Landwash Vol. 1 Issue 2 (Spring 2014) by The Independent

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Vol 1 Issue 2 Spring 2014

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Landwash !"#$%&&'()&*(+*,-./-$%0&*')*1-" Volume 1 Issue 2 Published by TheIndependent.ca

Editor Hans Rollmann Assistant Editor Justin Brake Graphic Designer Graham Kennedy Web Designer Kieran Hanley Cover Art Kira Sheppard Contributors Erin Aylward Ted Bonnah Justin Brake Bridget Canning Brian Carey Keith Collier Anthony Elson Amanda Hennessey Graham Kennedy H* Monaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;a Malik Bryan Manning Melanie Oates Adam Riggio Dave Roe Hans Rollmann Dan Rubin Kira Sheppard

For author bios check out us out online: www.TheIndependent.ca

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Landwash

CONTENTS

In this issue

Hans Rollman

Coming to stay (poem)

Melanie Oates

A piece of sky (art)

Bridget Canning

Undercurrents !"#$%&'(

Keith Collier

She’s gone West Indie !"#$%&'(

Bryan Manning

Stepfather (poem)

Mona’a Malik

A paragon of inception (article)

Justin Brake

Three Wishes (poem)

Mona’a Malik

2%*3%45%*67*!"#$%&'(

Ted Bonnah

After the Orchestra (poem)

Dan Rubin

Atmospheres (art)

Kira Sheppard

Long may ya big jib draw, Lawnya Vawnya (article)

Justin Brake

institutionalized art (essay)

Adam Riggio

Driving to Stephenville (poem)

Bridget Canning

Buttercups !"#$%&'(

If all goes well, it will get tangly (article)

Justin Brake

Sisters (art)

Amanda Hennessey

85)9:($%//;*(poem)

Erin Aylward

The Big Land (article)

Justin Brake

The Axe Man Cometh (poem)

Anthony Elson

The Guns of Labrador (poem)

Hans Rollman

Taking it to the street (art)

Brian Carey

Rock, paper... !"#$%&'(

Dave Roe

Cinema Politica St. John’s turns one (article)

Justin Brake

Contribute

Hans Rollman

The perils and aspirations of

Colour-correcting injustice in

All content in Landwash is copyright TheIndependent.ca and subject to the ‘Privacy’ and ‘Terms of Use’ outlined on our website: 444</=%')9%#%)9%)/<,;<*:;)94;&=*'),.-9%&*4($>&*(+*5,/'()*4=',=*?;@*$%&%?A.%*$%;.*.'+%*#%(#.%B*#.;,%&B*($*%C%)/&<*3;?%&B* characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used 5,/'/'(-&.@<*D)@*$%&%?A.;),%*/(*;,/-;.*%C%)/&B*.(,;.%&*($*#%$&()&B.'C')E*($*9%;9B*'&*%)/'$%.@*,('),'9%)/;.< !"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+

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In this issue… Welcome, dear reader, to Landwash: Issue 2. It’s been an exciting journey. Thank you for all your praise, critique, commentary, and engagement with Issue 1. This is the art and writing of today’s Newfoundland and Labrador, and something for all of us to share, discuss and be proud of. And for those of you who braved the ‘Submissions’ section (it didn’t seem nearly so daunting when we wrote it!), we salute you, and welcome some of you to our pages. So what lies ahead in Issue 2? Mel Oates, one of our resident writers and an up-and-coming superstar (we’re not ashamed of our 4$'/%$&F*&-,,%&&G*#$(C'9%&*;*C'&,%$;.*#(%/',*(H%$')E*/(*&/;$/*/='&*'&&-%*(H*')*=;$9I='//')E*&/@.%<*J%'/=*K(..'%$* &=;$%&*;*#('E);)/*#'%,%*(+*&=($/*5,/'()*;A(-/*/=%*#(4%$*(+*4;/%$*')*(-$*&(,'%/@L*/=%)*M$@;)*2;))')E* takes us to out on the water as well with an equally poignant piece on loss and change. Literary doyen, N;$;E()*%9'/($*;)9*4$'/%$*%"/$;($9');'$%*2();F;*2;.'>*?;>%&*;)*;##%;$;),%*4'/=*/=%*5$&/*(+*/4(* pieces of poetry she features in this issue. Then Ted Bonnah follows up with a provocative soliloquy from a Newfoundlander who’s traveled the world and found himself having to come to terms with the $%;,/'()&*O*A(/=*.(C%*;)9*=;/%*O*/=;/*(-$*'9%)/'/@*')C(>%&L*;+/%$*4=',=*7;)*P-A')*%.%C;/%&*/=%*&(-.*4'/=* some delightfully musical poetry. That brings us to our feature artist for this issue: Kira Sheppard. An accomplished artist and musician, one of her beautiful and ethereal paintings adorns the cover of this '&&-%L*4%*;.&(*#$(C'9%*;*&#$%;9*(+*/=$%%*?($%*(+*=%$*4($>&*+$(?*/=%*&%$'%&*QD/?(&#=%$%&F*+($*@(-$* C'%4')E*#.%;&-$%<*D)9*/=%)B*&(?%*')/%..'E%)/*;)9*/=(-E=/I#$(C(>')E*#$(&%R*D9;?*P'EE'(*(H%$&*;*.'/%$;$@* essay exploring the origins of creative writing programs in the US, their relationship to the Cold War and the CIA, and what this means for the veneration of ‘Canadiana’. Is there still a place for ambitious writing in this day and age? We may be beautiful, but we’re also a thinking journal, so put your thought-caps on and enjoy the ride. S)4;$9*;)9*-#4;$9T*O*/(*U/%#=%)C'..%B*&#%,'5,;..@B*4'/=*M$'9E%/*K;))')EF&*%C(,;/'C%*#(%/$@*V&=%*;.&(* contributed some lovely photography for this issue). Then, a local author writing under the pen-name ‘H’ provides a poignant and challenging prose contribution about change and loss in Newfoundland, from the point of view of a St. John’s-based dominatrix. The next four pages comprise a memorial tribute to Loretta Saunders, whose name and memory ought never to be forgotten: a beautiful painting by Amanda Hennessey is followed with a moving poem by Erin Aylward. D*:;A$;9($*/=%?%*%?%$E%&*')*/=%*#;E%&*/=;/*+(..(4B*;&*W;)&*P(..?;))*;)9*D)/=()@*!.&()*(H%$* -);&=;?%9.@*#(.'/',;.*#(%/',;.*,()/$'A-/'()&<*X=%*:;A$;9($*1;E*/-$)%9*YZ*@%;$&*(.9*/='&*?()/=B*;)9* Justin Brake has more on that story (along with instructions for making one of your own!). This issue’s photo-essay comes courtesy of the inimitable and talented Brian Carey, after which we have ;*5);.*;)9*?(C')E*#$(&%*(H%$')E*+$(?*7;C%*P(%<*X='&*'&&-%*;.&(*+%;/-$%&*5C%*V,(-)/*Q%?TG*')&'E=/+-.*;)9* ')+($?;/'C%*[(-$);.'&/',*#'%,%&*A@*\-&/')*M$;>%R*')*;99'/'()*/(*/=%*:;A$;9($*1;E*&/($@*=%*#$%&%)/&*#'%,%&* ()*/=%*:;4)@;*];4)@;*?-&',*+%&/'C;.B*()*/=%*.'/%$;$@*[(-$);.*N;$;E()L*()*K')%?;*N(.'/',;L*;)9*()*X=%* Tangle. Intrigued? Read on! And of course, no issue would be complete without additional stunning photography throughout provided by our graphic designer of towering talent: Graham Kennedy. Enjoy! And above all – share and discuss! And, if you feel moved by what you see and read, we encourage you to submit your own material for consideration for future issues. That’s what we’re here for: to inspire, to open conversations, and to build movements…

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Coming to stay

Melanie Oates

Get. Go on. Get gone. If you ask me, I’ll come. :%;C%*/=(&%*=%;#&*(+*,.(/=%&*()*/=%*A%9$((?*1(($ from the night before when I spent two hours destroying them all and ended up putting myself to bed. Please don’t talk to me with your mouth full— there was no way I could go out in public being so fat. Leave the girls and all of their gossip. I don’t know when we started wasting so much time talking about men. Hunting them. Hunting them into thinking they were hunting us. Capturing them, then moving on. We all want to be wanted. Maybe we’re slutty. And her with her boyfriend that she hates. She only has him because, when you’re single, you can’t be unfaithful. Leave that one who shoved me against the wall of the Levee grabbed me by the throat kissed me and walked away saying, I hope you have a good night. I don’t want to talk about them any more. All of the same ones.

