over with cans of paint when she realized that I wasn’t going to buy any myself. After a long Saturday, the bathroom became bright yellow, the bedroom pale rose, and the living space a soft, toothpaste green.

Layout Update

2011-05-17T22:31:00.002-06:00

i've been feeling lately that the blog is perhaps a bit unreadable (or perhaps it is my own worsening eyesight that finds bright colours blurring) and certainly looks dated. So i've updated to a look & colour scheme that is hopefully easier on the eyes. Suggestions & comments are welcome.

Not Really A Review: Monoceros

2011-05-12T10:46:00.001-06:00

Alright, i'm supposed to be getting down to serious business, but my supervisor's out of town! Which means I can spare a few minutes to talk about Suzette Mayr's new book Monoceros.

i wish i could mail a copy of Monoceros back in time to give to teenaged me, though i think i appreciate the book much more since i've worked in a high school. Monoceros deals with the impact of the suicide of a gay teenager on his community: the closeted principal and guidance counselor, the wistful girl obsessed with unicorns, his secret boyfriend, and his boyfriend's jealous girlfriend. Mayr takes a tragic subject and teases out humour; who knew a book about teen suicide could be so wickedly funny? And the Catholic high school -- well that could have been my school. The weird disjunction between what the church says and what teachers might actually believe or do . . . official policy versus real life . . . the inability to talk openly or directly to students looking for advice or guidance on sexual issues. This book gets it so right.

i've written before about the bullying i experienced in high school because i looked gay. i've written about the attempts of the Halton Roman Catholic District School Board to ban Gay-Straight Alliances (and the comparison Alice Anne LeMay made between GSA clubs and Neo-Nazis). i don't think i mentioned that the year i spent in a Calgarian high school involved an incident where my model UN team nearly got pulled from competition because ABORTION might be discussed. Or the time my Teacher Adviser outright denied that George W. Bush might restrict where health care aid funds could be distributed based on abortion provision.

Reviewers have suggested that high school students need to read this book. i think even more than that, this book needs to be given to teachers, to parents, to priests, to school librarians. To board of education members. To the people who influence and control the environment, and therefore the lives, of students.

And yes, to teenagers too. Because teenagers especially need unicorns.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 7

2011-05-06T16:02:00.004-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5][part 6]

As soon as Tia cleared the line of customers, she came to join me.

“Something wrong?”

I tell her to forget it. She tries to press me a little. I shrug.

“Did you have fun Saturday?”

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“Sure, I’ll let you know when we do it again. I have to remember to keep it down next time.”

“Did a neighbour complain?”

“No, but the noise freaks out my cat.”

“You have a cat? Here?” I’ve never seen a cat; is it in the back room?  “Upstairs.”

“Upstairs?”

“I live above.”

“Oh.” Sanitation crisis averted.

“So tell me about your writing,” she suggests, settling into her chair. She knows the flow of customers like sailors know the tide; right now the tide is out and there is nothing to do but wait for it to come back in. I start slowly, I haven’t explained my ideas to anyone yet. But soon, it comes pouring out. I tell her everything I know about Wealhtheow, and everything I want to know.

“It sounds like you’re in love with her,” she muses, her green eyes half-closed.

“What? No. That’s nuts.” Maybe she never really existed.

“You care about her, about getting to know her,” Tia continues, as if she didn’t hear me. “Ha! You should get a tattoo, keep her with you.”

What? Me, get a tattoo? I’ve overheard various explanations of Tia’s tats, so I know this is a good way to divert the focus away from me.

“Why don’t you tell me about your tattoos?”

Tia talks about each dragon, one by one. She reminisces about the cities she’s visited, the artists who inked her, the people she knew at the time. Tia must be older than I thought, to have done so much. She gets up to serve her customers a few times, and then returns and continues her monologue from where she left off. It strikes me: I’ve never even been out of the province. I need to get out of Toronto. I want to turn on the local news and hear about something other than the falling Gardener Expressway and what David Miller’s doing wrong now.

Tia tells me about hanging out in parks in Japan to avoid the train at peak hours. In Thailand, her moped was stolen, and so she drank flaming shots all night in a bar, because the bartender had never seen a flaming shot before. I don’t think I’ve seen one before either. Then she skips to Europe, a bar she visited in Scotland. Tia talks effortlessly, telling stories about the places she’s been and the odd people she’s met. My life’s not nearly as interesting. I’ve never had much to talk about, because I don’t do much. I work, then go home. Coming for coffee is about as wild as my day gets. Tia’s boozed her way around the globe. It occurs to me that I can go on about Wealhtheow even when I have nothing to say about myself. Tia seems to think that’s close enough; she listens so intently her eyes stop blinking. My gut is still squirming with guilt. I shouldn’t have walked out.

Tia finishes showing me her tattoos. She smiles and goes to wipe down the counter, start the dishwasher, and fiddle with the espresso machine, prepping it for the three o’clock wave of university students. I sit and sip my almost-cold cappuccino, looking at the walls. The poster hanging above me seems different. A village is burning; wasn’t it just a single hut there before? The fire has spread; the lizard looks smug. Weird.

Although I’ve always admired tattoos, I have never considered myself the kind of person who would get one. Tia’s comment makes me wonder if an artist could capture the specific image of Wealhtheow I have in my head. She’s a Valkyrie: tall, strong, blonde, mythical. Her fierce face features a strong nose and sharp jaw, and her lips are round; not soft, but sexual. Her eyes are like looking at the sky through crystal. She wears a loose white dress belted at the waist; a dagger with an intricate golden handle hangs from her belt. A warrior. A woman. Wealhtheow.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 6

2011-04-25T13:45:00.002-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4][part 5]

Tia said not to worry, but I don’t want to show up empty-handed, so I bring a bottle of pinot noir. I arrive at The Lair, and Tia takes the wine “Sam, right? Thanks!” and adds it to the table of liquor, though she doesn’t uncork it. She pours two glasses of something and hands one to me. Whiskey. I sip slowly, and a heartburnt cough crawls up my throat. The music is loud, something punky with lots of trumpet. There are maybe fifteen people sprawled around the room, gathered in little clumps. It seems very mellow, despite the noise.

Tia leads me to a couple of chairs and we sit down.

“What do you write?” Tia asks. I take my notebook to the Lair, though I rarely get any writing done there. Mostly I keep my pen in hand, as an excuse to stare impolitely. I imagine saying ‘oh, sorry, I was lost in thought,’ but no one seems interested in catching me.

“I, uh, guess stories. A history.” 

“Oh yeah? I had you down as a poet,” Tia laughs. “Can’t be right all the time, I guess. The other writers are grouped in that corner.” Tia points at a cluster of two men and a woman. The woman waves her hands, talking very quickly. One of the men leans forward, nodding, the other has his arms crossed in front of him, and taps his left foot rapidly. “I should introduce you. There are some artists here, a couple of computer geeks. Jen, over there, she’s a lawyer. She’s the freak of this group.”

Jen has shoulder length blond hair, stylishly straight with sharp corners. She is wearing leather pants and a leather jacket, open over a net shirt. Her belly is bare, her bra shining through, red and silky. She doesn’t look like a lawyer. I start mentally redressing her, like a paper doll. Would her nipple rings show through a loose blouse?

“How did you know I was a writer?”

“Intuition. It’s a game I play – guess the regular. After I see someone a couple of times, I decide who they are, what they do, stuff like that. I’m usually not far off.” Tia eyes me as I sip from my glass to keep from having to say anything. She gets impatient, and bounces away to talk with other people. I sit drinking and watching Tia. She pulls a man into the middle of the room and they start jumping around—dancing I guess. A woman comes over and joins them, and Tia jumps onto her back.

“I’m Melvin,” a voice comes from my left.

“Sam.”

“Sorry, what?” 

“Sam!” I yell.

I can barely hear through the haze of voices and music. Melvin must think I’m a dork.

“Tia says you’re a writer,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

“I am too.”

“Cool.”

A woman with green lipstick pulls on Melvin’s arm.

“Nice chatting,” he says over his shoulder. At least Tia is introducing me as a writer. I can erase my real job for the night: washing floors and scrubbing toilets at the university library is hardly going to make me friends. It feels like high school all over again. I was invited to a few parties in grade nine. Nicole Richardson was my best friend. I would follow Nicole around to try and fit in. If she got a drink, I’d get a drink. If she went to dance, I’d dance nearby. And she didn’t laugh at my clumsy imitations of her moves. Nicole talked to me, she sat with me at lunchtime. I must have become too clingy; Nicole began avoiding me, so the invitations stopped. Now, here I am again: an adult desperately wanting to be one of the cool kids, but feeling completely awkward. I let Tia refill my glass again and again.

Later in the evening, Tia moves her chair over, closer to me. She’s swaying slightly, I haven’t been able to keep track of the number of drinks she’s had. I have a glass of water in hand, trying to fend off tomorrow’s hangover.

“Let me feel your hair,” Tia murmurs, already moving her hand towards me. Tia pushes her fingers into my scalp and begins kneading. “It’s so soft. I didn’t think it would be so soft.” I stiffen. I hate my hair. I hate its texture. I hate people touching it. Tia is running both hands through my curls now, catching her fingers in the tangles. I’m tense, my eyes prickle. I’m not going to cry.

“I should go.”

“Why? Don’t go yet.”

“No, I’ve got to get going.” I get up, pulling my head away from her hands. “Uh, work. You know.” I weave my way to the door and look back. Tia is standing, leaning slightly to one side, watching me. I notice how pale she is: her whole face is bleached by the track lights. She’d look ethereal, except her eyes are too normal, an everyday green. I hesitate a moment, but then turn and leave. Walking home I berate myself. She didn’t mean anything by it. I should have stayed. What kind of moron panics over something as stupid as hair? Idiot me, I had to leave. To lose a chance at a friend. Damn. What’ll you do when you see her again, Sam?

What? No. I just won’t go back there. I don’t have to deal with it.

Chickenshit.

I get home and brush my teeth twice. My breath is still sour when I climb into bed. I want to sleep, but I lie awake for hours debating whether to go back to the Lair. I think of school again; my greatest achievement had been performing in Macbeth in grade eleven. I was his Lady, “screw your courage to the sticking place,” was my favourite line because it’s something I’ve never been able to do. This time, I’ll try it Lady M’s way.

Poetry Fakout! An Unreading on MacHugh Bluff. In Cars.

2011-04-16T21:50:00.002-06:00

Beverly Hungry Wolf granted honorary degree

2011-04-15T11:44:00.003-06:00

i've noticed i get a number of people searching for writer Beverly Hungry Wolf clicking through to this blog, so i thought i'd post this announcement from Lethbridge College:

April 5, 2011 – Lethbridge College is pleased to announce Beverly Hungry Wolf (Sikski-Aki Black-Faced Woman) as the Honorary Degree recipient for its spring convocation ceremonies. Hungry Wolf will be presented with her degree April 28.

“Beverly Hungry Wolf is an exceptional woman who has made significant contributions to education throughout her storied life,” says Dr. Tracy Edwards, (Matoomikkitstaki First Offering) Lethbridge College president and CEO. “We’re incredibly fortunate to have Beverly share her wisdom and customs with Lethbridge College. It is my honour to bestow on her this designation.”

Born in Cardston, Hungry Wolf was raised on the Blood Reserve by relatives who fostered her Blackfoot culture. She has since been intimately involved in ceremonies and cultural practices of the Blood Tribe and has earned the right to be called an elder. This work has given her knowledge to share, taken from her elders and spiritual leaders that have long since passed on.

Hungry Wolf uses this traditional education to teach in many capacities. She is serving as an elder to Lethbridge College, First Nation Metis Inuit (FNMI) Cultural Support Program; she firmly believes in bridging the journey of Blackfoot students from their origins to their roles as students at Lethbridge College. In this position, Hungry Wolf provides personal and cultural support to all students, staff and faculty as a mentor and educator.

Convocation will be split over two days this year, with the first ceremony at 2 p.m., April 28, and the second at 10 a.m., April 29. While speaking at both ceremonies, Hungry Wolf will be presented with her degree April 28.

The FNMI Graduation evening will take place April 27 and the Nippon Institute of Technology (NIT) Ceremony the evening of April 29.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 5

2011-04-14T22:42:00.002-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3][part 4]

Wealhtheow waited, as wives wait for warriors gone to war. Daily she walked to the shore, scanned the sea for ships. This was the third summer of their marriage. The third season of watching the waves. Waiting.

Her husband led the war band. His father, called Halfdane, was growing old. When he died his son would lead the Shieldings Wealhtheow’s husband Hrothgar, would rule the Shield-Danes Shieldings. His song will be sung through centuries.

Wealhtheow turned and walked homewards.

Halfdane’s hall, though full, was small. A new one was needed. The Danes had been at war, winning for three generations. Their tribe had earned great renown. Her father knew of the rise of the Shieldings. He was a shrewd man; many of the other chieftains did not consider them a threat. The home of the Shieldings, after all, was far from their halls. Wealhtheow’s father was smarter. He knew war could be waged across water, and the ships of the Shieldings were strong. So he wedded his daughter to their prince, and she would weave peace between the tribes. If she could. Wealhtheow remembered the lament of the exiled wife.

