tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10643135191545604612024-02-18T19:36:04.512-08:00Author Cherie DimalineRed Rooms, Theytus 2007, re-released June 2011 and June 2013;
The Girl Who Grew A Galaxy, Theytus, June 2013;
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-56202220197325409212014-05-29T11:22:00.000-07:002014-05-29T11:27:48.181-07:00When story is a matter of culture, can we provide critical analysis?What is story? Story is the only real magic left in the world. That's not a metaphor. Story is magic: it creates, transforms, transports, persuades, collects, heals, anaesthetizes, placates, bides, builds, destroys, and strengthens. This is why no matter where, no matter when, pick a moment on the planet in history, you will find it.<br />
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We hold on to story. And where humans seek to enslave other humans, you will find a deliberate effort toward the erasure of the subjugated group's collective stories. Brainwashing is the deleting of one's personal stories. Its good strategy, after all, stories are powerful, and stories are survival, in particular, for communities and peoples who seek to rebuild and persevere. Ancient civilizations who have managed to evolve and remain throughout epochs have done so, in part, because of their stories. Indigenous* storytelling communities are surviving the longest and most multifaceted genocide effort, in part, through the preservation and handing-down of stories, stories which contain all the teachings, wisdom, encouragement and identity necessary to move forward as a people.<br />
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As storytelling intersects with literatures in all their formal and restructured formats- from sonnets to jazz- there comes the spectre of critical analysis. And just what is critical analysis where story is concerned? Critical analysis of a work of literature/narrative is seeking to explain the piece through interpretation in order to broaden one's understanding of the work, usually by way of examination of literary elements- plot, setting, narrative mode, etc. The use of common elements ensures we are speaking the same language and are comparing oranges to oranges.<br />
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In terms of critical analysis where Indigenous literatures are concerned, there needs to be a healthy dose of diverse literary theory and scholarship. By that I mean, we need to be amenable to evolving our understanding of meaning and philosophy. By that, I simply mean, we need to ensure that we have the right tools for the job. Which boils down to, making sure we have Indigenous tools for an Indigenous job. And why shouldn't critical thinkers and literary critics have access to and employ Indigenous methodologies, after all, everyone should be entitled to the highest quality in their profession.<br />
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If analysis is carried out as a matter of critical observation and then determining how we interact with that which is observed, it is imperative that we employ the right lens. If the camera we have set up to capture a snapshot of Indigenous narrative is not equipped with the right lens, the image that comes through is blurred and incorrect. And if we attempt to persuade interaction based on this image, then we have set up a false basis which is problematic. And in a community where stereotypes and false interpretation have lead to our children being taken into residential schools and our women being abducted and murdered, this is catastrophic. Therefore, we need to make sure the lens fits, and there's only one real way to do this.<br />
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We are storytelling people. This is our game. The game shouldn't be dissected off the field and then compared to another sport altogether. Yes, our stories, particularly where they intersect with formal structures of novel and poem, will and do hold up under critical analysis; we are fantastic in narrative. Yes, we continue to be preeminent in the literary/storytelling world, and yes, we can successfully complete on a global scale. The question is not asking for our works to be 'set aside' or 'safe from analysis'. Rather, the question is, can western/globalized critical analysis hold up its function and form when attempting to address Indigenous story? It can, only is we as a literary community employ and push forward Indigenous standards of story and analysis, which is to say, story as medicine, story as magic.<br />
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My hat off and my hands up to my friends and family who have dedicated their lives to bringing Indigenous discourse, methodologies and wisdom to the academy. Robbie Richardson, Daniel Justice, Niigaanwewidom Sinclair, Lee Maracle, Renate Eigenbrod, and others. Thank you for bringing the participants to the field and being so patient and kind as to ensure that we all have access to the right kind of eyes with which to observe, protect and continue to make magic.<br />
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*I use Indigenous here as opposed to being nation-specific in order to be inclusive, not as an oversight of promoting a 'Pan-Aboriginal' idealMUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-36733021237043676042013-08-25T21:46:00.002-07:002013-08-25T21:46:47.375-07:00Salinger vs. Fitzgerald in the Quest for Inter- Cultural Interest (or Thoughts after Killing a Whole Sunday with the New York Times)<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/25/business/media/film-on-j-d-salinger-claims-more-books-coming.html?ref=books&_r=0">http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/25/business/media/film-on-j-d-salinger-claims-more-books-coming.html?ref=books&_r=0</a><br />
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I just finished reading the New York Times article on the release of new Salinger works and I thought "ehh". Now, before anyone gets up in arms, before Salingerologists call for my head on a platter, I mean no great offence. What I mean is simply that I have a lukewarm response to the author's published works (fingers crossed for the new work!). In fact, I voiced the nefarious 'ehh' at the kitchen table during breakfast and so, there it was- hanging in the air between the toast and tea and I had to address it, since my husband questioned its existence.<br />
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I have to clarify the expertise of my opinion here- I admit the obvious fallacy of having only read Fran and Zooey and (of course, collective eye roll) The Catcher in the Rye. So my response is based on this limited intake. I explained that I read The Cather in the Rye with a voracious appetite, waiting for my life to change, and it didn't. In fact I was bored. Its not that I didn't read beyond the lean prose and into the dense alienation or the undertones of loneliness and disenfranchisement with an inherited identity; it was just that simply, it didn't 'speak' to me or my experience or really, my worldview. I talked myself into a corner and found myself arguing my way back out, though my husband had said nothing to my reply at all. </div>
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"Its not that I think that literature belongs exclusively within and for the culture in which it was created, I just can't find the link into this privileged, caucasian, American world." Jesus, did I really say that? I did. And its true. I don't agree that First Nations authored literature is for our communities only or that Italian operas are for Italians exclusively, for that matter (on this, my friend Tomson Highway and I agree). So why was I finding it so difficult to penetrate the cultural settings in Catcher? </div>
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I blame Salinger. (Ok, call for the knife and platter now.) I think that if you are going to each beyond the immediate layer of culture and nomenclature that surrounds your understanding of the world, that you need to be an exacting and profound writer. The first thing that comes to mind is the book I always hold forth to students when illustrating the beauty and magic of a great edit 'The Great Gatsby.' What the hell do I care about privileged, caucasian Americans frolicking, fucking and killing in the 20's? Except that Fitzgerald makes me care. The words in this novel are one of the most carefully curated collections I've encountered. The way each consonant clicks at the right time and each vowel pours when they should. The way the scenes are illuminated first by the moon and then by the glare of noon-day sun is purposeful and emotive. And I suddenly give a shit about this motley group of degenerates and socialites- often one in the same. </div>
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Be great or stay home... or rather, be great or those at home with be your biggest fans and others will find you lukewarm. </div>
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The important thing that happens with Gatsby, for me, is that Fitzgerald never lets the thread of this particular community slacken; never veers from the worldview, language, political and highly problematic racial standings, yet manages to present this world in such a beautifully crafted frame that I linger at the portrait long enough to be drawn in.</div>
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So, I will give Salinger another try, I promise (suggest more of his work to sway to skeptical here, fans), but in the mean time, I'm going to re-read Gatsby.<br />
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MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-83135769470462429362013-08-19T13:45:00.001-07:002013-08-19T13:45:55.229-07:00a new manuscript.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">CHAPTER
ONE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Anything to get away from here, that’s what she would give.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lucky collected travel magazines filled with velvet hills like
sheets of folded fondant and clear waters dotted with candy coloured fish
flashing like jewelry on smooth blue cleavage. Sheep grazed in front of castles
made haphazard with dilapidation, and women strolled down cobblestone streets
in improbable heels like stilt walkers picking their way across pebbled
beaches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The magazines were stacked in precarious columns against the
living room wall underneath the big window, organized according to featured
destination. So far Mexico was in the lead; a good six inches taller than
Australia and stretching a foot above South East Asia. Just recently she
divided up Europe and the United Kingdom because they kept toppling to the
ground, too tall to be structurally sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her days were hard and beige, bones without flesh. Lucky knew with
a certainty that nestled in her guts like a rat in a pile of socks that
'somewhere else' was where she was supposed to be. Somewhere else was where the
days would be filled in with smell, sound and texture. Somewhere else was where
her life was waiting. She searched the pages of her magazines to find this
life, certain that it would be neatly labeled, spelt out in black letters
underneath a bright photograph of cliffs melting into the sea like slabs of
white sugar, where houses were painted pink and green, where the sky was so
bright it hurt your eyes to look at it. It would be called ‘Lucky’s Cove, New
Brunswick’ or ‘Coeur de Chance, Monaco’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Of course, her grandmother would happily pack for the nursing
home; they’d drop off the wretched cat at the Humane Society on the way. It'd
give Lucky the stare of death with its one eye as they drove away, leaving it
on the sidewalk in front of the shelter with a water bowl and a ziplock of
kibbles. Lucky wouldn’t care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Au revior chat mauvais!” She would wave out the window, flipping
him off one last time before burly staff members in clean white uniforms
carried it inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">When she stepped off the plane the air would be warm and fragrant,
the people attractive and polite. She would be invited to dinner, offered jobs
and shown a charming house needing a woman’s touch. The elderly owner would
gladly give it to her if only she would promise to care for it, being without
any heirs, as it were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">She’d grow gardens of lush flowers that smelt like homemade soup
and complicated perfume. She’d put out an ad for a handyman in the local
newspaper, someone who could help her install a fence around her burgeoning
gardens and the man who answered it would appear on her doorstep, naked from
the waist up and oiled down, tool belt dangling from angular hips. They would
fall in love over a long summer full of meaningful glances and awkward
discussions about wood and hammering. Their children would be smart and
precocious with golden limbs and superior intelligence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Anything and everything. That’s what she would give.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Of course, those were the days before the world cracked open like
a skull and everything she knew to be true and real spilled out like alphabet
soup.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-10474848555475371982013-07-26T09:54:00.000-07:002013-07-26T09:54:12.748-07:00The Optimism of a Random AfternoonFirst of all, go to youtube and watch/listen to Elani Mandell's 'Girls'. I'll wait here....<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-svXyOa4Nw">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-svXyOa4Nw</a><br />
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I am not quite sure what it is about today. Here I am, sitting in my magazine office in Cabbagetown, blaring music and drinking Red Bull, (sans vodka... its barely noon after all), and I feel, well, kind of euphoric. That kind of euphoria leftover from youth when the day is stretched out in front of you and you have options, and a few crushes, and a reasonable curfew, and a couple bucks, and its the right time of the month so your face looks less shiny and minimally bumpy.<br />