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Leave my drunk ass loud mouth wrecked on pills and bathroom stall rips all to grind against the fact that I am an introvert. M-/*/=%@*,;)F/*/%..*4=%)*6F?*,=%4')E*/=%'$*%;$&*(H over the top and out of control. He said, Girl you’re wild and complicated. But no, no, I’m really not. 6*5)9*/=;/*6*9()F/*&'E)*?@*);?%*;)@?($%< I’ve been forging hers. There’s a gunky scream and he asks, What’s wrong? I say, I’m just so mad. No, that’s called longing, he said. Oh, what? You can curl your own hair so you’re a big girl now? Hand em over— All of those late night. There I am, Away. It’s just like you. A perfect piss in the woods A.-%A%$$@*5$%4($>& spray-painted rat skeleton chainsaw and bookshelf kinda place. The corner of the bedclothes turned down, with “The Pleasure of Hating,” ;)9*&=;>%*'/*;..*(H*()*;*/$;?#(.')%<

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Being there brings me back to matted, greasy gull feathers— he would get cracked whenever I came home with them in my hair. Crawling with bugs, he said. 6*.(C%9*$-AA')E*/=%?*/=$(-E=*?@*5)E%$&B* peeling apart the barbs, making cracks then smoothing them out, right back together. The sewage ran out across the beach and into the water— lines of paper mache beach rocks All of these mirrors reaching out to grab me. That one in the dining room really is a fat mirror. X=%*9'&#(&;A.%*,.(/=*6*-&%9*/(*4'#%*?@*?;>%-#*(H looks like it was peeled from the engine of a car that was older than me. It’s grating, laying in bed without a drink to knock me out. You’re in the other room. My skull full of things that I can’t or won’t say. I end up leaking words so thin /=;/*@(-$*5)E%$*,(-.9*#(#*$'E=/*/=$(-E=*/=%? like tissue paper. Trying to write something and hating myself for not being a genius. I draw so many things from you. I wonder what you get from me and why you even bother. Back in town and looking out my bedroom window. My forehead pushing up against the glass and everything still looks the same on the corner of Cathedral and Bond. My blood is knotted and I don’t know why.

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A Piece of Sky-Bridget Canning

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Undercurrents

Keith Collier

One Friday night, the fall before he died, we all helped Eddie into his car, staggering down the bar steps and slipping on the loose gravel. Five minutes later he drove it into the end of the bridge, down by the farm. The bridge sign smashed his windshield, and the concrete guardrail busted the radiator. I remember slipping in the engine coolant that had sprayed over the road. When we got there, half drunk ourselves, his headlights were shining down into the water and he was still struggling to get out of his seatbelt with blood running down his face. We had to help him out of his car too, cutting through his seatbelt with pocket knives and dragging him out through the passenger door. God knows how he got /=%*A%./*()*')*/=%*5$&/*#.;,%B*A-/*=%*4(-.9*=;C%*4%)/*$'E=/*/=$(-E=*/=%*4')9&='%.9*4'/=(-/*'/<*S$*=%*4(-.9* =;C%*&/-?A.%9*(-/*(+*/=%*,;$*;)9*$'E=/*(H*/=%*%9E%*(+*/=%*A$'9E%*')/(*/=%*4;/%$*A%.(4< * ^%*=;9*.()E*E'C%)*-#*/$@')E*/(*,()C'),%*!99'%*)(/*/(*9$'C%B*($*(H%$')E*='?*;*A%9*+($*/=%*)'E=/<*6* suppose we should have done something. But of course we never did.

Eddie wrecked two cars over the course of that year, and the RCMP impounded his third. So that winter Eddie started taking his boat to the bar instead, pulling it up on the beach next to the empty &='#A-'.9')E*,$;9.%&*;)9*$-&/')E*&,$;#*&/%%.<*D/*,.(&')E*/'?%*4%F9*=%.#*='?*&=(C%*(HB*&/-?A.')E*;)9* .;-E=')E*;/*/=%*4;/%$F&*%9E%B*;)9*4;/,=*='?*=%;9*+($*=(?%B*5E=/')E*;E;')&/*/=%*,-$$%)/< But once the bay was mostly frozen over, Eddie had to take his ATV to the bar instead. Driving across the ice and weaving through the wood paths, avoiding the cops and, thankfully I suppose, most (+*/=%*(/=%$*/$;_,*()*/=%*$(;9&<*!C%$*&'),%*/=%*W@9$(*#$([%,/*/=%*/;'.$;,%*,-$$%)/*'&*&(*&/$()E*/=;/*'/*>%%#&* the bay open until well after Christmas, and there are places where it never freezes properly. Out beyond the headlands there would always be patches of open water, slush and yellow ice. But Eddie knew that water like nobody else.

I can barely remember when they started talking about the Hydro, back in the sixties. The radio kept talking about the power of the water, harnessing a force of nature, and I remember thinking that we were all part of some larger struggle, a battle between us and the environment and that by damming the river we were somehow winning. In a big speech before the whole town, Smallwood said the same thing, talked about the power of the watershed, about the dams we were going to build and the pipes and the surge tanks and the turbines that would not only light half the island but turn our overlooked little bay into a hub of industrial activity. The little man was exaggerating of course, like he always did. But I 4;&*9(4)*()*/=%*4=;$+*4=%)*/=%*A(;/*A$(-E=/*')*/=%*=-E%*/-$A')%&B*;)9*6*$%?%?A%$*/=%*1;/A%9*/$-,>&* blew out their tires under the weight.

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* 6*4;&*5+/%%)*/=%)B*&/'..*/((*@(-)E*/(*E%/*;*[(A*()*/=%*W@9$(*#$([%,/<*M-/*!99'%*=%.#%9*A-'.9*/=%* roads, working with the Highways, clearing the survey lines for the heavy equipment that cut through the hills and trees, leveled the right of way, and laid the crushed stone and asphalt a hundred miles through /=%*,(-)/$@*/(*/=%*X$;)&*K;);9;*W'E=4;@*/=;/*4;&*[-&/*5)'&=%9*/=%*@%;$*A%+($%<*`')'&=*/=%*9$'C%*')*Fab*O* another of Smallwood’s sayings. * !99'%*/((>*?%*;)9*='&*&()*/(*c;)9%$*/(*&%%*;*?(C'%*/=;/*&-??%$<*6/*4;&*/=%*5$&/*/'?%*6*;/%* popcorn, sitting in the dark among the uniformed American airmen with the Newfoundland girlfriends. X='&*4;&*A%+($%*/=%@*5)'&=%9*/=%*#;C')EB*;)9*6*$%?%?A%$*/=%*&(-)9*(+*/=%*E$;C%.*')*/=%*4=%%.*4%..&*;&* we drove home in the dark, all those miles through the bogs and forest. By the time Eddie’s son traveled /=%*&;?%*$(;9*/4%)/@*@%;$&*.;/%$B*=%;9')E*+($*c;)9%$*;)9*;*4%&/A(-)9*D'$*K;);9;*1'E=/B*/=%*;&#=;./* road was cracked and potholed. A few years after that his wife took the same road out in the back of the ambulance, Eddie hunched in the back while the paramedic went through the motions. My own son traveled that road enough, visiting the bars and the girls in Grand Falls, or driving to Green Bay or Argentia for work. The last time I saw him he was pulling out of the driveway in his old `($9*#',>-#B*E;$A;E%*A;E&*')*/=%*A;,>*&/-H%9*+-..*(+*='&*,.(/=%&*;)9*='&*/((.&<*!C%$@A(9@*4;&*#$(-9*(+* that road, our link to civilization -Smallwood and his catchphrases again- but I don’t think anybody ever ,()&'9%$%9*/=%*+;,/*/=;/B*+($*;..*/=%*?(9%$)*,()C%)'%),%&*/=%*$(;9*4(-.9*.%/*')/(*/=%*A;@B*'/*4(-.9*5);..@* let people out as well.

