l'esprit de escalier

A measurement of romantic/platonic love

2012-03-01T15:55:00.000-08:00

Near the end of last year, a couple of young filmmakers walked around a university campus and asked people one question: can men and women be just friends?
Something interesting happened. All the women said “yes, of course,” with dubious looks on their faces as if the answer was obvious. And yet every man responded with some variation of “no, you cannot.”
The video went viral, spawning the platonic friends debate in cafes and bars alike. The parties, more or less, fit into two categories. One person would say “Of course you can, we’re not children, what a stupid question,” while the other maintained that “it’s more complicated than that.” Let me begin by clarifying that I am of the “complicated” party.
You would be accurate to argue that this video made by college students does not necessarily count as a scientific, psychological study yet nevertheless its evidence proves beyond a doubt that male/female platonic friendships are impossible. I would agree with you. The small size and narrow age group sampled does not give us enough empirical evidence, but that’s not really the point. What this video does do, however, is provide interesting insight into the difference between men and women’s thinking.
One of the common reasons why men believe that it is impossible to be “just friends” with women is the sexual attraction issue. If you are attracted to someone who is either a good friend or a best friend, what is keeping you from pursuing something more? The men interviewed in the video admitted that, if given the chance, they would “hook up” with a girl who is a friend.
Perhaps one explanation (albeit a strictly reductionist one) may be that women, biologically speaking, seek out security and comfort when it comes to male friends or partners. To be surrounded by supportive, non-threatening individuals is considered healthy and important. On the other hand, men (while still desiring comfort and support) are biologically created to “spread their seed,” to put it crudely. This is not to say I wholeheartedly agree with this possibility; I am no scientist myself, but perhaps this is one aspect that should be kept in consideration.
In an article titled “Strictly Platonic,” Pamela Johnson relates platonic male/female relationships back to the original Greek philosophical concept. Put glibly, she says “you either don’t have the hots for the other person, you pretend not to, or you reroute the energy into conversation.” Based on my own personal experience, this claim seems mostly accurate. Of all my friendships with men, there has either been a point where I considered the possibility of romance, or he did (whether that was strictly based on attraction or a greater admiration). Again, my personal experience alone does not suggest some wider truth, but rather indicates that cross-sex friendships tend to be more complex than same-sex ones.
The complexities in cross-sex friendships is explored in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships in the article “Cross-Sex Friends Who Were Once Romantic Partners: Are They Platonic Friends Now?” Schneider and Kenny admit that “the potential for sexual attraction [is] a challenge that men and women face in a friendship between them.” According to one study, 53 percent of males and 31 percent of females admitted that they started a friendship with the hopes that it would turn into something romantic (Kaplan and Keys 1997). It was also found that “a majority of men and women reported wanting to be more than just friends at one time with their opposite-sex friend” (1997).
As these studies suggest, opposite sex friends sometimes consider or act on sexual or romantic desires, thus complicating the friendship. This does not mean that every friendship a man has with a woman is fraught with sexual undertones; indeed, it is possible for two people to be friends without anything romantic ever occurring. The complication that I mean to point out is the “just” friends part. If one individual is in a relationship, or if the hangouts occur within a group, the chances of anything “complicated” happening are less likely. Yes, men and women can be friends, but the trajectory of that friendship will not always be so simple as “just friends.”

Originally published in Mars' Hill, March 1, 2012

Plastic Acid is 'rock art' orchestra

2012-02-20T15:53:00.001-08:00

Conductor-turned-gliding instructor-turned-cellist of anti-orchestra tells his story to The Peak

Dress Led Zeppelin up in a crisp white shirt and tie and you get Bryan Deans of Plastic Acid Orchestra. Sipping espresso in JJ Bean, Deans revealed the mechanics behind the 45-piece orchestra that blends Soundgarden with Shostakovich.

“It’s rock-art fusion. A full symphony sound but with an edge,” said Deans as he described Plastic Acid, accurately named after the collaborative, wacky mixture of elements the group employs. The orchestra is an evolving amoeba of sound, and will soon be fused with the folksy artistry of Maria in the Shower.

Deans began conducting for the graduate students of the University of Victoria’s music program after he was asked if he could switch up his style to accompany some new songs that were weirder than their usual repertoire. “I was like, what does it require, a chainsaw and a little bit of rock and a weird thing here, a weird thing there? So I said yeah, what the hell.” After conducting for three years with UVic, Deans was able to meet tons of student musicians and eventually figured he could do his own show. This spawned the beginnings of Plastic Acid, and the upcoming collaboration with Maria in the Shower.

Martin Reisle, frontman of Maria in the Shower, came to Deans with the idea of collaborating in an unusual place.

“I’m actually a glider pilot. I teach gliding in the Columbia Valley. I was flying gliders up there and this guy came out, this really skinny, little human comes out and said he heard that I played the cello,” Deans relayed. Reisle was looking for someone who was innovative with the cello. After singing the song he had in mind out loud to Deans (one can only imagine this scene occurring on the edge of a cliff somewhere, gliders in the background, two quirky musician cartoon characters humming to each other), Deans agreed. The song, “Train of Pounding Hours” is now done with the full symphony, tying up the end of the show.

Plastic Acid has gone on to play in various bars and clubs in Vancouver, including Caprice. A video online shows the smoky, cramped club filled with music stands and Deans, standing in a corner swinging his conducting baton as the crowd shouts along to “Black Hole Sun”.

“I wanted to change it up so people can see it in a bar environment. Really trying to stay away from standard big time. We have a different setup overall, different genres.” The unique experience of Plastic Acid is meant to be as the name implies: semi-akin to doing acid. The aggressive, brassy pieces are not meant to be absorbed passively in a plush theatre seat, with arms crossed and eyelids drooping; but to be rocked out to and engaged with. This time though, they are moving back into the theatre, taking the stage of the Vogue. “We really want people to yell out and scream and participate,” Deans says. Plastic Acid, infused with Maria in the Shower’s cabaret folk, is anything but your standard, classical orchestra. It’s the rejuvenation of a tuxedo -filled theatre, but in this scenario, audience members are more likely to be donning faded Pink Floyd T-shirts.

Now that the group has come full circle, acquiring a large enough fan base for the Vogue, the anti-orchestra has reached out to be a service group for the Junos. “The organizers want to see interest in the group, as well as a concert series lined up before they do anything.” It’s immediately clear that if Plastic Acid is going to make as large an impact as they should, it’s going to be up to the audience’s participation and adoption of the genre-defying symphony.

“Let’s say Plastic Acid has a few pieces, our own songs. Or we play for other artists. I’d pick Arcade Fire, or Mother Mother, and we arrange some pieces together, so when you’re nominated, we can back you up. Or even go with Maria in the Shower. A bit of a Canadian play.”

Plastic Acid belongs in the group of innovative Canadian artists, slowly making their mark on the international market. Arcade Fire is one such colourful mix of musical geniuses, utilizing every instrument under the sun. The beauty of Plastic Acid is its ability to transform; it’s a moveable creature, adopting sounds and genres and vaudeville along the way. “Already, people are coming up to me with ideas, asking how we can arrange it. A heavy metal band approached me for the year after. It’s already developing and we haven’t even gotten to this show yet.”

Plastic Acid Orchestra plays the Vogue Theatre with Maria in the Shower February 25.

