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Contemporary writing from Canada and around the world
JULY 1990
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3^^^00^%%S£3 33J^#B9%%^33333|JZ«8 Celebrate
with books from UBC Press
Celebrating Creative Writing at UBC
This anthology commemorates more than 25
years of achievement for the UBC Creative
Writing department. The more than 60 poets,
dramatists, and fiction writers included,
many of them winners of prestigious literary
awards, provide just a sample of the energy
and and vision the department has fostered.
Words We Call Home is a collection of work
that will hold a special place in the hearts of
those who have watched UBC grow and
flourish over the years and of everyone who
loves literature. $19.95
Several of the writers represented in Words We
Call Home will be reading from their work at this
year's Vancouver Writers
Festival, 24 - 28 October
Both these books have
been produced to
celebrate the 75th
anniversary of the
University of British
This book is a celebration of Native literature
as an integral part of the Canadian cultural
scene. It focuses on literature by and about
Canada's Native peoples and contains original essays and poems by Native and Non-
Native writers.These not only reflect the
growing prominence of contemporary Native
writing but also direct the reader to the
myths, rituals, and songs that have served as
its inspiration, he $34.95, pb $19.95
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Contents Copyright © 1990 PRISM international for the authors.
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Also financially assisted by the Government of British Columbia through the British Columbia Cultural Fund and Lottery Revenues.
Second Class Mail Registration No. 5496. July, 1990 Contents
Vol. 28, No. 4   Summer, 1990
wayne keon
Sylvie Neve and
Jean-Pierre Bobillot
Penn Kemp
Steven Smith
Henri Chopin
Anne Burke
Pat Phillips
Daniel David Moses
bill bissett
Errol Miller
Steve McCaffery
for donald marshall   7
Levity    18
Rue de Vaugirard 1931    19
A Dinner at the Cafe du Dome 1935   20
prismes 1990   21
plage 1990 et Cie   22
Excerpts from The Spirit of a
World Without Spirit   45
-o-   47
The Running Shoe Song   48
flying with orion   49
i havint gone yu sd akapulko balconee    50
From the Porch of the Purple Milkman    52
Anticollabora    54
Demi-Plosive Nine Part Suite   56
Scott MacLeod
Louise Young
The Drunken Jungle    9
Freefall   26
Thomas King
Traplines    59
Richard Kostelanetz
Excerpts from Radio Writings   23 Artwork
Henri Chopin Front cover: 23 variations
Contributors    69
For their contribution to this special issue, the editors would like to thank Vera
Rosenbluth, Dick Higgins, Vincent Barras, Thomas King, Joyce Joe and Jan
van Toorn at Slowscan Editions (Amsterdam). wayne keon
for donald marshall
i've no secret old
time answer in
my hand
i've no majik justice in my sand
to challenge all
the inmate
to pray beside the sacred pine
i've no blazin fire trail
to sear the
nd close the ruptured aura burns
but seek her now nd
make it
seek her now nd see my friend
o great bear of the southern wheel
o great bear of the southern wheel
o great bear of the southern wheel
o great bear of the southern wheel
take the power
nd the
take this breath to heal the hurt take the power
nd your
take the breath nd take this feeling
travel now in
breath nd
travel now nd take the wind
travel now in
earth nd
travel now nd take the land
clothe him in
a yellow
touch the pain nd make it old The Drunken Jungle
Scott MacLeod
the doctor
the man
the woman
the river discovers itself through the trees like a predator, we are glued
to its back and ride along with it. listening to the beast sing, it is perhaps a
fault of mine that I am here and you are there, that we are alone when we
could be together, but here, in the sweat and oil of van noort's boat, beneath the flat yellow sky, it seems that things could not be otherwise, forgive me or forgive the world.
van noort's little steamboat, such a toy anywhere else, here, such a density to it. the sound it makes, after four days I can remember no other
sound, a million strange birds sail overhead silently, the jungle is a picture
without words, the indians, the plague, ideas, you, darling, you. you.
so van noort has brought a doctor.
so van noort has brought a doctor.
from the cities to the land, a european. weak-kneed and
young, handsome and european. another moist drop of civilization, what a
sponge this jungle is. well, he may cure them of the plague.
cure them of the plague, just what we need, weak-kneed and
syphilitic indians.
sometimes I think of them as children, innocent and playful, but sometimes
their dark faces, dark eyes.
I wonder if this doctor is a christian, now they fear the jungle,
he would make them fear god. better for them if they feared
man. / must remain inside the house, to prevent my skin from drying out.
I am satisfied that they fear me.
/ am becoming afraid of the smallest things, a soft sound my husband
makes in his sleep, deep in his throat, the sound van noort's boat makes
when I can no longer hear it. the shadow of trees on the living room floor.
will the doctor drink whiskey, I wonder, will he seduce my
wife, will he dry up with fever and blow away towards the
/ am afraid of the absence of so many things.
my dear,
jungle grows thick beneath the wooden floor, vines gripping supporting
timbers, such a drooping weight above the tin roof, my body is host to a
thousand spores, soon my skin will bloom into scales of white fungus, a
thin white fur of spider's web. my neck begins to harden into a brown
bark, my eyelashes have become ferns and I am forced to push them
aside in order to see the jungle and the indian village around me.
/ must stay inside, my skin drowns in a pungent liquid which congeals from
the sullen air around me. my breath weakens under such an effort.
doctors are a habit that cities have.
/ dream of cooler air. and cities of beaten silver high in the mountains.
the indians will no longer work, claiming exhaustion and illness.
the indians sneak into our house at night, stealing our rice and our coffee. I
believe they do this.
the indians conspire to steal my house, the doctor conspires
with my wife. I have begun to carry a rifle at all times.
10 / am afraid of dying in my sleep, in the darkness. I burn candles in my
room to keep the darkness away.
my beloved,
there is such a heat here, like the first time I made love to you. in the
pantry of my father's house in london. in my best woolen suit, under the
weight of your satins and crinolines, this place is as hot as your petticoats, as dark as that pantry, the only other europeans here, across the
river from the village, a man and a woman in a large wooden house, filled
with antique furniture, the man is mad. I pity the woman, my work with
the indians has only barely begun, conditions here are very bad. I have
only a little penicillin left, for the fevers and sores, captain van noort is
bringing more, if he manages to steam his way up the river before the
floods start, these letters will have to wait, and leave with the captain.
thunder is the house we live in. lightning is the way we feel
about it. I watch my rifle like a pet.
you've never understood rain.
the doctor thinks I'm already dead, refuses to visit. I chart my
own blood pressure, insert my own catheter, the temperature is
a diagnosis is a perishable grocery, sometimes I wish the doctor was right.
I sleep on the living room couch, a fifth of cuban whiskey a day.
I have lived a tree-lined life.
sweeping is one activity, you won't eat what I cook, you know how fond I am
of poisons.
my wife is a sharpened pencil. I forgave her a long time ago.
there is a fine white dust on the dark floors, there are poisons which can be
absorbed through the soles of the feet.
11 substance is bliss. I have emptied my head till it sounds with
the flat tone of a tin bell.
/ used to wash the blood from your sheets, now I simply hang them from the
porch rail, a signal to travellers, stay away.
we eat separate food in separate rooms, we sleep in separate
rooms, we never speak, this is love.
yesterday I killed the last pig. a young skinny one. just for the thrill of it.
only music makes me happy now. i dance for hours at night,
without lights.
we have no phonograph here, we are running low on groceries.
I pretend I'm dancing with the doctor.
when I want to make love with someone, I send for the doctor, complaining
of fever. I lie in the bed I used to share with my husband and arouse myself,
when the doctor comes, I think, I will pull him into bed with me. the doctor
never arrives, he reads the bloody sheets and runs back to town, gripping
the doctor has taken to hiding in the bushes, where he can see
into the house. I know he wants to fuck my wife. I stagger out
onto the porch, whiskey bottle in one hand and penis in the
other. I KNOW YOU WANT TO FUCK MY WIFE, I yell. I shake
my penis at him and laugh. I LOVE MY WIFE. YOU SEE: SHE
the drapes in my bedroom hang perfectly straight, one inch above the dusty
floor. I have many photographs in unique frames of ivory and brass. I have
bamboo flutes from Indonesia, lacquerware from china, jade from thailand.
I have colonial american antiques. I tell myself: this is enough, this is
I have always understood rain.
12 my sweetest love,
they truly are mad, those two. their servants left them long ago. they tell
tales of hideous warfare between the man and the woman, the servants
could not sleep at night because of the noise. I myself have seen evidence
of these things, from the bushes outside their house, at night when the
heat and mosquitoes keep me from sleep. I will not visit them anymore,
though they feign illness and continually ask for my aid. the woman lies in
bed constantly, she is an hysteric, it is no wonder, living with him. we all
just sit here in the village listening to their savage songs, there is no morphine left, no penicillin, only a few are strong enough to fish and gather
though they are basically a healthy people, and this may save them, if we
can get the penicillin in time, the river will begin to rise soon and still no
sign of van noort. my one real fear is that their hypochondria will spread
to the indians. one plague is enough,
until I breath the clear air from your skin I am yours.