The wife was far from her own people, living with her husband’s tribe. Her husband’s kinsmen did not approve of their marriage. They drew her husband into a feud, and he was provoked into committing a crime. He acted against his lord, wielding his weapon within the mead hall. So he was outcast, banished over the sea. His wife too suffered for his brash behaviour. She was bound to live apart from the tribe, alone in a forest. Forever separated from her husband. Her family too far to uphold her honour. Wealhtheow wondered how long the wife survived the sundering.

To live in the forest without support was surely a certain doom.

Fate had been kind to Wealhtheow so far. She thanked the Norns for that. Her husband, still young, was earning his reputation as a ring-giver. He was as generous to Wealhtheow as he was to his warriors. He adorned her in gold. Like his warriors, she gave him loyalty. She served him as a wife should. Wealhtheow’s mother had told her that she must bind herself strongly to her husband’s people. Earn their trust and love. If she wanted to survive.

April 2011: Poetry Strike

2011-03-31T23:36:00.003-06:00

The provisional avant-garde (provag) has announced a poetry strike for the month of April 2011 to protest Canada's war on Afghanistan. Provag (the provisional avant-garde) has released an audio message of recommended inactions, and i have mirrored it on tumblr: http://poetactics.tumblr.com/post/4252691660/and-now-for-an-announcement-from-the-provisional

i am resigned to provag, the provisional avant-garde, but i in no way represent the provisional avant-garde (provag).

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 4

2011-03-19T11:50:00.001-06:00

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

The floor is brown from the city muck that the students track all over the building. I push the mop forwards, watching the sluice of water become murky as it slides across the tiles. Outside the snow is banked onto lawns, leaving the sidewalks under an inch of slush. The progress of winter in Toronto can be tracked through the gradations of grey; December is almost white, January is the dappled colour of a horse, and February looks like old asphalt. The clean swath of floor behind me is off-white, which means it continues to look dirty. Soon I will need to get some new water to replace the muck in my bucket. Most of the other custodians don’t bother. You can see the smears their mops leave at the end of the night, big long streaks across the hallway floors. Sue, one of my coworkers, told me that the trick is to make sure that you start to mop from the opposite end of the building from where you began the night before, so you wash with clean water tonight what you washed with filthy water yesterday. That way, no one area gets too dirty and the bosses won’t notice. I prefer not to take shortcuts.

My mother hates my job. When I told her I got work as a custodian, she was silent. I thought I’d lost the phone connection. Eventually, she asked “Why don’t you go back to school?” She was thinking why don’t you get a real job? But she said that I was smart enough to be whatever I wanted, and she hated to see me throw away all that potential. To help her be less ashamed of her janitor daughter, I explained that as a university employee, I get to take free classes. I heard the smile come back into her voice: “That’s great, Sam!” She could tell her friends about my job after all. I imagine her explaining that “my Sammy is working at the university. It’s just a cleaning job, but it means her tuition’s taken care of.”

I notice I’m panting. Lost in thought, I’ve been mopping more and more rigorously. Now my back is moist with sweat. I put the mop down in the bucket, and go to get a drink of water. The library is warm and stuffy. The air is always dry in this building, the moisture absorbed by thousands of thirsty books. I’ve been meaning to buy a metal water bottle. At least each level has a water fountain. It gives me a reason to take little rests. My first night on the job, I was repulsed. The fountain was covered in green scum, and old wads of chewing gum were clogging the basin. I put on my rubber gloves and got to work. Now I disinfect the fountain’s head every night. One evening, before the library was closed, a student noticed me scrubbing the drinking fountain. He came over and thanked me. “That shit was undrinkable before.” I should let my Mom know that I’m changing the world, one dirty fountain at a time.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 3

2011-03-12T23:06:00.002-07:00

[part 1] [part 2]

She stood in front of her parents. Her hands clasped, her eyes cast downwards. Her bearded father reached for a small cloth bundle on the table beside him. He unwrapped it to reveal a shining necklace torc of simple design.

“We thought it was time for you to have this,” her mother said.

“Wealhtheow, you’ll be going away soon.” Her father looked at her. Wealhtheow was young and slender. He glanced at her mother, who was once also young and slender. Her mother’s gaze remained on Wealhtheow, unblinking.

“Yes, Father.”

Every warrior of the hall wore a torc similar to the one her father held. He had presented countless men with ornaments much finer. Unadorned Wealhtheow was no warrior; wore no treasure. Though the daughter of the king, she was just a daughter. The gold of the torc glinted in her eyes.

Her father had contracted her marriage, she knew. He would give her jewellery; she would display his wealth and power with fine gold.

Her brother entered, steaming from the rain outside. He had been learning to wield an axe from one of the weathered warriors. Seeing the torc, he approached their father.

“Whose is that?”

“It belonged to your Grandfather. It was won in battle from Onthrel the Swede.”

“May I see it?” Her brother took the torc and fastened it around his neck. Her father looked down at the boy.

“It is befitting of a young warrior,” he mused. He placed his calloused hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Wealhtheow’s face flashed as she fought for composure. She closed her eyes and regained herself. Her brother could have the heirloom. There would be others for her, newer and nicer, once she was wed. Wealhtheow stood straight, returned her face to its smiling docility.

Her mother watched her through half-lidded eyes.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 2

2011-03-03T21:20:00.002-07:00

[Part 1]

I enter The Lair, an independent coffee shop—owned, I’ve always assumed, by the middle-aged barista with a plethora of tattoos and a shock of bleached hair. The Lair looks to me as if it was decorated by a fourteen-year-old. The walls are covered in posters of dragons and superheroes. My favourite spot to sit is below a picture of a purple rampant dragon, grey smoke curling up from its nostrils. The dragon perches on a cliff above rolling fields. In the distance, a little hut burns, presumably torched by the scaled beast. Beside the dragon poster was one of Batman, standing on a rooftop, blue undies front and center.

The Lair’s coffee isn’t the best on the block, but it’s cheap, and I enjoy spying on the barista as she works the machines, the tattoos on her arms rippling as she moves. I admire her: her funky hair, her brightly inked arms, the wrinkles around her eyes. This woman wears her life story on her body; she’s beautiful, edgy, adventurous, but also quietly efficient. She’s my secret hero. She is the queen of cappuccino. I don’t even need to order; she saw me come in and has a big cup ready for me by the time I reach the counter. I pay, and retreat to my booth.

The other patrons of the café tend to be punks and arty-types. There’s a woman with a different tutu for each day of the week. A man with a crown of spikes, each dyed a different colour. A group of young girls with matching hot pink sneakers. Adults with leather jackets patched with band logos. Teenagers with scarves that pose a tripping hazard. People who wear nothing but black. People who wear every colour at once. I feel ordinary and frumpy next to them. What must they think of me? I can guess: a conformist, a nobody.

The barista’s name is Tia. Tia’s tattoos are all dragons. They writhe around her body. There is a pair, somewhat obscene, twining down her forearm in the midst of a mating flight. The dragons are different types, Western and Eastern, in blues, yellows, greens, and reds. She actually had the Eastern-style one on her left arm done in Japan, when she had been doing her post-college globe-trot. The mean one on her shoulder was done in London. It is the only completely black tattoo on her body. One artist had done two of the tattoos: matching dragons on the outside of each calf. They aren’t the prettiest of her dragons; their lines are distorted and starting to blur. The one on the left is the colour of faded jeans, the one on the right is supposed to be golden, although it’s really a murky yellow.

Suddenly, the barista pulls out a chair, and sits at my table.
“Hey, you.”
“Um, hi.” I fidget with my cup.
“I see you in here a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“Want to come to a little party?”
“A party?”
“Here. I like to get to know my regulars. Decide which ones I’m going to sleep with.”
“What?”
“I’m kidding.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” she smiles. Her teeth are stained.
“I’m Sam,” I blurt out.
“Tia,” she reaches over to shake my hand. “And I’ve got to get back to work. See you Saturday?”  
“Okay.” I swig the rest of my drink and scurry out of the shop. Take a deep breath. It’s just a party, she’s just being nice. I should go. I think of turning back into the shop, to ask Tia what time I should show up, and if I should bring anything. I stop myself. Calm down. It’s Thursday. I’ll be back in tomorrow. I’ll ask then.

There’s no reason to let her think I’m overeager.

warning: in which i talk about feelings

2011-02-28T15:32:00.003-07:00

excuse me a bit of self-indulgence. if you can't excuse it, well skip this post and everyone's happy.

so at some point last week (Thursday? Friday?) i got excited about writing. i don't know when i stopped being excited about writing - i want to say at the start of winter, but really, i didn't write much over the summer. this lethargy seems to have started sometime last winter. it hasn't helped that i've been sick (the doctor's helpful advice was 'sometimes people just stay sick'). a constant stuffed-head feeling is not particularly motivating. not all of this lethargy is related to writing: some of it comes from job anxiety, some from the sleepless nights that come after any event where i interact with people because man they must think i'm so stupid and why did i say that and i'm so awkward and unlikeable, some of it comes from that grad-student feeling of 'i'm not smart enough to be here and hold my own with these brilliant people,' and some of it definitely links to the weather. there have been a lot of days in the past few months where getting out of bed did not seem like a feasible achievement. i wanted really badly to quit. school, writing, everything. but i can't afford to quit: i have grants that would need to be paid back if i left the program unfinished. i'm financially obligated to see this thing through. i've just lost sight of why i'm here, studying for an MA. i mean, why am i studying for an MA? to give myself time to write . . . except i haven't made good use of that time, and suddenly there is no time and i'm too busy to get everything done. well that's life, and it was poor management on my part.

why am i talking about this?

well because i suddenly feel like myself again. and i've had few moments like this over the past couple years, and i know i need to leverage this momentum so that when i start feeling mopey again i don't just fizzle out. i want my thesis done by the end of summer. i have to assemble a chapbook of student writing for my job by April. i have to be more disciplined, and not let myself feel so overwhelmed and so hopeless. this is one of the reasons why i decided to post Of Wyrms and Women. It is work i've already done, so with relatively little effort i can achieve something (a blog post) every week. not much of an achievement, but it's within my reach. i've also added a poem to my thesis for the first time in nearly two months. my thesis is a huge problem: i've not been honest with myself (or others) about what a terrible state it's in. i'm behind. really behind. i still think i can pull it off, and part of that is that over the weekend i actually bought some books, and requested others from the library. small steps. i do still like my thesis project, and i still think i can write a badass academic component for it. badass indeed.

i also have an idea for a new project once my thesis is done. something different. something i want to write NOT for school. this is progress, because now i have something i want to do once my MA is done. before, well i had no idea. i couldn't really imagine being done, that there would be an after. so. this is where things stand. march and april are going to be busy months, so this clarity of self won't last. but this is some kind of progress.

i had my birthday last week. maybe i leveled up all at once, and this is the result. a year's worth of experience, a +1 to Con, +1 to Int, thank you now i can complete this dungeon crawl.

underwear poetry: results?

2011-02-27T16:05:00.000-07:00

So i gave my family their poetry books at christmas. My father seemed uncertain, but kept his game-face on. i suggested poetry might make good bathroom reading (watch out Uncle John, poetry's in the throne room now!). My youngest sister made a remark about how she doesn't like poetry (she has previously called poetry 'frivolous') but at least pretended interest when i explained how Poets and Killers was composed using lines from advertising. My mother said she would definitely read her copy of Poets and Killers, and my middle sister seemed enthusiastic about [sic].

My mother seemed particularly pleased when she noticed that her book was signed. My father was a disappointed that his was not also signed. Whoops. And with every book I was asked "Is this one of your profs? Do you know this writer?" No. Yes.

It did seem to make a difference that i could talk a little bit about the writers: my folks were definitely more interested in who the writers were than what project the books were undertaking. It let my parents get a little glimpse into this mysterious world of the poet/academic, and suddenly the books are more meaningful because of a personal connection - a low degree of separation between the poet and the reader. i think it reduces the factor of intimidation (sort of "well if my daughter knows this person, it can't be so foreign and incomprehensible").

But it's nearly March, and as far as i know, the books are unread. My mother has, however, looked through an issue of filling Station magazine. "I didn't understand it at all" she said.

i'm working on it.

Of Wyrms and Women pt. 1

2011-02-25T13:23:00.002-07:00

I sit on the subway, thinking of Wealhtheow. Whether or not Wealhtheow existed. Whether her name was a work of fiction. Hrothgar is a historical figure, as are his sons. But who was his wife? Was she Wealhtheow? Was she the peace-weaver?

The train jerks to a stop. The doors open, the off-key jingle clangs a second afterwards. Whose job is it to fix that? Is there a subway tuner who will adjust the chime to match the rest? I like to imagine him, an old man who began his career tuning pianos, and switched to subways when he found it more lucrative. There is less competition in the field of subway-tuning, it being a somewhat maligned occupation in the world of professional instrument tuners. The doors close, and immediately afterwards the warning chime sounds again, too late.

I reread the opening of Beowulf, and match the modern lines to the facing Old English transcription. I sound out the words phonically, mouthing the syllables. A pink-faced businessman across the car watches me. He sits pressed tightly against the side, as far away from me as he can get without actually standing up and changing seats. Sweat greases his forehead, and he rubs his racoonish hands together. I picture Vikings as I read, but I don’t know if that’s really who I’m reading about. I was taking a course at the university for something to do, hoping perhaps to meet people, maybe make some friends. Instead, I was introduced to Beowulf, briefly. The instructor assumed that everyone had encountered Beowulf before, and so dove right into the details, took a brisk lap of the text, then climbed out quickly to dive into the next. When the rest of the group moved on, I lingered on the epic, and stopped going to class. I was always a weak swimmer.