Originally published in The Peak, February 20, 2012

Rotary Dial

2012-02-19T21:45:00.000-08:00

“How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person on the other end shouts back ‘What?’
- J.D. Salinger, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters

It was one of those nights that called for bourbon and anintimate phone call. The hotel barwas long and grimy and the best place to fulfill self-loathing. I swirled the liquid in the short glassand considered the last time her and I had spoken. I believe her last words had been precisely:

“Don’tforget to grab laundry detergent, dear.”

Andthat was precisely two months ago. I don’t know quite what had happened. I had stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets and walkeddown the street, eyes skipping from light post to light post, meditating on theway the laundry detergent bottle would feel when I rescued it off the grocery’sshelf and whisked it off the to Maytag awaiting in our basement. Next thing I knew I was buying an oldCadillac with the urgency of a heart attack and speeding south.

Thestain on the collar of my shirt loomed large and invasive. I thought of the shape of her lips andcoffee mug rims and cigarette burns. I fingered the few dimes I had left in my pocket – the ones that wouldhave gone towards clean socks and underwear - and held them hard in my fist. The fellow beside me wore his fedoratilted down over his large pockmarked nose and smoked profusely. I watched him for ten minutes as hecontinued to pull cigarettes out of his pocket, smoke them half-way, then grindthem savagely into his empty glass. I had the sensation that I knew this man, not that I’d met him beforebut that I knew him in a deeper, more profound way; like we had been Buddhistmonks together in the year 1234. Eventually he saw me looking and offered me one. I declined. I felt I’d smoked thosecigarettes that he had, and I’d had enough.

The phone mounted on the wallseemed obtrusively mounted, like anyone walking to the restrooms wouldundoubtedly walk right into it. Istaked out my bar stool, set my eyes on the narrow hall, fully expecting to seethe next person run into it nose first, blood spilling down the front, blacklike wine.

It had been the freedom of movingmy feet forward at first, like the fantasy of driving a car off a bridge: theexhilaration of the fall. Therewas no plan, there was no next step. It had been purely instinct all the way through. I worked as a ranch hand for thirtydays, long enough for it to feel normal. I wandered around the streets of NewOrleans, long enough to get a taste for proper bourbon. I barely spoke; I entertained thethought of never speaking again. Maybe I’d be one of those monks who wore white robes and shaved theirheads and kept their eyes downcast. I’d wander through the brick alleyways and study strangers and never saya word in response.

I didn’t know what she thought ofit - of me. I’m sure she loathedme. I’m sure she remained at homelike the dutiful wife and mother she was, bathing our daughter in soap thatsmelled of bubble gum. I’m sureshe continued to make lunches, just in case I’d sneak in through the door lateat night and snatch the paper bag, head to a regular day at work. I’m sure my tie and pale blue shirtwere laid on the bed after she’d made it in the morning, as if she expected meto just saunter in with the laundry detergent, nothing out of the ordinary.

I thought of movement as Iswirled my glass. I thought of theway smoke wafts above, not below. I braced myself for a bloody nose.

After my second glass the feelinghad gone. The feeling of falling,of aimlessly groping had evaporated. I was now just holding an empty glass and wearing a stained shirt.

It happened the way it does onfilm: the tunnel vision, the frame of black around that damn telephone. Still no one had walked into it. Perhaps I had inaccurately gauged itsdistance from the wall. Theperfectly circular limitation of view was unnerving. Was it the bourbon, was I going blind? Is this what extremecataracts felt like? I lookedaway. Blinked. The bartender was looking at the phonetoo; my spirit-animal chain smoker was fixated on it.

I had to take a piss. I blinked twice and shoved the glassaway, groaned, walked away from my stool. Avoiding eye contact with the fucking telephone. Looking down at my rounded brown shoes,I walked forward towards the men’s room, but stopped just in front of thephone. Picking up the receiver, Ijust wanted to feel the way the rotary dial clickity-clacked. I just wanted to feel something cold inmy hands.

I dialed home. Listened to the dial tone, timing mybreathing with each pause.

“Hello?” The jingle of a voice I hadn’t heardfor two months. A voice asking forwhite bread and non-homogenized milk.

“Ah, Alice, it’s me. I couldn’t find the detergent you like. I’m coming home now. I love you.”

“What?”

“I said I love you.”

“What?! I can’t hear you, it’sloud in here.”

She shouted over the loud jazzmusic in the background.

[we were so young]

2012-02-14T20:36:00.001-08:00

We were so young

when marriage flooded our town

and drowned us all.

One after another,

swamped

by champagne pyramids

and pink silk.

“But he’s the one”

each droned on,

weary hand

on soft cheek.

“It just makes sense,”

those wild eyes,

purses filled with plans.

And then I find I’m knee-high in a crowd

of blooms,

quite happy to be stuck in this melancholy state,

quite sure that their youth

was far too unblemished.

Ghost Town: SFU's Absent Arts Community

2012-01-23T20:59:00.000-08:00

I’m not the first to observe the state of SFU’s arts community — or put more broadly, culture community. There is a unique aspect to SFU: our main campus resides on a mountain. Sure, the view may be nice and the air may be fresh, but what does this cloudy isolation do for our sense of community? I ventured to several SFU campuses to get a feel for our arts community and how it functions within our body politic.

SFU Woodward’s was an obvious first choice, being the home for contemporary arts. I wandered in on a Tuesday afternoon, feeling varying degrees of intimidation as I went into the Audain Gallery to see the current exhibit, Mapping the Everyday: Neighborhood Claims for the Future. I found myself alone in the white room, black script covering the walls. Artifacts of various art forms made islands in the center of the room: old computer monitors, dried rainbow paintbrushes, rolls of canvas, and old VHS tapes were stacked haphazardly on several desks and bookshelves. I found the evidence of art, of things being created in and around SFU, but I couldn’t find a single soul to tell me about it. It was beautiful, but barren. An arts community does not exist solely in a gallery of course, but while there was art, there seemed to be no community.

Instead of making assumptions based on my outsider’s viewpoint, I decided to talk to a student who might have a bit more insight. Jessica Han recently graduated from SFU with a major in film and a minor in theatre production. She explains that the film program operates on a cohort system, meaning you go through four years with relatively the same people. Theatre is more mixed, but Han explains that what makes the community within the programs is the very nature of the program itself. “You have performance and production students working together on a school production. Theatre is a collaborative process in itself. When you’re collaborating, you develop relationships, and relationships make for a community. We go to each other’s project presentations to show our support,” she said.

This may be the case for the contemporary arts departments at SFU Woodward’s, but does this exist at the other campuses? “The community is fairly exclusive, especially now that we’ve moved downtown to SFU Woodward’s. But when we were on the Burnaby campus, other students didn’t even know [the FPA department] existed!” Han said.

The main vessel of the Burnaby campus, the AQ, holds the SFU Gallery, a tiny space nestled among science lecture halls. The current exhibit by Lawrence Weiner, A Selection from the Vancouver Art Gallery Archive of Lawrence Weiner Posters, highlights the relationship between art and words.
Bill Jeffries is the art director of the gallery and has been working with SFU for several years. “Things didn’t used to be this way,” Jeffries said as he recalled SFU in the ‘80s when staff and students alike would go to the theatre, then spend hours in the campus pub. Now that the arts departments have been moved to the Woodward’s campus, there seems to be a lack of cultural capital up on Burnaby Mountain. He makes the valid point that the notion of community is flexible, and yet there doesn’t seem to be much happening ‘culturally’ at SFU.

“There’s no easy way to reach the students,” he said, concerning the amount of information provided for events like gallery openings and theatre performances. In the same vein, he also noted that the old theatre in the convocation mall is being turned into a lecture hall.