I am capable of so much, my hands are small keys to the fetters
of a gigantic dungeon. I am a wizard and whiskey is a savage
elixir. I no longer drink the stuff, instead it rises out of my
gorge, pure and clear like the most beautiful amber, it flows
from my mouth back into the bottles from whence it came, and I
cork it and place it upon my shelf. I have distilled it and purified
it. it has passed through feverish heat, the furnace I am. I have
taken its secret from it and it wells up from my throat in gratitude. I have over a hundred full bottles on the shelves now.
with still a huge mound of empty ones on the ground next to the
house. I will fill them all before I die. I will bequeath them to
humanity to spread comfort over all the world. I will be loved by
mankind for my generosity.
the doctor came to me last night in his passionate need, he tore at my flesh
with his teeth, burned me up with his tongue, small teeth, like a boy or a european. but a tongue like one of those immense black snakes that droop from
trees, swallowing young pigs at a gulp. I strangled him and tore out his entrails. I gorged myself on him and raised him from the dead. I have feasted
on his marrow and so he belongs to me. he cannot speak but with the words
I give him. I force him to say my name over and over and over, this is a
power I have over him and he will come to me again tonight to drink my
13 I am a giant. I have smashed my rifle like a matchstick and this
makes me laugh. I am so tall I can see out over the jungle to the
cities on the edge. I only fit inside this house because I am a
wizard and I have that kind of magic. I see van noort the dutch-
man down the river, his engine broken and useless. I could
light the fire inside its furnace if I desired, and this makes me
laugh, my lips spew golden elixir hilariously onto the trees, every green leaf shines, amber liquid blends with mud and the
river swells like the veins swell in my arms. I vomit profusely
into another clear glass bottle.
my husband smashes the furniture in his part of the house, vomits blood
constantly, this morning he caught me sneaking into the kitchen, his hands
circled my wrists like manacles, it is only because I have sharp teeth that I
escaped. I will leave here with the doctor, on captain van noort's boat, we
will sail to europe where we will have a large home with many closets and a
kitchen with a huge pantry full of groceries. I will wear satin and lace and
we will make love everywhere.
my only darling,
the river rises perceptibly every succeeding day. despite my distrust of
and lack of regard for missionaries, I have taught the indians how to pray,
we pray for van noort and his safe and imminent arrival, the tribe's dead
will soon outnumber its living, at this rate, if only we had penicillin, if only
we were somehow out of this fetid jungle, perhaps in the mountains, at
the top of cool tall mountains, if only, but the mountains are an arduous
journey, none of us have the strength to leave this place. I think of your
white breasts constantly, the large house caught on fire last night, we
saw the flames through the dense trees, a sudden rain eventually put out
the blaze. I hope they are both dead.
/ have killed the doctor, he came to me urgently, forcefully, he put his mouth
on me. and it burned like fire, so much pain that I couldn't stand it and had
to strangle him. I had to drain his blood and drink it so the secret would
stay hidden deep within me. if van noort found out he would leave me. leave
me here forever.
14 I am a mountain. I am the tallest mountain and all the mountains. I am growing larger each second and my vision is swallowing everything.
my lover, van noort, came to me last night, such a cool touch, his body was
almost solid against my skin, so I know he is near. I could feel the river in
the way his body moved me. maybe tomorrow he will finally arrive. I will
dress at dawn tomorrow in my white dress and float down the river to meet
barely the strength to write, but writing makes me think of you and this
gives me strength, we are together in the mountains, there is a breeze,
the indians have taught us how to pray.
I send fire down my slopes. I am avalanches of stone and rain,
ice and fire. I am not afraid. I am pure amber mountain and the
clouds are barely visible below me.
a great shadow has swallowed the sun. the swollen river brushes the lower
leaves of the tallest trees, the water is quickly cooling around my body while
I swim towards van noort's boat, when I reach him I will never leave his
arms. I swim towards him with joy in me.
15 Sylvie Neve & Jean-Pierre Bobillot
mboumbo boumboum     boumboum     boumboum     boumBOUM     bOUmboum     BOU     m
umboumb Mboum BOUMBouM         mb
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oumboum M    fluctuaTION    BOUMBOUM    calculaTION     BOUMBOUM    des mboumbo
boumbou residus... lents... maiades... boumboumboumb umboumb
mboumbo boumboumboumboum.. . quelle bourn        gorge bourn        r mboumb
umboumb iglde   bOUm  garAGE   BOUMBOUM   des   fouets   sAGES   BOUM boumb
oumboum BOUM   et  parallELES   BOUMBOUM   ET  L  BOUMBOUM  a   cava oumb
boumbou IcADE       BOUMBOUM       classee       sous       1'accolADE       BOUMBo umb
boumbou uM       BouMboum      boumboum      boumboum       boumboum      boumbou mb
mboumbo m boumboum    b
mboumbo   o
umboumb boumboum     boumboum     boumboum     boumBOUM     bOUmboum     BOU bo
umboumb Mboum BOUMbOUm    mbo
oumboum   umbo
oumboum roman policier bourn nez bourn arti bou oumbo
boumbou m    fi    bourn    del    pour    eclairAGE    BOUMbOUm    rose    bo boumbo
umboumb umboum    des    jours    de    fETE    BOUMBOUM    pick-pockETS    B       mboumbo
boumbou OUMBOUM      impermeable...       ballONS      BOUM!!!      aux      b umboumb
umboumb ords... des        lacs        biberONS        BOUM!!        BOUM!!!        s     umboum
boumbou oirs       de      printemps       les       machines      BouM      bOUm      march      umbou
mboumbo ent       boumBOUM      pour...       le       grand       reveil       qui      loue...      umbo
oumboum LE   CARAMBOLAGE!   BOUM!!   BOUM!!!   DIEU!!!!   BOUMBOUM umb
mboumbo !!!!! um
16 oumboum BOUMbOUm   BOUMboum   bOUmboum   boumBOUM   boumboum   bou u
boumbou mboum boumboum      m
mboumbo       mb
umboumb de cambODGE boumboum... arrive boumboum...       mbo
oumboum avec    son    boulDOGUE    bOUmBouM    parti    BOUMBOUM    A mbou
boumbou 5h      05!       BOUMBOUM      TUE!!       BOUMBOUM!       MINUIT!!! mboum
mboumbo BOUMBOUM!! precis! mboumb
umboumb mboumbo
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boumbou mb   mb
17 Venn
U more
or less
or lesson
or less undo
or less undo what
or less undo what U
or less undo what U D
or less undo what U D sir
or less undo what U D serve
U re see
U re see if
U re sieve
a chore
a chore till
a chortle or
hour D fence
a gain st
all sere E us
un as sail a bull
man ooo vers
18 Steven Smith
Two Poems from Transient Eight
Rue de Vaugirard 1931
the power to soar is
anchored by thinnest wire
reminding of
the reach from earth
to heaven
a dream
seen everywhere
pretends to dream Utopia
the seeing & the sightless
at the ledge
given wings
each leaves the roost
flies the dimensions
of a cage
ignores the open door
19 A Dinner at the Cafe du
Dome 1935
language swirls over heads
clusters at small tables
speaks word for word
with vigour
cuts through thick cigarette smoke
settles among plates, glasses of wine,
chunks of pungent cheese
& soft bread in crisp crusts
no one looks at anyone
in this moment
—a trick—
of angle, & shutter's flick
of their forgetting, under pressure,
the preciousness
of lips, eyes, hands
the loud unspoken haunts them as
they shout
& mumble
slur & whisper
stumble against the end
of conversation
20 Henri Chopin
Two Typewriter Poems
prismes 1990
ti      _  A
21 plage 1990 et Cie
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22 Excerpts from
Radio Writings
Richard Kostelanetz
Le Bateau IvrelThe Drunken Boat (1986) is a preliminary foray into
discovering the most effective way to make a poetic audio translation from one language to another. The most conventional way has
been to read a poem in its original tongue and then follow it with equivalent poetry in English. On second thought, it might be more appropriate
to read the English translation first, so that listeners knew what the poem
was about before they heard it in its original tongue; prior experience of
the subject and style of a poem would perhaps make the unfamiliar language more accessible. Indeed, it might be even more intelligent to describe the poem in English prose prior to presenting a declamation in the
original language. Such description should define formal characteristics,
identify key words and explain any other poetic characteristics that
should be noted. Such introductions can be as artful as poetic translations
in providing a framework for the listener's poetic experience of the original. All this was possible back in the days of acoustic wire or monophonic
Contemporary stereo tape, however, offers another opportunity-
putting the original on one track and then a translation on the other track,
the readings of each verses coinciding as closely as possible; so that the
listener could literally hear both versions simultaneously or, using the
"balance" dial on their stereo sets, to vary the presence of each dimension, listening, say, with the original louder at one point in the poem and
then the translation louder at another. For my first experiment at composing a bilingual tape, I chose Arthur Rimbaud's Le Bateau Ivre. On one
side is Vivienne Le Corr@/e reading the original French text; the companion track has Janet Cannon's declamation of Jonathan Cott's verse
translation. Both recitals were rigorously edited by my intern Maya Reed
until their stanzas coincided. Subsequently, the distinguished translator
Charles Doria decided that, while listening to the French in earphones,
he would read his own translation in live time onto the companion track.
23 Both versions were produced in the primitive audio studio I've been able
to put together in my own house; it was the first work wholly made
there. In my judgment, both are brilliant; neither is more necessarily successful than the other. One practical advantage of the latter is that it took
a lot less studio time. I hope not only to apply similar methods to other
texts but to explore the capability that has hardly been explored of allowing the listener to adjust his or her experience of the text by varying
those knobs available on nearly every tape player.
Why Audio Drama
The three principal charms of audiotape for me as a theatre artist
are, first, that you work with fewer people at any time; second,
that you can create and reconsider elements apart from the others; and, third, that you can produce definitive performances of your conceptions.
Every time I have gotten involved in making live theatre, or film, the
working situation suffered from too many people—too many egos that
had either to be persuaded or bossed if the show were to go at all. Bossing I find politically disagreeable; persuading, often at the last moment,
consumes too much valuable attention. If I need to work with anyone
else, there should be no more than one, either a trusted colleague or an
In producing radio theatre, I can record a person at one time, edit that
recording at a second time and then integrate it with other tapes at a third
time, further reconsidering each of these latter two moves on my own
time, working with at most, an audio technician. In producing a radio play
from separately gathered fragments, of sounds as well as texts, I can
compose an audio play much as tape composers do.