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I'm not sure if its because I just launched a book I love very much, or because I can work in a cool office where I blare music and drink Red Bull, or because I walked by the St. James cemetery on the way in this morning- the cemetery that inspired the manuscript I am working on now 'The Lithopedian of Winterson Cemetery'. I'm not sure if its texting with my best gay all morning about vaginas, and drag queens and literature. Maybe its because I'm going to the ocean in a week or because I rediscovered a Radiohead song I love (How to Disappear Completely) or because I fell asleep wrapped around a man I find incredibly hot and happen to be married to (I win!) It is probably just because in an hour my best friend will stop by with a menthol cigarette we'll smoke on the roof, and because I am reading a biography of Jean Genet, and because my children are strange and beautiful and happy. And also because I have a reasonable curfew, and a couple bucks, and its the right time of the month so my face looks less shiny and minimally bumpy.<br />
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Its like this; there are times when the day splits along a seam and you fall into a place time doesn't know exists. Its the opposite of anxiety; a freedom boxed in by the term 'happiness' where something animal emerges, the kind of animal that appreciates chai lattes with espresso shots and the Marigny bars of New Orleans. There's no telling when it'll come, and no way to make it last. Just walk. And take in the click and crack of each rib's stretch to allow the possibility of seam-slipping afternoons. </div>
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<br />MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-41127197223432234822013-06-24T10:52:00.002-07:002013-06-24T11:02:15.616-07:00Press Release: The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy press release and Toronto Launch details <span lang="EN" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><br /></span>
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<strong><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Award-winning Toronto author
releases anticipated new novel</span></strong><br />
<strong><span lang="EN" style="color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Theytus Books is proud to announce the arrival of ‘The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy’, the exciting new novel from University of Toronto First Nations House Writer in Residence, Cherie Dimaline.</span></strong><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy</span></b><br />
Ruby Bloom has a lot going on; her mother is eating herself to death, her museum job is soul-crushing, and her flamboyant best friend humiliates and saves her in equal doses. Then there’s that screeching galaxy spinning around her head to make things more interesting. When Ruby’s sent to New Orleans for work she finds an astronomer in an attic that just might be the way out of her chaotic solar system. From award-wining author Cherie Dimaline comes a tale of struggle, hope and the kind of magic that can only happen when you mix the Mississippi and the Georgian Bay. <br />
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Genre: Literary Fiction<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Trade Paperback, $18.95<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Page Count: 317 pages<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #404040; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Review Copies Available: Yes</span></b><br />
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TORONTO BOOK LAUNCH INFORMATION:<br /><br />Join us at a unique and exciting Toronto event to celebrate the book’s release, in partnership with the launch of Issue #4, MUSKRAT magazine (www.muskratmagazine.com). <br />WHEN: Friday, July 12, 2013, 7-11PM<br />WHAT: A reading from the novel, presentation by MUSKRAT, guest appearance by poet Giles Benaway and a burlesque performance. Further entertainment to be added.<br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Advance Praise for Girl:</b><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
“Cherie Dimaline writes like an angel. One tough, hard-edged angel, but an angel nonetheless.”</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
-Governor General Award Winning author and celebrated playwright, Tomson Highway</div>
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“Ruby Bloom is the smartest, most resilient and most beautiful character ever created in Indian country.”</div>
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- bestselling author and international speaker, Lee Maracle </div>
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“Cherie has written an amazing book. Her character’s journey into womanhood is funny, heartbreaking and powerful. She’s definitely a writer to watch.”</div>
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-New York Times Bestseller, Eden Robinson</div>
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“Her words-worlds are tough, tender and terrifying; she’ll tear your heart out, and you will be better- and grateful- for the experience. The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy will grace you with its beauty, touch you with its truth, and haunt your imagination.”</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
-author and academic, Professor Daniel Justice</div>
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<br /><br /> Contact Name: Kailene Rage or Greg Younging<br />Phone Number: 250-493-7181<br />Website: www.theytusbooks.com<br />Publisher Contact:<br />Phone Number: 250-493-7181<br />Website: www.theytusbooks.com<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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Because I want to write a goddamn diary, thats why. I want to be unreasonable, I need to exaggerate, I long to provide uneven details and be one-sided with unsupported conclusions and Narniaesque conspiracy theories. I need a place to be unreasonable, besides with my children (according to them) and my workload (according to me).<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Because the awful and geeky truth of it is, nothing is real, nothing happened until I have collected the one-sided details like fireflies in a jar held up to the scene of the breathing moment. I am just narcissistic enough to think that I deserve to live twice; once in the moment, and again in the caging of it in words. <br /><br /><br /> It does help that 2 of my most favuorite authors- Anais Nin and David Sedaris- are life-long diarists. I feel vindicated, stealing away minutes- well, hours- to scribble and vent as I do, to know that diary writing can be considered a high form of art. That it's a part of the overall process, or as Anais Nine recounts in her letter to an aspiring youth (as detailed in the Brain Pickings article: http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/09/03/anais-nin-on-emotion-and-writing/): "You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to nourish yourself and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and into writing. Permit yourself to flow and overflow, allow for the rise in temperature, all the expansions and intensifications. Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terrors, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them. "<br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUD_JztbhSsc6v7awrou8_AKP5EmSY__cW4WkAFCBE02YaR4iyiRWOJXG4Mk1okotOecTFCU9KF7sLbJVe3y0AjBTOCjr8BbxAi1TbwNQilYsr9mumIc_OtHl0f4p5X8djs4ozLOKpIs/s1600/sedari-face-e1326227843307.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUD_JztbhSsc6v7awrou8_AKP5EmSY__cW4WkAFCBE02YaR4iyiRWOJXG4Mk1okotOecTFCU9KF7sLbJVe3y0AjBTOCjr8BbxAi1TbwNQilYsr9mumIc_OtHl0f4p5X8djs4ozLOKpIs/s320/sedari-face-e1326227843307.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /> EXCERPT FROM THE NPR INTERVIEW FOUND HERE http://www.npr.org/2013/04/24/178656338/lets-explore-david-sedaris-on-his-public-private-life<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Because Sedaris' writing relies so heavily on his own life, it's not surprising that many of his essays begin as entries in his journal, which he has been keeping obsessively since Sept. 4, 1977.<br /><br /><br />"That's how I start the day — by writing about the day before," he tells Fresh Air's Terry Gross, "but every now and then I read out loud from my diary. ... I wouldn't open it up and just read, but every now and then something happens and I think, 'Oh, this might work in front of an audience, so I'm always hoping that something interesting will happen ... but I don't try to force it."<br /><br /><br />But most of his journal isn't for public consumption. In fact, Sedaris says his public persona as a famous writer is quite different from the person he is — and has been — in private, and the journal is where those two versions of David Sedaris collide.<br /><br /><br />"There's the you that you present to the world," he says, "and then there's, you know, of course the real one and, if you're lucky, there's not a huge difference between those two people. And I guess in my diary I'm not afraid to be boring. It's not my job to entertain anyone in my diary."<br /><br /><br />While Sedaris says his partner, Hugh, sometimes wonders whether the impulse to write almost exclusively about one's own life is a sign of narcissism, Sedaris understands his compulsion to journal and compose personal essays differently.<br /><br /><br />"I mean, I think everybody thinks about themselves," he says. "This seems to me like a part of the obsession with it is just as a writing exercise, really: I write in my diary, and that kind of warms me up, and then I move onto other things."<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nPNCitVDlEptzC4Yl7nJSDv3Pl0GI9_BHbT6RMTHe2-V42jVu5bLXK6nyQmgtNMA9nJr5xG0WjJuUoLclKoFAwd5gaJrccpIDyP1BvzdLWL7-WeYYjDlmvkMRxi1vChTJc7j7vgd9KA/s1600/anais.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nPNCitVDlEptzC4Yl7nJSDv3Pl0GI9_BHbT6RMTHe2-V42jVu5bLXK6nyQmgtNMA9nJr5xG0WjJuUoLclKoFAwd5gaJrccpIDyP1BvzdLWL7-WeYYjDlmvkMRxi1vChTJc7j7vgd9KA/s320/anais.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />EXCERPT FROM THE HUFFINGTON POST (DIANA M. RAAB) ARTICLE FOUND HERE<br /><br /><br />http://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-m-raab/anais-nin_b_1355557.html<br /><br /><br />"I learned that a crazy young woman in her 20s can become a joyful, wise woman in her 60s. It was her [Nin's] belief that we can transform ourselves and our lives through self-creation. And that diary writing was a way."MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-54813566961111830982013-05-21T11:42:00.004-07:002013-05-21T11:42:59.887-07:00Excerpt from a Story for Shaun<i>This is a love story I wrote for my husband Shaun, or at least the first 10 pages. Its about a man trapped in a loveless life who falls ill and dreams up a new life through his fever and pain, a kind of male version of labour. Its not finished yet, but is another tribute to New Orleans and the electricity we cultivate in our life together. </i><br />
<i>xoxo</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>A Story for Shaun</b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Let us go then you and I<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When the evening is spread out
against the sky<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Like a patient etherised upon a table<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<img height="510" src="http://img3.etsystatic.com/000/0/5187788/il_fullxfull.243637095.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="line-height: 150%;"> (picture from: </span></i><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/73992566/new-orleans-street-scene-photograph">http://www.etsy.com/listing/73992566/new-orleans-street-scene-photograph</a>)</span></div>
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1.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The air spun itself into the
evening like cotton candy off a metal drum, sweet and sticky. The click and
skip of his shoes was muffled, as if Drew were stepping exaggerated and
deliberate on broken down cardboard, like a grade school tap dancer performing
for apathetic drunks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He thought for a moment, his first
moment of clarity, “Am I drunk?” He thought he must be, beset as he was by a
nauseous uncertainty of origin. To test the theory, he took a step to his right
and walked along the edge of the curb, arms thrown out for balance like a
tightrope walker. The slippery bottoms of his two-toned brogues threw him off and
he splashed into a thin trickle of warm Bourbon Street mush. “Gross.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">He sighed. Drunk enough to try
something foolish in inappropriate shoes; sober enough to recognize the
stupidity of it pretty damn quick. He decided another drink was needed. It was
made all the more urgent by the feeling of dread slowly lacing-up the back of
his neck like a corset of tiny hairs. Something was wrong, and he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> want
to give it audience until he had a shot and a beer in front of him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">There were no shortage of bars
here, stacked one against the other like uneven </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">dominoes</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> pushed from both sides,
their balconies and awnings like architectural elbows and fingers thrown
playfully into one another’s space. He </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> bother with these; he was headed for someplace in particular, somewhere
he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">couldn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> give shape or name to yet, but one that drove him along the street
to its darker corners. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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He turned up a narrow street, the
sign told him it was Toulouse, and walked with his shoulders thrown forward and
inwards, crafting an ineffectual shield of bone and cotton. It was raining
somewhere close by; he could feel it in his joints. <i>Since when did his joints give out meteorological predictions?</i> The
corset on his neck tightened and his throat closed just enough that breathing
became a conscious act of rebellion. He returned to his earlier decision, to
refrain from thinking until he was at the bar and well equipped to handle the
situation. Clearing his mind was not as difficult as it should have been, the
panic had yet to sink in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Drew felt the soothing sense of
belonging as he approached an open glass-paneled door at the corner. A wooden Jack
of Hearts insignia dangled above the sidewalk off brass-coloured chains.