Andrew Zuliani, an English major at SFU, puts the state of the arts community more bluntly. “There isn’t one,” he said. “SFU is mainly a commuter school. There is constant relocation. By the time something gets started up and you get settled down, you graduate.”

Zuliani finds one of the biggest issues to be the lack of information provided for students looking to get involved, as well as the quick turnover rate. For example, the English lounge is usually empty because not many students even know it exists.

“Wanting a community isn’t enough. Romanticizing the idea of a community isn’t enough. It’s like adding rice grain by grain to a pile.” Zuliani adds that it is paramount that professors and grad students get involved if we are to have a vivacious arts and culture community.

There is art at SFU, but the problem of ‘community’ seems to lie in the fragmentation between campuses, lack of information provided, and passive commuter mindset. There needs to be an equal amount of investment in the SFU arts community by both the staff and the students in order to mend the fracture.

Originally published in The Peak, January 23, 2012

Auld Lang Syne: a short story

2012-01-05T23:24:00.000-08:00

My fridge was consistentlystocked with a box of white wine. Dry white wine. Everyonethought it would always be this way. I always thought I’d be the one with the spacious apartment that wasbuilt during the last Great War, the tangled Christmas lights tossed into thecloset haphazardly, the stack of varied magazines as a coffee table. I always figured I’d be able to drinkcoffee throughout the day and only have my own lack of appetite to worry about. But, as I quickly learned, things don’tlast.

Itbegan with John. He was handsome;I was stubbornly independent. Imet him while working in the office of a construction company, filing papersand conducting company wide surveys. I was a pragmatist of sorts; I was set on a certain track of owning acloset full of shoes, of drinking too much, of eating sushi out every Thursdaynight. I worked early mornings,caught the bus at six to make it to work for seven. There was laundry on my floor, a cupboard full of candy,rows of dresses in my wardrobe. This wasn’t what I’d always be doing, I knew that; I had not gone touniversity for four years to study English only to become an accessory to forklifts. I did not necessarilydesire to be another gear in the mechanisms of highway construction andarrogant architects. I alwaysfigured I would enjoy things now, while I’m young, I could worry about having areal career later. That’s whatthey always said, You’re young, worry about it later.

“Hellolove, you look dashing in that dress. I brought champagne.” Johnhad a crooning voice, a sort of lilt at the end of his sentence, likeeverything was punctuated with a question mark. His deep receding hairline washandsome on his face, the narrowness of his cheeks and greenness of his eyesserving as a reminder of his novelty. I suppose he was a sort of cookie-cutter man, the type I went mad for:intellectual, sensual, well-dressed. I had dated several other versions of him before.

“Good. I hope it’s dry”

Newyears had come around again, full circle, imposing its overinflated ego oneveryone. There was always so muchpressure on this day, this evening, to be fantastic. It was considered an indication of what the New Year wouldbring; often, much of the same. Resolutionswould be formed, and then broken a week later. Weight-loss memberships would inflate, then plummet twomonths later. Closets would be cleaned thoroughly, then oversized coats andbroken vacuum cleaners would resume their original positions. The year would masquerade as beingsomething New, something Fun, would call itself Opportunity, only to revealitself later as having the same receding hairline as the year before.

John and I had been invited to a party on the top floor of ahotel. The penthouse, I suppose itwas. His friends were of theyuppie variety: mad with entitlement and thin silk ties. I can’t say I wasn’t drawn in, but Iliked to think I played the detached card well enough to fool them.

“Johnathan,do you think my lips are too red, or are they just the right kind of red?” It was an answer I didn’t care to hear,but they were words to fill the cab.

“Theyare just the right kind, like blood red strawberries. They’re much too much for my heart, really.” He reached over and took my chin in hishand and kissed me wetly on the mouth. His teeth were like jagged hedges, neglected by the despondent homeowner. I entertained myself by running mytongue along each crevice, imagining how the overlaps and pointy eyeteethformed each word. His mouth was amath equation I was busy solving.

“Yum. Cordova and Abbott, please.” I instructed the cab driver, anxiousfor a glass of champagne. I didn’tparticularly care for New Years, and planned on spending it drunk and spoutingoff movie trivia.

Theroom was filled with the Chemical Brothers and I made a beeline for thecocktails. Johnathan gatheredaround his co-workers, recently married and perfectly groomed. He was anxious because his best friendshad all been married in the past two years, plucked off, one by one, likeflower petals. His bachelor sensibilities tended to repel all things domesticand comfortable. His sofa wasleather and stiff and modeled after the sixties and his liquor cabinet wasunlocked; he wasn’t planning on having children anytime soon. This suited me fine. Children and marriage were things Iknew I’d want to do later, but later being a far distant future, perhaps inanother dimension, a place where I wore flower-print aprons and rolleddough. That place was not yethere.

Ipoured myself an extraordinarily strong corpse reviver just as one of the wivessauntered up to me. Janice wastall and blond and had the kind of eyes that made you wonder if she had a soulor not.

“Felicity!Darling! Tell me, where did youfind your dress? It is absolutely darling!” She was also the kind of woman thatsugar coated insults with compliments.

“Ah,this. I found it second hand. Fit like a glove.” I think I saw herchoke on her tongue in slow motion.

“JustLovely! Now come dance with us!”

Therest of the evening found vodka giggles, sore feet, flirtations and weeklygossip. I amused myself seekingout faces in my champagne bubbles, and I revealed to whoever would listen that the European releaseof The Shining was actually twenty-four minutes shorterthan the American version. I satwith the other women as they commented on whatsername’s whorish ways andwhatserfaces’ out-of-control shoe shopping habit, paying each topic a generousheaping of false attention, just so I wouldn’t be sought out as thetraitor. I didn’t care to arguemyself out of being a communist tonight.

Iwas beginning to regret agreeing to come to this party. I had told Johnathan I had nothing incommon with anyone, and I had been anticipating this intense need to getintoxicated.

“Mmm,it’s almost midnight.” I felt Johnathan’s breath on my neck before I heard himspeak. I was ready to just leavewith him now, go back to my apartment and make love to him on the leather couchuntil two am. I didn’t care aboutthe procedures or protocols New Years insisted upon; the Newness of it all demandedsomething of forgiveness and review, and I wasn’t particularly partial tosentimentality.

“Ten…nine…eight…seven…”

The husbands and wives began tochant together, converging upon each other with the greedy eyes of a bureaucrat. For them, the stroke of midnight held somuch importance, so much weight. The way they spent tonight is the way they would spend the rest of theyear.

“Six…five…four…”

The women grinned and the men putdown their drinks. Feminine handsran up suit arms and rested at the elbow. This moment was frozen as a moment of significance for them all.

“Three… two…”

Johnathan pulled me in front ofhim, looking into my eyes with such intensity, I couldn’t tell if he was drunkor not. He reached into his frontpocket and began to kneel down.

“One! Happy New Year!”

I saw him mouthing something, butcouldn’t hear what words were formed over the horns and clinking ofglasses.

“What?” He pulled me down to his level and I felt his lips before Iheard him say, “Will you marry me?”