It was Glenn Gould who first pointed out that recordings enable the
musical performer to make such a definitive interpretation of a work that
further live performance of it becomes unnecessary. Audiotape can have
the same effect upon the performance of written time-based texts.
24 Back before World War II, Guillaume Apollinaire made "conversation
poems" composed of snatches of speech heard around him. Into a coherent whole he pieced together fragments initially gathered separately. Regarding this effort now, we can judge, "Poor Apollinaire. Too bad he
didn't have audiotape." We could now make the same remark about
Edgard Varese's Ionisation (1931).
One issue confronting the radio dramatist in our time is whether he or
she wishes to imitate in audio alone the conventions of live drama or realize, instead, illusions possible on audiotape. My own feeling is that in the
age of wire recording (prior to 1952) it was credible, say, to portray characters in dramatic conversation—talking to one another in live time; by
now, however, that essentially theatrical convention, and others like it,
seem indubitably archaic. To my mind, an audio play is truer to itself if its
presence in the listener's head is purely acoustic. We don't want to hear
what we cannot see; what we want to hear is what can hardly be imagined, whose visual image is indefinite. In this age of television, listeners
should close their eyes and relax blind, letting audio alone animate their
We want to be able to create acoustic worlds that do not suggest theatrical images (or film or video), but to portray in time relationships of
voices and other sounds that can be heard, but scarcely visualized, such
as a person talking to himself, or a dialogue between two people who are
perhaps in different physical spaces, or an individual progressing through
a fantastic environment. We can even create scenes, if not whole narratives, primarily, if not exclusively, of sounds. Audiotape thus becomes a
medium for realizing not just literature, or language to be heard aloud,
but also articulated sound, which is to say semblances of music, all at the
service of dramatic conceptions that are both literary and musical, but
need not be theatrical.
Among the recent North American works defining this new terrain are
Glenn Gould's Schoenberg: The First Hundred Years, Peter Schickele's
P.D.Q. Bach on the Air, The Firesign Theatre's Don't Crush That
Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers, John Cage's Roaratorio, Doris Hays' Southern Voices, Charles Dodge's Any Resemblance Is Purely Coincidental, Alison Knowles' Natural Assemblage and the True Crow, Dennis Williams'
The Search for the Colossal Man and my own New York City.
One remaining question is whether radio might be a less appropriate
medium for disseminating audio theatre than record or audiocassette, especially for works that do not immediately reveal themselves and thus
must be heard more than once.
25 Freefall
Louise Young
SOUND EFFECTS: High heels echo down an empty corridor. They
stop, continue, occasionally scraping the floor.
They stop again. A light is switched on.
DANA (husky voice) Dana Bacall Crain. Point of entry
Gander, Newfoundland. Point of disembarkation
Lapland. Transit visa number JP5 68011. I
smoke too much. Drink too much. Loathe Nautilus. Abhor meat and men—that's why I adore
SOUND EFFECTS: Cassette tape machine running. Fade up male
Clive Robert Shore Crain. Artist. Depressingly
underrated and ahead of my contemporaries by
at least fifteen years. I suffer in life because of
my big heart. A friend of Monet's once remarked
how wonderful it must be to see life with an artist's eye. Monet agreed, but went on to describe
his wife's death—the exact moment her spirit departed. He was struck with the exquisite change
in her colour, how subtly one shade worked
against another, and as she died he analyzed
what it would take to reproduce each nuance...
this woman was as dear to him as life... but
that, he explained, is what it means to see with
an artist's eye.
Cassette tape at its end and running on. Someone
clicks it off.
I put a tape recorder in my wife's handbag. She
found out of course, and proceeded to torment
26 me with her private conversations. (SE: The distant clamour of gulls feeding.) It was her habit to
take long drives, usually somewhere near Mystic
Beach, all the while confessing into the tape. She
knew she was driving me wild. Once I insisted on
accompanying her on her 'solitary' drives. She
drove like some drunken teenager just barely
missing every bend. Finally she screeched to a
stop, slumped over the wheel like some orgiastic
harlot, and ordered me out. So I did, I got out.
(SE: British car door slams shut.) I expected her
to abandon me on this desolate logging trail but
she got out as well and led me to a small, hidden
beach. She pointed to the horizon. (SE: Waves
against rocks.) I couldn't see a thing. She asked if
I could make out an island. I couldn't. 'Pity,' she
said, 'it was on that island I lost my virginity. We
swam out to it and made love—it was after midnight and very cold.' She asked me if I wanted to
swim out with her. She knows I'm a sinker, I
can't swim. I said I would. She pulled my trousers off. Then she said the boy died swimming
back. I told her I would die going out. She
laughed, accused me of being melodramatic, and
dove in. (SE: Sleek body diving into rough water.)
I let her go. Put the trousers back on and drove
Kitchen chair scrapes out from under a table.
Dana sits down.
He insisted on reading my diary. (SE: Bone
china demitasse returned to its saucer.) I'm not
sure how he discovered I kept one. Apparently
I'd mentioned it in my sleep. I suspect he
watched me writing it. Clive always kept a diary,
it was essential to his work. Occasionally I'd read
his, but generally found it disappointing; Clive
finds it impossible to be objective. The morning
of his premiere I gave him mine, I wrapped it in
Moroccan leather. He read the entire thing
twice. Some passages three or four times.
27 SOUND EFFECTS:   Fade up traffic noise.
CLIVE I woke up in the middle of the night. I kept
dreaming someone was driving a heavy object
through my chest.
SOUND EFFECTS:   Jaguar XJ6 shifting into a higher gear.
DANA He wasn't himself at all. I drove him to an exclu
sive treatment centre and committed him for the
SOUND EFFECTS:    Traffic noise fades out under.
CLIVE It was a perfect spring day. I remember getting
into the car and looking up into this unspeakable
blue and suddenly a flock of skylarks passed
over, (SE: Large flock of birds lifting off and
over.) and she said, you'd almost expect God's
hand to swoop down with them, wouldn't you?
SOUND EFFECTS:    Car door slams. Angry steps across a wooden platform.
PETER I'm going to get away! Central America. All this
crap, this self-indulgent crap, I can't see wasting
my life with it! There are important things, real
SOUND EFFECTS:   High heels across a wooden platform.
DANA They'll think you're an American—you'll end up
SOUND EFFECTS:   Dana removes a cigarette from the packet in
Peter's shirt pocket.
PETER He threatened me with a luger for christsake!
SOUND EFFECTS:   Peter lights her cigarette.
DANA (inhaling) A prop from one of his films. It doesn't
He's been following me.
I found a picture of us in his underwear drawer.
Of us? He's taken a photograph?
No. He must have stolen it from your room.
You mean he had that picture!
You didn't miss it?
I did—for a couple of days, then it turned up under some papers. I thought I'd misplaced it.
He probably copied it.
That means he's been in my room since. Comes
and goes at will.
I expect he does. He told me he hides in your
closet and watches you sleep. I don't believe he
does though.
He's insane—you know that?
Clive believes I am.
Let's get away. Come away to Nicaragua.
I can't.
They are walking along the beach. You can hear
the water lapping gently against the blue grey
Ocean softly lapping shore. Peter and Dana walking on gravel.
She's having trouble on the rocks—trying not to
damage her expensive shoes. He's helping her,
she's leaning on him, causing him to lose his balance. They're staggering toward the cabin, it's
amazing they haven't spotted me in the window.
Look up! Look up, dear, up at daddy. Any closer
and they'll hear me breathing. I would've thought
she'd sense me.
Noisy sea gulls.
Nice old cottage, what?
Looks pretty weathered to me.
Oh, I don't know, sort of reminds me of a painting by Colville. You know the one with a window
looking out over a deserted beach. All you see is
the back of a man and on a table by the window
lies a gun.
Clive always liked that painting. He's used it several times in his films.
It's the veranda that's so reminiscent.
Shall we go in?
I'll bet she's left the tape running in her handbag.
I don't know. I don't like stepping into other
people's fantasies.
Did you notice a shadow in the window?
Perhaps, it was my imagination.
She's looking right at me.
Dana walks up a few weathered steps and then
turns and reaches out to Peter.
Let's not go any further than the veranda.
I'm cold.
I'll warm you.
She's drawing him in, (SE: Screen door creaking
open.) pushing the door open with her bum, letting her hair fall over her face, holding her skirt
down with one hand, covering her laugh with the
You've been here before.
It seems like you have.
They can't see me!
You look as if you belong here.
Perhaps... in dreams.
The view from the window is exactly like the
painting—the same grey green ocean...
Grey green waves gently lap shore.
I can hear the tape running. She's taping the
whole bloody thing, probably plans on planting it
somewhere in my studio. Why don't they notice
me—it's like I'm not here.
Would you like to make love looking out at the
grey green ocean?
The same table near the window...
Would you like to make love to me on that table?
I feel like someone is watching... do you?
I invariably feel like someone is watching.
I'm beginning to feel uneasy.
We don't have to stay if you don't want to.
Have you ever been here before—with him?
Does he bring you here?
She's slipped off her shoes. (SE: Zipper.) That'll
be her zipper now. (SE: Silk crumbling to the
floor.) Such a silky sound as the skirt falls, (SE:
Nylons rubbing.) ahh, the shocking crisp rub of
her stockings as she steps free. He's looking out
the window—his back to her, he's afraid, afraid to
turn around, afraid I can hear him catch his
(catching his breath) It feels like him.
He doesn't enjoy excursions to the beach.
Don't take your top off.
You want to?
Slow down.
Turn around.
I could lean over and blow on his shot
could watch the hair on his neck lift.
He's here.
You're dreaming.
He is.
Perhaps he is—dreaming... turn around.