The subway arrives at my stop, and I stride quickly out the door and across the platform towards the stairs. An elderly couple stand on the top step, waiting out the rain. I tuck Beowulf into my shirt and start to jog homewards. It’s not far, but I wish I thought to carry an umbrella, or a jacket, or really anything that would keep the water off. I turn the corner, and dash into my building. It’s an old, depressed structure, with an ugly grey exterior and peeling paint in the hallways. The elevator license has been expired for about a year. As far as I know, few people use the elevator anymore, both because of the horrible clunking sound it makes and the way it doesn’t really line up with the floors when it stops. The stairs, at least, are level. And I’ve never known them to lurch the way the elevator does.

The building is only six stories high. I live on the fifth floor. The climb’s not too bad, but I’m out of breath by the time I reach the top. Fortunately, my door is the first one on the left. I dig into my pocket for my key and let myself in, and carefully pull Beowulf out of my shirt. I examine the book. It’s not too wet. I set it down on a table, and go to find a heavy textbook that should do the trick. Gently, I smooth Beowulf flat and place my ninth grade history textbook on top. I probably should have turned the book back in to the school at some point, but no one ever asked for it. Besides, I like history.

a new blog project

2011-02-14T22:13:00.005-07:00

lately, i've been thinking about the novel i developed for the manuscript course i took last year. it was the story of a woman, Sam, who worked as a janitor at a university library while writing a story about Wealhtheow (from Beowulf). Sam also had a twitter and livejournal account - the text straddled the online world. of course, these links have been dormant since last april - if i were to revise the project i'd have to restart the online component. i don't think i'm going to do that again; i've moved on to other projects. i'm wondering if i should just let it sit in towards eventual deletion, or if i should post it in installments here for folks to (hopefully) read.

why not?

well it's a first draft. i've been warned against letting those ugly things called first drafts into the world. what if i'm embarrassed ten years from now? well, i was a teenager on the internet. can anything i put up here now be any more humiliating than the no-one-understands-me poetry that is still out there with my (screen)name on it? i dare you to find it if you can.

well, why then?

maybe someone will read it. that's all, really. maybe someone will read it. it would be awesome if someone read it and cared enough to comment and/or criticize - because that would be really useful for my future work - but really, a reader would be enough for me. because in a workshop course, people have to read your texts. on the internet, if it sucks no one is compelled to follow through.

what i really hope is that looking at work i did last year will kick my butt into getting productive this year, because damn if i'm not discouraged at just how little i've been writing.

teaching haiku

2011-02-09T15:55:00.003-07:00

i'd be lying if i said i wrote these poems specifically for teaching the haiku form to grade seven students. but they sure did get a kick out of them.

Batman is awesome.
He fights villains in Gotham.
His parents are dead.

Batgirl is super.
She used to be called Barbara;
now Stephanie Brown.

The acrobat is
Robin. He's the Boy Wonder.
Underwear outside.

(i know, these are senryu because they don't deal with nature. i did make that distinction to the kids, and gave them the option of writing either.)

one-minute haiku was a successful activity. once they got the hang of writing a haiku in under a minute, students were racing to see who could finish two or three poems before the time limit. not bad, considering this class had a number of students who "hate writing."

and now i'm blogging instead of finishing a paper, so it must be a really productive day!

ebooks & public libraries

2011-01-12T16:28:00.005-07:00

Can i be a complete nerd and say how much i love borrowing ebooks from the Calgary Public Library? Oh it feels like -30 degrees? No problem - download a book and keep it for 21 days. Just finished Fire by Kristin Cashore that way (Cashore is a fabulous young adult fantasy writer, btw). The ebook service has been around for a little while now, but i only just got around to trying it out.

If only the university's electronic books were this simple & convenient. Ebrary has a great selection of books, but the interface is clumsy and tends to freeze, and the books can't be downloaded, which means that it's almost impossible to actually use for academic purposes (oh, you want to access page 142? well too bad the "go to page" function doesn't work reliably. read a book straight through? no way! it'll freeze on page 30 and when you reload you're back to page one...).

Anyways, ebooks from public libraries are great. Sure beats illegal downloading, not that i would do such a thing...

A letter to the Halton Catholic District School Board

2011-01-10T00:26:00.002-07:00

In response to their recent ban on Gay-Straight Alliances.

Dear HCDSB,

As a former student of St. Luke's Elementary School and St. Thomas Aquinas High School, I need to tell you how very disappointed I am that you have decided to ban Gay-Straight Alliances. I was bullied in both of these schools because students interpreted my appearance as queer. I was called "fag" and "lesbo." I was ostracized and harassed. And I did not feel that my Catholic teachers, some of whom compared homosexuality to bestiality and bigamy, would be empathetic to my situation. So I endured the taunting, the shoving, and the alienation as best I could, and mostly in silence. I was uncomfortable with sexuality in general, as many young people are, and was worried that if I told adults why I was being bullied that they would side with the bullies. Gay-Straight Alliances are a tool to tell students that they matter regardless of sexuality. They provide support to students who might be targeted because of their sexuality, or because of how others perceive their sexuality. Banning these Alliances will not change Gay students into Straight students, but it sends the message that Gay bashing and harassment are not important issues to the members of the Halton Catholic District School Board, and further disenfranchises youth already dealing with the difficulties of school environments. In fact, bullies might interpret the ban as condoning the actions they take in an attempt to police the gender expression and sexuality of their peers.

You are failing the LGBTQ youth within your school board. And there are LGBTQ youth within your school board, there is no question about that. Children do not choose where they go to school; their parents do. This is not about sexuality or Catholocism, it is about creating an environment where all students can be safe. More than safe: every child who goes to school should feel welcome. The students who saw your hateful ban, and the disgusting phrasing with which it was presenting, will continue to conflate homosexuality with homosexual people. They will continue to think that it's okay to hurt another person because they are Gay, and you are telling them that Gay means less-than.

Christ said "Love thy neighbour," and "Judge not lest ye be judged." Please overturn your ban on Gay-Straight Alliances. Take a stand against bullying and intolerance, a stand for compassion and support of students.

Sincerely,

Claire Lacey

I treat poetry like underwear.

2010-12-23T14:29:00.003-07:00

At least when it comes to the holidays. When I was a kid, Christmas gifts were a careful combination of fun toys and practical clothing. Underwear never held the same appeal as a guitar or a toy pony, but it was reliably there every year. So in that spirit, I've bought each of my immediate family members two gifts: the one they want, and the one I think they need. That's right. I think they need poetry. Why? Well, not because I'm trying to recruit new readers, or convert my family into poetry lovers, though that would be nice. No, this is a selfish gift: I figure if I can introduce my family members to some contemporary poetry, I might slowly have to stop fielding questions about what it is exactly that I am writing. If my well-intentioned family can actually get a sense of what I am studying, they might not think I am putting them off. It might make future holiday dinners less awkward, as I try to contextualize why I am writing poetry for a thesis, and what that has to do with dialects spoken in other parts of the world. My parents have read most of my thesis and scholarship proposals (protip: getting a non-specialist to read those applications can help avoid the jargon problem. My parents might not know a lot about literature, but they're smart people, and their questions about "what does that mean, exactly" got me thinking about how to be concise without being obscure).

The odds are low that the books I have carefully bought will actually be read, but it's the thought that counts, or buy unto others what you would have them buy unto you, or something like that.

So, here's the list (MOM IF YOU ARE READING THIS STOP HERE OR CHRISTMAS WILL BE RUINED!):

For my dad: Priscila Uppal's Winter Sport: Poems, because I think it will appeal to the memory of all the times he drove me to early morning hockey practice and late night games.

For my mum & youngest sister: Helen Hajnoczky's Poets and Killers: A life in advertising pretty much for the reasons I outlined here.

For my middle sister: Nikki Reimer's [sic], because I think it will appeal to her perceptions of Calgary and corporate culture.

I'll report back on reactions post-Holiday.

Rape Culture: why stand up when you can be silenced?

2010-12-19T13:10:00.004-07:00

In case you needed proof that the rape culture is alive and well, check out the #MooreandMe hashtag on twitter. Sady Doyle of Tiger Beatdown, and a number of other tweeters, are speaking against the bully tactics being used to silence and discredit the women who accused Julian Assange of rape. A lot of misinformation has been flying around (perpetuated by news articles that have been making strange claims about rape laws in Sweden), and Michael Moore and Keith Olbermann publicized the names of the accusers through twitter. This was wrong: women who accuse men, particularly famous men, of rape are often threatened, assaulted, and harassed. Quite frankly, reporting a rape can be dangerous, especially when there is no repercussion for the men who publicize the alleged victims names. I don't know if Assange is guilty or not. I do know that these women are being victimized by the people trying to get them to drop charges by revealing their privacy and trying to scare them away.

We have to make sure that the men who casually retweet private information about these women understand that it is NOT OKAY. That perpetuating a culture of fear, a culture in which rape only matters when it doesn't interfere with a political agenda (or only matters when in happens to someone you know, or only matters if the rapist was a stranger to the victim, or if the victim has the right reaction...) is completely unacceptable. If we want a culture in which it is safe for a victim to say "I was raped" than we cannot let this kind of public harassment of accusers to continue.

Thanks Sady. Thanks for spending four days on twitter demanding a response from Michael Moore. Thanks for enduring trolls, threats, accusations, and name calling.

"to let none of us go missing without a fuss" - Margaret Christakos

Read Sady's MooreandMe Day 1, Day 2, and Day 4

Sound Experiment

2010-12-11T15:23:00.008-07:00

Kathleen Brown posted (back in April - where have I been?) audio that she created for the creative writing gala at the university last spring. It includes clips from Suzette Mayr, Robert Majzels, Tom Wayman, Christian Bök, and the Homely Fuss: Stephanie Davis, Indra Singh, Marc Lynch, Kye Kocher, Kathleen Brown, Jane Thompson, and me.

What I Learned in Writing Skool by polarstarkricket

why blog?

2010-11-09T01:44:00.006-07:00

i've been feeling like i don't have a lot to say lately. this is a problem, as i am trying to write a thesis. my internet presence has mostly dwindled down to inanities on facebook and reblogging stuff on tumblr. of course, i've grown up on the internet, so i have to constantly remind myself that no, i don't really need to post about my personal life all the time, and i really don't need to discuss every problem i have (right now, mice. well, the mice i'm okay with, the poison my building's put down to deal with the mice, not so much. it doesn't help that the mouse i keep seeing looks a lot like a particular deceased pet). this blog in particular seems to require some kind of thought or sobriety now that i know people might be reading. at least now that i see that every new post gets a number of pageviews.

every time i start to enjoy something i run into unacceptable racism, sexism, homophobia, ablism...i began to watch stephen fry's qi quiz show and had to stop because of the amount of racism played for laughs. fry gets pissy about grammar discrepancies but slurs about Indigenous Peoples are okay. fuck that. i'll just watch batman: the brave and the bold. and ponyo (over and over and over).

i've been playing fable 3. well, i'm practically done, just missing a few treasure items to reach completion. interesting how when playing the male character the rude garden gnomes hidden throughout the game become much more obviously misogynistic than when playing the female character. did the developers think that feminists will choose the female avatar every time? more POC in the game - i really like Page the revolutionary leader - but still the playable characters are both white. i mean, i get that albion is england, but if this is fantasy could we at least imagine the possibility of customizing the character's appearance? overall the game was a bit of a letdown; the story was predictable and the creepiest part came around the midpoint of the game. Fable 2 was much better, and much more flexible (i liked being able to fail relationship encounters, for instance, because it added more of a challenge. and that the dog that accompanies the hero around needed comforting in 2, but was just there in 3. plus the glitches and lag seem so much worse in 3).

really i'm working on my thesis. and i'm not just saying that in case my supervisor reads my blog. and somehow everyone in my life is getting roped into doing work for the one course i'm taking this semester. really--my partner's involved and i'm sure it's just a matter of time before some task appears that would suit my dog's expertise.

in conclusion, it's morning. ta.

Silver Car Sessions

2010-10-19T00:52:00.002-06:00

Jake Kennedy captures the daily lives of poets. Since the days of Robert Frost, all poets have driven silver cars. It makes them particularly easy to identify (fiction writers: minivans). For some reason, Jake and his creepy friend Kevin thought i might make a good interview subject.

I showed them.

Silver Car Sessions 4 (Lacey)

Huh

2010-10-08T17:28:00.002-06:00

It seems that there's another blog called poetactics over on wordpress. Bizarre.

It's not me, so we're clear.

CCCCWWWWPPPPP

2010-10-07T22:18:00.004-06:00

Over the next few days i'll be at the Canadian Creative Writers and Writing Programs conference & founding convention. While i'm not sure i'll have the time to blog it in any kind of thorough manner (would that even be interesting to anyone other than me?), i will definitely do some tweeting using the #CCWWP hashtag. Tomorrow's schedule looks good; i plan on attending the Workshops in Creative Writing and the Technology and Creative writing panels.

This year, i'm working as a writer-in-the-school at a jr./sr. high school, so this conference couldn't have come at a better time. i'm excited for the chance to glean some knowledge from more experienced creative writing teachers.

That said, i skipped out on the first evening, but it looks like @kipress caught some good moments.