Felicity closed the trunk at thefoot of her bed with a final thud. Glancing around her barren apartment, she maneuvered her way through themaze of boxes and grabbed the bottle of wine sitting on the bed-side table andscrewed off the cork, pouring a generous amount into her glass withoutlooking. Her eyes never left thetop far corner by the front door. The white washed walls were more like a tinge of gray now, tiny holesremained as reminders of old calendars and photographs that had been pinnedthere once. She took a large sipof her wine. It could have beenwater. That one spot, up on theleft, bothered her. Between theedge of crown molding and dark wood doorframe, there was an inch of greentape. The doorbell rang, and shedidn’t even flinch. She couldn’tremove her eyes from that green tape.

Gloominess is Inevitable

2011-12-31T18:15:00.000-08:00

Perhaps this is a gloomy perspective. If you don't like gloominess, turn away now. You still have time to close your browser, perhaps go find another person's more optimistic perspective on new years and new things. Because this won't be cheerful.
Last year was spent being let down by people. By numerous different people really: lovers, friends, parents. It seems appropriate to reflect on last year at this moment, as we are on the cusp of another 365 days, the same kind of days masquerading as something different. Last year, I lost count of how many times I'd been let down.
Maybe it's my own fault; maybe I expect too much. Maybe I hold too much stock in other people. Perhaps.
This evening seems to be an accumulation of that sensation of falling. Either the night will be fantastic (which, quite frankly, is rare) or it will flop and make you feel miserable. You will either be let down by New Years, or it will surprise you and show up on time, roses and bubbly in hand.
This is rare.
But if there's anything I've learned from the past two years, it's that I can't depend on anyone. Not an ex-lover or a current one, not a mother or a father, not a friend. This is a gloomy realization, I know. But it's New Years, so it's also time to think about how to change next year.
Resolution: Stop thinking that people will live up to your hopes. Because they won't.

Now go celebrate.

Pocket Short Story [or the beginning of something]

2011-12-29T22:06:00.000-08:00

She was smoldering. Latino, from Guatemala - outside the city. She was a waitress in a breakfast café, wearing themandatory short, red-checkered skirt, bringing around stacks of sausages to menwhose moustaches were so long they dipped into the corners of theirmouths. She was saving forcollege, or adventure, whichever came first.

Shewould stand outside on her breaks, smoke three cigarettes in a row, come backin reeking but no one would complain. Her eyes were stolen from a cat’s, a leopard. Her hair sprayed out from her head like crinoline, threetiny braids tangled somewhere. Shedidn’t know what she wanted. Sheliked listening to Nirvana and writing Spanish poetry.

Photo by me, September 2010, Montreal.

Sometimes I Write Academic Stuff: Feminist Edition

2011-12-21T23:53:00.000-08:00

Woman as Writer: Guilt and Identity in Pat Lowther's Poetry

Margaret Atwoodonce put it bluntly: it is “too much of a strain to fit together thetraditionally incompatible notions of “woman” and “good at something”” (SecondWords 193). The archaicincompatibility of ‘woman writer’ is no more, and yet there lingers problems ofidentity for the female wielding the pen. The attachment to gender expectations and woman’s role as ‘housewife’results in the female writer’s guilt complex in identifying as something other– or simultaneously as - ‘wife’ or ‘mother.’ Pat Lowther’s poetry, specifically How Can I Begin, Poetry, and OnReading a Poem Written in Adolescence, reflects a strain against ‘femininesensibilities’ and explores the problem of the identity of the womanwriter. There are some basicelements in being a woman writer that are problematic: the movement away fromtraditional constructions of gender role and the guilt associated with thisdeparture; the binaries of ‘male writer’ and ‘female writer’; and the complicatedidentity of woman writer. Lowther’s poetry questions these vexing qualities of female writing andaddresses the possibility that ‘feminine sensibilities’ are constructed ratherthan implicit in women’s writing; woman’s identity as writer goes beyond abasic evaluation of ‘gender’ or ‘sex’, and yet these identities are essentiallyinseparable.

Lowther’spoem How Can I Begin seems toquestion just that: how can a woman begin to write without seeming bogged downby her sex? The poem addresses theconcealment involved in being a woman and being a writer. For the woman on the brink of thefeminist movement, there is a sense of guilt in writing, in the departure fromthe traditional role of woman as mother or housewife. This sense of guilt is explored in Margaret Atwood’s Second Words, in the essay On Being a Woman Writer: Paradoxes andDilemmas. She says “anyone whotook time off for an individual selfish activity like writing was eitherneurotic or wicked or both, derelict in her duties to a man, child, agedrelatives or whoever else was supposed to justify her existence” (191). A woman writer was one who did writingin her own time, after all of her domestic duties was satisfied, her husbandwas fed and her child was in bed. Women would write at night, and the writing was considered a hobby,never a serious endeavor. Thus,the woman writer was seen as supplementary, as a novelty of sorts; the woman whowrote was a deviant from tradition. This stigma of deviancy and neglect evidently manifested itself as asort of guilt in the woman writer. Augmenting this guilt, Lowther asks “How can I begin? So many skins ofsilence upon me” (1-3), as she attempts to peel away the layers of expectationheaped upon her as ‘woman.’ Aftera tradition of being silent and compliant, it is a process to begin, to formwords underneath the weight of expectation. It is a struggle to begin to speak for the silent womenbefore her – the memory of these women have become a callous concealing her ownidentity. As Atwood explains,“These writers accomplished what they did by themselves, often at greatpersonal expense; in order to write at all, they had to defy other women’s aswell as men’s ideas of what was proper” (SecondWords 191). After strugglingto separate the ‘woman’ from ‘writer,’ it is no wonder that so many femalewriters felt a sense of guilt; they felt they were not only betraying theirfamilies, but also themselves.

Identity aswoman is often in part defined by the ability to give life, but her identity isformed more complexly than that. Lowther employs an extended metaphor in order to explain theduality of a woman’s identity. She has “become accustomed to walking like apregnant woman carrying something alive yet remote” (5-9). Pregnancy is exemplified here as notonly a signifier of life, but symbolizes woman as creator; as an extension ofbiological pregnancy, as a writer, she carries with her vibrancy and life, justas she would carry and give life to a child. Pregnancy then gains a double meaning: as a signifier ofcreative life, and as an expected duty of woman. Her thoughts, “though less articulate” (11), are formed as achild is formed, beginning with a “skeleton” and waiting for “unpredicted fleshand deliverance” (14-15). Thearticulated thoughts are likened to the growth of a fetus, implying a sort ofunity between creation of life and creation of art. Gertrude Stein once used this same metaphor of child/writingto demonstrate the creative process, although she argued that, “you have alittle more control over your writing than that; you have to know what you wantto get” (Gertrude Stein Remembered 155). There is a space between woman as basiclive-giver, and woman as creator; creation, in an intellectual sense, involvescontrol and cognitive function, while any ‘brainless’ woman could bear a child,as she is biologically built to do. This base traditional definition of ‘woman’ is based on the biologicalfunction of woman, or, “tota mulier inutero: she is a womb” (de Beauvoir 3). Lowther seems to be suggesting a transcendent ability in woman in relationto, but superseding, her basic biology; She possesses the ability to write andcreate in a way uniquely female, but the ‘femininity’ of her writing does notdegrade the quality or integrity of the writing. She pleads “I would ask you: learn as I learn patience withmine and your own silence” (19-22). The “you” addresses a culture with archaic notions on femininity and thewoman’s role in life, as well as the men who have silenced women in thepast. She asks for silence inreturn, as she attempts to begin to separate woman from her pre-determinedidentity.