I can see your reflection in the window.
And is there anyone beside me?
A shadow... there's a shadow beside you.
If you turn around you won't be able to see it.
He's looking straight into my eyes. I could hypnotize him, send him leaping through the glass.
Don't be afraid. I won't let you come to any
I'm not afraid.
The sun on the table looks warm. Do you think
it's strong enough to support both of us?
She's cold, her arms have goose pimples.
Why do you always imagine I'm afraid?
Please let's not go into what you imagine I'm
imagining about you.
I'm not afraid—I just want you to know that. I
was, but not anymore.
Don't talk.
I mean it all comes down to faith, doesn't it? I
have to have faith in you.
Peter turns to face Dana.
You look so lovely, so mysterious half hidden in
I can't make your face out for the light, only your
silhouette. You look like you're wearing epaulettes.
The goose pimples have disappeared. Her breath
smells pungent, fishy, thick. It hurts the small,
frail bones along my fingers, they ache intensely
as her breath reaches them. My heart is pounding, surely she can hear it.
Come closer, I want you to make me forget.
So much, too much.
He used to bring you here.
Take off your epaulettes.
She hears it—she can't think straight for the
pounding of my heart.
Answer me.
What did you say? I can't hear you, you'll have to
step closer.
You heard me.
If you don't want to make love let's leave.
I want to.
Dana goes to Peter and puts her arms around
Kiss me.
I feel like he's watching—like he's here.
Forget everything, kiss me.
I can't ignore it, Dana, I want to...
Tussle it to the ground?
So to speak.
Slay the dragon, rescue the damsel?
God, you're beautiful.
Their lips are almost touching, only a sliver of
light separates them. Any moment they'll fall.
I don't want to forget. I want to remember everything.
SOUND EFFECTS:   Dana and Peter embrace and fall. Fade up a car
turning into a narrow driveway.
CLIVE The headlights are screaming up the drive. When
I ask where she's been, she'll say shopping.
Shopping, Christ. When I ask where are the groceries, she'll laugh. The carpet hasn't been vacuumed in days, dear. If you're going to go buggering around the least you can do, the very least, is
keep the hall carpet hoovered! Leaves her
bloody tea bags in the sink, lipstick stained cigarette stubs floating in the John... there's the car
door, why must she always wing it closed? High
heels scraping along the walk while she fumbles
through her bag looking for keys, just had her
bloody keys for christsake, why must she always
toss them back into that hopeless bag—it'll be another quarter hour searching them out—they're
probably jostling, scraping the recorder, scratching and clanking...
SOUND EFFECTS:   Soft searching through a leather bag.
You said you'd make me famous. When I met you
I was fourteen, fourteen for christsake, and flawless. What did I know? I was modelling and you
used to set up the lights. Afterwards you'd follow
me home. I didn't find you attractive; I think I
found your appearance somewhat embarrassing.
35 It took years before you appealed to me. By that
time you dominated my life. I don't know how
you did it. It seemed like I never took you seriously and then one day. ... Wait for me while I
go to Morocco—I have to follow Burroughs.
What? you don't know Burroughs? Seriously?
well, no worry, I'll cover up your cracks and
faulty decollete. Without you, Clive, it would
never have occurred to me that I had any...
worries, that is. ... Wait... wait, for me, I'll
make films and you'll be the star—the centerfold.
I was barely sixteen when you left for your trip
through Africa. I'd had offers to go to New York.
But you begged me to wait. We'll go together
when I get back—I'll have finished the novel, everything will be ready, we'll take 'em by storm
together. Besides, you're beautiful, what's a
year here or there? God, what did I know? I was
beautiful—I'd always been beautiful; I always
would be—that's what I knew! I barely remember how beautiful I was, but I remember the
world stopped whenever I arrived. It was a
given. So I waited, and you did what you said—
you came back and transformed my every move,
every breath, into some kind of trendy art video.
In this small town, in this vacant country, I'm
famous—any one that frequents alternative galleries or film festivals knows the difficulties I
have with sleep, and exactly how much my ever-
transforming complexion bothers me. And fans?
Friends? Neither of course, I'm an anomaly, the
last of a species... who today can comprehend
throwing anything away for love—I'm one of the
last survivors of a breed who sold their heart for
myth! I'm irrelevant, not even an example of
what not to do, who needs a living reminder?
(Pause.) I'm growing old. I let you live my life. I
came to this miraculous planet with more than
most and gave it all away and am left with nothing
but a few tatty films describing your problems
and how I caused them. I have nothing but you—
God, I'll always have you. And women keep say-
ing leave him—leave him, and I want to, but, but
what have I got without you? Clive, what have I
got? You're the only one who remembers how
absolutely lovely I was.
Waves crashing against rocks.
(shouting) Don't leave me here? You can't just
abandon me, how will I get back? She's gone.
What makes her do these things? What kind of
person leaves another person stranded?
Soft footsteps crunching pebbles.
Don't shout!
You're here! God, I'd thought you'd left.
Don't shout.
Where were you? I thought you'd gone! I looked
I was here all along.
No, no, you weren't, I looked.
I went for a walk along the beach.
You should've asked me, I would have accompanied you.
I needed time alone.
Time away from me?
Time to myself.
I thought you'd gone back to Clive.
I am never away from Clive.
37 PETER Rather... I feel like that, too. He's some sort of
thick, sticky thing that pours over us wherever
we are. I feel like a seagull trying to motor out of
an oil spill.
DANA Exactly!
SOUND EFFECTS: Click of camera set on low time exposure.
SOUND EFFECTS: Click of camera set on low time exposure.
CLIVE Too far, back a bit. No, too much this way-
back, back... just a tad, just the muscle along
your neck...
SOUND EFFECTS:    Click of camera set on low time exposure.
CLIVE ... that long muscle touching your shoulder.
SOUND EFFECTS:   Click of camera set on low time exposure.
CLIVE Let the short, blonde hair on your nape begin to
SOUND EFFECTS: Click of camera set on low time exposure.
CLIVE Let it shiver for warmth...
SOUND EFFECTS: Quick camera click.
CLIVE ... huddle for cover.
SOUND EFFECTS: Quick camera click.
CLIVE Let those sexy hairs along your nape scream.
SOUND EFFECTS: Long slow camera click set on low time exposure.
38 CLIVE Feel   them   try   to   get   away. . .    feel   them
clamour. ..
SOUND EFFECTS: Fast furious camera click.
CLIVE ... ache to be free. Feel them caught.
SOUND EFFECTS: Angry camera click.
CLIVE Feel something pull them, shake them.
SOUND EFFECTS: Long camera click.
CLIVE Feel the scream as they struggle to fly.
SOUND EFFECTS: Fade in soft mood music.
PETER I love your nape.
SOUND EFFECTS: Peter kisses Dana's nape. Dana groans contented.
Peter gently fumbles doing up a tiny button on the
back of her silk blouse. Peter kisses her nape once
DANA I dreamed I shaved my head with big, rusted gar
den shears leaving my scalp badly cut.
SOUND EFFECTS:   Dana leans against Peter.
PETER Why do women have a fascination for St. Joan?
DANA What makes you think of St. Joan—why not Aus
PETER Same thing.
SOUND EFFECTS:   Dana turns to face Peter.
DANA Do you suppose victims always turn upon them
You sound like Clive.
Clive believes he is...
An asshole?
A victim.
Come on, Clive? If he is, so are we all!
Such a child.
Don't start that.
I forget, sometimes I get carried away.
Fade in wooden rocker rocking on highly polished
hardwood floors.
Perhaps I imagine too much.
Imagine sitting in a rocker by a sunless window
waiting for a postman.
You look tired.
Awful, you mean.
Maybe we should go?
Rocker gently rocking back and forth.
Look down at your hands.  The fingers have
curled and the knuckles grown arthritic, your
skin is loose, transparent. So much skin. Touch
it and a print remains for hours, like prints upon a
mirror. You feel a chill emanate from your reflection in the window and you wonder how you got
here, to this rocker, to these hands... to such
I feel stranded.
You need something to eat. We'll both feel better
once we've eaten.
Rocker rocking.
It's past ten and the postman hasn't arrived.
Your back aches against the rocker. You wait.
Ears ringing like a school bell.
What do you feel like tonight?
Oh, whatever you decide.
I don't mind one way or the other, whatever you
want will be great with me.
No, I insist, you decide.
I hate deciding.
That's why you must—get used to it.
Bangers and mash, then.
Seriously? I'll make you eat it.
I only said it because I know you hate them.
And Clive loves them.
And Clive loves them.
Rocker gently rocking in time with Clive through
You watch him walk by your gate. You wait, hope
he will turn and come back but he doesn't, he
keeps on going, just like yesterday, and the day
before, and the day before that. Your window
needs wiping. You'll wash it tomorrow. You need
41 a cuppa tea. You need a cuppa tea. You need a
cuppa tea.
SOUND EFFECTS:   Fade out.
To tell you the truth I'm not very hungry, perhaps I'm coming down with some bug... a cup of
tea is about all I think I can manage.
Come on, you'll have to do better than that.
Peter sounds isolated as if alone in a small, close
space talking to himself.
She always leaves an impression. I suppose everybody does, but hers are like calcified leaves
printed on stone, every ridge, vein, every flaw
identifiable. After she's left, gone back home, I
feel her through me, each cell pressed, rolled
and printed with her, not just her image—HER,
her thoughts, her essence. ...
SOUND EFFECTS:   Dana sounds isolated as if alone in a British car.