My father worked 20 years in the lumber woods, cutting pulpwood for Bowater’s and running a sawmill, selling lumber locally and sawing on the halves. His sawmill was just a low roof covering an engine and drive train out of an old Chevy, connected by an exposed drive belt to a big saw blade. It had a small cabin next to it, and sometimes he stayed there for weeks at a time. * W%*>%#/*'/*-#*+($*/%)*@%;$&*;+/%$*/=%*W@9$(*#$([%,/*&/;$/%9B*%C%)*;+/%$*/=%*5$&/*&/;E%*(+*/=%*9;?* 1((9%9*?(&/*(+*='&*4((9*&-##.@<*M@*/=%)*#%(#.%*4%$%*-&')E*/=%'$*&/%;9@*W@9$(*#;@,=%d-%&*/(*A-'.9* new houses with back decks and front bridges, and my father did well, sawing spruce and pine into twoA@I+(-$&*;)9*$(-E=*#.;)>')E<*^=%)*/=%*&%,()9*&/;E%*(+*/=%*9;?*1((9%9*/=%*&;4?'..*'/&%.+B*=%*5);..@*/((>* ;*[(A*;&*;*,(?#;)@*,((><*`($*@%;$&*;+/%$*6F9*)(/',%*='?*')*(/=%$*#%(#.%F&*=(-&%&B*&/;$')E*;/*/=%'$*1(($&*($* carefully examining the exposed studs in their basement, checking the grain of the wood as if it still bore ='&*5)E%$#$')/&<

The night Eddie died was a cold night at the end of February, and everybody assumes he just didn’t see the open water. Too dark, too drunk, driving too fast, drove his ATV right into it. I think he simply forgot that the bay didn’t freeze anymore, forgot that this wasn’t the same water he had grown up with. We were at the bar that night, drinking rum and cokes and beer, playing darts, shooting pool. !99'%*=;9*[-&/*E(//%)*;*A'E*,=%d-%*+$(?*/=%*7%#;$/?%)/*(+*`($%&/$@*+($*=%.#')E*5E=/*;*+($%&/*5$%*/=%* summer before, and he bought a few rounds and talked about getting a new truck. When the bar closed we saw him down to the edge of the ice, watched as the red taillight of his ATV grew dimmer in the distance and then disappeared around the point. I wonder now if that really was him going around the point, or if we all watched Eddie die without realizing what we were seeing. The RCMP searched for a 9;@*($*/4(B*A-/*)(A(9@*%"#%,/%9*/(*5)9*='?B*)(/*')*/=;/*,-$$%)/<*X=%*K(;&/*c-;$9*;,/-;..@*9'9*5)9*='&* ATV in the spring, 30 miles away, almost in the open ocean. Carried along under the ice by the current, !"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+

I know what going through the ice feels like, the shock of icy water that numbs @(-*&(*+;&/*@(-$*5)E%$&*;$%*&/'H*A%+($%*@(-*>)(4*/=;/*@(-F$%*4%/B*;)9*/=%*&%;$')E* pain that comes moments later. On winter nights I can see the current still rippling out there beyond the headlands where the water doesn’t freeze anymore, surrounded by smooth looking ice that’s rotten underneath. I try to imagine what Eddie felt as that current pulled him under. I wonder could he still see the streetlights, streetlights powered by that same current, distant and blurred through the ice above. Eddie was a logger, a boat builder, sometimes a government worker, sometimes ;*5&=%$?;)<*W%*,(-.9*5"*;)@/=')E*4'/=*;)*%)E')%B*;)9*,(..%,/%9*A$(>%)*&)(4?(A'.%&* and lawnmowers and chainsaws like some people collect hockey cards. But this new world of mechanical engineers and steady paycheques and helicopters was something Eddie never really understood. Somewhere back there behind the concrete dams, through the turbines and the pipes and the surge tanks, my father’s sawmill is still there, the abandoned equipment slowly rusting away underwater. I imagine the cabin is still standing exactly as it was when the water came relentlessly seeping through the trees, creeping up the threshold and the windowpanes and past the tin chimney to the level of the treetops. Everybody’s got fancy new cabins up there now, propane refrigerators and &;/%..'/%*9'&=%&<*X=%@*&#%)9*/=%'$*4%%>%)9&*4;/%$&>'')E*()*/=%*$%&%$C('$B*5&=')E*+($* trout they can’t eat because of the mercury. But every weekend somebody ruins their outboard motor on the tops of those dead trees, still standing there just beneath the surface. I imagine they’ll be there for the next hundred years.

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She’s gone West Indie Bryan Manning

Mike stood on the wharf looking out over the breakwater at Tapper’s Cove. It was Sunday. Low tide at dawn. The morning light sifted through cool sea air. Far beyond Torbay Bight out on the horizon quiet waves sawed the rising sun. Mike drew hard on a smoke and walked toward the boat. A stone’s throw away gulls swooped and shit in the water surrounding the algae-coated slipway. Adrenaline and stale beer still coated the back of Mike’s tongue. His throat was still a bit hoarse. Still. He was anything but still. Behind him the steep road split the grassy north side hills like an asphalt ski jump. Not a place to lose your brakes, lose control. W'&*(.9*?;)*4;&*;.$%;9@*()*()%*>)%%*')*/=%*A(;/*599.')E*4'/=*/=%*E;&*.')%&*/(*/=%*bZ=#*!C')9$-9%<*W%* was wearing his beige Tely hat tied under the chin with a white string and corvette red oil skins. If you overlooked the pup tent-like beer gut busting through the zipper and velcro, he might be cut from a fall L.L. Bean catalogue. “You look some crooked,” he said, squinting from under the nylon stitched hat brim. eU=;4)*K;)/4%..*4;&*&/;)9')E*4=%$%*@(-F$%*/(*.;&/*4%%>B*5$&/*9;@*(+*/=%*+((9*5&=%$@<*W;9*/=%*&;?%* scowl on his face.” Mike felt his stomach drop a bit, like he was on some shitty Canada’s Wonderland rollercoaster. He put his right foot on one of the chipped yellow toe-rails edging the wharf. To his left a couple of fellas were cleaning their catch on a makeshift plywood cutting table. One of them hove the contents of a 5 gallon A-,>%/*(C%$*/=%*%9E%<*U,-.#%9*5&=*=%;9&*;)9*>)(//%9*E-/&*&4'$.%9*.'>%*9'&,;$9%9*=;)9>%$,='%+&*')*/=%* shallow water near the jetty. “Why’s that now?” Mike asked. eD*+%..;*+$(?*7`S*4;&*9$'..')E*='?*;A(-/*='&*,(9*d-(/;<*U=;4)*.(&/*'/*;+/%$*;A(-/*5C%*?')-/%&B*&;'9*/(* buddy ‘If this was forty years ago there’d be a bloody riot on this wharf!’ He’s right too.” ef;*4%..B*4%F$%*;..*4%%>%)9*5&=')E*4;$$'($&*')*3%4+(-)9.;)9*)(4*$'E=/B*4=;/*9(*4%*>)(4Bg*2'>%*&;'9B* scanning the ramshackle of trucks and boat trailers in the gravel lot. You couldn’t spit without hitting one. W%*5E-$%9*=;.+*(+*/=%?*&#($/%9*D.A%$/;*#.;/%&B*@(-)E*('.*3%4+&*=(?%*+$(?*;*='/,=<* “I think you mean, what do you know, son. There was dignity in this once. Hop in now and we’ll shove =%$*(H<g

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His old man guided the boat out to the east, negotiating the raft of punts moored to buoys that in turn were fastened to killicks at the bottom of the bay. “We’ll head out to Mother Molloy’s Piss Pot, alright?” his old man yelled through the wind. Mike nodded, hauled the peak of his ball cap down past his brow. He sized up the old man, thought he looked happy and somehow younger at the helm of the boat. Like /=%*&;./*&#$;@*?'E=/*&,$-A*/=%*.'C%$*&#(/&*$'E=/*(H*='&*=;)9&B*$%&/($%*;*+($?%$*E.($@<* Meanwhile, Mike felt a hundred years old, prematurely corroded, but whatever. No use bringing it up right now, he thought. When the engine throttle is opened up isn’t a time +($*/;.>')E<*](',%&*;$%*/((*?-h%9*4'/=*/=%*$(;$*(+*'/*;)9*/=%*4')9*A-H%/')E*@(-$*%;$&B* watering your eyes, so what you see goes by unremarked on. But not unnoticed. ^'/=')*5+/%%)*?')-/%&*/=%@*=;9*,.%;$%9*N'E%()*W(.%&*;)9*&/%%$%9*/(*/=%*&(-/=*+($* Torbay Point. “Now, you remember the marks?” the old man asked, glancing at him sideways. “You close in Outer Cove bridge until you can see Ron Ryan’s silo across the bay,” Mike said. “That’s it.” The old man cocked his head and winked. The old man put the engine in neutral and let her idle. Mike stood up clumsily, bracing one hand against the gunnel, then found his footing in the swell. He passed his father a jigger and took one for himself. They were all alone on the marks with the sun at their back. e6*A%;/*/=%*+;,%*(H*;*+%..;*.;&/*)'E=/Bg*2'>%*&;'9B*-)$(..')E*/=%*=%;C@*.')%*+$(?*/=%*&#((.B* felt like a length of clothesline in his hand.