Part of thetrouble of defining the woman writer is in her relation and comparison to a malewriter. The binaries of male/femaledirect our attention to sex, and in simply naming the writer as ‘woman,’ shebecomes the other; the ‘woman writer’ is the other to ‘writer,’ or male. Atwood notes the tendencies of criticsto say, “You think like a man,” she is told, with admiration and unconsciousput-down” (Second Words 193). In this comparison, “good equals male,and bad equals female” (197). This‘othering’ of the female sex is nearly inseparable from the definition of thewoman writer; it places the woman on the other end of the scale from the male,demanding that we judge each side’s work according to the sex of the writer.Lowther’s Poetry plays with thebinaries of male/female, employing such adjectives that follow the tritedescriptors of each sex, such as “weak” for female and “aggressive” for male. She says, “Firebombs are in the mind butso is love, its soft flowering explosion” (7-9). The entwined imagery of both violence and tenderness suggestsa sort of androgynous poetry; the woman’s mind is considered “soft,”“flowering” and full of “love,” while “firebombs” and “explosions” suggest a maleaggressiveness. The followingstanza continues the fusion of the sexes, as she claims, “Such violence is mywork’s intent. Come walk with me” (12-14). The desire for “violence” suggests not physical violence oraggression, but an aggression of attitude in her writing. This desire to be considered ‘male’ ispartly in attempt to make such male/female distinctions obsolete, but alsoseems to suggest that the male/good female/bad prototype is ingrained in eventhe woman writer’s mind.

The role of thereader or critic also reinforces these binaries. Ruth Robbins explores this aspect of ‘woman writer’ as existingamong other writers in LiteraryFeminisims. She notes that itis, “rare that the woman writer was treated as a woman writer (unless the termwas used pejoratively) or that she was placed in the supportive context ofother woman writers, rather than always being measured up against the men”(71). The division of the male andfemale writer is based on the assumption that the female writer is doomed inher deviancy; as she attempts to be like men, or to write like men, she removesherself from being ‘woman.’ Poetry comments on this need to act orwrite like men in order to be taken seriously. Lowther says, “Armour yourself with ice; no lesser shieldwill do. I’ve tried your customed mail of linked complacencies, and know”(20-24). She acknowledges the difficultiesin identifying oneself as female writer, sardonically recommending that thewoman writer “armour” herself, or sheath herself in male demeanor in order tobe accepted as ‘writer’ amongst other writers. An armour of “ice” suggests the transient and ephemeralqualities of the adoption of male writing techniques; “ice” impliesimpermanence and coldness, or impersonality, which will not outlast or overcomethe intrinsic ‘warmth’ or concern of the feminine writer. She puns “mail,” demonstrating herawareness of the restraints on the female writer by the male writer’s critiqueand gaze. Thus, femalesubjectivity is considered a flaw, and male objectivity a superior way ofwriting or observing the world. Atwood further comments that a woman’s work was never reviewed withoutmention of her ‘feminine sensibility,’ while ‘maleness of male poets neverseemed to matter (Second Words195). When Lowther says, “Ipractice love and war,” she is responding to ‘feminine sensibility’ and‘maleness’ simultaneously, thus taking gender out of the equation; she hastaken a stance against the traditional notion of adhering to one gendercategory, commenting on the multiplicity of the writer identity.

Thecomplex identity of ‘woman writer’ lies in the aggregation of the twoidentifiers. As Virginia Woolfonce wrote, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to writefiction” (A Room of One’s Own4). This “room” is not strictlymeant as physical space, but rather as an ‘identity.’ Separating identity and gender is not a simple task; Simonede Beauvoir also assigned herself the task of discovering what it means to be awoman. She wondered, “If thefemale function [as a womb] is not enough to define woman, and if we alsoreject the explanation of the ‘eternal feminine,’ but if we accept, eventemporarily, that there are women on the earth, we then have to ask: what is awoman?” (The Second Sex 5). The problem of identifying woman isfraught with traditional guilt and deeply rooted stereotypes of overtsentimentality and subjectivity. Thus, identifying oneself as a ‘woman writer’ is complex in theseparation of ‘woman’ from ‘writer;’ arguably, there is no style of writingthat is implicitly ‘female’ or ‘male.’ The othering of the ‘woman writer’ by her male counterparts andsociety’s critique problematizes this separation; the world hesitates for the‘woman writer’ to extend the role of ‘woman’ into the role of ‘writer’indefinitely. Atwood poignantlyelucidates the identity problem, saying “no one comes apart this easily;categories like woman, white, Canadian, writer are only ways of looking at athing, and the thing itself is a whole, entire and indivisible. Paradox: woman and writer are separatecategories; but in any individual woman, they are inseparable” (195). The identity of ‘woman writer’ is notdivisible like a math equation, nor is the span in which it reaches punctuatedas in a timeline; it functions on multiple levels.

Lowtherexplores the discovery of identity in OnReading a Poem Written in Adolescence. She begins with “Couldn’t write then maybe but how I could love”(1-2). This can be understood as areflection on personal youth and growth, but also collectively, “I” asinclusive of all women. Lowther isresponding not only to the critics of female writing, but also her youthfulinsecurities as woman and individual. Again, the traditional stereotype of tender but brainless female isprovoked, but Lowther turns it on its head, making “love” into somethinglife-giving and nurturing. Shereflects, “When I said “Tree” my skin grew rough as bark” (3-4), ascribing aninnate connection between language and nature. The connection goes one furtherin “all the leaves rushed shouting simmering out of my veins” (5-7). By breathing the word “tree,” she hasmade the tree come alive; just as language is a part of her understanding ofidentity, so is nature and beauty. The imagery of ‘mother nature’ reinforces the concept of woman asnurturer and giver of life, but Lowther has demonstrated that the woman’s loveis at the foundation of creation and thus of language. Put another way, because womanpossesses the innate ability to love mightily, she also innately possesses theability to create. Thus, there isno need to separate the ‘woman’ from the ‘writer;’ they are identifiable asfunctioning together. Atwood oncereflected on the anxiety of the woman’s need to choose between being ‘something,’or being ‘woman.’ She recalls“They were all assuring me that I didn’t have to get married and havechildren. But what I wanted wassomeone to tell me I could” (GreatUnexpectations xvi). Lowther echoesthis sentiment in the final lines of OnReading: “Even now I can almost remember how many hands I had hooked in thesky” (8-11). The imagery of handsgrasping in the air suggests endless possibility and optimism for the future,not limited to woman’s traditional role of ‘housewife.’ “Multiple hands” represents multiple endeavors,and limitless possibility. The rolethat memory/temporality plays in the poem is intensified by the repetition of“I can almost remember.” It issuggested that it is not her ability for total recall, or objectivity, that isessential in writing the poem, but rather the subjective, remembrances of shadowyemotions from the time of her youth that is necessary for her creation.

Lowther’spoetry and other literary feminist theory suggests that the concept of ‘womanwriter’ is indivisible from its parts, and yet that does not imply that‘writer’ takes away from any part of being ‘woman.’ The anxieties associated with moving away from traditionalgender roles of women with the movement of feminism and the separation of ‘malewriter’ from ‘female writer’ contributes to a unique concept of ‘womanwriter.’ Rather than ascribing tothe archaic supposition that, “If a woman writer happens to be good, she shouldbe deprived of her identity as a female and provided with higher (male) status”(Atwood, Second Words 198), thereneeds to be movement towards an understanding of ‘woman writer’ as good in herown right. Concepts of ‘woman’ and‘writer’ need not be divided from each other, individually analyzed, thenmashed together again to form a sort of hybrid being seen as deviant in someway; rather, the sex of the author should not inform the quality of the work,whether the sex be male or female. Lowther demonstrates her awareness of the tensions within identity as awoman and as a writer, and yet makes it possible for the woman to remain‘woman’ while also being ‘writer.’ Identity, then, is not based on a single signifier; rather it is thesummation of parts of a whole.

a haiku for you!