Inside, the air conditioner fought with the humid breezes wafting in from the
street and the result was comforting- an exhale of organic humidity and
mechanical chill. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The bartender smiled, and the
corners of her red-lined mouth pulled against the cracking powder of her
cheeks. It was a familiar smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Jaeger, PBR.” He reached in his
pockets, (<i>Why were these pockets so deep?
What pants was he wearing</i>?) pulled out a five and a one, and tossed them on
the bar. <i>A one? Since when did the one
dollar bill come back? No wait, this money was American.</i> <i>What the fuck was he doing with American
money? Hold on, where was he anyhow?</i> Dread filled the tips of his fingers
making them clumsy and skittish so that they found nowhere to comfortably be
and jumped about from his collar to his hair to his thighs like a blind
assessment. And then, in the specific light of the three-prong candelabra that
he saw his wedding band was gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">Panic was just barely held down by
the Jaeger, then disoriented by half the bottle of beer he pulled down in one
go. He sat where the bar smoothed itself into a wooden elbow by the blackened
front window. Drew placed his anxious hands on the bar in front of him, almost
scared to look directly at them but still he glanced at the collection of veins
and popped knuckles he found there, and verified that, yes, he had indeed lost
his wedding ring. Jesus Christ. The consequences of such a thing he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> even
want to consider, not while he was this sober. Now it was time to freak out.
How had he gotten here, and in these clothes? This </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> his usual print press
uniform.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i>Calm,
Drew. Stay calm. You can figure this one out.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">He needed to start at the
beginning: who was he? That was easy, kind of. He was Drew England, thirty-one,
married to Connie England, no children though she was trying. He lived in his
hometown of Toronto, Ontario and he worked in the print </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">press room</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> of the Star where he drove his eight-year-old Jeep
five sometimes six days a week. No pets, though he was contemplating defying
Connie and adopting a mutt to ride shotgun, a Bandit to his Smoky, if you will.
He liked drinking alone in dive bars after work, picking blisters with his
exacto-knife, and the way a woman’s neck looked from behind. He did not like
bulky winter jackets, reality TV or the way his wife </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wouldn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> let him go down
on her for more than a minute. Whew. Okay. It all seemed to check out with his
gut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Next, where was he? A flash of
recognition and he appeared as a red blip on some GPS system. He knew with a
strange certainty (also originating in his gut) that he was in New Orleans,
Louisiana. This was odd, considering he’d never been there before, had he? He’d
wanted to, tried to convince Connie once that they should spend a weekend
there, but she was less than enthusiastic. <i>“Why
would I want to go to a broken down town rotting with crime and water?”</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">It was all so confusing. He </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">couldn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> recall ever having been to New Orleans, but the memories that told him
so seemed so far away, from another room or on a different channel. He was sure
he was in the French Quarter part of town, and he was even sure that he had
been here before, in this bar, at this seat, in front of this particular
bartender, but he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">couldn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> recall when or even why. Okay, well, at least he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> lost. But was he crazy? It was something he had never doubted before;
his sanity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">But it </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> seem to be an issue,
after all, here he was, rationally taking inventory. (Maybe he had the kind of
crazy that makes you think you’re rational.)
He felt fine though, could recall what he did on his last birthday
(Connie took him out to a restaurant and was a bit adventurous afterward, after
a shower, of course- even special occasion </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">blow jobs</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> had parameters). He even
felt a pang of homesickness when his father’s kind face popped up in his mind
when summoned. Good ole Ed England, always there when you needed him, even
doubting your sanity at a bar in the deep south. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Okay, I just need to remember what
I did last. How did I get here?” He whispered it into the collar of his black
linen shirt and the bartender, mistaking his reverie for an order, brought him
another bottle of beer, which he accepted with a nod. The doors swung open on
the other side of the room where the dance floor and a second bar were
segregated, and a loud blast of retro music, Depeche Mode maybe, spilled in on
a wave of cigarette smoke. That was a good idea, a smoke. He reached into one
of the cavernous pockets and pulled out a box of Lucky Strikes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Hmm. So apparently he had started
smoking again. He took inventory, step by step.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>I
worked a double shift on Friday. Connie bought a new ice-dispensing fridge and
the payments are fucking insane. Then I stopped for a drink at Marley’s before
heading home. I talked to Tom, sat at the bar… they were playing some old Snoop
Dog, I remember that. I still felt sick from that never-ending flu, but nothing
too bad. I had one drink and then…. Wait, did I head home?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He searched for the answer at the
bottom of his bottle and found only a murky recollection of not feeling well,
of nursing his Guinness and moving very slowly to the bathroom, down a narrow
set of stairs into the dank basement. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i>Did
I fall down the stairs and hit my head? Or did I leave? Am I lying in a ditch
somewhere on a November Canadian night with a head injury or internal bleeding?
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He reached up to rub his head, noticing
the lack of a cold, thin weight against his skin usually provided by his
wedding band. The memory of the ring’s absence made him vigilant to remember.
He closed his eyes in an effort to turn them inward and find some answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Hey, look who it is.” A large hand
clapped him on the shoulder and he jumped a bit at the sudden contact.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">“You all right there, buddy?” An
older man with a </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">graying</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> beard and wire rim glasses sat down beside him, using
the hand still perched on Drew’s shoulder to lower himself onto the stool. He
called out an order while digging out his wallet. “Gimme a Miller there,
sweetheart.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“So, Drew, how’s it hanging?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He looked up, managed a smile and
nodded. “Good. It’s good.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">The man straightened his plaid
fedora and tipped back the clear bottle placed in front of him, wiped his </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">mustache</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> and set it back down. “Alright. Well, are you gonna tell me or are ya
gonna make me ask?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Oddly, the man had a New Jersey
accent, which ordinarily </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wouldn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> have caught notice, but cushioned on all
sides by the long, low tones of southern drawl, it became unusual. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Drew </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> sure why it seemed
imperative to act like nothing was out of the ordinary, as if he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">weren't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> in a
time and place he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">couldn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> recall getting to, but he went with the feeling. He
could indeed be laying in a ditch back home, his broken body slowly being covered
with cotton ball sized flakes, or perhaps he’d drank to black-out and somehow
managed to make his way to Louisiana, but no matter what happened, he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> want to seem crazy, even if he was. He decided out of pride, or stubbornness or
something left over from a primordial survival instinct, that he would pretend
to know exactly what was going on; at least until he could be sure of his
safety.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Tell you what?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The man laughed big and loud,
clapped him on the back and took another drink. “Yeah, okay buddy. Did
something other than you meeting the most beautiful woman in the world happen
last night?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Panic needled him in the lower gut.
Shit! Did he cheat on Connie? Not that the thought or urge </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">hadn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> occurred to
him in the past... many, many times in the past, mostly when she was busy
organizing his money and his errands into neat little piles on that oak kitchen
table she and her mother had picked out. But he was after all married and that
meant something to him. He was a man of his word. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Oh that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">His drinking companion </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">swiveled</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> in
his seat and threw his hands out. “Oh that? Are you serious? Dude, you were
freaking out last night. Wandering around the streets until like five in the
morning, carrying on like ‘John, man, my life just changed!’” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
John, his name was John. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Well, John, it seems a lot has
changed since last night.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Uh oh, what happened? She blew you
off?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">“</span><span style="line-height: 24px;"> Wouldn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> that be a good thing if I
got blown off?” So he still had a sense of humour here in this in-between
space. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Oh, you dog.” Another clap to the
back, then over his shoulder to the bartender rolling her eyes at a table of
rowdy college age tourists near the door,
“Another round here, please.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Is she still coming out tonight,
or what? Chloe’s waiting to meet the woman who changed ole’ Drew England’s
life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Okay, he was still fully himself
here, at least in name, but it occurred to him that he might look different,
and his hands jumped to his face and felt around. He turned slightly to the
left and caught a familiar reflection in the darkened glass: short, messy brown
hair, longer on the top than the shaved sides; a strong, hard jaw; better than
usual cheekbones and lips too sensuous to have been gifted to a man. Yup,
everything seemed normal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Jesus man, what are you doing?
Checking yourself out, there? Not to worry, you’re still the most handsome
devil in town.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He laughed it off. “Well, honestly,
I’m not really sure what’s up for tonight. Where are we meeting again?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Well, I can see you got no sleep
last night. Did you get any work done today at all? You got that big contract
coming up, don’tcha? The restoration project up on Esplanade?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Restoration? As in houses? He’d
always wanted to work on houses. He’d spent his weekends holed up in the den
watching home-reno shows with beer he’d sneak in from the garage. “Uh, yeah.