Tonight i was at Flywheel (for those who don't know, it's a monthly reading series in Calgary held on the first Thursday of every month at Pages bookstore on Kensington). It was a really great reading: Patrick Horner pulled off a cool multivocal text, Jen Kunlire always has great delivery, and Gary Barwin was energetic and hilarious. A fun night!

a dizzy spell

2010-08-10T16:09:00.003-06:00

i've been meaning to write a response to Helen's LemonHound post on spelling & misspellings. Well, less a response than some musings sparked by the idea that all English readers are snobs who enjoy catching someone else in a written error. This is an issue i feel strongly about; English speakers have been resistant to spelling reform because there is an elitism associated with mastering the treacheries of our archaic writing system (a system that has letters representing multiple sounds, sounds represented by multiple letters, and combinations of letters representing single sounds; basically, in English, there is no reliable one-to-one correspondence between the way something sounds and the way it appears). Never mind that many generalizations taught as firm rules are not always helpful particularly because regional variety in English means that the ways words are pronounced vary from place to place; what works as a rule in, say British RP might not work for Canadian or American speakers.

So why do spelling mistakes make English speakers so angry? Is it a form of elitist gate-keeping to separate "good" speakers from "bad" speakers? To help keep class divides visible, since there is a closer correlation between standard spoken English(es) and written English? To make it more difficult for adult learners to spell well? i think it's important to investigate why native speakers of standard Englishes (and i include myself in this category) get so emotionally invested in spelling: why are we angry about people who use chatspeak, haughty when an error appears in a professional publication, and upset when someone suggests perhaps a change is in order?

Errors in spelling don't really bother me. Sometimes they're funny, and that's okay (i own a version of Joseph Andrews where "gaol" is always corrected to "goal," probably because of the intervention of an American spellcheck; i imagine the editor has suffered some embarrassment over this). When errors interfere with communication, then they are problematic and need correction. But when the occasional mistake creeps into a published work? Why get upset? Why feel superior? Most of us have words we consistently misspell. Our orthography pretty much guarantees it.

Skype multimedia project update

2010-07-23T00:44:00.002-06:00

Thanks to everyone who volunteered. Everyone who skyped in did a great job of reading those 85 letter poems (which were written by Robert Majzels & Claire Huot)!

i'll let you know whenever the video gets put online. Again, thanks for the great response.

Participate in Poetry!

2010-07-21T21:32:00.003-06:00

We are looking for volunteers to help read poetry TOMORROW.

All we need are people who have Skype who are available for 15 minutes sometime between 9 & ll pm Mountain Time (Calgary) on July 22.

What you will be reading out loud on Skype:

Excerpts from The Bible and Chairman Mao's Book of Quotations have been translated into 85 English letters aligned equidistantly, without spaces between words or punctuation, as they would be in classical Chinese and ancient Hebrew. The visual texts are displayed and read by viewers... like you. Don't worry about stuttering, repeating, this is part of the process: we want to hear it all!

The experiment will be recorded. Leave a comment here or email me - poetactics at gmail dot com - for more details

Yes, this.

2010-07-07T16:42:00.003-06:00

Go read the Lemon Hound Literary Bechdel Test.

i've used the Bechdel test to discuss literature, film, & television, but never thought of applying it to criticism/literary discussion before. Awesome.

Update: library adventures

2010-06-24T16:16:00.004-06:00

There is a Coles in the mall where i do my groceries, strategically placed between the grocery store and the pet store. It has been so hard breaking the habit of stopping in to "just look" which inevitably leads to a purchase. But i haven't gone in once since i decided libraries were the way to go.

Luckily, the library is just outside this same mall. The building looks small and kind of sketchy from the outside, but inside it is SO NICE. i don't know why i expected it to be decrepit, but it's not. Lots of chairs & tables to work at. Brightly lit. A comfortably cool temperature. Wireless internet. Fuck yes! Much better than working at the university library, even if it does mean some of the actual books i need aren't immediately at hand. So, success, of a sort. i still haven't actually gotten much work done. Still, it's a start.

This Ain't The Rosedale Library in trouble

2010-06-23T01:11:00.005-06:00

You can donate to This Ain't the Rosedale Library here.

This Ain't is a independent bookstore in Toronto. A bookstore that supports local writers. A bookstore that has a great selection of Canadian poetry. A family-run bookstore. The Toronto Star and the Globe and Mail both ran articles on the financial difficulties This Ain't is facing. The G&B mentioned the encroachment of Amazon. A fuller account of what happened is available on the This Ain't site. Small bookstores have been closing all across Canada (and the States, too). But the indies are necessary; so much local literature, especially small press lit, isn't carried by the big online bookstores. One of the things we lose, when we lose something like This Ain't, is accessibility. Once the small retailers are pushed out, the big corporations can decide whose literature we can and cannot buy.

So many bookstores have gone under with too little fuss too late. Let's not let that happen here. There's great community support for This Ain't, and owners Charlie & Jesse are accepting donations to help the store overcome it's current debt. There is a facebook group, Friends of This Ain't the Rosedale Library, where ideas on how to help support the bookstore now, and in the future, are being shared. This bookstore has a fighting chance to get back on its feet. Of course, once it's there, drop by and see why Canada's literary community is mobilizing to raise funds for this Toronto staple.

Please pass the link around: http://thisaintblog.wordpress.com/category/events/

i write letters [TRIGGER WARNING FOR FGM]

2010-06-16T23:36:00.003-06:00

The following in response to this: http://slog.thestranger.com/slog/archives/2010/06/16/female-genital-mutilation-at-cornell-university see also: http://www.thehastingscenter.org/Bioethicsforum/Post.aspx?id=4730&blogid=140

Basically, young girls are undergoing clitoral reduction surgery at Cornell University, and then have to endure examinations where their clitorises are touched by Dr. Poppas or his nurse, so that he can chart how much sensation remains after the procedure. Both the surgery, and the touching, are medically unnecessary. The only thing wrong with these clitorises is that a doctor has decided that they are too large.

---
To: dean@med.cornell.edu, president@cornell.edu

Dear Antonio Gotto and David Skorton,

I am emailing you to express my concern about the way Dr. Dix Poppas has been conducting his research. An article entitled "Bad Vibrations" (which can be found online here: http://www.thehastingscenter.org/Bioethicsforum/Post.aspx?id=4730&blogid=140) explains that Dr. Poppas has been touching the clitorises of young girls in order to determine the extent of sensation after clitoral reduction surgery. The surgery, which is largely cosmetic in the first place, is invasive and abhorrent. It is completely unacceptable to alter the genitals of young girls for aesthetic purposes, especially when there is no strong evidence that these girls derive any benefit from the surgery at such a young age, while their bodies are still developing.

In addition to the surgery, Dr. Poppas has been touching the clitorises and vaginas of these girls, aged 6 and older, to determine the extent of sensation remaining after the procedure. Research is the only justification for the genital stimulation in these cases, for if sensation were reduced because of clitoral mutilation, it could not be replaced. Dr. Poppas wants to chart the amount of clitoral sensation these girls experience by touching their genitals annually. How does a conscious 6-year-old feel when her privates are touched and she is asked to rate the sensation by a grown man? Shouldn't patient psychological health trump medical interest? These children do not deserve to suffer molestation from a doctor, an authority from a practice and institution they should be able to trust.

I urge you to conduct a review of Dr. Poppas' research methods and ethics. I had always thought Cornell University had rigorous standards of academic and medical integrity, and am shocked that this could be going on at your institution.

Spring resolutions

2010-06-13T13:23:00.001-06:00

i spent a lot of time in the public library as a kid. We used to go about once a week, usually after church on sundays. When i got a bit older, my mom would let us spend p.a. days at the library, instead of sitting at home. She'd take us to the library on her lunch break, and pick us up when she'd finished work. But i haven't had a public library membership in years. Partially that's because university libraries are better stocked, but it's also due to my increasing penchant for buying books, even books that i will read once and never again. My book habit is one i can't really afford, and the accumulation has become a bit ridiculous. So my goal for the next year is to only buy books i need for school, books by people i see at readings, and books by people i know. Additionally, i will try to buy these books only from independent booksellers. i will not renew my chapters card this year, and i will not get caught in the "i have a coupon so i have to buy something" trap.

It might seem self-indulgent to make this kind of statement on my blog, but it makes me feel a greater sense of accountability because someone from the internet might judge me!

The point is, i suppose, that with online ordering it seems way more convenient to buy books than to support the library system, even if it's not financially prudent. And there are far more chapter's stores around than library branches. But i love libraries, i really do. And i'm going to make a point of doing work at the library rather than at home. For someone as entrenched in her apartment as i am, that will actually be more difficult than it sounds. But now i have committed myself by telling my plans to you, the internet. Wish me luck with this June 13th resolution.

ryan fitzpatrick wants you!

2010-05-20T22:57:00.004-06:00

*UPDATE: THE COMMISSIONED WORKS PROJECT IS CLOSED.*

Have you always wanted to read a sonnet about limestone? A sestina about sasquatch? Ryan is writing poems to your specification as part of his new project. He explains:

Commissioned Works by ryan fitzpatrick

My name is ryan fitzpatrick and I am a writer and poet based in Calgary. I would like you to consider commissioning a poem from me.

But first let me explain myself. About a year ago, I had two thoughts. The first is the question that every writer asks: “Why does no one care about literature?” Sometimes the answer is obvious: the writing in question is boring, pretentious, unfunny, difficult, meaningless (or too meaningful). Poetry gets the shortest end of this very short stick. At least a bad novel has a story to follow. With poetry, the language itself has to be rich and interesting and socially relevant. Maybe the problem with most poetry is that it doesn’t even know what this means.

The second thought I had was inspired by a couple friends of mine who were able to get some money together to put together an art project and the project they came up with was a community centre. I thought to myself, what a genius idea. If you want people to experience the art you’re producing, why not include them in the process of making it. That’s how, in my mind at least, Commissioned Works was born.

Commissioned Works is meant to be part study and part community outreach. What would happen if my own poetry was directed by people in the community, if the poems weren’t only directed by my interests and writing habits, but by the interests of others, especially people who don’t write?

What does this mean for you? If you agree to take part in this project, you will have several tasks. The first is to decide what kind of poem you would like to see in the world. What should it be about? It could be about anything, ranging from seemingly disparate things like NASCAR or horticulture or politics. What should the poem look like? Should it rhyme, be full of nonsense, tell a story, be written as a sonnet, etc. The possibilities are literally endless. And to be honest, it’s kind of frightening!

After you tell me what you’d like to see, I’ll go off and write a poem that I think matches your specifications. But what if you don’t like it? That’s the second step. I will bring the poem back to you and you’ll be able to give me feedback that I’ll use to make the poem better. You might be completely happy with the poem or you might want to see an entirely different poem written or you might only want some very specific changes. I will take whatever feedback you give into account to produce a final, polished version of the poem.

After I finish a second draft of the poem, that’ll be its final version, but I’ll give you another chance to express your feelings about it by filling out a feedback survey that will help give a rough statistical picture of the project as a whole.

After I finish the poem, you’ll be able to do whatever you’d like to with it. Email it to your friends and family, post it on your facebook page, or set it on fire. I would be able to take your poem, along with the poems of everyone else, to assemble into a manuscript that I could (hopefully) get published.

Sound good?

ryan

One condition: ryan will not write poems for other writers! That is cheating! But any non-writer is welcome to email ryan to discuss commissioning a poem. Pass this message along to anyone you feel might be interested, please. Ryan is a really good writer. If you don't want to take my word for it, read his book Fake Math. Then commission a poem. Or get your uncle, or grandma, or mail carrier to commission a poem. Help poetry happen!

Ryan can be reached at rcfmod@gmail.com

Long time no blog

2010-05-17T12:42:00.001-06:00

InfluencySalon.ca has its second issue up! The second issue engages with Michael Boughn, Meredith Quartermain, and Jordan Scott. i have an 'outflow' response to Quartermain & Scott included in this issue, written last year when i decided that my last year of undergrad wasn't enough, I would take Influency as well. It was worth it, even if every week was a scramble to get all my reading done. It was fascinating making the connections between my 'academic' and my 'influency' readings--I'd read Charles Olson in school and then someone would mention him at the Salon. My education was made more visible to me, because it was relevant in a second context. Very excited to be asked to participate in the online articulation.

InfluencySalon.ca!

2010-04-21T12:03:00.003-06:00

Toronto's Influency Salon is now online! Woohoo!

http://influencysalon.ca

From the website:

Our first three issues will be a kick-start triumvirate, appearing here in quick succession. Today you’re finding Issue 1 on our home page. In early May Issue 2 will appear, followed in late May by Issue 3. These three inaugural issues will set this vivid poetry salon’s commitment firmly at your wrists. Poetry matters. To us, to you, to cities, to air, to culture.

Influency Salon is an online magazine for the reception and distribution of poetry thinking— reading diverse works of poetry, conversing about them, and measuring their ways and means, forms and motives. Via page and ear, our editors listen deeply and care persistently. We figure how the work matters. We expect a conversation about poetry to be public, present, and relevant. We want to gather in the room of poetry, and talk our heads off.

Get over here, will you?

A brief message to Torontonians

2010-03-30T12:13:00.003-06:00

It's time for another round of the Influency Poetry Salon in Toronto, facilitated by Margaret Christakos.