2011-12-13T10:56:00.000-08:00

From the grade 12 creative writing archives:

Timelessly it sits

Grandma's favourite china

from which we drank tea

[nameless]

2011-12-09T12:18:00.001-08:00

Am I the shadow of others?

When was I last steeped in fog,

Shades of grey and dingy slate.

When will they realize that I am not

- cannot be

What I have been constructed as.

What I have constructed myself as,

A bottle full of hope,

Words

Little letters, vowels,

Torn apart and manipulated

into another language entirely.

Marinated. Manufactured.

I almost believe it myself.

I will only disappoint when they realize

I drink out of the carton.

[this is what i should have said]

2011-12-06T20:56:00.001-08:00

[The Smiths]

Midnight walk, we were bundled in our wool coats.

I remember you told me:

“We don’t have to listen to The Smiths anymore”

But I like the Smiths I said.

I understood what you meant,

Then.

I’m listening to the Smiths again.

I remember lying in your bed,

The sheets mummifying my bare legs,

Us listening to sad French music.

I remember sobbing and not knowing why.

I remember every moment of pain and sound.

I think I’ve been solitary forever,

Your ghost arms never existed.

I remember you haunting me night after night,

Lying in bed with the sheets mummifying my bare legs,

Crying and lying, crying when I shouldn’t have.

I recall your lips on my hair

And the dip of skin under your neck,

Your legs so long and wrapped around mine,

Like you were afraid I’d fall off the planet of your bed.

I lay and cried when I shouldn’t have.

“She loved me, she was in love with me”

you told me.

You lied lied lied,

Lied as your legs touched mine,

Swinging on the beam so high in the barn I could havefallen.

Delirious, I focused on the creases in your cords.

Want want want, and miss,

You said

And lied.

My eyes were misty from all the lying and crying

That I shouldn’t have done.

I wrote poetry, pages and pages

That you didn’t deserve.

I waited and waited with Holiday and Simone,

Adding too much Italian parsley to my meals because

It tasted like you.

I waited and your hair got shorter and your eyes wilder

And the tenderness was gone.

Heat was on my back and you lingered still,

The ghost of you that never existed

Wanted to be

So badly

So so badly.

But the lies got deeper and

I knew.

I knew that I had woken up

And you had dissolved

While I lay and cried.

I remembered we had discussed what our children would becalled,

“Thelonious…Fiona”

While we walked.

We walked everywhere in one place,

We never walked forward.

But I remembered it differently.

I remembered how wide your lips stretched

When you smiled

At me.

But I forgot too,

I forgot the haze of your face,

The one when you wanted me to be someone else.

I remembered winter and my wool sweater,

The one you called boxy.

I remember wanting to leave my body;

If I stared long enough at my wine glass

I would be the one you wanted.

I remembered it so differently

All those times

I lay in bed and cried when I shouldn’t have.

I remembered looking at myself

But ignoring my reflection

Thinking it would change,

Knowing you wanted it to.

Seeing Helen’s gaze,

Your smooth white eyes

Saying

“I love you.”

But I kept remembering it so differently

I kept remembering you passionately,

Talking about Camus and Morrissey

And the farmhouse we’d have.

I kept remembering drinking white wine in the tub,

Your pale legs surrounding my body,

Frail with delicacy, with your insecurities.

I’d remember Miles Davis and dancing in the kitchen,

While you cooked,

You always cooked.

Broken bottles of wine on the sidewalk

And your green corduroy shoulders,

Shrugging.

“I’m heartbroken. Nothing is as sad as a wasted bottle of wine.”

Oh, but things are,

Things are as sad.

As I lay crying in my bed after you,

My ghost.

I remembered all the wrong things as I tried to forget,

And feared all at once.

Anxious for your arms,

Never realizing that they never existed at all,

Forgetting that they were false arms,

False praises and kisses,

Meant for someone else.

I would rage, I would storm,

Then I would fall into gutters,

Walk miles just so I wouldn’t feel my legs,

The ones you had once touched.

The places where you touched me burned.

Then I would curl on the edge and cry,

Curl like a child again,

Innocent, like I could take it all away.

I smoked in my windowsill,

I did,

Even though I got nothing from it

But brooding

And bad breath.

And I knew it wasn’t me but thought,

Maybe you’d get it.

Maybe my billows of despair would mean something to you,

But I was thinking of someone else.

Just like you were too.

- Then I left.

I escaped my body, hoping to escape my mind,

But your ghost followed me and spoke French,

Played me French music as I lay in my bed,

Curled,

Crying,

Farther farther farther,

But still thinking of the lies and hoping to make them truths

In another language.

I connected jazz and wine to you,

To your legs so gangly and crossed,

- I always remembered those legs!

But I couldn’t hear your steps anymore,

When they approached me and I would pretend not to notice,

When I acted oblivious to your beauty.

I guess I lied too.

The fleeting thought of you would come back,

Never dead

But I wished you were.

- sometimes.

I wished you’d met someone else,

Told someone else how cute you thought she was,

Sticking your tongue in her ear,

Half proposing

But only being half-crazy enough to do it.

I wished you would have done it to someone else,

Not me.

And I guess you did too.

I remember you telling me she was your soulmate.

“But it could never be like that. It could never be.”

Do you remember the way that canonball hurled into my chest?

No, you don’t.

You had made me believe I was your soulmate

But that was one of your lies.

I swung my feet on the beam in the abandoned barn.

You had wished my last name were something else,

Your obsession.

My childish ways were too much for you,

You hated when I sighed (my foundation was being eaten bymoths)

You imagined I’d grow into you,

But I never did.

I was so broken by you,

I remember that.

I was so angry!

So hurt by your lies

- this poem can’t express how hurt!

I remembered, but learned to forget

As I lay in bed and stopped crying.

I remembered that I didn’t want to be her,

I wanted to only be me,

Boxy wool sweaters,

Sighs,

Too many dresses,

Hair that kept growing without your permission.

I decided I liked it.

I liked forgetting and remembering,

The memories folding on each other like layers.

I liked forgetting your crooked nose,

Leaving it to her,

She can have it,

It grew longer with all your lies anyways.

I liked smiling and knowing my legs were mine

And not yours.

And I liked my legs.

Your memory would pass over faintly,

Like a song,

Like a ghost,

And I would wonder if I had only been dreaming.

(This is what I should have said)

[midnight musings]

2011-11-26T15:16:00.001-08:00

Have you ever wondered what picture of you they’d use

If you died tonight?

Big grin and pointy teeth

High ball in hand,

Or solemn countenance

Looking down and reading -

Or something of the sort.

The threads entwining life are tenuous,

Fibrous,

Delicate.

Would they post up that picture of me

The wrong side of my face,

The gloomy side?

The dictation of remembrance,

“remember her this way,

she wrote and slept”

look into this photograph

and know everything.

If the car veered off the road

Tonight

And the leather upholstery strained

To hold you in,

If gravity ceased

And hands hung in the air,

Would you be laughing or crying?

Fate’s truancy,

Hung on the chill of the night,

Gossamer threads pulling foggy taillights

Deep into a pond.