Clive took me to his ancestral home. He was using it as a set. The film was never finished, but
the site impressed me, he knew it would. The
property had been abandoned for generations but
still his family kept it. The house was really just a
shell, crumbling old stone and completely overgrown with vines of every sort, really only home
now to birds, hundreds of birds, all managing to
find a spot somewhere. Bird shit hung from the
rafters and feathers floated down the stairs. The
roof was all but gone and light streamed in. At
the top of the stairs, on the landing, two long,
narrow etched windows remained and beyond
them you saw tender green hills. The glass was
etched after a Durer print, you know the one
with the knight and the stag. It was a miracle the
windows remained, let alone untouched and perfect! They tied me to Clive. I mean it was crazy
to leave them, simply abandon them, unprotected and waiting for some vagrant stone, some
violent storm, waiting for the inevitable collapse
of the house... but Clive insisted the windows
had to stay put—some sort of knight against all
odds... some kind of ancestral guardian of
faith. ... I don't know what it will mean when he
finds them cracked or shattered, perhaps he
never will, perhaps they will defy me and survive. .. on... for generations.
(struggling) Let go of me! Let me go!
Peter puts his arms around Dana.
Let yourself go. Relax why doncha?
Dana touches Peter's lips.
You want me to jump? simply jump? off the deep
I want you to fly.
And you're sure I can?
Let go of me! Why are you hanging on? Pulling
me down? LET GO!!
I want to...
Just do it is the only way.
Tremendous crash, glass splinters, falling in slow
motion, and then dead silence. Gradually the fuzz
of a tape at the end of its cassette running on and
on edges in.
He's recorded everything we've said. He listens
to  us  on  his  walkman  when  he's  driving—
sometimes when he's in bed he falls asleep listening to us. I expect he'll use them in his next
God if I made a film about some chick I met at the
beach you'd claw my eyes out.
I hate my voice on tape.
Everybody does, but you get used to it. Clive enjoys his.
Why can't he keep anything private?
I suppose Clive is a voyeur. He doesn't enjoy it
A voyeur? Christ, you got the whole thing
wrong. It's like... I can't believe that's what you
Quietly white speaker noise and fuzz come up as
I can't help seeing—I can't not SEE. (quietly) I
wish I didn't.
White noise softens.
No doubt the next thing is looming. If I thought I
was close... I mean not intellectually but
ACTUALLY—I don't know how I'd change or if I
would. I like to imagine I'd get very transcendental, but who knows. Sometimes when I think
about that last second, it's like being on a ferris
wheel at the very top and it stops and the seat
swings back and forth and the wind blows and
you can see for miles. ...
SOUND EFFECTS:   Seat swinging back and forth in the wind.
44 Anne Burke
Excerpts from The Spirit of a
World Without Spirit
There is, in fact, a danger in "madness." But it is the danger of the
unexpected, of the spontaneous. Because the madman doesn't actually
strike others... He does so "in our words"... —David Cooper
Those sisters of charity swathed in black telling us bible stories and those
other tales called revelation the word of god passed down by human
tongues about how the saints weren't saints they were buried alive but
you knew some of them because they ate their own hair and their bodies
weren't perfectly preserved except for the blood on their hands where
they had scratched at the dirt on top of them as they struggled to breathe
without any air They said he appeared to little children and I was
frightened after all who would believe a six-year-old child when a loyal
man like moses who only doubted for an instant when he touched the
rock no struck it twice when his people were dying from the drought the
unforgiving god kept him out of the promised land after he had trudged so
far half-way across the world which was known at that time and me prone
to anxiety attacks and flights of exaggeration the dreams of bobbing on
the ceiling that was how a saint was tested for his mettle if he flew his
heart would be preserved in a glass case and his brain in another instrument of science a test-tube like albert einstein whose mind was studied
and picked apart to ascertain his intelligence but the measure of the man
told us nothing was any different about him that could teach us how to
think: the enemy of religion, of an unswerving trust
Techniques are so highly developed, so sophisticated, and so effective
that, although psychiatry once practiced the segregations of individuals
without really being able to "treat" them, now it has total power to "normalize" them and to "cure" them. Through surgery, drugs, behavior-
therapy. .. —Marine Zecca
45 it is all right there just under the surface lurking being confirmed by the
cardinal posed under his ornate umbrella at mary queen of the world cathedral in montreal dressed in white veil and crinolin wearing white
gloves and a brand-new white missal this is adulthood the age of reason
every seven-year-old knows that and the girls each one is promised to
god these virgins arranged in a row giggling despite the pain of the metal
band fastened with bobby pins at the scalp the confessional leaning into
the aisle me nervous waiting sick to my stomach while I heard the mumbling of the other penitant and then the wooden window slid across suddenly as if somehow you were half expecting it you kneeled before the
odour of the priest's aftershave wafting toward you this untouchable man
god's surrogate on earth a stranger an unembodied voice who nevertheless saw your naked soul stripped in the shadows his folded hands the
hair on them just like a real person but he was looking through your eyes
this time not following the rules that's why you bowed your head striking
your heart three times mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa and you
were forgiven reborn into the ugly world outside of sin and temptation
desire mixed with memory and expectation like a Saturday bath and a
Sunday evening toni home perm only this was more important being as it
was spiritual after all and it only happened in god's time and place not
man's in the unseen
then he came again, resting like a dove
for a while at the front door, gave thanks
and broke the bread
into a thousand loaves and
a few fishes
we ate that day
and again the next
the science digest says the appearance of manna
in the desert is a natural occurrence every ten
years or is it a hundred—the statistics hardly seem
to matter when you are hungry
I brought the basket back
placed a piece of
bannock in the sun and set it on a shelf
to dry the inside wet and slippery
on the outside
is how I would describe it
if I were interviewed
but then how can a child
a six-year-old begin
to explain
a miracle
46 Pat Phillips
This is a face.
Add to this an ear—
a scar over yesterday.
This is punctured—
within is colour, disorder-
dancers unwrapping their legs.
She fell here,
on this spot she rose,
and lifted.
Here, this is a torso.
Handle it.
Speak into its ear-
in it stones
are sideways, already
knuckles of prisoners,
stomachs open to rain.
This is yours, thin
in itself, answered.
This is your drape,
partial nudity.
I have left you and
you and I have left.
47 Daniel David Moses
The Running Shoe Song
The wind is the only one
running around out in the open.
The ground there has gone
so soft in the afternoon sun
and none of us has boots on.
And even these thin shoes
we use to keep our toes warm
are much too much. Were we to step
off the asphalt the frost
would just give up the ghost.
So we hold to the path
under these trees, letting the wind do
the cold in, dancing it up
to the heavens. Would that we too
could step as lightly through
our lives, arriving in each year
our feet bare or wearing at most
the leaves of last year.
48 bill bissett
Two poems
flying with orion
its summing abt th    heart
n sumthing abt th
n sumthing abt th     raven
flying in    our minds
blessing us    whn wer ths waay
loving th     time
we     ar
flying with orion
in th velvet    nite     air
flying with orion
wer    alredee    heer
flying with orion
aint     wondring    why
flying with orion
in th    midnite     sky
th first time we wer    flying with    orion
we saw th place    wher th dreem uv dimonds
is spun    th hous uv emeralds    glowing in
th sun     we saw th nest wher life cums from
robins n theyr baybees     dansing in spruse
treez     dansing on cedar branches
flying with orion
our dreems for    pees
flying with orion
we keep th fire going
flying with orion
we take care uv th forests
flying with orion
we drink th watr
49 flying with orion
flying with orion
our hands in th erth
we breeth in th air
jumping    from star     to     star
i havint gone yu sd
akapulko balconee
what wud that b   in th
words ovr me    i cud have
gone home    yaaaa   yaaaa
a marango backdrop reveeling
layin yr handing on me
watch skin n west warding
promises rearrangements
bfor    th lotus    tanguls
he passd thru cellopane
doorways    saying iul
reeditlatr  aftr   SAMPLRS
falling from fresh paint
uv th
lilak willows   graves   mooving   thru all
frightend  forest  alluding to  past  him
birds   flying   into   our   hearts   a tall   ken   doll   is
mooving his   mouth   in   time   all th pinballs   gliding
tord   him   massagd   his   minding   th bronzd   towells   n
travellrs   n th wind  leeside   on th balconee   ovrlooking
th  huge   citee   yonge   street  ovr ther  th  breez
playing  with  my trends   shirt  n th greenreee   all  is
growing   we went   for chocolate   yogurt   melon   n
they see an
elbow   laaakaa
fleshee   tamboreens
drowsee uv our membranes
our need for continuitee
to feel    ths has nevr bin
t      r
e     n
th dark n
50 keewee   ringing   views   mareen   living   lay   yr   hands
on my   feeling   fleshee   tamboreens   in th acavado   treez
SHAKING   IS   th  flowrs   shedding  pores   ther   was
a copee   uv   nothing   in   his   hands   he sd heul reed it
aftr   driving in th taxi   he sd to me u may b on yr way
up   n i may b on my way out   whos to say whats up   or out
i sd   not bothring   eyez glinting   he passd thru cellos
mooving   his   mouth   in   time   onlee   th   smoke   from   th
quitting   syntaxes   on all our inevitabul   temporarilee
blockd   longing   lounging   feer   n so manee   pillows   n no
feer  heer  wher i always want to belong  share in  can i
hang up my heart for a whil  lending limbs   for  hevn is
can i hang up my heart heer for a whil   can i   can i hang
up my heart with yu   heer   for a whil   can i   can i
51 Errol Miller
From the Porch of the
Purple Milkman
Lost in time and space
in the rising moon of twilight, he
was rowing out to mainstream, strapped
down with overload, in the white-satin future
envisioned by him by significant others
he saw only dark continents sinking
into Delta's final draft, he read Sunday comics
and the classics again, he retraveled
Thoreau's independent travel to early death
and Frost's alluvial road not taken, in
the harpsichord music of Atlantis
he drowned his sorrow, crying out for Sasha
in the threadbare night of reincarnation
rambling about the Eastern shores of Lake Darbonne
until his body asked for solace, half-a-beat
away from New York City's chrome plated handiwork
there came a day at summer's end
flapping like a fish, the neighbours came
of course to stare, sitting helpless on the porch
of small-town coming and going, later
in the writer's carousel of life on the fringe
he remembered Cinderella's story, how
she danced all night and then the clock struck twelve
but how she later rose again to overcome
rain beats on tin roofs, the last picture show
flickers in black and white in a theatre
of desperate desperation, upon the hill tonight
an awesome distant charting
52 iron-on stars and Shalimar sisters weeping
and bleak black buggies from Lancaster
gusting in the wind, therapy cannot help
nor beer or wine or cigarettes, the dice thrown
and slow vegetation and sweet mineral water
roving the body's length concurrently
this is the power of loss, one more ride
onward for the prize, the courage to create
and then a rather eccentric welcome
in a platonic sad hotel
with blue guitars stacked in neat rows
of trivia and silent tenants rocking
on a wide-brimmed white front porch.