No, to be honest, I’m not really feeling like myself at all today.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
A couple sips from the new beer for
both of them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Hi Ho.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“We’re meeting at the Hi Ho Lounge.
You remember? Up on St. Claude.” He was
being sarcastic, but Drew was just grateful for the information, like the fact
that he seemed to be a long-term guest here. “Speaking of the Hi Ho, we should
head over there soon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
John grabbed two plastic to-go cups
from a stack beside the register, handed one to Drew and left some damp bills
on the bar. They poured their beer into the cups and left the empty bottles
when they stood to go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“See you later, Drew.” The
bartender sang her good-bye, waving coyly with only the top joints of her
fingers on a cupped hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Uh, yeah, see you soon, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
John wrapped an arm around his
companion’s shoulders and guided him out the door. “Man, I’m surprised you
remembered to meet me in the state you were in. Good thing too; I had a rough
day on the job. I need to relax.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Outside the street was quiet, not
enough for crickets or scraps of newspaper to be heard whispering along the
gutter, but enough for Drew to notice. John was still speaking, about
installing cable at some seniors’ home and a new driver who </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> know his
shit, so Drew took the opportunity to look around. This is what he saw:
two-story houses with iron balconies and hairy ferns leaking rain water onto
the cracked sidewalks below; sidewalks that meandered in and out along the seam
of the street like wrinkled ribbons of concrete; concrete pock-marked with
thumb-sized roaches motoring along the sides of buildings like robotic vacuums,
sucking up air and moss and comfort; garbage bins tattooed with black grime and
stuck with wrappers and papers like greasy feathers on fat green birds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
And, strangely, awkwardly, in the
middle of these odd circumstances, Drew felt better than he had in a long time.
He felt unfolded, unfurled, unfettered. This made him slow down, until his new
friend (he assumed they were friends, and as for the age of their relationship,
well, everything was new to him) turned around and called, “Would you hurry up?
You’re pretty slow for a guy in love and about to see his lady. And by the way,
dude, not to be crass, but my God, the body on her.” He outlined the rounded
angles of an hourglass in the humid air. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Drew smiled and decided to fish for
details. “So what was your take on last night, anyways? I mean, I was a bit
wasted.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Really, cause I’ve seen you a lot
worse. But, I mean you remember the Circle Bar, right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Vaguely.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Jesus, alright, well, after you
and me left the Co-operation and met Tom over at the Circle Bar things got a
bit crazy. There were shots, and that shrieking woman from Shreveport who kept
telling everyone you were Brad Pitt, oh, and you remember the band? Ho boy, we
danced our asses off.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He put a hand on his stomach and
extended a bent arm, waltzing himself off the sidewalk and into the empty
street.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Drew had no memories of this, but
something in his legs twitched like they recalled steps and sways. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“We took that cab to the Quarter,
member that? And ended up at the Golden Lantern for that queen’s birthday.
Missed the second line, but not the champagne. And then suddenly, you were
gone, buddy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“I left?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
John stopped dancing and put both
hands on his hips. “Okay you’re scaring me now. No, you did not leave, you saw
Ann and that was that.” He clapped his hands together like fleshy cymbals.
“Game over.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Ann.” Drew said the name, a common
name, and as if the word itself had snapped open a vein, blood flooded into his
cock. He grabbed at the front of his pants, a bit alarmed at his enthusiastic
reaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
John chuckled. “Wow, control
yourself. We’ll see her soon and you can err… relieve some of that tension.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Drew gave an embarrassed chuckle
and removed his hand from his crotch, hoping that his sudden thickness </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> obvious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
On Rampart they jumped in a cab.
John talked with the driver, about local traffic, the trend in scooping up
residential parking spaces, and the coming storm. Drew concentrated with his
eyes, trying to focus in on the world skidding past his window like a seasick
man grasping at the horizon to keep from throwing up. Traffic now, and empty
houses, and gas stations with out of order pumps, and po-boy shops with broken
windows, and hostile faces, and wandering strays, and beautiful girls in kilts
and braids, and incredible cars on enormous tires, and a sky that made room for
a thicker shade of dark to streak across the bottom like sediment in a bottle
of merlot. And then, after a quick
U-turn, they were there, pulled up in front of a low, boxy building lit by
Christmas lights. It might have been a jail built from Lego. Drew felt a
combination of reactionary caution mixing with in-born comfort. The result made
him want another drink. He drank a lot here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“I drink a lot here.” He said it
out loud, standing in front of the swinging front door. John shut the car door
and tipped his hat back on his forehead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Every week, sometimes twice. We
always manage to get you home, though.” John put a heavy arm across Drew’s
shoulders and guided him inside. “All these years and not once have you not
made it home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Years? He’d been here for years?
How could that be? There went the blacked out-grabbed a Greyhound south theory.
He </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">hadn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> been out of Toronto since college, save for that Cuban vacation
Connie booked; a week of sitting around on the beach while she complained about
the service, to the service. So he was pretty much sure he’d had some sort of
stroke, maybe an </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">aneurysm</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">, but what to do? All in all, it </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> such a bad
thing to be here in New Orleans where he had a life and friends and what
sounded like a dream job working on old houses. Jesus, was this heaven? Or
maybe it was hell… Oddly, he </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> so alarmed. If that was truly what was
going on, what else could he do but to just go with it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
For a moment guilt punched him in
the colon. How could he not want to fight to find a way back to Connie, his
wife of six years? How could he be so blasé about being in another country, and
one that may or may not truly exist in the same universe? Maybe he was just a
bad man. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Drew, you bad man you. How dare
you keep me waiting until eleven o’clock?” A grinning blonde behind the bar
waved him over. “Get over here.” She lined up three shot glasses and filled
them, opened two new bottles of beer and pulled herself a pint. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
John and Drew sat on two wooden
stools, more rickety than the ones at the last place, and folded their elbows
up on the bar. Drew looked around him. Walking in the door he’d noticed an
empty go-go cage and a row of pleather booths on one side of a dance floor set
up in front of a small stage inset to the back wall. The bar ran all along the
other side with a small hallway to the back kitchen. The mirror behind the bar
was almost completely covered in notices and specials. “MDG $2” “Red Beans and
Rice, so Nice $1” “Act How Your Mamma Raised You”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It was dark and filled with the insect-sounds
of the bluegrass players collected in a circle on the dance floor, each
tightening strings, or tuning instruments, or shuffling feet, or unpacking
cases, there arms and legs and necks bent at awkward angles to facilitate the
playing of guitars and banjos. A few of them were strumming out the beginning
pecks of a song, others waited to get in, like little girls watching double
dutch ropes, waiting for the perfect time to jump.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Alright, we’re all set.” The
bartender, his friend apparently, slid two shots towards them and picked up the
third, smiling so big he caught the glimmer of gold in her teeth. “To
miracles.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-58579931142152150162013-05-21T09:14:00.000-07:002013-05-21T09:14:33.480-07:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="212" src="http://sphotos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/581808_616817041663773_2105647374_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;">
FRINGE, by Rebecca Belmore</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: right;">
<a href="http://www.rebeccabelmore.com/home.html" rel="nofollow nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://<wbr></wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: inline-block;"></span>www.rebeccabelmore.com/<wbr></wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: inline-block;"></span>home.html</a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>What is the role of an artist?</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">an excerpt from Joseph Conrad</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line. And art itself may be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colors, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential — their one illuminating and convincing quality–the very truth of their existence. The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts — whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism — but always to our credulity. And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies, with the attainment of our ambitions, with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims.</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It is otherwise with the artist.</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself, and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal. His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to that part of our nature which, because of the warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities — like the vulnerable body within a steel armor. His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring — and sooner forgotten. Yet its effect endures forever. The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas, questions facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition — and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation — and to the subtle but invincible conviction of solidarity that knits together the loneliness of innumerable hearts, to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity — the dead to the living and the living to the unborn."</i></span></div>
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MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-41396188953620526672013-05-21T08:39:00.001-07:002013-05-21T08:39:09.769-07:00Sulu Makes Me LazyI don't get enough work done in the day because of George Takei. That's right, I blamed Sulu for my procrastination. He of the chiseled cheekbones, legendary television role and pee-your-pants hilarious Facebook page. And then there's things like this: <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/george-takei-responds-to-traditional-marriage-fans">http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/george-takei-responds-to-traditional-marriage-fans</a>.<br />
<img 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" />MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-25255797893778850512013-02-22T12:05:00.002-08:002013-02-22T12:05:24.154-08:00A story I forgot existed...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZDaCLO8nZIteg0NtgwlJMfF5pVvZ_s8Y6-whxlGkxqo700SPvulXu22LFV-R5cuDwEmJRbqC7jESOP96YR848V4pDVotkX-O2Xk5grNgQd86vipCZmLRZV0SiN2qnKknHIdmDGrDTKs/s1600/Natural-Black-White-Birch-Trees_MG_2217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZDaCLO8nZIteg0NtgwlJMfF5pVvZ_s8Y6-whxlGkxqo700SPvulXu22LFV-R5cuDwEmJRbqC7jESOP96YR848V4pDVotkX-O2Xk5grNgQd86vipCZmLRZV0SiN2qnKknHIdmDGrDTKs/s320/Natural-Black-White-Birch-Trees_MG_2217.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Here's the beginning of a rather dark story I forgot existed. Its one of those strange pieces I can't trace the genesis of. It almost sounds like someone else's work. <div>
-C</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>A
Curious Position</b></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Time is a hell of a
thing to mourn, so I don't bother. It's not solid like a person; it
never dies like a loved one leaving you with your dignity and a
justified weeping finale. Instead, it keeps dying, every day, every
time you open your eyes.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wake up.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wake up.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wake up.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There's three more
funerals you'll never find the time to attend.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You can sit at its
bedside while it wastes away.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Tick.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Tick.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Tick.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wring your hands and
click your tongue, but nothing will stop the procession; it marches
along whether you sit on the grassy hill and sun yourself ignorant to
its passing, or balance the coffin on a padded mourning suit
shoulder; the sad, sweet serenade of fabric and wood in measured
tone.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Shush.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Shuffle.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Shush.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
*******</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Most nights, I sleep
on the couch. Why bother moving to the bed when the couch is more
than adequate? Its big enough, my feet barely make it past the second
cushion even with my legs stretched all the way out. One of the first
quilts I ever made, a child's blanket with a patchwork kitten batting
a real piece of yarn, hangs over the back during the day and is the
perfect throw to cover my toes at night. Besides, if I mess up the
bed it means I have to make it, and I hate making beds.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I still have that
quilt, the one with the creepy kitten (never really thought about the
Frankensteinesque effect of stitches across its face while I was
making it) because I had no children to give it to. I got married at
twenty-three but we wanted to make sure we had enough room, a real
house and a backyard, before the children came. Back then the only
method of birth control for a respectable married couple like us was
the withdrawal method. A little risky, but somehow we beat the
numbers game; not even a scare.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
By the time I turned
thirty I was an orphan. We had the house by then, one with a large,
manicured lawn that sloped down to a shallow forest. On the afternoon
of my mother's wake, I caught my husband and my sister making love up
against a birch tree in that forest. I tiptoed back to the wake,
hoping they didn't see me, forcing a confrontation, a slipped moment
to become a permanent truth. I remember the square heels of my
Sears-Roebuck pumps sinking into the Spring-softened lawn, leaving
marks like a path of a pirate's map, leading to the giant X. I recall
the way their sounds became the song of an injured bird. I remember
telling myself “Grief does funny things to people.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In an effort to heal
my broken heart, my husband decided we could end our habitual
precautions, that a baby was just the thing for his quiet, sullen,
chain-smoking wife. But it was too late. Maybe out of
self-preservation clicked on by the betrayal I couldn't allow to be
real, I began the first stages of early-onset menopause. It turns out
one of the symptoms was blindness where the increased frequency of my
little sister's visits was concerned. There were a lot of birds
nesting in the back woods in those days.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One night in
mid-February, I awoke to a moan that echoed up the frost-covered lawn
like a rolling marble, tapping against my bedroom window. I'm not
sure what made that particular night different, but I threw off the
covers and slid into my slippers.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The axe was where it
always was, leaning up against the woodpile on the outer garage wall.