If I was trapped beneath,

The womb of death,

Full body or shoulders up?

sometimes i get nostalgic [and take photographs]

2011-11-20T19:40:00.001-08:00

     About seven months ago, I moved back home after living in Montreal for a year. The time spent there, and the time in between, exists as a sort of timelessness for me - temporally, everything that has happened to me exists simultaneously. It's hard for me to remove my current sense of being from the sensations I experienced across the country - padding across the dark wood of the apartment, the sound of cheap beer cans cracking open, the fierce chill of a blizzard on my cheeks.
     When I came home, it was an odd adjustment. The weather was different - the air smelled like cherry blossom petals - there was this community I had existed separate from for so long. I felt like I was existing in two places at once, and in many ways I still do. I put on my winter coat, reach my hand into the pocket, and take out a metro pass, "correspondance et preuve de paiement." I remember nights sitting around our kitchen table, two bottles of wine and two pizzas split between two waif-ish girls. I feel like I'm still watching Survivorman with one of my best friends. I get nostalgic.
      I also took pictures of everything. I have photographs from the past and the present, moments which exist at the same time.

Arndell doing some serious mixing

We had a Great Gatsby themed party

Heather in little Italy, NY NY

Anne in 40's garb

Vicki and I ride

Review of the 125 Vancouver Poetry Cabaret

2011-11-16T22:10:00.001-08:00

The Revue Theatre on Granville Islandfills with eager lovers and writers of poetry. Tonight is the Vancouver 125 Poetry Cabaret Evening One,part of the 24^th Annual Writers and Readers Festival. The evening was held by Brad Cran,Vancouver’s Poet Laureate, essayist and photographer. His collection of poetry TheGood Life, has been hailed in the Vancouver Sun as a must read. The host ofthe evening, Poetry Is Dead Editor-in-Chief,Daniel Zomparelli (bow-tie and suspender clad!) was consistently adorable andcharming, nearly stealing the show with his not-so-subtle flirtations with theperformers. He begins the evening by quoting the Globe and Mail, that “hopefully more than 15 people come to this thing…thatis if there is not the competition of paint-drying the same night.” Despitethis, wine glasses and red velvet seats are filled, and the first performertakes the stage.

CatrionaStrang, Vancouver-based poet, read a piece from Proust and memory, accompaniedby Francois Houle on the clarinet. The words of Spill Kit roseand fell with both Proustian abstraction and lofty expressions, but it wasmatched well by Houle’s haunting and distant melodies (at one point, he wasplaying two flutes at once!). Strang’s elusive poetry didn’t so much as grab the listenerwith what was being said, so much as how. It demonstrated how language can be just as impervious as acomplicated math equation.

Thenext performer, Jordan Scott, discloses his performance with “This is the paintdrying version of the evening.” This was certainly grossly inaccurate though. Scott is a stutterer, so every word was a battle, every lineneeding to be combated, and appropriately his poetry was woven with themes ofbody versus speech and the procedures of interrogation. He wonders, “What words are you puttingin my mouth?”

Ourthird performer of the evening, Wayde Compton, read from all new works,entitled Loxodromic. His travel narrative was actuallywritten on the plane, on the way to Taiwan, exploring such themes as the riotsin Paris and Hogan’s Alley (the old black neighborhood in Vancouver). His treatment of race, “race is averb. It takes place,” isincredibly reminiscent of a Harlem Renaissance era Langston Hughes. I was impressed with the infusion ofjazz-like qualities in Compton’s poetry.

Nextup was Kevin McNeilly, accompanied by trumpet player Taylor Bo Hynum. McNeilly’s piece, entitled Embouchere, dealt with impersonationsand the varying careers of jazz musicians. Jelly Roll Morton and Thelonious Monk gamble themselvesbroke, perfectly paired to Hynum’s incredibly impressive trumpet improvisation. Hynum goes red in the face and sputtershis final notes, just as McNeilly does.

Mugbait,an ambient noise duo from Alberta, picks up right after the intermission. Sitting cross-legged on an Arabiancarpet, the duo used various tools and electronics to create the slightlyabrasive, high-decibel volume that filled the theatre. Copper sheets were scraped together anda guitar was manipulated. Sandraand Ben Doller walk up to two microphones on stage and begin their performance-basedspoken word. Repitition of “shirt”and “baby” serve to confuse the audience as to where the focal point of theperformance is, and yet there is a comedic element to the confusion oflanguage, as words collide and meanings are altered. The performance ends with Ben Doller, dryly punctuating with“applause,” a mere suggestion.

Oneof my favourite performers of the evening, Matthea Harvey, warns us that herpoetry deals with “mermaids, terror, and aliens.” The petite brunette begins with a tale (catch that punthere?!) of Frankenmermaid, a mythical creature doomed with being in love withher creator. The two of themidentify the resemblance of two fries with ketchup to her two severedlegs. Yes, there were gasp/laughsin the audience abound. Her poemsabout aliens were inspired by a headline in the newspaper, claiming that “Usinga Hoola Hoop Can Get You Abducted By Aliens!” Harvey reasons that “they want the creative ones, those thatdream of another place.” If thisis true, everyone in this room is at risk of being swept off to Saturn.

Thefinal performance of the night was super charged with energy from ChristianBök’s reading of Xenotext. The Giffin Prize Winner explainedthe piece as an allegory about the nightmarishness of poetry, and thiscreature-of-word certainly defied the ordinary daydreaminess of Wordsworth’spoetry. Bök is actually, literally, trying to find a way to encodethe verses into an extremely resilient form of bacteria (extremophile bacterialDNA called Deinococcus radiodurans), so then art imitates life imitatesart. He explosively describes thisindestructible being out of one side of his mouth, his face flushing withintensity. This bacterium will notperish if submerged in the Antarctic Lake Vostok and it can withstand 392degrees Calvin. Basically, it willsurvive billions of years after humans are gone. And thus so will Xenotext. This guy is nuts (brilliant!).

Thiswas just a taste of the International Vancouver Writers and Readers Festival,and if this eclectic collection of Canadian writers is any indication of whatelse Vancouver has got to offer, sign me up!

- October 2011

11:38

2011-11-12T23:36:00.001-08:00

There is no explanation other than God was in the car with me tonight.

The windshield wipers stopped mid-swipe, two black slashes across the glass. Droplets formed and formed and formed and all I could see were two blurry red lights ahead.

I muttered solemn prayers all the way home, alternating between panicked urgency and calm clear vision. Lend me your eyes, Jesus.

There is no other explanation but God's hands taking mine at ten and two; but illuminating the light tenfold.

This is my only explanation.

True story

[YUL]

2011-11-09T15:06:00.000-08:00

Leaving treasures in the ocean,

The way I cast nets things get left behind.

I have suitcases full of nothing.

My walls are white and white and white

And

We are two of a kind and I’m leaving

You behind.

Spoiled wine, I’m choosing drunkenness

These last days.

I can’t fit it into my pocket

Even though I’ve tried.

Photo of Anne, March 2010

Vancouver from then to Now: A Reflection on the History of the Downtown Eastside

2011-11-07T11:53:00.000-08:00

     Too often we walk past buildings in our own city that have histories we don’t know about. We walk past that gated-off plot of rubble and think nothing but, “What a mess,” forgetting that it used to be the landmark of the Pantages Theatre. We forget that when this theatre was built in 1907, the anti-Asiatic riots had just begun. We have no idea that one of the bricks from the construction of this historical building was used to break the first window, beginning a racial riot that lasted three days.  We see these buildings all the time, as we walk to our classes at Harbour Centre, as we grab a coffee from our local coffee shop, as we forget about the lush history that exists in our own city, but every now and then we are reminded of our past and how it plays an integral role in our present, and in our future.