53 Steve McCaffery
Two Poems
Surrec Mac Te gen carry
umprin quan club Fan ducks yellow Ceol
good Amsu Naman bargainbout
milch hearth consecrand Dig ex in any
tittle sourd sponthe pura break evera re admini
with In wander stumble Dor This yeaster accousto to house
na condi Nomo Aecquo
appa Moyla re pro Mainy
Perlan Bella
perfect woodtoo Potter ques Reli allthe
backon night declaina
there primi buz smool pro Eyr tim
en guid hiber epi am there
trans wis sacra Nuota de along
maxi Mac one heopon spring whither Boerge good
confraterni Bally bled cockly becker ohahn upper pass
popu gwendo them Hoc mana tono
paridi turf
to pura re to tap pat comprehen melan grassbelong nigger
com please Em periparo completamen seeming quite
trampa plan luxuriotia charnel one optimo ort
lather dap Whenast Inni peru tetradoma a verypet
Colum hophaz Cockalooralooraloo thin commend
egg manun missile
Morn preadam
to leather here con
me Dodd sleep
ruck clutter Mineninecy be
mutther Shaugh strulldeburg uncon
tuf mara cum
54 beard bar pro poor new wedding
Anna big swag hilly bay
Think alia
Anticollabora constitutes an "anamorphic" excavation of James Joyce's
Finnegan's Wake. Taking the Viking Press edition of 1959 as the source
text, it records the premier portions of all the words fractured at a line
end and carried over to the next line for completion. Each line of
Anticollabora corresponds to one page in the Wake and stanza breaks
correspond to textual breaks in the source. The vocabulary then,
comprises 50% of the total lexemic units that Joyce would have
considered semantically incomplete and arbitrarily broken.
The section reproduced (and recorded) is the anamorphic transcript
derived from the final section of the Wake (Section IV) and occupies
pages 593 to 628 in the Viking edition.
Anamorphic painting was a popular minor genre through the Baroque.
The painting, when viewed from an orthodox angle, yielded an extremely
distorted and unrecognizable image, which would transform into a
recognizable image when viewed from an extreme angle.
55 Demi-Plosive Nine Part
a.   jf     a.     a
P*5pi(D^D!H$'     a   Jf       a      £ -P%
r <
56 ■ •.' •-•. J. .-
57 hhp 9    p%p^pVP^p
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58 Trap Lines
for Christian
Thomas King
When I was twelve, thirteen at the most, and we were still living
on the reserve, I asked my grandmother and she told me my
father sat in the bathroom in the dark because it was the only
place he could go to get away from us kids. What does he do in the bathroom, I wanted to know. Sits, said my grandmother. That's it? Thinks,
she said, he thinks. I asked her if he went to the bathroom, too, and she
said that was adult conversation, and I would have to ask him. It seemed
strange at the time, my father sitting in the dark, thinking, but rather
than run the risk of asking him, I was willing to believe my grandmother's
At forty-six, I am sure it was true, though I have had some trouble
convincing my son that sitting in the bathroom with the lights out is normal. He has, at eighteen, come upon language, much as a puppy comes
upon a slipper. Unlike other teenagers his age who slouch in closets and
basements, mute and desolate, Christopher likes to chew on conversation, toss it in the air, bang it off the walls. I was always shy around language. Christopher is fearless.
"Why do you sit in the bathroom, Dad?"
"My father used to sit in the bathroom."
"How many bathrooms did you have in the olden days?"
"We lived on the reserve then. We only had the one."
"I thought you guys lived in a teepee or something. Where was the
"That was your great grandfather. We lived in a house."
"It's a good thing we got two bathrooms," he told me.
The house on the reserve had been a government house, small and
poorly made. When we left and came to the city, my father took a picture
of it with me and my sisters standing in front. I have the picture in a box
somewhere. I want to show it to Christopher, so he can see just how
small the house was.
"You're always bragging about that shack."
59 "It wasn't a shack."
"The one with all the broken windows?"
"Some of them had cracks."
"And it was cold, right?"
"In the winter it was cold."
"And you didn't have television."
"That's right."
"Jerry says that every house built has cable built in. It's a law or something. "
"We didn't have cable or television."
"Is that why you left?"
"My father got a job here. I've got a picture of the house. You want to
see it?"
"No big deal."
"I can probably find it."
"No big deal."
Some of these conversations were easy. Others were hard. My conversations with my father were generally about the weather or trapping
or about fishing. That was it.
"Jerry says his father has to sit in the bathroom, too."
"Shower curtain was bundled up again. You have to spread it out so it
can dry."
"You want to know why?"
"Be nice if you cleaned up the water you leave on the floor."
"Jerry says it's because his father's constipated."
"Lawn has to be mowed. It's getting high."
"He says it's because his father eats too much junk food."
"Be nice if you cleaned the bottom of the mower this time. It's packed
with grass."
"But that doesn't make any sense, does it? Jerry and I eat junk food all
the time, and we're not constipated."
"Your mother wants me to fix the railing on the porch. I'm going to
need your help with that."
"Are you constipated?"
Alberta wasn't much help. I could see her smiling to herself whenever
Christopher starting chewing. "It's because we're in the city," she said.
"If we had stayed on the reserve, Christopher would be out on a trapline
with his mouth shut and you wouldn't be constipated."
"Nobody runs a trapline anymore."
"My grandfather said the outdoors was good for you."
"We could have lived on the reserve, but you didn't want to."
"And he was never constipated."
60 "My father ran a trapline. We didn't leave the reserve until I was sixteen. Your folks have always lived in the city."
"Your father was a mechanic."
"He ran a trapline, just like his father."
"Your grandfather was a mechanic."
"Not in the winter."
My father never remarried. After my mother died, he just looked after
the four of us. He seldom talked about himself, and, slowly, as my sisters
and I got older, he became a mystery. He remained a mystery until his
"You hardly ever knew my father," I said. "He died two years after we
were married."
Alberta nodded her head and stroked her hair behind her ears. "Your
grandmother told me."
"She died before he did."
"My mother told me. She knew your grandmother."
"So, what did your mother tell you?"
"She told me not to marry you."
"She told me I was a damn good catch. Those were her exact words
'damn good'."
"She said that just to please you. She said you had a smart mouth. She
wanted me to marry Sid."
"So, why didn't you marry Sid?"
"I didn't love Sid."
"What else did she say?"
"She said that constipation ran in your family."
After Christopher graduated from high school, he pulled up in front of
the television and sat there for almost a month.
"You planning on going to university?" I asked him.
"I guess."
"You going to do it right away or you going to get a job?"
"I'm going to rest first."
"Seems to me, you got to make some decisions."
"Maybe I'll go in the bathroom later on and think about it."
"You can't just watch television."
"I know."
"You're an adult now."
"I know."
Alberta called these conversations father and son talks, and you could
tell the way she sharpened her tongue on "father and son" that she didn't
think much of them.
"You ever talk to him about important things?"
61 "Like what?"
"You know."
"Okay, what do you tell him?"
"I tell him what he needs to know."
"My mother talked to my sisters and me all the time. About everything. "
"We have good conversations."
"Did he tell you he isn't going to college."
"He just wants some time to think."
"Not what he told me."
I was in a bookstore looking for the new Audrey Thomas novel. The
Ts were on the third shelf down and I had to bend over and cock my head
to one side in order to read the titles. As I stood there, bent over and
twisted, I felt my face start to slide. It was a strange sensation. Everything that wasn't anchored to bone just slipped off the top half of my head,
slopped into the lower half, and hung there like a bag of jello. When I arrived home, I got myself into the same position in front of the bathroom
mirror. That evening, I went downstairs and sat on the couch with Christopher and waited for a commercial.
"How about turning off the sound?"
"We going to have another talk?"
"I thought we could talk about the things that you're good at doing."
"I'm not good at anything."
"That's not true. You're good at computers."
"I like the games."
"You're good at talking to people. You could be a teacher."
"Teaching looks boring. Most of my teachers were boring."
"Times are tougher now," I said. "When your grandfather was a boy,
he worked on a trapline up north. It was hard work, but you didn't need a
university degree. Now you have to have one. Times are tougher."
"Mr. Johnson was the boringest of all."
"University is the key. Lot of kids go there not knowing what they
want to do, and, after two or three years, they figure it out. Have you applied to any universities yet?"
"Commercial's over."
"No money in watching television."
"Commercial's over."
Alberta caught me bent over in front of the mirror. "You lose something?"
62 "Mirror's got a defect in it. You can see it just there."
"At least you're not going bald."
"I talked to Christopher about university."
"My father never looked a day over forty." Alberta grinned at herself
in the mirror so she could see her teeth. "You know," she said, "When
you stand like that, your face hangs funny,"
I don't remember my father growing old. He was fifty-six when he died.