!"#$%&''($%&)*&$#''$%&&+&,-$./01,2$%#**13*/$1,$ 4&%536,-'#,-$,3%$*1207($%0#7$-3$%&$+,3%(8$91+&$/#1-($ /:#,,1,2$70&$*#;/0#:+'&$35$7*6:+/$#,-$<3#7$7*#1'&*/$ 1,$70&$2*#=&'$'37>$"36$:36'-,)7$/?17$%170367$01771,2$ 3,&>$@&$.26*&-$0#'5$35$70&;$/?3*7&-$A'<&*7#$?'#7&/($ B36,2$31'$4&%5/$03;&$5*3;$#$017:0>

X=%*(.9*?;)*&;'9*)(/=')E<*X=%)*$%;,=%9*')&'9%*='&*A$%;&/*#(,>%/*+($*;*1;&>*(+*^'&%$&*ij*@%;$*(.9*4='&>@* and took a swig. “I hardly ever drink when we’re on the water now,” the old man said. A rivulet of liquor trickled down his father’s chin. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his jacket, and passed /=%*1;&>*/(*2'>%<*X=%@*>%#/*()*5&=')EB*/=%*(.9*?;)*')*/=%*&/%$)*;)9*2'>%*')*/=%*A(4<*^'/=*%;,=*['E*2'>%* felt the weight of the lead lure bounce above the shoal. Along the gunnel the wet line slipped in and out of small hash-mark grooves. Over the years they had worn into the wood like a row of scars. “Some gearbox propositioned me. I was tired from bouncing at the pub all night. Sober as a judge when it =;##%)%9<*6*4()F/*/%..*@(-*4=;/*=%*;&>%9*/(*9(<*M-/*=%*(H%$%9*?%*;*=-)9$%9*A-,>&*/(*9(*'/<g

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grahamkennedyphoto.com

2'>%F&*5&/*,.%),=%9*/=%*=;)9.')%*;&*=%*/;.>%9<*M%;9&*(+*&;./4;/%$*1',>%9*+$(?*/=%*.')%B*&/')E')E*/=%* scrapes on his knuckles. The old man sighed. “Could you have talked your way out of it?” “That’s not the point. Who the hell did he think he was?” “You got your whole life ahead of you b’y. To jeopardize your future like that. Over something as foolish as that...nonsense Michael, pure nonsense.” “I’m not like you alright. I can’t be so fucking diplomatic all the time.” Mike’s face reddened, he began to sweat inside the heavy orange oilskins. His shadow swooned on the 4;/%$*')*+$()/*(+*='?<*D*1(,>*(+*/-$$&*A(AA%9*')9'H%$%)/.@*()*/=%*&-$+;,%*[-&/*(H*/=%*A(;/F&*#($/I&'9%<* “I know you’re angry. Angry and hurt.”

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“Listen skipper, let’s leave it at that alright,” Mike said. “No, it’s not alright. I’m still reeling from it too, my son. She died hard.” “I said leave it...Jesus.” “Come on Michael, I’m just saying seeing that changes you, it would change anyone.” There was a cinderblock silence between them. The old man nudged Mike gently on the knee and looked him in the eye. “Until then, I didn’t raise you b’y, it was her, your mother did,” the old man said, shaking his head. With that the old man let out a bawl and jerked his line sharply past his hip. The boat rocked so violently he nearly lost his glasses over the side. “Shit! Mike, I snagged one!” Mike stopped jigging. His shoulders slouched and he stared dead-eyed between his rubbers at the white ribs and keel of the boat. “Big as a Jesus dog! I hooked him right on the bottom, that’s the spot!” Mike saw the white hospital-issue bed sheet against her wrinkled, jaundiced skin. Blood in her teeth. The white walls in the room pressing in on her shallow, rattled breathing. e`($*K=$'&/F&*&;>%B*/=%*E;HB*E$;A*/=%*+-,>')E*E;HTg “Michael!” Michael... Everyone telling his mother to let go. A white noise of chatter. White uniforms drifting in and out over a ,(.9B*&=')@*.')(.%-?*1(($< White and black turr wings bursting from the waves, red legs skimming the surface like water doctors. Mike reached for them. They became eye level just before he face-planted the water as he tumbled over board. Thought he might pick a couple up, careful not to tear their delicate legs from their body, and place them in a mason jar, like when he was a kid mucking around the reeds at Whitrod Pond. He could be back home for lunchtime. They owned the big, beige house at the end of Barron’s Lane and he hadn’t been home in a while.

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I pictured him: plug of a nose, bung eyes protruding from his face, barrel-chested. At six I couldn’t have placed a meaning to his job—making vessels for a living. —Mark Callanan, “Cooper”

I wouldn’t call him Dad or Father or Pa. He groused and made a fuss but what could Ma say? How could she explain how his model sloop ended up in the well? That I, least of all, wanted him in our house? We heard him yelling in the kitchen, planted between the double sink and Ma’s corner sewing table, telling her we didn’t respect him. I pictured him: plug of a nose, bung eyes, gaping maw full of tea-coloured, uneven teeth, sour breath from those garlic bulbs he chewed on raw, his hands shoved in the pockets of Pa’s old pants Ma had altered. When he got real angry, he stomped around her, closer and closer like she was the eye of the whirlpool drawing him in, ='&*&/'H*#%E&*E$;,%.%&&.@*#(-)9')EB* a bright fuchsia showing through ancient pock marks protruding from his face, barrel-chested and arms like blocks swinging. A little thing like a dirty dish or the leaky roof or when no one emptied the mouse-trap ,(-.9*&%/*='?*(H<*:'>%*'/*4;&*(-$*+;-./< His low timbre called us, one by one and we bumbled down the stairs, awkwardly hiding behind each other. At six I couldn’t have placed a meaning on this attempt to control me or Ma. We were all he had, Ma told us, too rational for our liking. But I guess we were, and he kept us in that clapboard box of a house, /-$)')E*/=%*,$;)>*-)/'.*/=%*+$;?%&*#(##%9*(HB ;)9*4%*4%$%*/((*/'$%9*/(*5E=/*;)@?($%<*X=%)*=%*4;&*;..*&?-E* grins, content to wake up in the mornings and get to his job—making vessels for a living. 18

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Stepfather 93,#)#$9#'1+

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A$C#*#23,$35$1,:&?713,

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Justin Brake

Mona’a Malik answers questions on the forthcoming edition of the Paragon Press’ literary journal. The project, initiated by English Lit students at Memorial University seven years ago, is a breeding ground for aspiring writers and artists First, tell me a bit about what’s been happening with Paragon. X=%*N;$;E()*=;&*A%%)*E(')E*&/$()E<*SC%$*/=%*.;&/*&%C%)*@%;$&B*5C%*%9'/'()&*(+*/=%*N;$;E()* ;)9*/4(*(/=%$*%9'/'()&*A@*/=%*N;$;E()*N$%&&*V;*,(..%,/'()*(+*)()I5,/'()*%&&;@&*;)9*;* collection of poetry) have been published. Who is curating this issue? [Editors] Matty Pike, Aley Waterman and myself. 80%('"&(9"-":0#(.;04;.$(&/#2.(5'.(<-&5(/&&3.=(>#$(%'"5?(/1("#@5'/#:?(/&($/A.-.#5("B035( '0%(@03(:3@&("-.(,355/#:(/5(50:.5'.-(#0%= 6*/=')>*/=%*,$%;/'()*(+*;*.'/%$;$@*#$%&&*'&*9%5)'/%.@*;)*()E(')E*#$(,%&&<*X=%*%9'/($&*(+*%;,=* edition built on the knowledge base of their predecessors. Dana Evely, the previous editor, has given us plenty of advice and support. We want to make this issue unique, and while we’re learning a lot from what was given to us, we’re hoping to push the boundaries of what was done before. We’re hoping to do this with the layout and cover, as well as by getting artwork submissions for this issue. Obviously, the submissions we receive will play the largest role in how the newest Paragon turns out. C'"5(-04.('"&(9"-":0#(,4"@.$(/#(5'.(402"4(4/5.-"-@(&2.#.= The Paragon has been a great way for new and emerging writers to get their work out there. `($*?;)@*)%4*4$'/%$&B*/=%'$*N;$;E()*&-A?'&&'()*A%,(?%&*/=%'$*5$&/*#-A.',;/'()*,$%9'/B*4=',=* ,;)*.%;9*/(*?($%*#-A.',;/'()&*')*(/=%$*?;E;k')%&<*6/F&*9%5)'/%.@*;*E$%;/*'9%;*+($*)%4*4$'/%$&* to submit their work. We hear so many people saying that they have an idea for a story or a poem but have never taken the time to write it down and complete it. Let the April 15 &-A?'&&'()*9;/%*A%*@(-$*?(/'C;/'()*+($*E%//')E*'/*9()%T*^%*=(#%*/=;/*4%*=;C%*;*.(/*(+*5$&/* time submitters. Part of the point of Paragon is to allow new and emerging writers a place to express themselves. You don’t have to be a student at MUN or a Newfoundland and Labrador resident to submit (anyone who lives in Canada can submit), which helps promote variety. D&(5'.-.("(,"-5/234"-(5'.E.?(0-("#@5'/#:(.4&.($/&5/#25("B035(5'/&(/&&3.(5'"5(E/:'5(B.(%0-5'( noting? We have no particular themes at the moment and we would like to receive a wide variety of submissions on as many topics as possible. We want the Paragon to be exciting and eclectic.