     Last week I had the privilege of being guided around the more historical parts of the city by Vancouver-based writer Michael Barnholden. Our tour began at Victory Square off West Hastings Street, a hop and a skip from SFU’s Harbour Center.

“You see that corner over there?” he asks our group as he points over to the corner of Hamilton and Hastings. “That’s where our city began.”

Victory Square, that often-gloomy park with the Vancouver War memorial looming over the street corner, stands as the intersection of old Granville Town (now Gastown) and the CPR townsite. This corner stands as the very tip of the original CPR legacy, and is essentially the birthplace of Vancouver.

People roam around the park in the background as Barnholden tells us the story of the incorporation of Vancouver in 1886. These people are carrying bags of bottles and glancing furtively at us, curious as to why we are standing here in the dark, where people are more often found sleeping on benches. One man is wearing sunglasses — though the sun went down an hour ago — and is carrying a milk crate, and I can’t help but think that this corner is greatly representative of much of modern-day Vancouver. A war memorial stands tall, yet in its shadow people are sleeping in the cold.

     We saunter further up Hamilton Street and stop in front of a narrow, four-story building with the words “Unlimited Growth Increases the Divide” printed across the top of the first floor. The text was part of an art project, aimed at addressing the problems associated with the old being disregarded and replaced for the means of market value. The Del Mar Hotel, built around the turn of the century, stands defiant against those who control the free-market economy and neglect the interests of the community. The current owner, George Riste, has had numerous offers to buy the building, namely from B.C. Hydro, whose mammoth enterprise now stands directly behind the Del Mar. He has turned every single offer down, choosing rather to keep the building as a haven for low-income housing. Standing there, looking at the tiny building with the brace on its side, you can see B.C. Hydro directly behind it, heavily indicative of the new devouring the old.

Our walk continued down to the threshold of Chinatown and onto Abbott Street, which is actually built on fill; the water used to come up this far into the city. “If you’re looking to buy property, don’t buy it here. If we ever get hit by a big one this place is just going to float right out to sea.”

     We continue into Chinatown and our group clusters around the corner of Shanghai Alley and Pender Street, where, according to Ripley’s Believe it or Not!, the thinnest building in the world stands.

     The storefronts have been updated, but the date “1913” is still printed on the upper scaffolding of the building. Supposedly, the original owner, Chang Toy, was only allowed two metres of building space as an expansion of Pender Street. Toy met the challenge, and the building still stands at 8 West Pender Street. Articles proclaiming the building’s fame are plastered all over the windows of the tiny stores.

Supposedly, the original owner, Chang Toy, was only allowed two metres of building space as an expansion of Pender Street.

     As we walk back into the heart of Gastown, I am struck by the changes that our city has undergone since its conception.  Areas which once stood as flourishing public domains are now filled with ruin, with sad, bearded men mumbling to themselves, as if they have been quarantined here. An overwhelming feeling of melancholy rushes in.

     Barnholden leads us down Blood Alley, a block of dilapidated apartments which receive the most police calls out of anywhere else in the city. The alley gets its name from the butcher houses that used to line the street, resulting in blood running through the streets. Rumour has it that it also used to be the location for public executions, though this is likely a draw for tourists more than anything else. The lamp posts here are also rumoured to be equipped with vein light technology, making shooting up nearly impossible.

Directly across the alley from all of this though is Judas Goat Taberna, a Spanish-inspired tapas bar with hip art on the walls and a long wooden bar outside. You can sip your glass of merlot as you admire the historical low-income housing across the way (cue the irony). The juxtaposition here is a prime example of the gentrification in much of the eastside, and a striking example of the stark contrasts between the old and the new.

You can sip your glass of merlot as you admire the historical low-income housing across the way (cue the irony).

      Our tour ends at the old Woodward’s building. What used to be a flourishing department store in the early 20th century now holds SFU’s School for the Contemporary Arts. Most of the original building has since been demolished, but the iconic ‘W’ atop the building still stands as a compass for those needing a reminder of where the heart of the city began.

     Greeting us above the Woodward’s atrium is a photo installation of the 1971 Gastown riot, when police in full riot gear broke up a peaceful ‘smoke-in’ protest. The 50-by-30 foot picture is an image of young hippies, struggling out of police officer’s arms, running through the streets with long hair and bell-bottoms alike. The peaceful protest, also known as the Battle of Maple Tree Square, represents the disunity of government officials with the public’s desire for space in the Downtown Eastside. This giant photograph seemed a poignant end to our tour, a reminder of the past, and a stirring manifestation of current conditions.

Originally published in The Peak, issue 9, volume 139 

Painting by David Wilson, via Ian Tan Gallery

"ay, if a women live to be a man"

2011-11-06T23:47:00.000-08:00

Two women, Portia and Nerissa, dressas men and play the lawyer and the clerk, and save their husbands. Oh, the masques we wear.

The Merchant of Venice dabbles inShakespeare’s controversial stance on Semitism, teetering on that fine line ofwide-eyed shock for the post-Holocaust audience, and acknowledgment of anElizebethan world where Jews were considered alien and usurer.  Bassanio challenges the nature ofloyalty – who is more important to him, his wife or his friend Antonio (brosbefore hos?)? The bonds of marriage are strained, the rings given to the faux judgeand clerk (aka Portia and Nerissa in pants).  Little does Bassanio realize that when he says “life itself,my wife, and all the world/are not with me esteemed above thy life,” he hasjust snubbed his wife while she stood by.  An all knowing, albeit snarky, aside ensues.

Not just another male-dominatedplay, The Merchant of Venice proved to elevate intelligent women and marriagevows alike.  One of my favouritemoments?  When Portia and Nerissathreaten to go and make the ‘lawyer’ and the ‘clerk’ their ‘bedfellows.’  Now that is leaping into a whole otherpool of sexual psychoanalysis.

P.S. ‘Portia’ has definitely been added to my list of babynames for girls.

it's about time

2011-11-06T23:19:00.000-08:00

There comes a point when you feel certain that you are going the right way. That the path has made itself known, that both socks are the same colour, and your hair is fabulous and everything is working for you. There comes a time when you can't keep it for yourself anymore.

And while my hair may certainly not be consistently fabulous (I have come to terms with the fact that it has a life all its own), there has come a time for me to tweak my craft. To share my art. To stick my whole hand into the pickle jar, so to speak, and hope that it doesn't get stuck.

My whole life I've known that this was it - that I was to eternally be devoted to the crafting of words, and that I was maybe okay at it. I've observed some and written much, and now is the time to lay it all on the table.

There are feelings/experiences which we do not have the words for in English. One of them being that feeling you get after leaving a conversation and realizing there were things you should have said. Only after you walk away, do you think of the best comeback ever, the most witty thing you've ever thought, the most tender sentiment. I hate that feeling. I know that feeling so well, and the one domain in my life where that never occurs is in my writing. Writing is eternal; it does not abide by the temporal laws which speech or conversation must adhere to. Writing is not fleeting the way "I love you" flies away from you, the way you reach out for the tail of "you" in the wind, without success.

The French have a phrase for this. It is l'esprit de escalier, loosely translated as "the spirit of the stairs."

In writing things down, I have stamped all the sentiments and agonies and witticisms I am capable of into print.

It is time to leave the conversation having said all that needs to be said.

-Daryn