We never had long talks about life or careers. When I was a kid—I forget
how old—we drove into Medicine River to watch the astronauts land on
the moon. We sat in the American Hotel and watched it on the old black
and white that Morris Rough Dog kept in the lobby. Morris told my father
that they were checking the moon to see if it had any timber, water, valuable minerals, or game, and, if it didn't, they planned to turn it into a reserve and move all the Cree up there. Hey, he said to my father, what's
that boy of yours going to be when he grows up? Beats me, said my father. Well, said Morris, there's damn little money in the hotel business
and sure as hell nothing but scratch and splinters in being an Indian.
For weeks after, my father told Morris' story about the moon and the
astronauts. My father laughed when he told the story. Morris had told it
"What do you really do in the bathroom, Dad?"
"I think."
"That all?"
"Just thinking."
"Didn't know thinking smelled so bad."
My father liked the idea of fishing. There were always fishing magazines
around the house, and he would call me and my sisters over to show us a
picture of a rainbow trout breaking water, or a northern pike rolled on its
side or a tarpon sailing out of the blue sea like a silver missile. At the back
of the magazines were advertisements for fishing tackle that my father
would cut out and stick on the refrigerator door. When they got yellow
and curled up, he would take them down and put up fresh ones.
I was in the downstairs' bathroom. Christopher and Jerry were in
Christopher's room. I could hear them playing video games and talking.
"My father wants me to go into business with him," said Jerry.
"Can you see it? Me, selling cars the rest of my life?"
"Good money?"
63 "Sure, but what a toady job. I'd rather go to university and see what
comes up."
"I'm thinking about that, too."
"What's your dad want you to do," said Jerry.
It was dark in the bathroom and cool, and I sat there trying not to
"Take a guess."
"Doctor?" said Jerry. "Lawyer?"
"An accountant? My dad almost became an accountant."
"You'll never guess. You could live to be a million years old and you'd
never guess."
"Sounds stupid."
"A trapper. He wants me to work a trapline."
"You got to be kidding."
"God's truth. Just like my grandfather."
"Your dad is really weird."
"You ought to live with him."
We only went fishing once. It was just before my mother died. We all got
in the car and drove up to a lake just off the reserve. My dad rented a
boat and took us kids out in pairs. My mother stayed on the docks and lay
in the sun.
Towards the end of the day, my sisters stayed on the dock with my
mother, and my father and I went out in the boat alone. He had a new
green tackle box he had bought at the hardware store on Saturday. Inside
was an assortment of hooks and spinners and lures and a couple of red
things with long trailing red and white skirts. He snorted and showed me
a clipping that had come with the box for a lure that could actually call the
Used to be beaver all around here, he told me, but they've been
trapped out. Do you know why the beavers were so easy to catch, he
asked me. It's because they always do the same thing. You can count on
beavers to be regular. They're not stupid. They're just predictable, so
you always set the trap in the same place and you always use the same
bait, and pretty soon, they're gone.
Trapping was good money when your grandfather was here, but not
now. No money in being a mechanic either. Better think of something
else to do. Maybe I'll be an astronaut, I said. Have more luck trying to
get pregnant, he said. Maybe I'll be a fisherman. No sir, he said. All the
money's in making junk like this, and he squeezed the advertisement into
a ball and set it afloat on the lake.
64 Christopher was in front of the television when I got home from work on
Friday. There was a dirty plate under the coffee table and a box of crackers sitting on the cushions.
"What do you say we get out of the house this weekend and do something?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. What would you like to do?"
"We could go to that new movie."
"I meant outdoors."
"What's to do outdoors besides work?"
"We could go fishing."
"Sure, I used to go fishing with my father all the time."
"This one of those father, son things?"
"We could go to the lake and rent a boat."
"I may have a job."
"Great. Where?"
"Let you know later."
"What's the secret?"
"No secret. I'll just tell you later."
"What about the fishing trip?"
"Better stick around the house in case someone calls."
Christopher slumped back into the cushions and turned up the sound
on the television.
"What about the dirty plate?"
"It's not going anywhere."
"That box is going to spill if you leave it like that."
"It's empty."
My father caught four fish that day. I caught two. He sat in the stern with
the motor. I sat in the bow with the anchor. When the sun dropped into
the trees, he closed his tackle box and gave the starter rope a pull. The
motor sputtered and died. He pulled it again. Nothing. He moved his
tackle box out of the way, stood up, and put one foot on the motor and
gave the rope a hard yank. It broke in his hand and he tumbled over backwards, the boat tipping and slopping back and forth. Damn, he said, and
he pulled himself back up on the seat. Well, son, he said, I've got a job for
you, and he set the oars in the locks and leaned against the motor. He
looked around the lake at the trees and the mountains and the sky. And
he looked at me. Try not to get me wet, he said.
Alberta was in the kitchen peeling a piece of pizza away from the box.
"Christopher got a job at that new fast food place. Did he tell you?"
65 "No. He doesn't tell me those things."
"You should talk with him more."
"I talk with him all the time."
"He needs to know you love him."
"He knows that."
"He just wants to be like you."
Once my sister and I were fighting, my father broke us up and sent us out
in the woods to get four sticks apiece about as round as a finger. So we
did. And when we brought them back, he took each one and broke it over
his knee. Then he sent us out to get some more.
"Why don't you take him fishing?"
"I tried. He didn't want to go."
"What did you and your father do?"
"We didn't do much of anything."
"Okay, start there."
When we came home with the sticks, my father wrapped them all together with some cord. Try to break these, he said. We jumped on the
sticks and we kicked them. We put the bundle between two rocks and hit
it with a board. But the sticks didn't break. Finally, my father took the
sticks and tried to break them across his knee. You kids get the idea, he
said. After my father went back into the house, my youngest sister
kicked the sticks around the yard some more and said it was okay but
she'd rather have a ball.
Christopher's job at the fast food place lasted three weeks. After that he
resumed his place in front of the television.
"What happened with the job?"
"It was boring."
"Lots of jobs are boring."
"Don't worry, I'll get another."
"I'm not worried," I said, and I told him about the sticks. "A stick by itself is easy to break, but it's impossible to break them when they stand
together. You see what I mean?"
"Chainsaw," said my son.
"Use a chainsaw."
I began rowing for the docks, and my father began to sing. Then he
stopped and leaned forward as though he wanted to tell me something.
66 Son, he said, I've been thinking... And just then a gust of wind blew his
hat off, and I had to swing the boat around so we could get it before it
sank. The hat was waterlogged. My father wrung it out as best he could,
and then he settled in against the motor again and started singing.
My best memory of my father was that day on the lake. He lived alone,
and, after his funeral, my sisters and I went back to his apartment and began packing and dividing the things as we went. I found his tackle box in
the closet at the back.
"Christopher got accepted to university."
"When did that happen?"
"Last week. He said he was going to tell you."
"He and Jerry both got accepted. Jerry's father gave Jerry a car and
they're going to drive over to Vancouver and see about getting jobs before school starts."
"Vancouver, huh?"
"Not many more chances."
"For talking to your son."
Jerry came by on a Saturday, and Alberta and I helped Christopher
pack his things in the station wagon.
"Nice car," said Alberta.
"It's a pig," said Jerry. "My father couldn't sell it because of the colour.
But it'll get us there."
"Bet your father and mother are going to miss you."
"My father wanted me to stick around and help with the business.
Gave me this big speech about traditions."
"Nothing wrong with traditions," Alberta said.
"Yeah, I guess. Look at this." Jerry held up a red metal tool box. "It's
my grandfather's first tool box. My father gave it to me. You know, father to son and all that."
"That's nice," said Alberta.
1 guess.
"Come on," said Christopher. "Couple more things and we can get going."
Alberta put her arm around my waist and she began to poke me. Not
so you could see. Just a sharp, annoying poke. "For Christ's sake," she
whispered, "say something."
Christopher came out of the house carrying his boots and a green
metal box. "All set," he said.
"Where'd you get the box?" I asked.
67 "It's an old fishing tackle box."
"I know."
"It's been setting in the closet for years. Nobody uses it."
"It was my father's box."
"Yeah. It's got some really weird stuff in it. Jerry says that there's
good fishing in B. C."
"That's right," said Jerry. "You should see some of those salmon."
"You don't fish."
"You never took me."
"My father gave me that box. It was his father's."
"You never use it."
"No, it's okay. I was going to give it to you anyway."
"No big deal. I can leave it here."
"No, it's yours."
"I'll take care of it."
"Maybe after you get settled out there, we can come out. Maybe you
and I can do some fishing."
"Love you, honey," said Alberta and she put her arms around Christopher and held him. "I'm going to miss you. Call us if you need anything.
And watch what you eat so you don't wind up like your father."
Alberta and I stood in the yard for a while after the boys drove off.
"You could have told him you loved him," she said.
"I did. In my own way."
"Oh, he's supposed to figure that out because you gave him that old
fishing box."
"That's the way my father did it."
"I thought you told me you found the box when you and your sisters
were cleaning out his place."
After supper, Alberta went grocery shopping. I sat in the bathroom
and imagined what my father had been going to say just before the wind
took his hat, something important I guessed, something I could have
shared with my son.
68 Contributors
Attila the Stockbroker is a performance poet, singer-songwriter and journalist who has
toured extensively through Great Britain, Europe and Canada. He has released five LPs
(with a sixth on the way) including Living at the Rivoli on Vancouver's Festival Records on
which three of the four recorded pieces can be found. Attila does loads of gigs from literary
festivals through folk festivals, comedy clubs to thrash metal gigs. He will be touring Canada again in Autumn 1990 and Summer 1991.