It was heavier than I imagined it would be; heavy as intent could be,
and instead of throwing it over my shoulder like a warrior, I dragged
it behind me like a biddy with a grocery cart. It left a trail across
the grass from the house to my husband. And my sister.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I paused for a
moment when I found them, and the adrenaline flashed through my guts
like lightening, then rumbled deeper into the muscle tissue like
low-lying thunder.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She started
screaming, pushing him out of her, holding her hands out in front of
her face. I smelled the hot urine that leaked down her bare legs at
the sight of her scorned sister in a long white nightgown, hefting an
axe; it soaked the panties hooked on her left foot.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Rose...”
Donavon stumbled over each letter, trying to pull his tweed trousers
up over his pale ass. “Rose, wait.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He moved away from
Lilly, the coward, and she fell to the ground, screams muffled by
moss and snow.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thats when I swung.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The blade was sharp
and it bit through the yielding flesh, wedging itself deep in the
denser core so that the metal squeaked as I wiggled it back out. The
second swing was easier because by then I'd balanced my legs and
positioned my torso just so. She must have stopped screaming at some
point, but the absence didn't register; I was consumed by the task.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't know why
they always came to this tree, maybe it tilted at the perfect angle
for their bodies, maybe they were sentimental, bu when it fell under
my axe I had the odd sensation that it was over, that I had managed
to end it once and for all. And I was right.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They scrambled up
the slippery slope to the house while I finished chopping down their
birch. Donavon took the lock-box with our savings and his old pistol
from the closet and loaded it into the backseat of the Chevy, along
with his good shoes, some winter coats and my sister. I heard they're
together still in a retirement villa on the west coast, their doting
children making regular visits to bring the rosy-cheeked
grandchildren for well-mannered visits. Of course, at sixty-six,
Lilly is the youngest there, a bit of a Bingo bombshell. Well, good
for them, I suppose.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After Donavon left I
took in a few boarders, mainly students from the university. I tried
to limit the intake to females, but by the third year I took in a
boy. He was a thin specimen, smelling of caramel and mothballs like
an old woman. Maybe that’s why I took him in when he showed up on
the doorstep clutching the ad for renters in one finely-boned hand, a
duffel bag of pilly wool sweaters in the other.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know it says
female boarders only, but its the only room in my price range and its
close to the library. You won't even know I'm here.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And for the first
month he was in the back bedroom the only evidence of Brian Childs'
existence was the loaf of cracked wheat bread on top of the fridge, a
set of galoshes in the mud room and the grey cloud of chickadees on
the front lawn each morning, fighting over the ring of crust thrown
from his breakfast as he left for class. The smells in the house
stayed the same, his own scent covered by bleach and Chantilly like a
woollen sock. The dynamic didn't change either. Besides Childs, there
were three women in the house: myself; Ming, an international student
out of Taiwan studying pharmacology; and Diane, an obese nursing
co-op placement. At first, we were ruffled and moved more cautiously
about the common areas. After that first week, we settled back down
over the nest, and by winter break we'd gelled as a 4 person unit. We
weren't really friends or family; no one was a replacement for an
absentee parent or a missed sibling, but it worked. We'd even started
a household lending library in the front room. Our taste in
literature was almost contrary with one another. Ming sprinkled my
Reader's Digest hardcover collection with Russian names and Diane
added two or three new paperback romances a week, while Brian
contributed slim volumes of carefully curated poetry. I read each
cover, every jacket summary and memorized each author. I'd take them
down off the three shelves they occupied during the day when the rest
of the house was in class or on shift. I was old then- thirty-five
and practically a widow. And as an old woman I'd put aside desires
and passion, and focused my efforts on the running of the household.
As such, though I handled the books twice weekly and ran my fingers
over the embossed letters of their spines often, I never once read
them. It was too dangerous. Literature, after all, can be a crowbar
for a closed heart.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-9513973831189273602013-01-31T09:02:00.002-08:002013-01-31T09:02:40.430-08:00GRAIN contest- deadline April 1<h2>
<em>Grain</em> Magazine's 25th Annual Short Grain Writing Contest</h2>
<em>We thank <strong>Cheryl & Henry Kloppenburg</strong>, <a href="http://www.kloppenburg.ca/" target="_blank">Barristers and Solicitors, Saskatoon,</a> for their ongoing support of Grain and the Short Grain Writing Contest. </em><br />
For the list of <strong>past contest winners</strong>, <a href="http://www.grainmagazine.ca/contesthistory.html">click here</a>.<br />
About <em>Grain</em> and the Short Grain Writing Contest: <span class="body2">Recent issues have featured the work of such literary luminaries as <strong>Xi Chuan</strong>, <strong>Tim Lilburn</strong>, <strong>Guy Maddin</strong>, <strong>Miriam Toews</strong>, <strong>Zsuzsi Gartner</strong>, and <strong>Eleanor Wachtel</strong>. And you could join them in the pages of <em>Grain</em>.</span><br />
<div align="center">
<img alt="Short Grain Ad - Small" height="224" src="http://www.grainmagazine.ca/images/Short%20Grain%20Ad%20-%201%20-%20small.jpg" width="448" /></div>
<span class="body2"><h2>
Contest Guidelines</h2>
</span><div class="body2">
Contest prizes donated in part by <strong>Cheryl & Henry Kloppenburg</strong>, <a href="http://www.kloppenburg.ca/" target="_blank">Barristers and Solicitors, Saskatoon.</a></div>
<span class="body2"><strong>$4,500</strong> in prizes to be won! Each entrant receives a FREE subscription to <em>Grain</em> Magazine!<br />
<strong>DEADLINE: APRIL 1, 2013 (POSTMARKED)</strong><br />
<strong>Judges:</strong><br /> POETRY: <strong>Méira Cook</strong>, Author of <em>A Walker in the City</em><br /> FICTION: <strong>Stan Rogal</strong>, Author of <em>Bloodline</em><br />
<strong>Categories:</strong> <strong>Poetry</strong>: (to a max of 100 lines) Poetry of any style - including prose poetry - up to 100 lines. <strong><br /> Fiction:</strong> (to a max of 2,500 words) Short fiction in any form - including postcard fiction - to a maximum of 2500 words.</span><span class="body2"><strong>Prizes:</strong>3 prizes will be awarded in each category: </span><br />
<ul>
<li><span class="body2"><span class="body2">1st = $1,000</span></span></li>
<li><span class="body2"><span class="body2"> 2nd = $750</span></span></li>
<li><span class="body2"><span class="body2"> 3rd = $500 </span></span></li>
</ul>
<span class="body2"><strong>Entry Guidelines: </strong><br /> 1. The basic fee for Canadian entrants is $35 for a maximum of two entries in one category. The fee for US and International entrants is $40, payable in US funds. Make your cheque or money order payable to: Short Grain Contest.<br />
2. Every entrant receives a one-year (four-issue) subscription to <em>Grain</em> Magazine.<br />
3. All entries must be POSTMARKED by<strong> April 1, 2013</strong>. Entries postmarked after this date will not be accepted.<br />
4. Each entry must be original, unpublished, not submitted elsewhere for publication or broadcast, nor accepted elsewhere for publication or broadcast, nor entered simultaneously in any other contest or competition. Work that has appeared on the internet is considered published and is not eligible. <br />
5. All entries in this contest will be judged anonymously, on merit alone. The judges' decisions are final. Judges reserve the right not to award a prize in a given category if no entry is of sufficient quality to warrant publication.<br />
6. Entries must be accompanied by a maximum of one cover page, regardless of the number of entries submitted, and must provide the following information:</span><ul>
<li><span class="body2"> Your name, complete mailing address, telephone number, and email address.</span></li>
<li><span class="body2">Title of your entry(ies).</span></li>
<li><span class="body2">Category you are entering: <strong>Poetry</strong> (to a max of 100 lines) or <strong>Fiction</strong> (to a max of 2,500 words)</span></li>
<li><span class="body2">Word Count (Fiction) / Line Count (Poetry). An absolutely accurate word or line count is required. </span></li>
</ul>
<span class="body2"><strong>Judging is blind</strong>. Do not print, type, or write your name on the text pages of your entry.<br />
7. Your entry must be typed (double-spaced for fiction) on 8 1/2 x 11 inch paper. It must be legible.<strong> Faxed and/or electronic entries not accepted</strong>. <br />
8. Entries will not be returned. Keep a copy of your entry.<br />
9. Names of the winners and titles of the winning entries of the 25th Annual Short Grain Contest will be posted on the <em>Grain</em> Magazine website in August, 2013. Contest winners will be notified directly either by telephone or by email prior to the website posting. <br />
10. Make your cheque or money order payable to Short Grain Contest.<br />
11. Send your entry or entries to:<br /> Short Grain Contest<br /> P.O. Box 67<br /> Saskatoon, SK<br /> Canada, S7K 3K1<br />
12. Entries by email or fax will not be accepted.<br />
<strong>DEADLINE: APRIL 1, 2013</strong> (postmarked)<br />
<div align="center">