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D&(5'.-.("#@5'/#:(.4&.(@03(%034$(4/F.(50(&"@("B035(9"-":0#(GD= Besides submissions people can also volunteer in areas such as editing, typesetting, cover design, media relations, planning and setting up for the Paragon launch, and distribution. Anyone who would like to volunteer can contact us at paragoncollection@gmail.com. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re hoping to have an August launch. Paragon Press, Memorial Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s student-run literary press, is currently accepting submissions for the sixth edition of Paragon Journal, due for release in Summer 2014. Deadline: April 15, 2014. !"#$%&'()*+,(-(./#0#1,(2/0$/"345%#*$/6#(7"3890$/"3'()*+,(:;<<(="%>1,(?%$="%@4!A"$"B%*.A&'()*+,(-( pieces. Submissions should be previously unpublished. In your Word document, include a separate 0"6#%(.*B#(=/$A($A#(*C$A"%D1(3*)#E($/$F#("G(1CH)/11/"3E(*>>%#11E(#8)*/F(*>>%#11(*3>($#F#.A"3#( number. Pages containing actual submission text should not include author information. Submissions =/FF(H#(*00#.$#>(G%")(5*3*>/*3(%#1/>#3$1("3F&,(IA"1#(1#F#0$#>(G"%(.CHF/0*$/"3(=/FF(%#0#/6#(*(G%##(0".&( "G($A#(/11C#(/3(=A/0A($A#/%(="%@(*..#*%1,(J8)*/F(1CH)/11/"31($"' paragoncollection@gmail.com

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Three Wishes

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Thrust open the heavy bay windows and make a wish. N-..*/=%*,-$/;')&*;&'9%B*,.-/,=*/=%*&=%%$*&;/')*')*@(-$*5&/B*;)9*?;>%*;*4'&=< Overgrown, savage lawn — stalks fall, collapse with the weight of dew. ^=%$%*/=%*$(;9*'&B*/=%$%*&=(-.9*A%*/$%%&*-)/(-,=%9L*/=;/*'&*4=;/*@(-*4'&=< Sinless air to breathe, jackrabbits, and feral dogs, no fumes seeping up the driveway, if you had three wishes. The smell of singed meat—that summer ritual stings your nostrils, the window screen sections the street, black squares dissecting your wish. Every sidewalk square, each telephone pole placed according to someone else’s wish. You want the street to grow wild like the grass you do not mow, /(*.'C%*')*.()EI.'?A%9*/$%%&*4='##%9*A;,>*;)9*+($/=*A@*/=%*4')9L*/='&*'&*@(-$*4'&=< Daisies and buttercups litter your lawn like mischievous children, knowing their presence goes against the neighbours’ wishes. P-AA')E*/=%*4')9(4*4'/=*;*$;EB*@(-*'?;E')%*D.;99')F&*.;?#L his genie appears to you, divining desires, granting your wishes. f(-*4;/,=*;*?;)*4'/=*5)E%$&*&#.;@%9*(C%$*/=%*4')9(4&'..*(+*;*@%..(4*,;AB* the last rays of sun lingering on his tanned arm, and you make a wish. You will not be trapped, while the sun rises and falls far from you, smothered by the boxed-in luxury you wished for. W%*4;'/&*;&*/=%*/$;_,*&/;..&B*;)9*@(-*.%;)*A;,>*4=%)*/=%*%?A$('9%$%9*,-$/;')*$-&/.%&B its threaded lilies wavering with the wind that blows away your wishes.

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9&$4&%.&$DE

F&-$G3,,#0

N%(#.%*4=(*>)(4&*3%45%&*>)(4&*AF@<*N%(#.%*4=(*9()F/B*9()F/<*fF>)(4l 7'9*@(-*>)(4*/=%$%*4%$%*/4(*3%45%*$%&/;-$;)/&*')*X(>@(l*6*4%)/*/(*()%*(),%B* Salty Box Grill in Roppongi. Didn’t meet the boys, but the waitress told me the story. Two queer ducks up in Japan teaching English, used to cook at the Stone House, got sick of teaching English and got a backer to set them up 4'/=*;*$%&/;-$;)/<*:(/&*(+*5&=*9'&=%&<*M(@&*=;9*;*&#;/*')*/=%*?'99.%*;)9*()%* &#.'/&*(H*/(*;)(/=%$*#.;,%<*X4(*3%45%*$%&/;-$;)/&*')*X(>@(<*7-))(*'+*/=%@F$%*&/'..* going. Nah, I never lived in Tokyo, just visited from down south. Used to wear a #.%;/=%$*[;,>%/*+$(?*];.-%*]'..;E%*4'/=*;*A'E*K;);9';)*1;E*()*/=%*A;,>*?-99%$* sent me. Wouldn’t be caught dead in it back home. This Japanese cop comes up to me one time and says, “You Canada?” “No, I’m from Canada.” “Canada? You Vancouver? Toronto?” e3;=B*3!^I5)I.;))<*U;')/*\(=)F&<g After a year the jacket was cracked and holed with cigarette burns, so I cut (H*/=%*K;);9';)*1;E*;)9*/=$%4*(-/*/=%*/=')E<*X$'%9*/(*=;)E*/=%*1;E*(C%$*?@* 4')9(4*A-/*'/*,-$.%9*;)9*&=$-)>*(-/*(+*&=;#%<*M%//%$*(H*O*().@*3%45%&*4'/=* K;);9';)*1;E&*')*/=%*4')9(4*;$%*&%..')E*=;&=< Did y’know I was in Cairo during Iraq 2? Everyone glaring at me and say “Amerika? Amerika?” I dug out me phrase book right quick and learned “Ana mish amerikan, ana Kanada.” First thing you always learn, anywhere you goes. In Korea, “Migook sarang anyo. Kanada sarang.” Some of them Egyptians knew Canada. Sure half them has a cousin in Montreal or Toronto baking pizza. My travel agent lived in Toronto for years, had a kid there with a woman. Finds out where I’m from he says, e2?????T*6*.(C%*3%45%*#-&&@T*6*=;9*E'$.+$'%)9B*U=%$$'B*+$(?*W;$A(-$*c$;,%<* You know her?” “Sure everybuddy knows Sherri!” I lied. Turns out I did know her. On the train to Abu Simbel, ran into two Aussie chicks drunk as skunks. They hears me talking, asks about Newfoundland. Turns out they taught English in X(>@(*4'/=*;)*(.9*+$'%)9*+$(?*/=%*XUK*m$9*1(($<*P%?%?A%$*=%$B*,-/%*()%*+$(?* the bay always smelled of vanilla?