I mean, just look at this line-up: John Barton, Gregory Betts, Susan Holbrook, Jacob McArthur Mooney, Sachiko Murakami, Ruth Roach Pierson, Carolyn Smart, Carmine Starnino. It runs from April 7th to June 9th, on Wednesdays 7:00PM - 9:30PM.

More information and registration here. Influency is a fantastic experience, and if you can afford to take the class, do it. Where else can you find a seminar series with so many different poets talking to one another?

The Agora Review has some critical essays by Influency participants if you want to see some writing that emerged from a past Influency crowd. i had a lot of fun being Influenced. You will too.

Help the First Nations University

2010-03-23T13:14:00.003-06:00

Video Transcript at the end of the post.

Funding cuts are threatening the First Nations University of Canada. Check out their website here to find a form letter to send to Chuck Strahl, Minister of Indian and Northern Affairs, and to PM Stephen Harper. Here is my slightly altered version of the form letter available on the Fund First Nations University Now! Blog. Please think about taking a few minutes to send an email or a letter. It doesn't take much effort, but it sure can mean a lot.

Dear Mr. Strahl and Mr. Harper,

The recent Vancouver Olympic Games seemed to celebrate the cultures of Canada’s Aboriginal Peoples. But the decision to cut funding to the First Nations University reveals a different, more troubling position: does the Government of Canada only invest in Aboriginal Peoples when the world is watching? The First Nations University should be a source of Canadian pride. Where else can students learn from such a large concentration of Aboriginal instructors? What other school can put Aboriginal culture at the centre of the educational experience? No other school in Canada has such a wealth of indigenous knowledge.

First Nations University is a unique, and important institution. I am deeply concerned at the seeming indifference the Government of Canada is displaying toward the faculty, staff, and students at First Nations University who will be casualties of your irresponsible decision to close down the only Aboriginal university in Canada. I fear that the closure of First Nations University could reflect deep-seated racial antipathy toward First Nations people.

The Federation of Saskatchewan Indian Nations has shown good faith in initiating the changes required to bring the governance structures at First Nations University into conformity with those of other universities. A working group with representation from all stakeholder groups is currently developing a revised funding and governance model for First Nations University. The University of Regina has expressed its willingness to support First Nations University.

The continuation, and indeed the future success, of First Nations University should be of the utmost concern to the Canadian Government. Funding higher education, particularly at a school with no other Canadian equivalent, is essential for the economic strength of Aboriginal Peoples, and indeed, all Canadians. Please, do not let First Nations University close.

Yours sincerely,

Claire Lacey

_______

ETA: The CBC wrote about First Nations University here

_________

Video Transcript:

Title: FOUR FRIENDS - SAVE THE FIRST NATIONS UNIVERSITY OF CANADA

A variety of students, of different ages, genders, and ethnicities, are shown one by one, talking about First Nations University.

First Nations University of Canada is about to shut its doors. Maybe forever. And this should concern me because? Our First Nations University is the only First Nations university in Canada. Because First Nations University helps people succeed in university better than any university in Canada. Because First Nations University has over one thousand students right now, and over three thousand graduates. And First Nations University has helped over ten thousand students complete their programs.

I came to First Nations University to be a journalist. I came to First Nations University to complete my minor in Indigenous Studies. I came to First Nations University to study leadership. I came to First Nations University because I believe that every community deserves safe drinking water. I came to First Nations University to give my son a better life. What about other people? Anybody can come to First Nations University of Canada, learn about First Nations cultures, languages, histories, business. People of every colour, race, and religion. Yeah, people from every direction.

Thousands of non-Aboriginal people have studied at the First Nations University of Canada.

Universities don’t just shut down, right? It could be the first university in the history of Canada to close its doors. What will happen if it just shuts down? Students will just go to another university, right? Some will. But some won’t. I waited and planned for years so that I could come to the First Nations University, where I could learn about my culture. From Aboriginal teachers. From Elders. Where there’s no racism in the classrooms. Do First Nations Peoples have enough education already? Hardly. Only three percent of First Nations People have university degrees compared to eighteen percent of the entire population. If the education gap between Aboriginals and non-Aboriginals were to close by 2017, an additional 71 billion dollars would be injected into the economy. How’s that for stimulus? And most of that money would be taxed.

So, what makes First Nations University so special? Well for one thing: it has the largest concentration of indigenous programming in the world. And the largest concentration of Aboriginal teachers, and the most Aboriginal teachers with PhDs. I don’t get it. Why does the federal government want to shut down the First Nations University of Canada? The federal government says it will stop funding First Nations University on April 1st. The Department of Indian Affairs is cutting funding to First Nations postsecondary education? Don’t they care about the future of Canada? Don’t they care that we’re the future work force? [Man holding a toddler] Especially in provinces like Saskatchewan, where over thirty percent of the kids in school are aboriginal. [Woman holding a young child] And we are the fastest growing population in Canada. If you care about the future of this country and our communities and our cities and our future maybe you should care about the First Nations University. Would you rather your tax dollars spent on education, or incarceration? Then maybe you should support the First Nations University of Canada. All you have to do is go to fnuniv.wordpress.com [man pointing to the web address fnuniv.wordpress.com on the screen] It’s right here. On your screen. I can see it, do you see it? There, you’ll find the success stories of this university. You will also find a link to a letter. Please, print out the letter and mail it to your MP. Mail it to the Prime Minister! Fax it. And call them. Tell them that First Nations University needs to be expanded, not downsized. Tell them: the First Nations University has a contribution to make to the future of Canada. And tell them now, because funding for the First Nations University ends on April 1st. That’s less than a month away. So we need you to support the First Nations University of Canada. Right now! If you don’t have a printer, email it!

Now, we need you to do one more thing. You need to send this to four friends. Four directions, four friends. Send it to four friends, four friends from the four directions. And the four colours: white, black, red and yellow. Four friends, so they can send it to four friends, and they’ll send it to their four friends, and Ottawa will have letters coming from all directions. [Couple with young girl] Don’t wait. Her future depends on it.

[On screen: GO TO: fnuniv.workpress.com Produced by: Students at the First Nations University of Canada Music composed and produced by Thomas Roussin]

ereaders

2010-03-20T13:05:00.001-06:00

Have i posted the Writers In Electronic Residence podcast by Margaret Christakos yet? It's a fun listen.

i recently came into possession of a Sony eReader (the 6 inch reader touch edition). Much easier to read on than my laptop, and saves me from printing out the dozens of articles i read for school. i like the annotation function--you can take notes, and the notes function as bookmarks. However, it seems weird to me that there's no easy way to jump to a chapter or a particular page number if you haven't marked it already. Additionally, i have to turn the touch-based page turning off when i'm underlining, because the reader cannot distinguish between drawing a line and turning the page. And the highlighting function doesn't work at all; the touch screen seems out of sync with the text, so if you try to highlight a line, you end up with a section highlighted three lines below, or one line above. Useless. But the handwritten notes seem to have better accuracy, so the highlighter isn't really necessary. Still, when something costs $300, it would be nice if it functioned properly in all regards.

The Sony ebook store is useless. i had a $25 gift certificate, which i used, and now i think i'll buy my texts elsewhere. Which is possible because Sony ereaders support multiple formats, including pdf and word docs. It supports jpeg, but image files cannot be resized. Text files have 4 different possible font sizes, and it doesn't renumber the pages when you alter the text size which i like because it keeps citations simple.

Overall, i'm pretty pleased with my ereader. But i expect the functionality will improve drastically with the next few generations of products.

the Bechdel test

2010-03-04T11:49:00.004-07:00

Over at Shakesville, there are some recommendations in this thread of books, movies, and webcomics that pass the Bechdel Test. The Bechdel Test, named for the author of Dykes to Watch Out For, requires that a movie (book, whatever):

1. Has to have at least two women in it,
2. Who talk to each other,
3. About something besides a man.

Some variants require that the women be named characters. You know, this is really not asking a lot. And yet, i can think of surprisingly few movies that pass this test. Books fare a bit better. Even Tamora Pierce's YA novels generally only have one prominent female character, so i'm not sure that they would all pass #2. In comics, well Birds of Prey and Detective Comics from #854 (i think this is where Batwomen takes over) pass. I would also like to amend rule 3 to "About something other than romance" because lesbian fiction might not talk about a man, but still can fall within the tired tropes of what women "should" be thinking about (securing a mate, finding love). For instance, with my version of rule #3, Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body might not pass, since the novel has a fairly narrow focus, if i recall it correctly.

Obviously, it's very difficult, if not impossible, to say that i'm only going to consume woman-friendly media. Even harder to do the same with LGBTQI-positive media. Or PWD-positive media (actually, this one might be impossible). i'm the first to admit, i enjoy comic books like Batman, or Superman, or Aquaman, despite the misogyny. One of my favourite movies, SLC Punk, definitely doesn't pass. But it's important to know the choices available, and it's important to show that there IS support for greater diversity (because the film industry loves to tell us that women WANT brainless romcoms, not films that represent their actual experiences).

Really, this shouldn't be as hard as it is. Suggestions of lit/comics/film that passes are welcome in the comments. i might go over my bookshelf and add more suggestions later.

There is also a blog (apparently coming out of hiatus soon) that determines whether or not movies pass the test.

It's been a while

2010-02-27T23:22:00.004-07:00

since i plugged the 95 books blog. i'm beginning to fall behind in the race to read 95 books this year. okay, it's not a race. But i'm going to win (not really)!

Poking around, i found the Writers in Electronic Residence (WIER) podcast. Here's a cool reading by Margaret Christakos. WIER connects students in elementary and high schools with writers, fostering connections between Canadian writers and young people. This gives a face to literature, an immediacy, that encourages students to participate in both reading and writing cultures. i think it's a great idea, de-mystifying the author and building entryways. It can be hard for youth to enjoy literature if they have teachers who aren't particularly interested in English (since teachers often have to teach an array of subjects, not everyone is lucky enough to have enthusiastic lit teachers). It also moves outside the canon, which can intimidate both potential readers and potential writers--it seems distant and unachievable. Poetry in particular gets a reputation as boring or outdated. What better way to combat that reputation than to get the living, breathing poets of today into classrooms? WIER can be found at www.wier.ca

checking in

2010-02-25T21:58:00.004-07:00

Sorry the posting's slowed down since In(ter)ventions. Catching up on work left undone during the conference.

Some great commenting going on in the post on the second night's performances, including a response from writer Lance Olsen. i'd like to encourage everyone to take a look at what's being said, and i would like to thank everyone for their thoughtful, respectful comments thus far.

Will sit down and write out a proper post, and a response to everyone who's commented over the past few days, tomorrow.

In the meantime, i was linked to Tan Lin's Health (Plagarism/Outsource), which is available for download here. Haven't looked at it too closely yet, but it seems like a neat project.

In(ter)ventions - the finale

2010-02-21T14:52:00.004-07:00

The last day began with a series of manifestos. Al Filreis, Christian Bök, Kate Pullinger, and Lance Olsen each presented their manifesto for the future of writing. i was very happy that Kate brought up issues of money and power. Both she and Al commented on the insider/outsider dichotomy of writing: the established writers, the writers supported by institutions / the writers outside the institutions, the writers who don't get grants or teaching positions, the writers at the beginning of their careers. Christian Bök did his usual pot-stirring, saying that the avant-garde presumes its own failure. Everyone was invited to write a manifesto and hand it in (maybe some of those will appear online), but there was some resistance. The audience wanted conversation.

i didn't write a manifesto; i think they are counterproductive. Writers need to be flexible and dynamic, not committed to a statement of intent. Manifestos, i think, are militant and dogmatic, argumentative rather than conversational.

Then D Kimm performed. She has great stage presence, and i liked her use of electronic sound. The sentiment of "take me how I am" was cool, though not so much the idea of a lover being "possessed."

The Closing Remarks

Erin Mouré graciously allowed me to speak instead of her. i was torn: i've been saying a lot on this blog, and i don't want to be afraid to say the same things in person. But it was also the end of the conference, and it was very hard to be critical of Steven Ross Smith and the other organizers. i do think they did a good job of running the conference, even if i didn't agree with everything that happened. i did know that others had spoken to me about my blogging, and i wanted to give a brief voice to them. A conference like this has a lot of speaking at, and very little ongoing dialogue, i feel. Twitter alleviated that a little bit, but with so many panels packed in, many important discussions were lost. i brought up class, race, and gender representation. i asked if anyone else had any words, because really, there were other audience members who i know had as much to say as i did. It was a bit unsettling to get up and speak to writers older, more experienced, and many of them smarter than i am. i don't particularly enjoy the role of agitator, but someone has to do it. And really, just as well the conference ends on an unsettling note: isn't that the purpose of innovation? To unsettle and dislodge us? i hope an ongoing conversation emerges, and i invite everyone to comment on my blog, on twitter, and maybe eventually on a forum. There were some great connections made at In(ter)ventions, and i don't want those to be lost.

Fred Wah spoke after me. He said "Why bother?"

Why bother indeed.

In(ter)ventions Showtime Performance The Third

2010-02-21T00:54:00.003-07:00

i'd never seen Fred Wah or Charles Bernstein read before tonight. Well, i've seen videos of Charles on youtube, but that's hardly the same.

Fred Wah performed a long poem, "Pop Goes the Hood," while video of urban streets and scenery played beside him. i really could have listened to Fred all night. Eventually, i hope, footage of this poem will emerge on the developing website Fred Wah Digital Archive.