<img alt="Short Grain Ad 2 - Small" height="161" src="http://www.grainmagazine.ca/images/Short%20Grain%20Ad%20-%202%20-%20small.jpg" width="448" /></div>
<h2>
<strong>Frequently Asked Questions:</strong></h2>
1. <em>When you say, "...a maximum of two entries in one category..." does that mean I can enter one piece of Fiction and one piece of Poetry with one $35 entry fee?</em><br />
No. For each $35 entry fee, you may enter one or two pieces of Fiction <strong>OR</strong> one or two pieces of Poetry. If you do send one piece of Fiction and one piece of Poetry, we will choose one of them at random to be considered. The other piece will be recycled.<br />
2. <em>Can I enter more than once?</em><br />
You may enter as many times as you like, provided you include another entry fee for each entry beyond the first. Therefore two Canadian entries would cost $70.<br />
3.<em> If I enter twice (for $70), can I enter two pieces of Fiction AND two pieces of Poetry?</em><br />
Absolutely! Or you could enter four pieces of Poetry. Or two pieces of Poetry and one piece of Fiction. But not three pieces of Poetry and one piece of Fiction. See how this works?<br />
4. <em>Do I need to send a separate cover page for each piece of writing I enter?</em><br />
No. Send only one cover page that includes all the information for every piece of writing you are entering. Don't forget to include your complete contact information!<br />
5. <em>And what happens to my free subscription if I enter more than once?</em><br />
Your Grain subscription will be increased by four issues for each entry fee received beyond the first. So, if you enter twice, you will receive a two-year (eight-issue) subscription to Grain Magazine. If you already have a subscription to Grain, we'll simply add another four issues to your current subscription for each entry fee received.<br />
6. <em>What if I enter something that's over the word count? Will that piece be disqualified?</em><br />
The contest judge will only consider the first 2,500 words of each piece of Fiction. If you enter a piece of Fiction that is 3,000, for example, only the first 2,500 will be considered. The last 500 words will be discarded. The same rules apply for Poetry entries over 100 lines.<br />
7. <em>Can I enter three or more pieces of poetry for $35 if the total line count is under 100 lines?</em><br />
No. Guideline #1 above states: "The basic fee for Canadian entrants is $35 for a <em>maximum of two entries</em> in one category." This means that you may enter two poems maximum, but each individual poem may be up to 100 lines in length. If you wish to enter a third poem, you will need to pay an additional entry fee.<br />
8. <em>For poetry, do titles or line breaks count as lines toward the 100 line maximum?</em><br />
No. Titles or line breaks or spaces between lines of poetry do not count toward the 100 line maximum. Only lines of text count.<br />
9. <em>Will entrants be notified of the winners?</em><br />
No. Winners and the names of the winning pieces will be posted on this website in August, 2013.<br />
10. <em>What if the postmarked deadline falls on a weekend when the post offices are closed?</em><br />
Because we are using a postmarked deadline, If the deadline falls on a day when the post offices are closed, we will accept entries postmarked on the next business day. April 1, 2013, however is a Monday and all post offices should be open.</span>MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-87914606945008383482012-11-23T00:14:00.000-08:002012-11-23T00:16:11.031-08:00The Wait<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwihMjWs8S7W5ulyXXk_812IlLMdgXiey7E62-iTdEU59j8mv9Lheukg7RvxCxyu9Txmy2bq7sO1bMKdbiHL_IyUy16sMgb1_bSyLUpgvjbHOAFJ0GBbvyKgXyjz8QX6InFYYWgpqVIY/s1600/blog+pic+typer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwihMjWs8S7W5ulyXXk_812IlLMdgXiey7E62-iTdEU59j8mv9Lheukg7RvxCxyu9Txmy2bq7sO1bMKdbiHL_IyUy16sMgb1_bSyLUpgvjbHOAFJ0GBbvyKgXyjz8QX6InFYYWgpqVIY/s1600/blog+pic+typer.jpg" height="320" width="277" /></a></div>
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It has been 5 years since my debut book launched. </div>
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5</div>
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friggen</div>
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I sat up in bed last night - sweaty limbs, heartbeat in ears, twitching feet- when I realized this. I have not produced a book in 5 years. Well, let me re-phrase that, I've written 2.5 books in the past 5 years since Red Rooms came into the world, but as far as the reading public is concerned, I've been watching too many episodes of <i>Sons of Anarchy </i>online (true) eating too many Kit Kats (also true) and doing nothing at all with my literary career. And dammit, that sucks. I don't mind when people see my tattoos and assume I'm an unemployed ne'er do well. I don't even mind when people judge me wearing pyjama bottoms to drop my kids off in the morning, but the book thing... well, thats a little harder to take. </div>
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Invitations are slowing down. My cache (what little there was to begin with) in the literary world is slowly losing colour, and my credibility for why I am resistant to a full time job, why I need hours tucked away in pockets of quiet to sit at my desk, well I'm hard pressed to defend it. But why? What is the hold up?</div>
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Well, for one, there are less and less publishers in Canada, and therefore, less and less pie for all the blackbirds pecking about the crust. For another, submitting a manuscript is epic in itself. An agent demands a good three months of exclusivity to review a ms. Now times that by 6 submissions and you're already looking at a year and a half. Its a waiting game.</div>
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So what do you do? Well, for one, you start a blog and rant. Another good (better) option is anthologies, magazines, periodicals and journals. Just write. Write because you have to. Write like somebody's reading.</div>
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One of my mentors, Lee Maracle, said to me once, "Write to bring excellence into the world. Worry about the business of it all later. Publishing has nothing to do with writing, don't ever get them confused." And yes, spoken like a woman with a dozen books, but true none the less. And so, here is my blog, and this is my rant. And also, after my trip to India in 2 weeks (on an invitation to an international literary gathering, so I guess I can't whine too loud), look for an increase in articles, stories, submissions and anthologized pieces. I figure, if I keep writing, even in the long, empty voids between published books, maybe I can convince myself that someone is reading.</div>
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xo</div>
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-69835322631487498092012-10-02T15:06:00.000-07:002012-10-02T15:06:36.489-07:00Indigenous Writers' Gathering - OCTOBER 18: Do not miss this one, Toronto!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCyfjVtnmV-IEVqXxn_8jOgsBu3rR9Q9qspdT7AAHMTVh3kI33epM_HYPKuQ-9Tey4mqcng_eItDVb7FwWxAmUV6Z5Y3Am5Qq3kHCIpwyw5NMUZurqD6iEAFQ_bn0u44-FaCyc5JfYd0/s1600/IWG+5+Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCyfjVtnmV-IEVqXxn_8jOgsBu3rR9Q9qspdT7AAHMTVh3kI33epM_HYPKuQ-9Tey4mqcng_eItDVb7FwWxAmUV6Z5Y3Am5Qq3kHCIpwyw5NMUZurqD6iEAFQ_bn0u44-FaCyc5JfYd0/s640/IWG+5+Poster.jpg" width="414" /></a></div>
<br />MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-79549393276361205562012-09-24T11:41:00.002-07:002012-09-25T13:22:40.419-07:00Nuit Blanche just got a little rouge<br />
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Yay! I get to work with the amazing people at Diaspora Dialogues again. This time we're rocking Nuit Blanche- the all night art party in downtown Toronto. Check out the link and visit us after dusk on September 29!</div>
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<a href="http://www.diasporadialogues.com/">www.diasporadialogues.com</a></div>
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-41156002186268381792012-08-01T15:38:00.004-07:002012-09-12T11:17:34.618-07:00excerpt from The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy (Theytus, Spring 2013)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1Q1gaDjfwTo8WP7wdJo6r3QNQnpOsddM7ny9OWBBrSBrx5pd9Tol92NrDXpkSa2t67vGAm3pUzPXpfyal20vOz1v9pg0mzNohcfTEb_HmuieJ794VQ48ZG6hP4mIN07lqqcaafUmgEc/s1600/Cherie_Front_EN_V2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1Q1gaDjfwTo8WP7wdJo6r3QNQnpOsddM7ny9OWBBrSBrx5pd9Tol92NrDXpkSa2t67vGAm3pUzPXpfyal20vOz1v9pg0mzNohcfTEb_HmuieJ794VQ48ZG6hP4mIN07lqqcaafUmgEc/s400/Cherie_Front_EN_V2.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">“Hey… hey,” a voice hollered from a balcony
sagging under the weight of a past capacity crowd. “Show me the goods,
sweetheart!” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Ruby laughed at the slurred stupidity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">“Hey! Don’t be shy sweetie,” the voice called
again, somewhere above her head. “Let me see your tittays!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Ruby looked up and saw a young man in a
University of Colorado T-shirt spotted with sweat stains shouting down to her.
She still wasn’t sure so she looked around her and found herself surrounded by
men. Not another pair of ‘tittays’ in sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">“Yeah,” he nodded. “You” he pointed down at her.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Ruby felt the point like a small knife in her
chest and put a hand there to hold herself together. She opened her eyes wide
and felt a deep blush start in her neck and crawl quickly upwards like rising
mercury in a glass thermometer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">He screamed, “WHOOOO!!” as if she had agreed to
his proposition, shaking a hand full of beads in the air, clenched in his fist
like plastic pirate booty that had tumbled out of a piñata. “Yeah! Show me your
tittays!!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Ruby shook her head and tried to wave him off.
