Tuesday, February 13, 2018

The Church of What the Sun Sees



Downes Point, February 12, 2018 4:53 p.m.

Too late in the day to visit the beach, so I walk east to the bluff, to be with what the sun sees.

The trees always have something to say to each other, and sometimes, when the wind isn't blowing, it is difficult to hear them. But I listen all the same, hoping my patience will unfreeze them.

They are dancers, these trees, freezing into cathedrals; the sun on them so golden, the mid-winter sky behind.

There is more, another line at least, but I just don't have it in me.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Sam Olson's GoFundMe Campaign



In August 2016, Gerald Stanley encountered a group of young men in his farm yard attempting to steal his property. 

In February 2018, Sam Olson got on his digital gofundme horse, reared it, and neglected to mention that the vehicle carrying “a group of young men” was in fact carrying three young men and two young women who had spent the day doing what many young people do in this country, particularly in rural areas, and that’s drive around, go swimming, shoot highway signs, drink alcohol, and when things get messy, like a flat tire, try to fix it, which can also get messy -- but is by no means an act that deserves to be met with framing hammers and semi-automatic weapons.

Olson concludes his already erroneous first sentence by stating that the group who arrived on Stanley’s farm intended to steal Stanley’s quad, when in fact only one of the young men jumped on the quad and tried to start it. We have no reason to believe that this young man tried to steal the quad, just as we have no reason to believe that he would ride off on this (one-seat) vehicle and leave his friends behind.

This young man was, as the English say, in a “holiday mood”, and jumping on Stanley’s quad and trying to start it belongs not to theft but to the nature of that mood. For anyone to think otherwise is someone whose biases are fixed, clung to and sharpened daily. And I am not talking of Stanley’s bias against indigenous people so much as his bias against young people, a bias that might well have been formed in Stanley’s own youth through his exposure to and participation in a culture of violence, a bias that clearly extends to his son who attacked the vehicle that the four young people arrived in, an action that, rather than defuse the situation, only accelerated it.

Unfortunate events to follow led to, what was proved to be, a freak accident, which cost the life of one of the young men. 

What followed from this first act of violence on the Stanley farm that day -- Stanley’s son driving a framing hammer into the driver’s side of the front windshield -- led to the driver putting the vehicle in reverse, backing up and, in trying to leave the farm in a forward gear, backed into another Stanley vehicle. This is the freak accident, Sam Olson, not the one you can't bring yourself to mention in the “Story” portion of your gofundme campaign. It was only after this freak accident that an enraged Gerald Stanley fetched a semi-automatic pistol, fired a couple of shots at the fleeing quad jumper, then made his way to the vehicle that the young people arrived in and, despite what Stanley says about trying to pull the keys out of the ignition, shot Colten Boushie in the back of the head.

It was a terrible situation and circumstance 

and it was entirely preventable if Gerald Stanley is the kind of man that you, Sam Olson, would like us to believe he is. But Stanley is not that man, and on

Friday February 9th 2018, Gerald was acquitted

not

of the charge he acquired

but of second-degree murder.

That you struggle to write a sentence is not what I take issue with here. What I take issue with, apart from what I have written thus far, is that in not stating the charge laid against Gerald Stanley, you are in fact erasing it, as if it was a mistake, when it was not a mistake. Sure, Stanley was

cleared of any and all wrongdoing surrounding the events of that day 

but he did do wrong that day, and so did his son, who contributed to these events when he introduced violence to the narrative in the form of a hammer to the windshield of the vehicle that these kids rode in on.

As I can imagine, the Stanley family has spent thousands upon thousands of dollars surrounding this ordeal.