Kate Pullinger (who has also been tweeting the conference) read from her book The Mistress of Nothing. i have not read the book, but as a colleague of mine noted, the romance seems somewhat predictable. An Englishwoman must go to Egypt because of tuberculosis, so she and her maid set out. The minute Kate mentioned an Egyptian manservant, i knew someone was going to sleep with him. Sure enough, Kate read the scene where the maid sleeps with the manservant. From the excerpts read, the novel has a problematic connection with race, exoticizing and othering the Muslim man. Kate also read from a digital work, Flight Paths, which is interesting from the open-source collaboration perspective, but again has the same white woman/Muslim man dynamic (it is about a man who stows away in the landing gear of an airplane, then falls onto a car parked in England as the plane extends the gear, and about the woman who finds him). The characters seem stereotypical--the bored housewife shaken out of complacency by a mysterious foreigner who falls from the sky. i don't think Kate's intentions are bad, but perhaps a deeper questioning about the ethics of race and representation in her work would be worthwhile.

How can i write about Charles Bernstein? His humour is legendary. And i did laugh so hard that i doubled over. And he was the only poet all week whose reading made me cry. Charles read poems he wrote for and about his daughter Emma Bee Bernstein. The poems alternated between tenderness, sorrow, anger, and even humour. Charles looked so strong reading, so dignified, and i was moved. Really moved. When he was done reading, i stood and clapped. Others did as well, until everyone was on their feet. It was the only way to express the appreciation and support i was feeling: appreciation for his poetry, for his wit, his innovation, his practice, for his courage; and support for tragedy, loss and mourning, for coming through mourning and continuing. Charles Bernstein. It was a real privilege to witness this reading.

In(ter)ventions Day 3 Part 3

2010-02-20T16:44:00.001-07:00

Panel 3 - Where goes the sentence? Language in a material world
-Moderator: Stephanie Strickland; Panelists: Craig Dworkin, Maria Damon, Adeena Karasick, and Stephen Osborne
--Craig Dworkin gave a great paper about the sentence and cultural grammar. i hope the paper is published; it was dense and i need to hear or see it again before i dare write on it.
--Maria and Adeena gave a joint poetic performance on the words Shmata & Shma'ata. There was a sense of play, but also urgency, Adeena's delivery was quick, occasionally hard to follow. There was a study of etymology and of tradition. Ragman was invoked.
--Stephen Osborne claimed that Canada has no urban narrative, that writers aren't using verbs in the way he would like them to, and that narrative is dead. He launched his blog and a discussion of new media followed. The audience was invited to comment on how twitter uses the sentence. A few people made points about cell phone stories, but it seemed like a somewhat odd discussion to me. Then again, i grew up in a fairly wired environment.
--Kenny Goldsmith won the panel (from the audience) when he said that he teaches his students to do overtly what they'd otherwise do covertly: steal. He said "forget verbs, language is active today."
--J.R. Carpenter noted that in Hebrew, the word for "word" is the same as the word for "event."
--i wanted to ask the panelists to give their definition of a verb, since everyone seemed to be picking up on Osborne's verbal criticism. i was taught that a verb is a word that can be/is conjugated. Any word could be a verb if positioned as a verb in a sentence, because parts of speech are relative. Osborne seems to have a formula for how many verbs should be in a sentence, and which types of verbs count as verbs (he doesn't like "watch" "stand" or "sit" apparently), though i didn't follow him closely enough to figure out what that formula was. He was too old-school for my tastes.

In(ter)ventions Day 3 part 2

2010-02-20T16:16:00.000-07:00

i should probably mention i'm also tweeting bits and pieces -- search for #interventions on twitter

Panel 2 - New Form(alities)
-Moderator Lance Olsen, panelists Steve Tomasula, Charles Bernstein, and Erin Mouré
--Olsen opened asking everyone to think about 1. narrative and 2. the politics of structure
--Erin Mouré changed the panel title to "Huh? Modalities," saying that forms imply an end rather than a production. She discussed collaboration, appropriation (involuntary collaboration), and translation, noting that her practices of translation cannot be categorized into "professional" "hobby" "trans(e)lation," because they are all the same practice.
--Steve Tomasula appeared to have a picture of Nausicaa as his desktop background. He discussed his project TOC which is described as "an evocative fairy tale with a steampunk heart" on the cover. i was impressed at the slick aesthetic of the novel, and by his discussion of the collaboration process.
--Charles Bernstein, who sat near the back of the audience and presented from there, discussed his collaborations with Susan Bee and Richard Tuttle. My favourite lines "battle of the dinosaur technologies--painting & poetry" "think digitally, act analogically" and "BE QUIET DUMMYHEAD."
--The Q & A session was great. Erin Mouré said "Once I knew my work was difficult, I could write in other languages." And both Erin and Steve responded to a question i asked about how technology impacts collaboration by giving examples of how tech enables cross-generational and cross-cultural communication, meaning writers have more access to other writers and artists they might not otherwise get to connect with.

The two panels this morning were definitely the best so far. They begin to explore issues of race, class, gender, language, community, and interaction that panels on previous days tended to avoid.

Interventions Day 3 part 1

2010-02-20T15:54:00.001-07:00

There's been a lot going on; i'll divide the day so far into 2 or 3 posts. i'm skipping the afternoon sessions because i've got a lot to chew on, so i apologize to those not in attendance who are intervening vicariously through me.

Panel 1 - Betwixt & Between--collaboration & cross-disciplinary literary creation

-Jen Bervin, Fred Wah and D Kimm, moderated by Larissa Lai; Daphne Marlatt was supposed to participate, but couldn't make the conference. Larissa delivered Marlatt's paper instead.
--Jen Bervin (whose website is REALLY COOL) talked about her tactile/textile art projects. She makes beautiful things, and is currently working on a scale model of the Mississippi 250ft long, made from sequins hand sewn together. She was, i believe, the third poet to talk about Emily Dickinson; interesting that Dickinson's influence is moving deeply through the conference, while the people i expect to hear about (Black Mountain poets, for example) have largely been unmentioned.
--D Kimm rocked the conference. She says "I am the French at this conference" and proceeded to talk about her participation in the Montreal artists community as a bridge builder between French & English artists. "Being edgy is taking risks" and the "process is more interesting than the result" were two of her comments on the conference thus far, and i think she raised great points. Artist involvement in community, in performance is clearly very important to Kimm, and although i'd never heard of her before, she got me REALLY EXCITED about the possibilities of intersections between performance & text.
--Larissa Lai read Daphne Marlatt's paper; i think it was the first time i heard Charles Olson mentioned. What struck me most was Larissa reading a paper Daphne Marlatt wrote in the first person, especially since Larissa's been talking so much about the subjective "I" emerging and disappearing in her own writing. Neat to hear about the writing of Steveston and it's long influence on Marlatt's career.
--Fred Wah focused on hybridity and betweenness, talking about his collaboration with Haruko Okano, who was interested in Pidgin Japanese spoken in internment camps during WWII. Fred drew attention to ideas of mixed, of colours, of race, and of contamination.
--An audience member asked "How does the avant-garde know that it is avant-garde?" to which Jen responded "I prefer the term that came up yesterday, the 'rear guard.'"

In(ter)ventions Showtime Performance The Second

2010-02-19T22:10:00.004-07:00

The readers were J.R. Carpenter, Erin Mouré, and Lance Olsen.

J.R. Carpenter began with a great feminist essay about women and technology from xxxboîte. She then presented a new multimedia work that incorporated google maps and videos (that she filmed & edited) with the text. It was a great reading.

Erin Mouré always gives a fabulous performance. There was a bit of a technical snag; Mouré's earing was jangling against her mic, and a tech guy disrupted the performance to fix it. But she handled the situation with good humour, and gave an animated reading from her new book O Resplandor. i really wish her reading was longer.

The order was unfortunate. The last presentation wiped the previous ones very much from my mind, because it was so upsetting. i apologize for talking so briefly about two amazing poets, and dedicating so much space to the third.

MILD TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE REST OF THIS POST

Lance Olsen's presentation was a video collaboration based on his novel Head in Flames about the murder of Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh. i won't link to Olsen's site, because he is an artist who seems to consider being offensive the same as being "cutting edge," a reactionary posture against progressive movements. The video was scenes from van Gogh's film Submission which is a fictional account of abused Muslim women. The film is graphic, sexualized, and exoticized: the woman (one actress plays all the characters) are wearing a see-through chador, except when she is writhing on the ground covered in open whip wounds. It looks like porn, with lots of intense shots focusing on the curve of the stomach and the space between the breasts. What i found most disturbing was that Olsen and his collaborator chose to erase the woman's voice, inserting Olsen reading his novel as the soundtrack. If the point of the film was originally to give voice to abused women in Islam, that point was entirely lost. Olsen's voice itself was hard to follow, becoming mostly background noise. The only line i heard clearly was something along the lines of "stop whining like a woman." Interesting choice of words, considering that women are often silenced, and that a woman telling a story of physical abuse is not whining at all. Sure, the novel was not written specifically to be juxtaposed with the film (as far as i know), but a little bit of consideration is in order here. Women are often silenced; abused women and minority women even more so (these groups are not meant to be mutually inclusive or exclusive; they overlap, but not always).

i don't know if Olsen's novel is any different, but the presentation was misogynistic and racist. It plays directly into western fantasies of what a Muslim woman is or should be. It offers womens' bodies as objects to be gazed upon, their suffering as titillation for the viewer.

The audience was given no time to respond to the video. No Q & A was scheduled for this reading. i wish one had been; i would have liked to question Olsen directly. i'm writing this in a state of tired rage. i get the impression that the video is provocative simply because it can be.

To counter all this regressive violence, i'm going to suggest heading over to Shakesville, which is progressive, feminist, and a safe space.

In(ter)ventions part III

2010-02-19T19:39:00.004-07:00

Literary Film & Video

Presented by Ram Devineni, this presentation showcased collaborations of short film & poetry featured in the Rattapalax DVD magazine. i can't find my favourite video, 49?, which featured a Native American poet asking people on the streets of Seattle what an Indian 49 is. The video had a great streak of humour.

Also shown was a short based on Blake:

After that there were two simultaneous open paper sessions. The one I chose to sit in on began with Gary Barwin and Gregory Betts performing The Obvious Flap, a really cool sound poetry/electronic performance. It was playful, it had props, it had a great deal of punning, and it had semantic noise. What more could anyone ask for? At times, i was reminded of Ionesco's Rhinocéros (mostly because there was a dog).

Following that, Marie Smart presented a paper on cryptography and Duchamp. It was pretty neat, but i can't decipher my notes. Sorry.

Last was John Cayley and a paper called Writing Breaking Media. i think i missed what he was trying to say, perhaps because i grew up with the internet. He was "trying to demonstrate...the odd relationship between writing & its medium" by showing text rotating beneath a 3d pipe in a virtual space. The text disappears at 90 degrees, the pipe doesn't. After this revelation, there was a brief awkward Q & A, where nothing was really answered. So it goes.

In(ter)ventions part II

2010-02-19T14:45:00.002-07:00

Taking the afternoon off to get caught up on werk. i enjoyed the panels this morning, though i do have some criticism (again) about the lack of female writers & writers of colour involved on the panels. Serious gaps in the program, wonder which of the panelists were invited, which sent proposals, and how the imbalance in representation can be addressed.

Notes from this morning (or, in which i end my literary career before it even begins):

Panel 1
-Christian Bök, Larissa Lai, and Nick Montfort on a panel moderated by Maria Damon discussed the questions "What is literature today" and "what is writing."
--i was very glad to have Larissa on the panel as a counterpoint to Nick and Christian. Nick Montfort was displaying his ppg256, an open source perl code that generates poetry. Christian was talking about his Xenotext Experiment, a poem encoded on the DNA of Deinococcus radiodurans, a bacterium that can survive the most extreme conditions imaginable. Larissa wrote a polyvocalic essay about writing, about the struggle to write from outsider and/or minority positions. The juxtaposition with the other work was fascinating, because she was the only one to address issues of class, race, and gender. Digital poetry, and genetic poetry are class issues: they require access to technology that not everyone shares. Larissa's work provided a subtext to the discussion, and I feel that the panel, while interested, avoided a discussion of ethics that would have been very beneficial.
--Not to say that i don't enjoy what Nick and Christian are doing. Nick's work in particular examines the interface between reader, writer, and computer, and i really dig the spirit of open-source creative projects. It just seemed to me that these two poets are working from a position of privilege that avoids addressing difference. The Xenotext Experiment, especially, fails to address the ideas that culture is not monolithic, that it perhaps cannot and should not be encapsulated for posterity, and makes assumptions about future & distant sentience (namely, that it will decode the poetry because it thinks in a way similar enough to current humanity to understand that what it sees is a cultural artifact, or that it will give a damn that there once was a culture that added poetry to the genetic structures of bacteria).