People were starting to look at them. “No, please don’t shout like that.” She
held her finger to her lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">He untangled a string of blue beads and dangled
them over the edge of the balcony, waiting like a hyperactive child, hopping
from foot to foot. “WHOOOOHOOO!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">There was no way in hell Ruby was going to take
her damn top off. Not for this geek, licking his lips and clapping his hands
like a perverted jester, not for a million dollars, let alone a lousy string of
plastic baubles she could buy herself. She had no interest in amusing a street
full of tipsy tourists, no interest in becoming a spectacle. She backed away
from the balcony, off the sidewalk and into the street. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">“Awww,” he pouted, teetered and then leaned the
upper half of his heavy body dangerously over the edge of the railing, beads
dangling, sweaty t-shirt pulling up over his prematurely flabby belly. “Fine,
have'em anyways.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">He half-heartedly threw the blue strand down to
her as she turned on her heel towards the other side of the street. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">In that moment, both the boy and Ruby would have
sudden intuitive leaps of understanding - unexpected epiphanies. Theirs were
diametrically opposing visions, though both involved Ruby standing in the
middle of Bourbon Street and a set of scuffed blue plastic beads. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Those beads looped through the air like a Mardi
Gras lasso, spinning around and around with the precision of a drunk’s aim ,
descending towards Ruby as she turned away. She saw them out of the corner of
her eye and immediately wished them away, didn’t even want the acknowledgement
of them glancing off her shoulder and clattering to the ground with the tiny
tinkering of hollow plastic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">She waited for them to hit. Instead, she felt
the warm steam of a halted engine when the waxed string hooked onto the curves
of an inconspicuous cranial universe. The diamond cut beads, like two-dozen
blue disco balls, fell into the orbit and became a garish milky way that
inexplicably hung above Ruby’s head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Almost immediately she could smell the stench of
burnt plastic, an invasive smell that made her think of old curling irons and
hot August days when the rancid garbage on residential curbs keeps kids from
their hockey. She reached above her head, perfectly aware of what had happened
and not at all surprised. She grabbed a handful of beads before it got too
tightly wound like a shoelace in a bicycle wheel, and yanked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">The beads snapped along the thin string and fell
to the ground. She looked at them, lying in a puddle of spilt beer at her feet
instead of being draped gracefully around her collarbone like the other girls
she saw making their way, arm in arm, up the street. And although she didn’t
want them to begin with, there was a part of her, a hard lump of Longing that
burrowed through Envy’s wake, that did. Why was she never the beautiful one?
Why did all the flattery, all the attention get caught up in the turning of a
dozen planets and fall at her feet, broken and forgotten? She blinked three
times and walked away, stepping over the broken beads. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">The boy on the balcony almost looked away from
the pretty girl in the black skirt. It was clear she wasn’t going to take her
top off; it was obvious he wasn’t going to see any boobs. He’d been throwing
these damn beads all night with not one lousy nipple to show for it. Unless
those ‘Girls Gone Wild’ videos lied, he’d been having an unusually slow night.
And they couldn’t be lying. He’d gone through too many bottles of baby oil in
his dorm room by himself and now his summer job savings on the ideology they
espoused. But something made him hesitate, arms dangling off the balcony after
his heroic throw. And just before he stood straight, intent on getting to the
bar to grab another Bud, he saw something miraculous, something that would
haunt him even as he slept fitfully, hung-over beyond all recognition, on the
plane back to Colorado, even years later, lying in bed beside his quiet
suburban wife in their red brick bungalow with the extended back sunroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">The beads spun towards the girl as she turned
away. He grew excited, thinking that he may have just made the perfect throw
with an aim that might garner him a quick flash of skin. It looked as though
the necklace was actually going to make it. How awesome would that be? He
raised his arms as the necklace descended, falling straight over her head. He
filled his lungs with warm Louisiana night air, ready to scream it back out in
victory. But instead of falling around her shoulders, the beads just hovered
there, blurry as if they were being viewed through an unfocused lens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Before his inebriated mind could wrap around the
phenomenon, she reached up and yanked them down, not once looking back at her
dumbfounded spectator. The string broke and the beads floated like hardened
wontons in a puddle of spilt beer, but still he stared. She walked away, up
onto the sidewalk on the other side, and he continued to stare, arms still
raised above his head, warm night air still trapped in his lungs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">He knew the girl was pretty, that’s why he’d
propositioned her. But he never would he even have guessed that she was an
angel, a real live angel. How else could he explain the beads caught up in a
halo just above her hair? With the beads hanging there, as ordinary and
astounding as planes in the sky, she was rendered beautiful, became
inconsolably heartbreaking. It was a miracle, a bloody miracle. He, Jonathan
Davidson from Littleton, Colorado had seen an angel in New Orleans. It was
amazing, it was historic and he would never forget her, even if he didn’t get
to see her tittays. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Ruby walked under a green and white striped
awning on the other side of the road. “C’mon now Miss,” a tall man holding a
leather bound menu in one hand ushered her into a smoky doorway. “Best jazz in
New Orl</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">eeens</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
allowed herself pliancy and was ushered into the club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-39624778841609158092012-07-09T20:47:00.002-07:002012-11-23T00:17:45.426-08:00Creating Yourself- one online purchase at a timeSummer was always my most favourite time of the year, but not for the usual reasons of sun and beach and that strange erotic mixture of sunscreen and sand grinding beneath the seams of swimwear. It was intoxicating in its power- a break, a chance to create a whole new persona. What's that Eliot line? "A time to create a face to meet the faces that you'll meet". I think thats how it goes.<br />
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I'd spend each summer finding the version of myself the world would have to deal with come September. Its not like it was ever very far off the mark to my casual, non-theatrical, everyday self, and it was definitely a shade of the true colour of my guts (I should say heart or soul here but I can't bring myself to type those words- I'm allergic to trite). It was exciting to pick clothes, and make-up, and hairstyles, and books, and even language to fit whichever Cherie I was going to introduce to the school that first week of September. I'd forgotten about that joy. I forgot about how fucking amazing it can be to go into the summer cocoon and bust out nearing Fall in all your goth/nerd chic/introspective/artistic glory.<br />
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I think its a practice I just might have to revive this summer. That being said, he's a rad new pair of tights I just ordered off my favourite (and dangerously addictive) shopping site, etsy.com. <img alt="Pippi Leggings - Nude with Black Striped Legging Polka Dot Legging - NUDE - Legging - LARGE Legging Womens Tights" src="http://img3.etsystatic.com/000/0/6312043/il_570xN.346463959.jpg" width="570" /><br />
(I LOVE Pippi Longstocking!!) These are from Carouselink's store. Check'em out.MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-7841449078955499642012-06-07T15:24:00.002-07:002012-06-07T15:24:30.130-07:00Great Blog for Writers<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://quick-brown-fox-canada.blogspot.ca/">http://quick-brown-fox-canada.blogspot.ca/</a></div>
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<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="218" data-width="231" height="218" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT4DflQVCHLjJ4N0pNSyOpDpgpnpyZ-4J8KBbVyt-WoNw6Gs_oK" style="height: 218px; width: 231px;" width="231" /></div>MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-31883368840170032672012-04-13T08:11:00.000-07:002012-04-13T08:11:13.841-07:00DIASPORA DIALOGUES EVENT!(I'll be here... make sure you are too!)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzlOo5ZGju_fSAOQHjoacwf-LDAk-ni1Qs7_1LVV1eGGm2tt2E0taujDU905HVc486jj5mU0nEzT5i0Xes6mTdV90INZQpavx_F5H6_yYtgYqOi5nHXtLsD-nrTuD6yToh2xonPq40A8/s1600/DD.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzlOo5ZGju_fSAOQHjoacwf-LDAk-ni1Qs7_1LVV1eGGm2tt2E0taujDU905HVc486jj5mU0nEzT5i0Xes6mTdV90INZQpavx_F5H6_yYtgYqOi5nHXtLsD-nrTuD6yToh2xonPq40A8/s320/DD.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Diaspora
Dialogues returns this April to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/ktr/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Keep Toronto Reading</span></a>'s
stellar lineup. DD in partnership with Toronto Public Library present<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><em><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-image: initial; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">Toronto</span></em></st1:place></st1:city><em><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-image: initial; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"> the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Join us for a series of free readings
and performances that reveal the different sides of this dynamic city the last
three Fridays in April.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Featured writers from Toronto the Good
include:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/rabindranath-maharaj/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Rabindranath
Maharaj</span></a>,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/jill-andrew/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Jill Andrew</span></a>,<a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/sheila-heti/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Shiela Heti</span></a>,
Misha Glouberman,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/brandon-pitts"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Brandon Pitts</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/sarah-feldbloom/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Sarah Feldbloom</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/andrew-pyper"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Andrew Pyper</span></a>,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/ron-schafrick/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Ron Schafrick</span></a>,
Mia Herrera,<a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/lillian-allen/"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Lillian Allen</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and Shadi Eskandani will present
stories about <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Toronto</st1:place></st1:city>
the Bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Anecdotes from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Toronto</st1:place></st1:city> the Ugly will be shared by Michael
Helm, Dominque Russell, Valentina Gal, and musical guest<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.myspace.com/lalforest"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">LAL</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">The evenings’ event will be hosted by<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/catherine-hernandez/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Catherine