I have an imagination too, Sam Olson. But no one with any sincerity initiates a gofundme campaign by imagining what someone has spent on something. If you really want to help the Stanleys, you would quit fueling this fire, stop asking people to help them

recoup some of their lost time, property and vehicles that were damaged, harvest income, and sanity during this entire difficult situation they have been dealing with over the past two years

and focus your efforts on derailing the cycle of violence that produces a Gerald Stanley, who in turn passed on that violence to his son. Because what you are doing in initiating this gofundme campaign is increasing the upset, sharpening the biases that Stanley, his son and others like them have sharpened all these years, and will continue to sharpen, hammering and shooting at anyone or anything that sits on their fucking quad. Your solution is unsustainable, Sam Olson. Your effort to compensate the family of the man who killed Colton Boushie is only making a

terrible situation

worse.




Sunday, February 11, 2018

An Artist's Dream



Hornby Island is full of people who come here to live in their heads -- when not driving each other nuts. Lots of artists, retired radio producers, activists, many of them shockingly on in years. It is not uncommon to meet residents in their 80s who walk five miles a day, swim in the ocean year round ("except when the herring are spawning") and continue to explore new relationships ("it was sexual at first, but it turned out they really enjoy each other's company").

One artist I spoke with came to the island almost fifty years ago. Because I know a bit about him, I know that he lives with a frugality consistent with his aesthetic, his politics.  He has managed on the same $12,000-a-year he budgeted for himself in the mid-1970s, an exercise that owes as much to subtracting himself from a consumer society as it does to feeding on the ever-widening spaces made available through the absence of that which he can live without.

If an artist lives long enough, pays attention to what is going on in the contemporary conversation, and makes that conversation a material, he or she will have their moment (in sales). The artist of which I speak had such a moment a few years ago, and the result, he says, "is a nightmare that has me waking up scared of this money, as if it were a great dollar-feathered bird at the end of the bed, waiting to eat my feet off, keep me in the studio making more of it."


Saturday, February 10, 2018

Hang Fire (1981, 2018)



In the sweet old country where I come from
Nobody ever works
Yeah nothing gets done
We hang fire, we hang fire


You know marrying money is a full time job
I don't need the aggravation
I'm a lazy slob
I hang fire, I hang fire
Hang fire, put it on the wire baby
Hang fire, hang fire put it on the wire baby, go ahead
Hang fire


We've got nothing to eat
We got nowhere to work
Nothing to drink
We just lost our shirts
I'm on the dole
We ain't for hire
Say what the hell
Say what the hell, hang fire
Hang fire, hang fire, hang fire, put it on the wire baby
Hang fire, hang fire, hang fire, hang fire, hang fire, hang fire, put it on the wire baby


Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo
Doo doo

Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo
Doo doo, hang fire, hang fire, hang fire

Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo, hang fire, hang fire, put it on the wire baby
Doo doo

Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo
Doo doo doo
Doo doo


Yeah ten thousand dollars, go have some fun
Put it all on at a hundred to one
Hang fire, hang fire, hang fire, put it on the wire baby
Doo doo
Doo doo, hang fire, hang fire put it on the wire
Hang fire, hang fire, hang fire, hang fire
Put it on the wire baby
Put it on the wire




Keith Richards / Mick Jagger  Hang Fire lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, BMG Rights Management US, LLC

Friday, February 9, 2018

"...ragtag conversations with no centre."



Hard to believe, but just the other day I heard someone on the radio say that the Berlin Wall has been down longer than it had been up. When did it go up again? 1961? And when did it come down? 1989?

Not many North Americans under the age of 55 know what it was to pass through Checkpoint Charlie, but I do. I remember. It was late November, 1980, and I was 18 years old, bumming around Europe and North Africa. Someone I met at a Mitch Ryder concert in Lübeck said, "Let's go to East Berlin," and I said, "Sure!"

The train entered East Germany at Buchhorst, a direct line to West Berlin that made an unscheduled stop at Magdeburg(?) to take on three tall men in sideburns and black leather car coats, one of them carrying a Jack Russell terrier, which he launched like a bowling ball down the aisle of our carriage. The dog sniffed everything -- luggage, parcels, crotches -- but found nothing.