Dick Bakken, director of the Bisbee Festival of Poetry & Jazz (Arizona, August 17-19,
1990) and longtime collaborator with dancers, musicians and puppeteers, has voiced How to
Eat Corn and his various other creations coast to coast without manuscript, podium or microphone between him and his audience.
bill bissett is a poet paintr singr (with LUDDITES—Gerry Collins & Murray Favro) basd
in London Ontario—recent lp LUDDITES & cassetts SHIFT (LUDDITES) & shining spirit
with Chris Meloche & liquid waze with Adeena Karasick & london life (Nightwood editions)
& recent books what we have & hard 2 beleev (Talonbooks) vancouvr be also live ther &
recent shows REZONING—Vancouvr Art Galleree 89 (with George Herms & Alan Neil &
Jess) and wun prson show Selby Hotel Toronto Ont 90.
Howard Broomfield was a SOUNDMAN, a listener, and a composer. He experienced
the world as music. His tapework compositions were his way of sharing that gift with
others. Howard heard conversations as parts in a composition above and beyond their literal
meanings as texts. He listened to the timbre of sounds as keynotes for his compositions. He
listened to rhythms that exist beyond meter. He listened for inner meanings that lie between the lines. He listened for delicate harmonics and resonances that reveal personality
and define situation. He used audio actualities as other composers used scored instrumentation.
Howard's genius was not simply his mastery of an "experimental" compositional medium.
Although he was influenced by Glenn Gould's radio compositions and by his work with R.
Murray Schafer on the World SoundScape Project, Howard's great gift was his intuitively
creative way of listening. His compositions reflect the many voices he heard in the world
around him. They have a "sound" that is distinctively his own. Howard was always in the
world he recorded. He recorded people and animals, winds and waters, junk collections and
drunks. Howard was able to have a personal connection with all of them. His work was a
kind of reflexive ethnography of the soundscape.
Howard's world is distinctive, yet familiar. His works turn us all into listeners. They bring
out a musical dimension that we all experience but cannot always sort out from the din of
events we are conditioned to believe are real. Howard lived in the world of a different
reality, a musical reality. He lived in the world of a listener. His works generously share
that sound with us all. —Robin Ridington. In Doig Peoples Ears (42 min.) was composed for
a conference on The Sociology of Music: An Exploration of Issues at Trent University in
69 Anne Burke is a poet, critic and editor of The Prairie Journal, Calgary, Alberta. Her
poems have appeared in many periodicals and some anthologies across Canada and in the
United States, Room of One's Own, Poetry Canada Review, And Other Travels (Moonstone
Press), Poetry and the Post-Industrial Age (Pig Iron Press) among them.
Henri Chopin is well-known for his typewriter and typewrited-collage poems, as well as
for work in sound poetry and other writing. He is editor of the influential reviews Cinquieme
Saison and Ou, publishing recordings of work by almost every major sound poet.
Theresa Clark and Carletta Wilson have been exploring poetic and musical language
since 1983. Wilson's poems and fiction have appeared in a number of publications, most recently Poets. Painters. Composers. Clark's compositions have been performed nationally. In
Here By Turns, a cassette of their collaborative work, was released in 1988.
Peter Courtemanche is a producer living in Vancouver.
Bob Davis is a partner in earwax productions doing music compositions, engineering and
sound design and has been musical director of the experimental theatre group SOON 3
THEATRE since 1981. He composed music for the sculptural installation Plato's Cave and
performed his work live in Art Ache (kunstschmerz) with Deborah Slater and B. P. Skratz.
Penn Kemp is a Canadian poet, playwright, novelist and sound poet. Born in Strathroy,
Ontario, and raised in London, Penn has spent much of her life in Ontario, including nine
years on Toronto Island. To date, Penn has published twelve books and had three plays
wayne keon is an ojibway man, business administration graduate, financial analyst, majik
man and a member of the PanAmerican Indian Association. His publications include Sweet
Grass, a modern anthology of Indian poetry with father Orville Keon and brother Ronald
Keon; Thunderbirds of the Ottawa, a novel with father Orville Keon; and Sweetgrass II, a
book of poetry from The Mercury Press, due out in August, 1990. He presently lives in Al-
goma County.
Thomas King is the author of Medicine River. His short stories have been published in
The Malahat Review, Canadian Fiction Magazine, Whetstone, The MacMillan Anthology
and The Journey Anthology. He has edited a collection of critical essays and two anthologies
of short fiction by Native writers in Canada.
Richard Kostelanetz is the taken name of a collective composed of twelve industrious
elves. One writes criticism of literature and the arts, a second journalism, a third poetry, a
fourth fiction, a fifth experimental prose, a sixth radio plays. The seventh elf composes
audio art, the eighth videotapes, the ninth makes holograms. The tenth edits anthologies,
and the eleventh makes film, while the twelfth, who thinks he's boss, sweeps the place they
Scott MacLeod is a writer, performance artist and visual artist. Forthcoming publications
include fiction in Five Fingers Review and poetry in Ink and the Czech review MG. In July-
October 1990, he will perform Brief Amaze in Italy, Czechoslovakia, East Germany,
Poland, the USSR and other European countries.
70 Steve McCaffery currently lives and writes in Toronto. His latest books are The Black
Debt (Nightwood Editions) and Evoba (Coach House Press).
Errol Miller's poems recently appeared in Lousiana Literature, Caliban, Aura, What,
Santa Clara Review, Memphis State Review, Writers Forum, Roanoke Review, Interim, Galley Sail Review and others. Work is forthcoming in Kansas Quarterly, West Branch, Paintbrush, Cape Rock, Wisconsin Review, Webster Review, CrazyQuilt anA the Rio Grand
Daniel David Moses is a Delaware from the Six Nations lands in southern Ontario. He is
a founding member of The Committee to Re-Establish the Trickster, Toronto's Native
writers' support group. His most recent publication is the play Coyote City from Williams-
Sylvie Neve and Jean-Pierre Bobillot live in the north of France. They write together
or separately: he recently published a literary pamphlet La Momie De Roland Barthes, she
is to publish a mythological and erotic tale, Debordades Ou Les Metamorphoses De Calliope:
together they published a weird and rare verse and prose work called Satura Sodomica. On
stage they perform a long non-stop Poemeshow and Dadamix, a tribute to Dadaism.
Jay O'Callahan has been a professional teller and maker of tales for over fifteen years. He
has performed his original works at Lincoln Center, with the Boston Symphony Orchestra,
in London at the South Bank Complex, in Mauritius and Africa for the U.S. State Department, at the Library of Congress and on National Public Radio. His full-length theatrical
pieces have run in theatres across the United States.
Pat Phillips's poetry has appeared most recently in Sulfur 25 and in The Berkeley Poetry
Review 23124. Work from his manuscript Utter will be performed during the summer of 1990
in San Francisco.
Wes Robertson types, files, answers phones and writes on lunch breaks and weekends.
This is his first publication in a magazine edited by someone other than himself. He firmly
believes that the statement Jesus is Lord is grammatically incorrect, and he even dreams in
the third person.
G.P. Skratz is the author of The Gates of Disappearance (Konglomerati Press, Gulfport,
FL, 1982) and ghostwriter of Larry: The Stooge in the Middle (Last Gasp, San Francisco,
1984). Pieces of his have appeared in Artweek, Exquisite Corpse, Rolling Stone, High Performance, Poetry Flash and so on.
Steven Smith is a poet, sound poet and fictioneer. He performed for ten years with the
sound ensemble Owen Sound. He currently lives in Saskatoon. His collection of poetry
Transient Light will be released in the fall, 1990, by The Mercury Press.
Louise Young won the CBC competition for playwriting in 1989. She has been selected to
appear in Canadian Fiction Magazine's, upcoming issue on B. C. writers. Freefall was a
semi-finalist in the CBC competition in 1987 and has been aired twice on Vanishing Point.
OCTOBER 24-28,1990
Richard Ford's appearance courtesy of Vancouver Writers Festival & Little Brown Canada
Sponsored by PRISM international & the Department of Theatre, UBC Creative Writing M.F.A.
The University of British Columbia offers a Master
of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. Students
choose three genres to work in from a wide range of
courses, including: Poetry, Novel/Novella, Short
Fiction, Stage Plays, cvScreen & TV Plays, Radio
Plays,  Writ- fi*a«S^E!^^^ ing   for   Chil
dren,   Non- e^^pS^1^^g^^^^'   Fiction    and
Translation.   I £OttiiiiiiiM^<V& A   course   in
Editing and ^&S^^^^^^S^BSK Mana8m8 a
Literary fr^^^^^^^^^^SJn Magazine is
also offered. P^^^^^^^^ SrfpAl' instruction
is   in   small ^     '    T^a^Sal workshop
format or tutorial.   w^B—^s-"-* j^e thesis con
sists of imaginative writing. The Department of Creative Writing also offers a Diploma Programme in
Applied Creative Non-Fiction.
Faculty: Sue Ann Alderson
Hart Hanson
George McWhirter
Keith Maillard
Jerry Newman
Linda Svendsen
Bryan Wade
For further information, please write to:
Department of Creative Writing
University of British Columbia
Buchanan E462 - 1866 Main Mall
Vancouver, B.C. V6T 1W5 Poetry-
bill bissett
Jean-Pierre Bobillot
& Sylvie Neve
Anne Burke
Henri Chopin
Penn Kemp
wayne keon
Steve McCaffery
Errol Miller
Daniel David Moses
Pat Phillips
Steven Smith
& On Cassette
Attila the Stockbroker
Dick Bakken
bill bissett
Howard Broomfield
Theresa Clark & Carletta Wilson
Peter Courtemanche
Bob Davis & G. P. Skratz
Scott MacLeod
Steve McCaffery
Jay O'Callahan
Wes Robertson
Scott MacLeod
Louise Young
Thomas King
Richard Kostelanetz
ISSN 0032.8790


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