Panel 2
-Kenneth Goldsmith, Stephen Osborne, and Steve Tomasula, on a panel moderated by Al Filreis. Under discussion: what is reading today.
--Kenneth Goldsmith's reading was very cool. The radio/tv announcements from four American disasters: The assassination of JFK, the assassination of Bobby Kennedy, the explosion of the Space Shuttle Challenger, and the assassination of John Lennon. Historic events forever encoded in the reactions of the reporters who were on air at the time. All I could think of through the first two readings was Clone High (at the 1:00 minute mark of the video):

--Steve Tomasula made some really interesting remarks about the reading experience, and the gaze the reader brings to a work of literature. Had a picture of a contemporary artist who took the Emily Dickinson poem [I took my power in my hand] and imposed the text on blue on a woman of colour's body; wish I caught the name of the artist/piece. Notes every reading is a mis-reading.
--Stephen Osborne notes that creative writing students today are afraid of plagiarism, and so avoid imitation. Also points out the divide between reading & writing in most English departments.
--Great audience questions about power structures. Kenneth Goldsmith is trying to keep ubuweb underground and off google. i have obviously embraced the google beast, seeing as i'm on blogger and use a gmail account, and wave, and buzz, and reader, and oh god the overlords have found me i've said too much send help

In(ter)ventions

2010-02-18T23:51:00.001-07:00

i'm at the In(ter)ventions: Literary Practice at the Edge conference in Banff right now. The conference is a gathering of avant-garde writers, there will be discussion the state of contemporary literature supplemented by a number of readings. It's off to a fairly good start: an interesting introductory talk by Charles Bernstein, Erin Mouré, and Fred Wah, followed by a public reading with Nick Montfort, Larissa Lai, and Chris Funkhouser. Lai was not on the original schedule, but Daphne Marlatt couldn't make the conference at the last minute. It was nice to see Lai read, and I couldn't help but notice she was the only Person of Colour on the docket. Not a very diverse group of writers here, to my eye. Still, a lot of impressive names, and many greats who I have not had the privilege of seeing perform (Bernstein and Wah, for instance). Looks like it's going to be a good few days.

And the Banff Centre is GORGEOUS. Seriously. I feel pampered, and I'm just a guest.

The Canadian Arts and the Olympic Games

2010-02-15T16:12:00.001-07:00

Mark Leiren-Young wrote a great opinion column over at The Tyee about the 90% cuts to culture funding in BC, and how it doesn't mesh with the image of Canada the government hopes to project to the world through the Olympic games. He says:

The next time a Liberal MLA -- or anyone -- goes on a rant about the value of arts and culture, skip the stats about how the arts return $1.30 to the economy for every government dollar invested. Don't mention the fact that culture creation is genuinely green. Don't bother pointing out that pretty much every other industry in Canada has some sort or subsidy, incentive or tax break attached to it. And forget the reality that if our galleries, museums and theatres start to close, our tourism industry will be about as inviting as a Stephen Harper smile. Ask them what Canada decided to show off when millions of people tuned in from around the world to find out what our country was all about.
Unless I missed something, there were no spectacular shots of our highways, no visits to mills or mines -- and, with all due respect to our Greatest Canadian, Tommy Douglas, there wasn't any footage of someone on the Olympic stage receiving affordable health care.
The Canadian heroes chosen to share the world stage with our Olympic athletes weren't our politicians, lawyers, or civil servants and our military presence consisted of General Romeo Dallaire, who was introduced as an author. Oh, right, they also threw in an astronaut to represent non-artsy Canadians.
For the next few weeks we're not showing the world our banks, our office towers, or our tar sands -- we're pointing at inukshuks.

Beverly Hungry Wolf

2010-02-15T15:31:00.001-07:00

i'm currently watching videos from the 2009 I'POYI Aboriginal Writers' Gathering in Calgary. i've started with the series of 5 videos featuring Beverly Hungry Wolf. Her stories about her family and her upbringing are fascinating. Here's part 1. Check out the rest on rmajzels youtube channel.

Marlatt on Women Writers

2010-02-08T20:40:00.003-07:00

"if we are women poets, writers, speakers, we also take issue with the given, hearing the
discrepancy between what our patriarchally-loaded language bears (can bear) of our
experience and the difference from it our experience bears out - how it misrepresents,
even miscarries, and so leaves unsaid what we actually experience. can a pregnant
woman be said to be "master" of the gestation process she finds herself within - is that
her relationship to it? (see Julia Kristeva, Desire in Language, p.238.) are women
included in the statement "God appearing as man" (has God ever appeared as a
woman?) can a woman ever say she is "lady of all she surveys" or could others ever
say of her she "ladies it over them"?"
--Daphne Marlatt, "musing with mothertongue"

Belladonna chaplets

2010-02-01T14:28:00.003-07:00

Today, i got a package in the mail with five Belladonna chapbooks. Belladonna's mission is "to promote the work of women writers who are adventurous, experimental, politically involved, multi-form, multicultural, multi-gendered, impossible to define, delicious to talk about, unpredictable, and dangerous with language." i took advantage of Belladonna's holiday sale to get something i've wanted for a long time: a hard copy of Margaret Christakos' My Girlish Feast (i already have a fantastic recording of the poem being read). The other titles are: Kalends by Mairéad Byrne, hyper glossia by Stacy Szymaszek, You But For The Body Fell Against by Nathalie Stephens and W I D E R by Angela Rawlings. The "buy four chaplets, get 1 free" sale is still on, so i strongly recommend going and taking a look at the selection. Support a press that encourages

i'm so excited that i would roll around in these chapbooks like Scrooge McDuck in a pile of money, except the chapbooks would get ruined. i will just bask in the awesome, and resist reading them until i get some work done (reward systems in place in my house: dog gets treat if well behaved, i get treat if i get a page of writing done. the dog gets his reward more regularly, which tells you everything you ever need to know about my willpower).

Bad Ideas!

2010-01-31T22:01:00.001-07:00

What if i did hourly comic day, but with poetry? As in, I would write a poem every hour I was awake. It would probably be pretty boring, unless I was out in public for inspiration and inebriation (the two ins of literature). It would also probably mean that my homework wouldn't get done. Hmm.

Pig Tales

2010-01-16T13:30:00.002-07:00

I'm in the middle of reading Pig Tales by Marie Darrieussecq. The book is making me increasingly uncomfortable: it is the story of a woman who is turning into a pig. The conflation of woman's sexuality with meat and with animals, well it's pretty prevalent. Just watch commercials for a little while and I'm sure you'll see what I mean. The protagonist works at a perfume shop, where she gives massages and has sex with the clients (as per the directions of her boss). At one point, she gains control of her sexuality, but then loses that confidence and control again.

I'm having trouble continuing. I don't like the sex negative aspects of the book, and every time I think I understand the point the author is trying to make, there is more of the sexual objectification that I work so freakin hard to avoid in literature, television and movies. I'm not sure what to make of this feminist book which seems incredibly sex-negative, and seems to be more about disembodiment than pro-female bodies. I could be missing something. I could be misreading. But I don't like the way I feel reading this book, that's for sure.

Let's talk about sex

2010-01-11T00:19:00.001-07:00

A lovely bit of writing from Tamora Pierce's book Squire:

Ilane leaned her chin on her hand. "I've often thought the nobility's handling of sex and marriage in their girls is the same as that of horse breeders who try to keep their mares from being mounted by the wrong stallions."

Kel sat bolt upright. "Mama!" Hearing such things in her mother's deep, lovely voice made them even more shocking. She expected this kind of phrasing from her male friends, not her mother.

"You can't say this to noblemen, of course." Ilane got up and went to the small fire that burned in front of the tent. "Tea?"

Kel automatically stood to get the cups. Before she realized she didn't know where they were, her mother had placed a small table between the chairs and was setting out all she would need. Kel sank into her chair. "Why can't this be said to men?"

"The good ones are too romantic to like it, and the bad ones don't care. My papa was the don't-care sort. I overheard him once describing me to a potential suitor. Even though I had small breasts, he said, my hips were big enough that I should foal with ease. It would be easy to find a milk nurse once I dropped a healthy son." Ilane deftly put a tiny scoop of powdered green tea in each of the large, handleless cups, then added water from the iron Yamani pot. She took up the whisk, beating Kel's tea, then her own, into a green froth. They bowed to one another Yamani-style, then sipped.
Kel sighed with gratitude: she loved freshly made green tea.

bienvenue!

2010-01-10T23:11:00.001-07:00

So i've noticed i've had an increased number of page-views recently. so welcome to the people who have managed to stumble upon my little corner of the internet. please feel free to say hello in the comments, and, if you'd like to, let me know where you discovered this blog!

more fangirling over Tamora Pierce

2010-01-10T21:13:00.001-07:00

i feel like i'm just starting to relax, and it's time for school to start up again. i've been reading a lot of Tamora Pierce lately (as i've been writing about on the 95 books blog). Sure, young adult novels don't exactly challenge the intellect, but they're damn fun reading. I'm impressed that in Protector of the Small (book 1 or 2, I can't remember) Pierce slipped in a brief gay acceptance message, without making a big deal of it. None of the main characters is gay, but it's nice to see an author acknowledge LGBTQ characters. Pierce is also one of the most female-friendly YA authors i've read (although i'm not very current in YA literature, so there may be many other female-positive books out there that i'm not aware of). It's refreshing to have my liberal values reflected in literature, when i'm noticing more and more misogyny and homophobia on tv and in movies (this has more to do with my increasing awareness, not necessarily any increase in misogyny).

Which reminds me...have i posted this link yet? Writing Gay Characters.

digital books

2010-01-04T18:04:00.004-07:00

it's hard to read a book on my laptop. the screen hurts my eyes, and i wind up with a headache. i don't want to print out pages and pages, since it seems like a waste, so i deal with it. most of what i read on the computer are library books that i get through my university's database subscriptions, although i also have downloaded copies of books that i own but don't have with me (due to lack of space; my parents have boxes of my books in their basement, but they live far away).

i'm very tempted to save up for an e-reader, because i've heard that they're easier on the eyes. no one i know has one, so i haven't been able to test this out. my ideal ereader would need to be able to display pdfs, rtfs, and it would be nice if it could also show ms word files and html documents. i'm not sure how many ebooks i would actually buy, because i do like having the physical object to manipulate and keep and share, but i can see myself choosing to buy an ebook when i only plan to read something once, or want to get a book that would otherwise be too expensive or hard to find. i wonder how many publishers will make out-of-print books available as ebooks? that's where i could really see myself spending money.

this is all a dream, of course. ereaders are expensive, and it is still unclear which reader will dominate the market leaving other formats obsolete. it's probably unwise to invest in one right now, even if the money did magically find its way into my pockets. i like the sounds of the sony reader, but apparently the software it comes with contains rookits (the same nasty backdoor-opening virus that sony used to gather data from music cd buyers a couple years ago). kindle seems rather limited in what it can display other than ebooks purchased from amazon. the iphone/ipod touch apparently have decent applications for reading ebooks, but again, i haven't seen them in use, so i'm not sure whether the screen creates the same reading problems as a laptop, and i'm not sure how readable the text is on what is still a fairly small screen.

so for now, i'll continue reading on my laptop. at least it gets the job done.

95 books in 2010

2010-01-04T16:25:00.004-07:00

a challenge has been put forth by my friend ryan fitzpatrick: read 95 books in 2010 and blog about them. several intrepid readers accepted. a few of us have already begun. follow our journey here.

who will read the most books? who will read the coolest books? who will wind up setting their book collection on fire? find out!

my femin(is)m

2010-01-02T18:24:00.003-07:00

a kneejerk response to “Are You a Feminist or a Feminine-ist?” by Karen Salmansohn at oprah.com

my feminism is enraged
my feminism does not replace power with empowerment
my feminism is LBGTQI friendly
my feminism says choose your choice, even if your choice does not reflect mine
my feminism is a safe space, where women are not imaged as meat, where women are not pictured as parts, where women are not measured as bodies
my feminism wears combat boots
my feminism wears tennis shoes
my feminism wears high heels that click smartly on the sidewalk
my feminism goes barefoot when the mood strikes
my feminism plays contact sports
my feminism dances a graceful ballet
my feminism does not accept a binary world
my feminism writes angry letters to parliament, to advertisers, to television stations
my feminism imagines that most of those letters go unread and unnoticed, but she keeps writing anyways
my feminism is a slut
my feminism is a prude
my feminism lies in bed masturbating alone, except that one time it was on her living room couch
my feminism tries not to judge
my feminism feels fat and lazy
my feminism is told she is too thin, she should eat more, is told she is too fat, why doesn't she try to exercise
my feminism acknowledges her middle-class white ablist privilege
my feminism wants to unpack that privilege, is working to unpack that privilege as best she can
my feminism wants to educate
my feminism wants to fight battles, have shouting matches, dispel ignorance with violence
my feminism is a pacifist, is gentle, tries to model appropriate behaviour
my feminism is a bonerkiller, is humourless
my feminism will not laugh at rape or sexual assault played for laughs
my feminism can take a joke, believe it or not
my feminism is an equal opportunity employer
my feminism is afraid to walk home by herself at night, even when sober
my feminism believes no one should be held to a different standard to prevent victimization, but nevertheless utilizes the buddy system
my feminism knows that it is not her fault
my feminism feels guilty, has trouble looking herself in the eye sometimes
my feminism avoids talking about feminism, because talking politics is impolite
my feminism insists that the personal is political, but politics should stay out of the bedrooms of the nations
my feminism feels ignored by science and medicine
my feminism is hysteric
my feminism is feminine
my feminism is masculine
my feminism is queer
my feminism is asexual
my feminism is polyamorous
my feminism is a fetishist
my feminism is bitchy
my feminism is nice
my feminism is soft and gentle, with a floral fragrance
my feminism is unshaven
my feminism is shaved bare
my feminism is not wearing underpants
my feminism bleeds monthly
my feminism has missed a period
my feminism is irregular
my feminism has never menstruated
my feminism is quiet and reserved
my feminism waits for the opportune moment
my feminism is subtle and polite
my feminism is a small bird hitting the glass ceiling
my feminism is asked when she will have children
my feminism is a mother
my feminism is a spinster
my feminism will not get married
my feminism got married at city hall
my feminism was married in a church
my feminism was married in a blue dress, in a black suit, in white, in jeans
my feminism cannot have children
my feminism has children
my feminism refuses to be defined by her relationships
my feminism is a person in her own right
my feminism runs a business
my feminism works for minimum wage
my feminism wants it all
my feminism is told what to want by advertising in magazines
my feminism is a consumer
my feminism is tired of being treated as a niche demographic
my feminism produces her own content
my feminism is a balancing act
my feminism is unhappier than ever before, is happier than ever before, who’s to say
my feminism plays with dolls and monster trucks
my feminism is sobbing at newspapers
my feminism is the future
my feminism is aching
my feminism is
my feminism is
my feminism is
my feminism is
my feminism is for you.