We arrived at the Checkpoint the following morning. While waiting an older British man looked down his nose at us, asked us to "take the ritual seriously." Without hesitation, my travelling companion -- a Bostonian of Serbian parents -- replied "Go fuck yourself." The man produced from his trench coat a newspaper clipping: the face of a young woman, and below it, the day of her birth (same year as me) hyphenated to the day of her death -- seven days before.

The Checkpoint landscape was mostly post-and-barbwire zig-zags. Human interactions were more variable: for the American military, everything was a teaching moment; for the East German officials, they looked bored to death. We exchanged fifty West German marks for fifty East German marks, and were told to return the East German marks we were unable to spend.

The next time I visited Checkpoint Charlie was in 2002 -- thirteen years after the Wall came down. All that remained was the little white hut where we showed our passports. Surrounding it, a lot of signage, some of it memorials, like the cluster of chest-height crosses with the names and faces of those who died trying. I approached the crosses and my god if the first one I saw wasn't the woman whose face was on that clipping.

All of this came back to me after hearing what I heard on the radio. That it stayed with me had everything to do with selecting John le Carré's Smiley's People (1979) from the shelves of the Hornby Island Free Store. And that night, what I read on Page 42 -- lines reminiscent of our current moment. Smiley is pulled from retirement to verify the death of a retired informant. Immediately after that he is de-briefed/briefed in a safe house operated by a British intelligence agency.

This is how crises always were, he thought; ragtag conversations with no centre. One man on the telephone, another dead, a third prowling. The nervous idleness of slow motion.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Storytelling (2001)




Cinematic representations of university Creative Writing programs are few and far between. Godard's Notre musique (2004) is set at a literary festival in Sarajevo (the famous scene where Godard shows students pictures of a destroyed Richmond, Virginia after the American Civil War), but apart from that, the only film I can think of that takes us inside a creative writing classroom is Todd Solondz's Storytelling (2001).

Storytelling is divided into two sections: "Fiction" and "Non-Fiction" (a third section, entitled "Autobiography", was cut from the final film). It is in "Fiction" that we find ourselves in a creative writing class led by Professor Scott (Robert Wisdom), a gruff, straight-shooting Black writer whose best days are behind him and who has sex with his white female students -- one of whom is Vi (Selma Blair).

Like a lot of Solondz's films, discomfort is the operative condition, and there is a lot of it in "Fiction". Coincidentally, there is a lot of discomfort in this country's writing culture (abuse, betrayal, petitions, rumours, callouts, confessions, suspensions, firings) and I wonder if it might be time to re-screen this film and follow it with a talkback session.

As to who might host such a session, it would have to be someone with experience, who understands the difference between life and art, but who is aware of how the two meet and mingle; someone with patience and passion, who is partial to logic and lyricism, affirmation and critique, intellectual and emotional intelligence... A few names spring to mind. In Vancouver -- Amber Dawn. In Calgary -- Larissa Lai. In Toronto -- Zoe Whitall. In Montreal -- Sina Queyras.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

Counter Narratives



The Shadbolt house on Hornby Island, with its big windows, its cedar panelled interior, its Middle Eastern carpets and its stacks of New Yorkers. The image above is from the August 5th, 1972 issue: an older man and a younger woman (note the relative measures) have just sat down to dinner. Her mouth is open, his is not. I look at the caption below:

"What were you like when you were a nobody, Mr. Tyler?"

Because the question is asked of Mr. Tyler, my eyes go to his face first, looking for the face I might make if asked such a question, embarrassed to be thought of as "nobody"'s antonym, resentful to be cast that way, feeling reduced, ridiculed and, once engulfed in these feelings, reminded of the power in passive-aggression, and why did I agree to this editor's invitation to dine out on Little, Brown's credit card anyway?


Something about the flatness of the man's face. If he was leering, the narrative might be closer to what we expect in the Weinstein era, and we would be done with it, our suspicions confirmed. But he is not leering; if anything, his expression is careful, respectful, perhaps on the verge of bemusement, which is a form of condescension, even if that bemusement is yet another transitional stage, towards a topic change, a return to what we were talking about at the festival, about the writing, about the conversation that is the literature of our time.