FRINGE, by Rebecca Belmore

http://www.rebeccabelmore.com/home.html

What is the role of an artist?

an excerpt from Joseph Conrad

"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.

It is otherwise with the artist.

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."

Sulu Makes Me Lazy

I 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: http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/george-takei-responds-to-traditional-marriage-fans.

A story I forgot existed...

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. 

-C

A Curious Position

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.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

There's three more funerals you'll never find the time to attend.

You can sit at its bedside while it wastes away.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

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.

Shush.

Shuffle.

Shush.

*******

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Rose...” Donavon stumbled over each letter, trying to pull his tweed trousers up over his pale ass. “Rose, wait.”

He moved away from Lilly, the coward, and she fell to the ground, screams muffled by moss and snow.

Thats when I swung.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

GRAIN contest- deadline April 1

Grain Magazine's 25th Annual Short Grain Writing Contest

We thank Cheryl & Henry Kloppenburg, Barristers and Solicitors, Saskatoon, for their ongoing support of Grain and the Short Grain Writing Contest.
For the list of past contest winners, click here.
About Grain and the Short Grain Writing Contest: Recent issues have featured the work of such literary luminaries as Xi Chuan, Tim Lilburn, Guy Maddin, Miriam Toews, Zsuzsi Gartner, and Eleanor Wachtel. And you could join them in the pages of Grain.

Contest Guidelines

Contest prizes donated in part by Cheryl & Henry Kloppenburg, Barristers and Solicitors, Saskatoon.

$4,500 in prizes to be won! Each entrant receives a FREE subscription to Grain Magazine!
DEADLINE: APRIL 1, 2013 (POSTMARKED)
Judges:
POETRY: Méira Cook, Author of A Walker in the City
FICTION: Stan Rogal, Author of Bloodline
Categories: Poetry: (to a max of 100 lines) Poetry of any style - including prose poetry - up to 100 lines.
Fiction: (to a max of 2,500 words) Short fiction in any form - including postcard fiction - to a maximum of 2500 words.Prizes:3 prizes will be awarded in each category:

• 1st = $1,000
• 2nd = $750
• 3rd = $500

Entry Guidelines:
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.
2. Every entrant receives a one-year (four-issue) subscription to Grain Magazine.
3. All entries must be POSTMARKED by April 1, 2013. Entries postmarked after this date will not be accepted.
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.
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.
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:

• Your name, complete mailing address, telephone number, and email address.
• Title of your entry(ies).
• Category you are entering: Poetry (to a max of 100 lines) or Fiction (to a max of 2,500 words)
• Word Count (Fiction) / Line Count (Poetry). An absolutely accurate word or line count is required.

Judging is blind. Do not print, type, or write your name on the text pages of your entry.
7. Your entry must be typed (double-spaced for fiction) on 8 1/2 x 11 inch paper. It must be legible. Faxed and/or electronic entries not accepted.
8. Entries will not be returned. Keep a copy of your entry.
9. Names of the winners and titles of the winning entries of the 25th Annual Short Grain Contest will be posted on the Grain Magazine website in August, 2013. Contest winners will be notified directly either by telephone or by email prior to the website posting.
10. Make your cheque or money order payable to Short Grain Contest.
11. Send your entry or entries to:
Short Grain Contest
P.O. Box 67
Saskatoon, SK
Canada, S7K 3K1
12. Entries by email or fax will not be accepted.
DEADLINE: APRIL 1, 2013 (postmarked)

Frequently Asked Questions:

1. 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?
No. For each $35 entry fee, you may enter one or two pieces of Fiction OR 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.
2. Can I enter more than once?
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.
3. If I enter twice (for $70), can I enter two pieces of Fiction AND two pieces of Poetry?
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?
4. Do I need to send a separate cover page for each piece of writing I enter?
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!
5. And what happens to my free subscription if I enter more than once?
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.
6. What if I enter something that's over the word count? Will that piece be disqualified?
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.
7. Can I enter three or more pieces of poetry for $35 if the total line count is under 100 lines?
No. Guideline #1 above states: "The basic fee for Canadian entrants is $35 for a maximum of two entries 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.
8. For poetry, do titles or line breaks count as lines toward the 100 line maximum?
No. Titles or line breaks or spaces between lines of poetry do not count toward the 100 line maximum. Only lines of text count.
9. Will entrants be notified of the winners?
No. Winners and the names of the winning pieces will be posted on this website in August, 2013.
10. What if the postmarked deadline falls on a weekend when the post offices are closed?
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.

The Wait

It has been 5 years since my debut book launched. 

5

friggen

years

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 Sons of Anarchy 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. 

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?

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.

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.

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.

xo

Indigenous Writers' Gathering - OCTOBER 18: Do not miss this one, Toronto!!

Nuit Blanche just got a little rouge

 

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!

www.diasporadialogues.com