Statuesque

2010-01-01T16:33:00.001-07:00

Statuesque is writer Neil Gaiman's directorial debut. It's lovely.

Every time i move a McNally closes.

2009-12-29T10:46:00.002-07:00

Two McNally Robinsons are closing. The Canadian bookseller only has two locations left--one in Winnipeg, one is Saskatoon, and its website will continue to operate. The McNally closing in Don Mills, Toronto, was around the corner from my old place; it opened right after I left. That means it's been open less than a year. The first time I visited Calgary was when I heard about McNally; the Calgary location had just closed. I actually visited a McNally when I was in Winnipeg, and I was impressed by the selection of Canadian writers--they had a Canadian section, and then a more specific Prairie writers section. It was wonderful--the Chapters/Indigo conglomerate doesn't always bother to mark Canadian authors, and often doesn't contain local writers in their selection (in Coles, particularly, I've noticed this problem). Maybe it's time to browse their website, and see if I can support the remaining pieces of the closest thing to competition Chapters has got in Canada.

Happy Holidays!

2009-12-25T13:25:00.002-07:00

i hope the drinks are flowing, the food is piled high, and everyone is cozy and warm.

My partner was kind enough to get me presents from Anansi Press (they came wrapped! i wasn't expecting to get to unwrap anything this year! Anansi has won my heart forever).

The loot:

Pasha Malla's The Withdrawal Method
Daphne Marlatt's Taken
Gil Adamson's Help Me, Jacques Cousteau

I also got a big package from Amazon yesterday with a bunch of school books. While I'd rather support local booksellers, as a poor student I can't help but go with amazon's prices for big purchases like this. i'm excited about one anthology in particular: Prismatic Publics. It's an anthology of experimental Canadian women writers. i might review it, once i've had a chance to peruse a bit further. The exclusion i am most surprised at is Dionne Brand, perhaps because I had No Language is Neutral next to me while checking out Prismatic Publics. But it is great to see two of my favourite poets--Margaret Christakos and M. NourbeSe Philip--included in the collection.

Happy Holidays, everyone. i hope your bookshelf grew three sizes this year.

New sidebar link

2009-12-21T19:38:00.003-07:00

i added the link for the Online bpNichol Archive. i can't believe i didn't have it on here before. bpNichol was one of the most influential experimental Canadian poets, and if you haven't heard of him, this website is a great place to start.

online lectures on practically everything

2009-12-20T21:44:00.001-07:00

i recently stumbled onto academicearth.org, an online collection of university lectures & courses. A cursory glance makes it look like they are primarily from Harvard and Yale, so an American-centric site, perhaps, but there is a lot of potential here.

i begun watching Professor Paul Fry's Introduction to Literary Theory because i never managed to take a theory class during my undergraduate career. Some theory came up in various courses, sure, but i would like to expand my knowledge, and this seems like a good starting point. If the site contained a reading list to go along with the course, that would be even better.

After i finish these videos, i'm going to watch a set that have nothing to do with literature. Maybe something to do with biology, or physics. i think i'm definitely going to enjoy using this resource.

women using male pen names

2009-12-15T14:47:00.001-07:00

it's not new. but few people think about why it continues to be necessary or attractive for women to use male (or gender ambiguous) authorial pseudonyms. A female blogger who writes under the name James Chartrand has just explained her case here. She has earned more money and respect writing under a pseudonym than she ever did writing under her own name. Once she adopted the pen name, she says

Instantly, jobs became easier to get.
There was no haggling. There were compliments, there was respect. Clients hired me quickly, and when they received their work, they liked it just as quickly. There were fewer requests for revisions — often none at all.
Customer satisfaction shot through the roof. So did my pay rate.

...
Taking a man’s name opened up a new world. It helped me earn double and triple the income of my true name, with the same work and service.
No hassles. Higher acceptance. And gratifying respect for my talents and round-the-clock work ethic.

Salon.com writer Kate Harding has written a good analysis of why we might find the use of a male pseudonym surprising, and why we really shouldn't, saying

The most embarrassing thing about my initial surprise is that I know it's all of a piece -- that the constant threats and insults directed at female writers are meant to silence us and reinforce our inferiority when employment discrimination and crap pay aren't doing that fast enough. I get furious when people insist that western women have achieved full equality, feminism is no longer necessary, the wage gap is imaginary or the lack of women in positions of power is unrelated to sexism. But even I've bought into the myth of meritocracy enough that my first thought upon learning a female writer massively increased her success by adopting a male pseudonym was, "Wow, how retro! How Brontë, how Eliot, how Sand." Certainly not "how Rowling." [emphasis added]

How do we break the glass ceiling? By acknowledging there still is one. By getting young women active in feminist politics, and continuing to insist that feminism is necessary--not only for women, but for men as well (i read an article some time ago by a male author with a gender ambiguous first name, who was told his male character was too "feminine" and that women shouldn't try to write male characters . . . i can't find it now, unfortunately. but sexism hurts everyone by creating false binaries and ridiculous expectations of what a person should or should not be, say, write, and do based on gender and/or sexual preference).

Now i imagine that people are shouting "what about Atwood? what about Munro?" and it's true, that there are many amazingly successful female writers. Perhaps it depends what genre you write, perhaps it depends on where you publish, i don't know. But the fact remains that inequalities exist in terms of opportunities, pay scale, and marketing. This needs to be addressed by publishers, by readers, by critics, and by writers. We must insist that gender plays no role in ability.

Thanks, James Chartrand, for being courageous enough to open up a public discourse on this issue.

thoughts on A Walk Through the Memory Palace

2009-12-13T14:20:00.002-07:00

Pamela Johnson Parker's A Walk Through the Memory Palace is a somewhat disappointing collection of poetry from qarrtsiluni press. The language is often bland and cliché, such as in "Tattoos": "I want you / so much it hurts to / breathe" (5) or "Talking a Walk With You": "Now as we thread / our way through cattails / in gauzy light" (15). The poems also suffer from a lack of form matching content; while the three-line wave form works in "Engendering: For Two Voices," as it matches the movement of water, and the patterns of the fish swimming through the water, elsewhere the same form is used to little effect. Also, some poems capitalize the first words of every line, which certainly is traditional, but seems unnecessary here. There is excessive use of italics throughout the book; a disrupting stylistic choice particularly when used as explanation--it gives the impression that readers are not trusted to make the connection between "the willow's dreadlocks" and "some girl / hiding her face beneath / her heavy hair" (this inevitably brought to mind the willow tree from Disney's film Pocahontas - not a particularly new or effectively used image of a tree/woman).

The most problematic poem in the text is "Some Yellow Tulips" which deals with the theme of Holocaust survivor's guilt. The use of end-rhyme is particularly disruptive; it distracts the reader from the subject. Ken Babstock (link goes to a video of Babstock reading) uses rhyme in powerfully emotive ways; this poem did bring his work to mind ("Steady brown hand on a Stanley Knife She cut me--expertly--out of her life" is a line that sticks with me). But rhyme still has a tendency to associate itself with trite content in English poetry, or feel like an affectation. Here, it reduces the impact of the poem's content, about a Holocaust survivor labouring in her garden being reminded of her past, and finally crying over it.

The most interesting fragment in A Walk Through the Memory Palace is "Narcissus: Narke" from a longer piece called "Archaic Fragments." It is crisp, short, and has a delightful twist of language ("how fish / school into your dead / calm") that manipulates the cliche of underwater skeletons in a clever way. Parker is clearly capable of very good writing; unfortunately most of the chapbook is too vague to have meaningful impact on the reader. Even when dealing with subjects that are by nature emotional (the Holocaust and breast cancer), the poems tend to fall flat because of a lack of specificity and a plethora of overused idioms and images.

what google wave could mean for writers

2009-12-03T13:29:00.003-07:00

Ok, i'm excited about wave. i'll admit that right up front. It contains a possibility for collaboration between writers that just wasn't quite there before. Google docs can't track changes, or differentiate between different user's input. Word can track changes, but you can't work with it online -- everything needs to be sent and downloaded. But wave allows you to work in real time, to see what the other person/people are typing as they type it. Plus the capabilities to delete and edit are great for people composing a joint document through wave.

The playback function means that even if you delete something, it's not completely lost. Users can see what changes were made at what point in the construction of a document. The ability to send content like images and videos means that collaborations have the potential to work in multiple mediums.

The ability to see data as it is typed excites the linguist in me. i wrote a paper about language online; previous chat interfaces have not allowed the same type of real-time communication that wave allows--it was turn-taking conversation rather than the fluid type of conversation we use orally. Wave comes closer to this because it allows simultaneous output, which means you don't disrupt the stream of the conversation if you make a point relating to something said a few text-boxes ago. It may require some development of new manners -- what constitutes interrupting, for instance.

i'm really excited for the joint-writing possibilities. i want to try writing a group poem, a group novel, a new online multimedia text through wave. i want to experiment with the possibilities of using the playback function AS art. Wave is a tool that could be a real boon. Right now the biggest problem is the limited usership. i don't know anyone currently on there who would be interested in working on a project with me.

Who else is on wave? Anyone see potential downfalls? Bugs? Problems?

teaching/learning the dramatic

2009-12-02T13:50:00.001-07:00

i know very little about canadian drama. actually, i know very little about contemporary drama at all. the theatre of the absurd is where my knowledge seems to drop off the map. i read Ionesco's Rhinocéros in a french course, and thoroughly enjoyed his humour. So where do you start when trying to familiarize yourself with such a huge genre as theatre? Especially when you are being asked to compose a curriculum to introduce first-year undergraduates to playwriting? i tend not to start with the "canon" but that means i might miss references to popular, current work. And i wonder, do new readers want to learn the canon? Do they expect it? Would they be disappointed if i began with outsider theatre? avant-garde theatre? unknown theatre? What is the canon anyway, and where do i find out who belongs and who doesn't?

the problems of the canon extend beyond drama, to any literary genre. i distrust it, even as i study the writers considered great. Many of them are great. But why do some writers enter this mainstream discourse and others fade away? Lack of time and resources? The need for a similar foundation of material across academia? Some of each of these, probably, not to mention the politics of the time determining why some writing is relevant and other writing not.

What if i taught drama using a combination of film, stage, video game, and graphic novel? All these combine the visual & the word. They are narratives most students may be familiar with. But it becomes a scriptwriting course, rather than a playwriting course. This is all theoretical right now, i'm not actually teaching drama to anybody. But when I do?

More questions than answers. Suggestions welcome.

poetactics reads

2009-11-28T13:17:00.001-07:00

You can now hear me read here! i highly recommend checking out some of the other poetry on the Calgary Spoken Word podcast - there is a good variety of stuff.

Any comments on the reading can be left on this post. Criticism welcome.

terrible poetry jokes

2009-11-17T00:05:00.001-07:00

"Kenneth Goldsmith walks into a bar. He orders a menu."
Daaaww.

From here.

graphic narration - pictures without words

2009-11-16T17:06:00.005-07:00

The Arrival by Shaun Tan is a beautiful graphic novel that explores the immigrant experience. Set in a whimsical version of New York, where strange devices abound and helpful little creatures roam, the reader follows one man as he tries to make sense of his new home. The fantastic setting places the reader in the same defamiliarized position as the arrival himself, and the complete lack of narrative text or dialogue (the story is told completely without words) conveys the experience of landing in a place with an unfamiliar language.

The narration itself is well done; completely without words the author is able to convey dialogue and shifts in focalization--the arrival is told stories by the people he meets, and not once was i confused as to who was "speaking." Amazing.

stutter

2009-11-04T18:13:00.001-07:00

Check out the awesomeness that is this short film based on Jordon Scott reading from blert.

Yes! What a fantastic collaboration--i love seeing poetry incorporated into other forms of artistry, of media. It doesn't always work well (see: The Four Horsemen Project, an dance interpretation of The Four Horsemen sound poetry group . . . it seemed to miss the spontaneity and play of the poetry). But when it works, it gets me so excited.

Why are you still here? Go watch the video!

Calgary Event

2009-11-04T17:14:00.003-07:00

At 7:30 tomorrow, i will be reading at the Flywheel Reading Series at Pages alongside Martin Sutcliffe, Mark Hopkins & Matthew McGuigan, and John Barton. It should be a good time.

If you're in Calgary, please come and say hi!