Hernandez</span></a>,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.tapa.ca/doras/"><span style="color: #c1272d; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Dora Mavor Moore</span></a>nominated playwright.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<st1:city w:st="on"><strong><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Toronto</span></strong></st1:city><strong><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"> the Good</span></strong><b><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><br />
<strong>When:</strong></span></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Friday, April 13; 7 pm<br />
<strong><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-image: initial; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">Where:</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Toronto</st1:place></st1:city>
Reference Library, Atrium; <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">789
Yonge Street</st1:address></st1:street><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<st1:city w:st="on"><strong><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Toronto</span></strong></st1:city><strong><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"> the Bad</span></strong><b><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><br />
<strong>When:</strong><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Friday, April 20; 7 pm<br />
<strong><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-image: initial; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">Where:</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Toronto</st1:place></st1:city>
Reference Library, Atrium; <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">789
Yonge Street</st1:address></st1:street><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<st1:city w:st="on"><strong><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Toronto</span></strong></st1:city><strong><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"> the Ugly</span></strong><b><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><br />
<strong>When:</strong></span></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: san-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Friday, April 27; 7 pm<br />
<strong><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-image: initial; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">Where:</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"> </span></b></span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Toronto</st1:place></st1:city> Reference
Library, Atrium; <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">789 Yonge Street</st1:address></st1:street><o:p></o:p></span></div>MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-36364925383804600092012-04-03T14:42:00.000-07:002012-07-10T06:33:41.445-07:00BUK!<img height="646" id="il_fi" src="http://jacketmagazine.com/px-writers/bukowski-c-1981-by-mark-hanauer.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="475" /><br />
<em>photo by mark hanauer</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, so anyone who knows me knows that I love the work of this craggly, rude, obnoxious, drunken man. I mean really...<br />
<br />
<strong><u>heat</u></strong><br />
<em>if you have ever drawn up your last plan on<br />and old shirt cardboard in an Eastside hotel room of winter<br />with last week’s rent due and a dead radiator<br />you’ll know how large small things are<br />like yourself coming up the stairway<br />Maybe for the final time<br />with your bottle of wine<br />thinking of the lady in #9<br />putting on her garters<br />and on her dresser there is a<br />dark red drinking glass<br />which catches the overhead light like a<br />soft dream of Jerusalem<br />and she dusts herself<br />slips into silk and sheath and<br />spiked feet<br />and unemployed and looking for work<br />and maybe looking for you<br />she passes you on the<br />stairway;<br />such disturbing grace<br />transforms one.<br />like a blue-winged fly exploding into<br />the summer sky<br />you decide to hang around and <br />die later; you enter your room and pour wine like<br />blood, inward, and decide in the morning you’ll<br />get up early and<br />read the want<br />ads.</em><br />
<br />
Really? Really Bukowski? I love this. I love the Eliot-like emphasis on the minutae. I love the balletic interaction between images on a broken-down stage. I love the ease with which he can make you cringe and then bring you to comfort in that uncomfortable spot.<br />
<br />
Check these out:<br />
<a href="http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Tales-of-Ordinary-Madness-Charles-Bukowski-Gail-Chiarrello/9780872861558-item.html?ikwid=bukowski&ikwsec=Books">Tales of Ordinary Madness</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Days-Run-Away-Like-Wild-Charles-Bukowski/9780876850053-item.html?ikwid=bukowski&ikwsec=Books">The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses</a><br />
<br />
Also, check out your local used book store- there are usually a few Hank gems in there to be had.MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-66344261920996556312012-03-19T16:10:00.003-07:002012-09-12T11:19:19.641-07:00AHHH! I am a terrible bloggerSo as penance for my absence, please accept this humble piece of writing; one of the many lovely bombs that has littered my path towards blogging-adriotness.<br />
<br />
cut from <em>The Lithopedion of Winterson Cemetery</em>- (what might end up being my 4th adult novel)<br />
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The sun dragged its sharpest points across the sky and fat
scabs of slow snow spiralled to the ground. Winifred watched from her round
bedroom window. Behind the curved glass she felt like a goldfish being fed by
an unsupervised child- too much, too fast. Soon the flakes covered the brown
grass and the graves became harder to spot; grey and white against the
accumulating snow; teeth knocked out of place, pushed forward and overlapping
in a grassy lower jaw. The black fence separating the plots from the road,
segregating the dead away from the living, was as ineffectual as braces added
too late, and the general and the plot populations met and danced and parted again
as they pleased.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Winifred was lost to it all. Everything was rendered
temporary and difficult in light of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Alice</st1:city></st1:place>’s
knowing the truth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
(Also, look up LITHOPEDION... the weirdest stuff is true)<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lithopedion">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lithopedion</a>MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-14732181653688054232012-01-12T12:49:00.001-08:002012-01-12T12:54:24.441-08:00First Nations House INDIGENOUS WRITERS GATHERING at the University of Toronto<strong>Thursday, February 9
</strong><br />
<strong>All events held at First Nations House, 563 Spadina Ave, 3rd Floor (just north of College St)
</strong><br />
<strong>Free Admission- Open the Public</strong>
<br />
<br />
10:30-12:00 • Journalism and the preservation of our stories in the electronic age with Waubgeshig Rice, Wab Kinew and Muskrat Magazine Publisher Rebeka
<br />
<br />
12:30-2:00 • Poetry and Politics with the renowned Lee Maracle and Ryan RedCorn of the 1491s
<br />
<br />
2:30-4:00 • Getting Grants and accessing funding for your creative work<br />
<br />
6pm – 8pm OPEN MIKE reading night at First Nations House
Drop in and share your short prose or poetry, or be part of the enthusiastic audience. Snacks and drinks will be served.
<br />
<br />
Friday, February 10
<br />
<br />
10:00 AM - Breakfast with the Writers: grab a coffee and some food with some of today’s best Indigenous authors.
<br />
<br />
12:00- 1:30 • Traditional storytelling and mythmaking with Daniel Justice and Waub Rice
<br />
<br />
2:00-3:30 • Developing and utilizing writing groups with Bren Kolson and Lee Maracle
<br />
<br />
4:00-5:30 • Writing for performance with the 1491’s Dallas Goldtooth and Ryan RedCorn and author/performer AmberLee Kolson
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Friday, Feb 10, 7pm-10pm at the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto
Gala Reading Night – FREE admission and open to the public</strong>
<br />
<br />
Come early to get a seat!
<br />
<br />
Dallas Goldtooth hosts an evening of raucous comedy, video screenings, amazing author readings and hip hop.
<br />
Starring:
Dallas Goldtooth and Ryan Redcorn of the 1491s
<br />
Yellowknife’s Bren Kolson
<br />
Comedy with AmberLee Kolson
<br />
Breakout author Waubgeshig Rice
<br />
U of T’s own superstars Daniel Heath Justice and Lee Maracle
<br />
And a performance by Winnipeg hip hop phenomenon Wab Kinew
<br />
<br />
Refreshments served.
*Some content may be for adult audiences only.
<br />
<br />
For more info:
www.fnhouse.blogspot.com
www.1491s.com
www.fnh.utoronto.ca
and look for us on Facebook!MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-32651320460303429762011-12-27T22:58:00.000-08:002011-12-27T22:58:02.658-08:00The Inevitable 'Its a New Year... Expect Big Things' Post (sorry, had to be done)Its almost the new year and so you know what that means; every blogger re-dedicates themselves to their page. Sadly, I am no different. This year I've slacked off and as a result, the blog has suffered. Of course, I did manage to finish the new manuscript, so I'm hoping to win back points for that one. And actually, I think that will be the focus of this blog for the next few months- the process of getting 'A Gentle Habit' under contract, and also, getting "Girl Who Grew A Galaxy' into print (6 months away!!)
2012 is proving to be a successful year already, because I won't have it any other way. The Residency at U of T continues, the novel is coming out, the new short story ms. finished, 4 launches already booked in 2 countries, muskratmagazine.com taking off, new projects underway; its all coming together. I am a bit frightened as only someone with anxiety can be- failure would be heartbreaking and success would be nerve-racking, but at least it'll make for an interesting blog.MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-4836007695551235042011-10-17T06:54:00.001-07:002011-10-17T06:54:57.131-07:00On my blackboard today...<i>"Place is the information your reader most wants to know." </i>
-Dorothy Allison, author of <b>Bastard out of Carolina</b>
LANDSCAPE+INSIGHT+FEELING+REACTION= PLACEMUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1064313519154560461.post-65518814742407388692011-09-26T12:32:00.000-07:002011-09-26T12:35:57.918-07:00There's no point in trying to avoid Burroughs... and really, not all of it is as surreal as an internal Dali (I promise)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCPcly9bgcZOLtfXkf6EewwvlEiiVmxSddulI8JFyMg0_J-IEGG0GyhNmB0gO9KnQB8aclUI5l1UopiRQTVdPpWJOiCnqhDvCRnbDC1RM5C6ZPHeX1ep7H49LYHufaSxHTMmmcDjs0PY/s1600/burroughs-quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="274" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCPcly9bgcZOLtfXkf6EewwvlEiiVmxSddulI8JFyMg0_J-IEGG0GyhNmB0gO9KnQB8aclUI5l1UopiRQTVdPpWJOiCnqhDvCRnbDC1RM5C6ZPHeX1ep7H49LYHufaSxHTMmmcDjs0PY/s400/burroughs-quote.jpg" /></a></div>
I've spent a lot of time avoiding William S Burroughs. I'm not even quite sure why. I think it had something to do with the fact that it was my older brother who introduced him to me and so I tied them together in a bundle of nerves and opinions in my brain. Not that there's anything really wrong with my brother, just that, well, you know... I can be stubborn, and I like being the discoverer of treasure as opposed to having it handed to me while I wait patiently, in fact, unawares, on deck.
And then there's the fact that the first time I tried to read Burroughs, it was 'exterminator' that I happened to pick up.
YIPES.
Even when he popped up in and among the other writers I carried around in my ribcage with all my other valuables- Bukowski, Thompson- I tried to skip over him. And then I happened upon 'Junky'. And then 'Junky' brought me to 'Queer' and then 'Queer' brought me to the internet where I found old recordings of him reading, and then 'Naked Lunch', etc, etc. And here's what I know is true: No one can stitch an image together with such texture and spark as Burroughs at his best. At his worst even, Burrough's is brave and new and odd and a bit mad; and these qualities in themselves are worth seeking him out for.
<i><b>"In my writing I am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space, and I see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed."
</i>-William S. Burroughs
Check youtube.com for readings, documentaries and random Burroughsness. For example: </b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6JqjCB_7_I&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6JqjCB_7_I&feature=related</a>
MUSKRAThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02589872647838540161noreply@blogger.com0