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Met some Icelanders in Cairo, he and a she, said they were my neighbors. She .'C%9*')*J%)@;B*/(.9*?%*&=%*=;9*/(*9'E*;*=(.%*/(*/;>%*;*&='/<*W%*1%4*')*+$(?* Rekyavvik to see her. That’s love b’y. f%;=B*4%..*/=;/F&*4=%)*6*,;?%*;)9*.'C%9*A;,>*')*X(4)*/(*5)'&=*?@*%9-,;/'()<*W;$9* times I’ll tell ya. Went to the MUN dojo, had to give it up. Senseis were grand, nicest kind and tough as nails. Just too many Bruce Lee wannabees on the mat. This one chick, &=%F&*E(/*=%$*%_)*9';?()9*$')E*()<*3(*4;@*/=;/F9*1@*')*\;#;)<*6*$%+-&%9*/(*&#;$* with her. She says, “This isn’t Japan.” I said “I knows that I just don’t want you cutting my eyes out.” X=%*&%)&%'*4;&*)',%B*&4;##%9*?%*(-/*4'/=*&(?%()%*%.&%<*eX='&*'&*3%45%*AF@<*f;* can’t tell no one nuttin.” End of class that missus gave someone a bleeding lip. When I was supervisor at my teaching internship, kids asked me what was it like A%')E*;*3%45%*')*\;#;)<*6*/(.9*%?*#%(#.%*4=(*>)(4&*>)(4&<*X=%@*.(C%&*3%45%&<

4#0($D$,&=&*$'1=&-$1,$F3+B3($H6/7$=1/17&-$ 5*3;$-3%,$/3670>$I/&-$73$%&#*$#$?'&#70&*$ H#:+&7$5*3;$J#'6&$J1''#2&$%170$#$<12$ K#,#-1#,$L#2$3,$70&$<#:+$;6--&*$/&,7$;&>$ M36'-,)7$<&$:#6207$-&#-$1,$17$<#:+$03;&> Kid turns to my supervisor and says, “What do you think miss? Do people like 3%45%&lg U=%*&;@&B*e6*/=')>*6*+-,>')E*WDX!*/=%*4($9*3%45%<g*P'E=/*')*/=%*,.;&&$((?B*$'E=/*')* front of the kids. They jumped like they’d been slapped. She says, “Y’know, when 6*.'C%9*')*S//;4;*6*4%)/*/(*;*#;$/@*(),%*4=%$%*/='&*E-@*4;&*/%..')E*;*3%45%*[(>%<* He goes on and on and they’re all laughing at the end. My friend says “She’s from Newfoundland,” he says “What’d you think of it?” I says “Tell that story again but $%#.;,%*/=%*4($9*3%45%*4'/=*)'EE%$*($*[%4*;)9*/=;/F&*=(4*6*+%%.<g U=%*&/($?&*(HB*/=%*>'9*/-$)&*;)9*&;@&*eU'$*&=%F&*&(?%*?;9*;/*@(-<g I says, “Nah, we’re just adults expressing our opinions.” Inside I thought she’s fuckin cracked. That internship was the worst time of my life. I got PTSD from working with that lunatic. That was for teaching French. Y’know I used to live in Quebec City during &%#;$;/'()*A;,>*')*FnY<*X=%@*=;/%9*3%45%&*,;-&%*4%*C%/(%9*2%%,=*:;>%<*D..*?%* friends were France French, Anglos and Muslims from Algeria and Afghanistan. I was at Universite Laval. Went into the student center one day to buy pub crawl tickets and says “Je voudrais des billets pour le pub crawl” and the woman says e\%%kB*4=%$%*@(-*+$(?*AF@l*:;A$;9($*A@*/=%*&(-)9*(+*'/<g*X=%@*4;&*;..*3%45%&B* why there was a pub crawl every second week.

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I had to take a French writing course, that was back when word processors had just come out. You had to use the F keys to get anything done, y’know F3 to save, F7 to spellcheck or whatever. Anyway, the prof she says “I know how to use ze Apple, but not ze EBM. Is there &(?%()%*((*,;)*?()'/($*/=%*!M2*.;Alg*6*&;@&*e6F..*9(*'/g*&=%*&;@&*efSoB*k%*3%45%lg*6*&;@&* “Sure we all got free Email back at MUN, and there are computers all over the library, not like the scattered ones you got here.” Remember those, all the shitty little terminals with black screens ;)9*E$%%)*4$'/')EB*4=%$%*/=%*>%@&F9*1@*(H*'+*@(-*/@#%9*/((*=;$9l* 6*;&>%9*/=%*#$(+B*e^=;/*9(*@;*?%;)*A@*QfSo*/=%*3%45%lF*f(-*/=')>*4%F$%*A;,>4;$9&lg*U=%* says “Non non, nothing.” I was lab monitor the whole semester, not a word o thanks. Day I left I saw in their uni paper ‘Internet a Tous!’ Top French uni in North America, way behind MUN. Unbelievable. Y’know I took the wife out to the Cellar for our anniversary, we are looking out at downtown and the harbour when this Toronto family comes and sits next to us. Daughter at MUN and parents in to see her graduation. She starts going on, “Do you know what they eat here? Scrunchins! Pork fat all fried up eh? DisGUSting!” Father says, “TERrible!” Mother laughs. eD)9*&%;.*1'##%$*N6!Tg Father, “Oh ho ho ho ho!” Mother, “Tee hee hee!” “And everyone eats Jigg’s dinner, this salty beef and vegetables with all the taste boiled out of /=%?<*6)*/=%*&-#%$?;$>%/&B*/=%@*=;C%*/=%*?%;/*')*A-,>%/&*5..%9*4'/=*A.((9T*oE=Tg Mother says, “Ah ha ha, are you SERious? I can’t believe it eh?” I couldn’t hold me tongue, I says “If you don’t like it, don’t eat it. Stay in Toronto if you have no respect for where you go.” Father says, “ExCUSE me!?” I says, “You’re excused.” He says, “WHAT?” I says, “You hear alright? There are countries where they’d stone you for ')&-./')E*/=%'$*+((9B*;)9*=%$%*@(-*;$%*')&-./')E*3%45%*+((9<*c(*/(*2,7();.9F&*'+*@(-*9()F/*.'>%*'/<g He starts blustering as the waitress comes, I ask her to move us as these people are bothering us. We move, I apologized to the wife, she says “I knew you’d say something. It’s alright.” Good 4(?;)B*#-//')E*-#*4'/=*;*3%45%< N%(#.%*4=(*>)(4&*3%45%&*>)(4&<*N%(#.%*4=(*9()F/*9()F/<*fF>)(4l

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The long silence U(&/%)-/(*;9*')5)'/-? Gone the trombones

When in dry places

Stretching their necks

Punctuated by gentle footfall

To reach succulent low notes

On percussive sand

3(*1(,>&*(+*1-/%&

Caravans of kettledrums

To feather dark skies

Passed row on row

In shimmering arpeggios

With ivory in tow

Even the violins

Never more

So numerous their strain

From oceans octaves deep

Outweighed all

Such songs

Are silent

Nor the wild dance

And the earth sighs

Of predatory horns

Remembering

Tracking the solo oboe

A time

Their places empty

When they rejoiced

While the windâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s whisper

In rhythms intertwined

Marks out empty measures

While bright brass

And no hand reaches

Bellowed beside the waterhole

To touch the keys

To welcome the rain

Or raise the pale baton

After the Orchestra Dan Rubin

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Kira Sheppard

Atmospheres

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KG(&"C(F"6#(>/10"6#%/3B(3#=()C1/0(G%")()*3&(.F*0#1(*3>(*0%"11()CF$/.F#(B#3%#1E($A/1(*33C*F( 1.%/3B$/)#(#6#3$(/3(L$,(M"A3D1(/1(&"C%($A/3B,(N*%@(&"C%(0*F#3>*%1(*3>(H""@($/)#("O(="%@(3"=( 1"(&"C(>"3D$(A*6#($"(C1#(&"C%(1/0@(>*&1'(?.%/F(:P8:QE(:<RP, Justin Brake

It’s mid-April and Spring is in the air in St. John’s. College and university students are done exams. Slush and salt have given way to mud and muck. Mother Nature does what the City can’t, or won’t, and clears the sidewalks herself. Elders and people with disabilities can now emerge from their homes and move around, dodging the exposed landmines left by free-spirited dog owners and their BFFs. Sunny weekend days bring smiling faces downtown to wander up and down Water Street. Oh, and it’s Lawnya Vawnya Eve. Inaugurated in 2011 as a multi-day showcase of music, art and do-it-yourself (DIY) culture, Lawnya Vawnya (if you haven’t already heard, plucked from the Dictionary of Newfoundland English, the word means: “a good time at a dance or party; plenty to eatgG*=;&*%H%,/'C%.@*5..%9*;*C('9*')*/=%*,;#'/;.*,'/@F&* music and arts scene by bringing exciting independent artists from Canada to the Island, introducing them all to each other and to the local artists, putting them up with billets during their stay, and immersing them in a festival catered as much to the artists as it is to the fans. David Lander, Mathias Kom, Ariel Sharratt and Andrea Vincent ran Lawnya Vawnya*+($*/=%*5$&/*/=$%%* @%;$&B*A-/*:;)9%$B*J(?*;)9*U=;$$;//p/=%*.;//%$*/4(*?%?A%$&*(+*#(#-.;$*')9'%*(-/5/*The Burning Hell— left the Island last year to pursue other projects. Vincent’s new crew consists of co-directors Bryan N(4%$*V;$/'&/',*9'$%,/($GB*K=$'&&@*7',>&*V5);),';.*9'$%,/($G*;)9*P(&&*K())(..@*V/%,=)',;.*9'$%,/($G<

!0#:(E"@(@"(B/:(H/B($-"%, Lawnya

Vawnya

The Lawnya Vawnya*`(-$*=;C%*A'E*A((/&*/(*5..*A-/*;$%*;.$%;9@*#$(C')E*/=%@*=;C%B*-=<<<A'E*+%%/<*6)* opening up 25 per cent of the festival roster to applicants, they’ve given themselves the opportunity to discover some new artists and their music at the point of assembling the event roster. According to Power—himself a local songwriter and frontman of indie folk band Pilot to Bombardier—the decision to .%/*;$/'&/&*;##.@*/(*[(')*/=%*+%&/'C;.*$%&-./%9*')*;A(-/*qZ*;##.',;/'()&*,(?')E*')B*4'/=*&(?%*1;//%$')E*$%&-./&* (The Burning Hell, Nick Ferrio & His Feelings, local band Green & Gold and festival headliner By Divine Right all came through in the application process) and an opportunity to discover some great new music. “We didn’t want to rely on the bands we’ve been listening to, and the bands that played Sappyfest last year or Halifax Pop Explosion. We wanted to really see what else was out there, and some really ')/%$%&/')E*&/-H*,;?%*+$(?*/=;/<g The directors compiled an “A List” of artists (“just shoot for the stars and see who you might possibly get”), Power explains, and from that list were able to snag 2009 Polaris Music Prize winners Fucked Up and Toronto indie-pop duo Snowblink. “[Fucked Up] have never been to Newfoundland and they’ve always been on our radar for bands to see, they’re a great socially and politically-minded band, they play great music,” says Power. “They’ve got a brand new album coming out right around the time of the festival too. So it’s really exciting that we got them.”

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By Divine Right-grahamkennedyphoto.com !"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+

Green & Gold-grahamkennedyphoto.com

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The contingent of local artists on the bill include Green & Gold, Steve Maloney and the Wandering Kind— who just released their debut album in March—Fog Lake, Monsterbator and Mr. Supper. The festival will also see the return of a couple former popular St. John’s band leaders. Jon Hynes, who fronted popular local rock band Trailer Camp, will return from Ontario to perform a solo show at Thurday’s opening night gig at Rocket Room alongside Snowblink and Peter Lannon. And former Human Soundtrack lead singer Steve Haley will make his way back from Sackville, N.B. with his new band, Banded Stilts. Kom and Sharratt will also return to St. John’s to reunite with their Island-dwelling Burning Hell band mates for what will no doubt be a highly anticipated show. “I’m really excited to come back for the festival this year as a performer and experience Lawnya Vawnya from that side,” Kom recently told Landwash. “I think the new team has been doing a great job and I’m looking forward to seeing what they do with it.” The festival will see performances spread out across downtown St. John’s Thursday thru Sunday, but organizers will also take one of Lawnya Vawnya’s staple events, the free weekend music crawl, out to Quidi Vidi Village on the Sunday. Aspiring concert photographers can meet at the Quidi Vidi Plantation at 1 p.m., an hour before the crawl, and get a crash course on how to snap amazing photos of their favourite bands. The workshop is free and will be led by Jill Willcott and veteran music and Independent photographer (and Landwash graphic designer) Graham Kennedy. Other events—all at Eastern Edge Art Gallery—include panel discussions on Thursday and Friday. On Thursday TheIndependent.ca Editor Justin Brake (that’s me), Keep Station Radio founder Justin Davis and The Overcast editor/publisher Chad Pelley will discuss independent media in Newfoundland and Labrador. On the Friday panel musicians Joanna Barker (Green & Gold), Mathias Kom (The Burning Hell) and Sandy Miranda (Fucked Up), and MusicNL’s Jen Winsor, will share some of the ins and outs of being a touring musician and making it work. Eastern Edge will also host the festival’s record and press fair on the Saturday and Sunday of the festival, and from April 19 to May 9, Fog Prints, an expo of music poster art by local artists. “There’s not one show of the entire festival that we think is weak, and that’s honest,” Power says, asked '+*=%*;)9*/=%*)%4*:]*,$%4*+%./*/=%@*=;9*,-$;/%9*;*.')%-#*()*#;$*4'/=*/=%*5$&/*/=$%%*@%;$&<*eX=%$%F&*)(/=')E* weak about any of the shows.”

Lawnya Vawnya runs April 24-27 at various venues throughout downtown St. John’s. Some events are allages, some are free to the public, and festival wristbands are $60 until April 11, $80 after that. For a full event listing and to stay up to date on all things Lawnya Vawnya, ‘Like’ the festival on Facebook, visit www.lawnyavawnya.com or call Power at home anytime before 6 a.m.

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A recent article in The Chronicle of Higher Education by Eric Bennett explores the dangers of institutionalizing creativity in university degree programs. In this case, he recounts his own experiences at University of Iowa’s creative writing program, the model and social hub of all such programs throughout North America. Bennett’s article promotes his forthcoming book, Workshops of Empire, which investigates the founding of University of Iowa’s creative writing MFA program in Eisenhower’s America. It also documents founder Paul Engle’s alliance with the CIA and wealthy American businessmen to promote the program’s work around the world to compete with the cultural advocacy of Khrushchev’s Soviet Union. Bennett also argues that the Iowan model of literary production pumps out boring, unambitious work, short stories focusing on intensely detailed and emotionally evocative depictions of generic, unremarkable moments. Of course, the real program, and the state of creative writing programs across the continent, are more )-;),%9B*;)9*#$(9-,%*?($%*9'C%$&%*4$'/%$&*/=;)*M%))%//*;..%E%&<*M-/*=%*#(')/&*/(*;*(),%*C'A$;)/*5%.9F&* growing tendency to stagnate.

Teaching to the middle Bennett decries how the educational methods of these programs drive people away from philosophical literature, or literature that deals with ideas. To illustrate, Bennett describes one of his teachers drawing a pyramid on the classroom chalkboard. The bottom, foundational layer was grammar and syntax, the basic skills of written expression that people need to write coherently at all. The following layer up is sensorily descriptive language: smells, sounds, and visions, the composition of imagery. After imagery came the crafting of character, and resting on the development of characters was metaphor: imagery or events with multiple interpretive meanings instead of just evocation. The apex of the pyramid was symbolism, the deeper meanings of a text taken as a whole. Bennett doesn’t claim this exact model was universally used, but that it represented a general framework of how people were taught to write in the MFA context. Because as a guide to how a good piece of writing works, taking this model is an excellent idea. The A%&/*4($>&*(+*.'/%$;/-$%*'),.-9%*/=%&%*5C%*#$'($'/'%&*')*,(?#(&'/'()<*M-/*/=%*/%,=)'d-%&*(+*&-,=*4$'/')E* #$(E$;?&*;&*')&/'/-/'()&B*=%*&;@&B*9()F/*%),(-$;E%*@(-*/(*'),($#($;/%*;..*5C%*#$'($'/'%&*p*A;&',*&>'..&B* imagery, character, metaphor, and ideas — into a work. Instead, Bennett describes programs as encouraging students to treat each priority as a mode of writing itself. 6)*(/=%$*4($9&B*/=%*?%&&;E%*'&*/=;/*'/F&*C%$@*9'_,-./*/(*4$'/%*;*E((9*&/($@*4'/=*;*.(/*(+*,(?#.%"*&@?A(.',* content, but it’s much easier to write a story whose purpose is evocative imagery. So a student who writes a simple story with minimal character development, but good use of the simpler techniques of imagery will get a better grade on their story than the ambitious student who tried to craft a more complex story yet wasn’t quite up to the task. In other words, the message is that aiming low will make your work more successful, because low ambitions are more easily achieved. 36

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Adam Riggio

As far as Bennett’s analysis goes, this is the result of institutionalizing the creation of art. When artistic creation becomes a university program open to mass enrollment, people who may not have the most #(/%)/';.*')*5,/'()*4$'/')E*/;>%*/=%*,(-$&%&<*D..*/%;,=%$&B*?@&%.+*'),.-9%9B*;$%*+;?'.';$*4'/=*/=%&%R*/=%*M* and C level students who understand the basics of the material, but never quite apply themselves to mastering the implicit elements of a text. Here’s how I see it play out in my own discipline of philosophy. A C-level reader can understand the accounts of a text that they receive in lecture or through reading secondary material. A B-level reader will understand how the text generates those interpretations. An A-level reader will understand how the text can generate multiple interpretations. The people who can continue to practice philosophy, if they so choose, are those A-level writers. And I don’t just mean write secondary material, but develop new primary material, writing the new works that progress the discipline itself. So it goes with creative writing programs, the academic institutions that have incorporated the profession (+*5,/'()*;)9*#(%/$@*4$'/')E*')/(*;*&@&/%?*(+*?;[($&<*M%,;-&%*'+*/=%$%F&*()%*/=')E*/%;,=%$&*>)(4*;A(-/*M* and C students, it’s that they probably wouldn’t be best at doing this task for a living. Yet this is precisely what Bennett accuses the professors of creative writing programs of doing. If we put ,()/%?#($;$@*5,/'()*4$'/%$&*')*,(?#%/'/'()*4'/=*D.',%*2-)$(B*\;?%&*M;.94')B*!.+$'%9%*\%.')%>B*P(A%$/(* Bolaño, and so on, they must strive to equal geniuses. At heart, all artists worth reading strive for this. But the professors reward students not for ambition, but for craft alone. The simple story written well $%,%'C%&*?($%*#$;'&%*/=;)*/=%*1;4%9*4($>*(+*;?A'/'()<

Fighting ideology with the singular Yet there is more to the Iowa school’s rejection of erudite writing styles than simply distrust of ambition and the humiliation accompanying failure to reach lofty goals. Literary ambition is never for the sake of ambition alone, but to make a statement about human nature itself, where literature becomes an ideological tool. Bennett describes the Iowa style of short story writing emerging from an ideological battle. Ideology, as Karl Marx originally conceived, is a framework of thought that distorted one’s view of reality. There was reality according to ideology, and opposed to this was reality itself. But contemporary analysis of ideological phenomena has discovered that all thinking and practical action occurs within a framework of ideas about how the world is that helps constitute our partisan place as political and social actors. Bennett describes the Iowa style as avoiding abstraction. Frameworks like the pyramidal schema lead most students of the program to focus on evocative imagery and simple character development. It’s easy to achieve your ambitions when you set those ambitions low. If you try to write another Invisible Man, or Ulysses, or Lolita, you’ll probably fail, so don’t try. !"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+

But the culture that developed in the wake of Iowa wasn’t just tainted by that sad attitude of academics curving their evaluations to their low expectations. Bennett also describes a disdainful and dismissive attitude in the Iowa program regarding stylistically, formally, and philosophically ambitious authors: William Gaddis, Thomas Pynchon, Vladimir Nabokov, and David Foster Wallace, all treated with derision. What is striking is not so much that students were discouraged from emulating these challenging writers, but that the writers themselves were denigrated. Your Iowa man sneers at books and stories that aim for the strange, ambitious, philosophical, and &@?A(.',B*4='.%*.(C')E*;)9*+(&/%$')E*9%#',/'()&*(+*#;$/',-.;$B*,()/')E%)/B*&#%,'5,*#.;,%&<*X=%$%*'&*;* veneration of the microscopic over the macroscopic. I think, and Bennett suggests, that the foundation of this attitude lies in how Paul Engle developed the Iowa program to oppose the Marxist ideology of the Soviet Union. In a very simple sense, Marxism is itself an ideology, a universal framework for understanding the world that can explain any phenomenon according to its terms. No matter what activity is under discussion, a dedicated Marxist (at least one of Cold War vintage, little brighter than a human parrot) will interpret it as an expression of the class struggle against capitalist exploitation. Now, you might think that the best 4;@*/(*5E=/*&-,=*;*-)'C%$&;.'k')E*'9%(.(E@*'&*/(*,$%;/%*()%*(+*@(-$*(4)B*;A(-/*/=%*')=%$%)/*&-#%$'($'/@*(+* market forces. That’s one way the old American Cold Warriors fought the Soviets, and you can see this ideology kicking into overdrive today when you talk to a doctrinaire young libertarian. M-/*-./'?;/%.@B*5E=/')E*()%*/=%($@*4'/=*;)(/=%$*/=%($@*9(%&)F/*4($><*f(-F..*%)9*-#*4'/=*;*&/;.%?;/%* of opposed rationalizations, neither ever able to throw up a scenario that another can’t explain. No, /=%*$%;.*4;@*/(*(##(&%*;*-)'C%$&;.'k')E*'9%(.(E@*'&*/(*5)9*%",%#/'()&R*;)*%",%#/'()*/(*;*-)'C%$&;.* ideology invalidates its claim to universality. You’ve found a place where an idea that supposedly applies everywhere doesn’t apply. So we now have, at least in a philosophical reconstruction, a goal for why creative writing programs in /=%*6(4;*&/@.%*+(,-&*&(*?-,=*()*')/%)&%.@*9%/;'.%9*9%&,$'#/'()&*(+*,()/')E%)/B*&#%,'5,*'?;E%&B*#.;,%&B* times, and characters. These stories constitute moments and objects that can’t be generalized. Any attempt to interpret them according to a universalizing ideological world-narrative or philosophy always leaves some remainder, showing the inadequacy of the ideology to the real world. This is a brilliant idea. Yet the idea still encounters the problem of triteness. Yes, you have a singular moment where the uniqueness of a place, moment, or character is so vividly rendered that it strikes a reader dumb. I found this structure almost inevitably in the works of Alice Munro, even though she grew outside the Iowa system. She depicts powerful moments, revelations of twisted pasts, and characters about whom I found my mouth dropping in shock. But beyond these portraits, there is little else. They’re stories of great beauty, but they have no majesty.

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Whither Canada? X=%*,()-)9$-?*&#%;>&*/(*4=%$%*6*5)9*?@&%.+*;&*;*4$'/%$*')*K;);9;*/(9;@B*;)9*/=%*$%.;/'()&='#*(+* my own work with that tired old concept of Canadiana. Canadiana is one of those words that every K;);9';)*-)9%$&/;)9&*4=%)*/=%@*=%;$*'/B*;)9*,;)*;,/-;..@*E'C%*;*#$%//@*$%;&();A.%*9%5)'/'()*'+*@(-*;&>* them. Such literature would be a paradigm for the Iowa model, as Canadiana short stories and books would be composed almost entirely of vivid evocations of a time and place: usually an isolated, rural place, and a time before the intense connectivity of modern technology. I’m reminded of Margaret Atwood’s novel Cat’s EyeB*')*#;$/*;A(-/*/=%*#$(/;E()'&/F&*9'_,-./*/;&>*(+*/$;,>')E*9(4)*;*+($?%$* childhood friend. Set today, this sequence would last no more than a moment of searching for a Facebook page. Canadiana has virtually no positive connotations to a contemporary audience. It’s dull, boring, and about a country that doesn’t really exist anymore, the all-white anglo-British wasteland carved out of wilderness where nothing changes and nothing even really thrives. Atwood didn’t call her book of literary /=%($@*9%5)')E*K;);9';);*Survival for nothing. So not only is Canadiana boring, but it’s implicitly racist too, often overwriting and invalidating the presence of francophone Canadians, as well as the existence of indigenous peoples and non-British immigrants. The Canadiana model whitewashes this land. But Canadiana’s form is the linguistic evocation of the place with such vividness that each individual description becomes a singularity, each story and novel a unique point on this continuum of desolation. The literature of Canadiana is the apex of what the Iowan approach demands of creative expression. And the exhausted emptiness of Canadiana today demonstrates the emptiness of the Iowan approach to literature.

Under the trees Yet we don’t live in a world that has robbed new literature of philosophical and political ambition. For one thing, even the typical Iowan model produces political relevance: crafting a literary singularity that 9%5%&*;)@*$%9-,/'()*/(*;)*'9%(.(E',;.*#(&'/'()*#(.'/','k%&*/=%*;#(.'/',;.*'/&%.+<*N;-.*!)E.%*I*/=%*,-./-$;.*K(.9* Warrior - achieved all he wanted in this regard. The question is whether there is a way forward from the model, and Bennett’s central critique (aside from the usual questions of whether any politically radical notion or action can survive CIA sponsorship) is that the Iowa style has stagnated. Institutionalizing ,$%;/'C%*4$'/')E*4'/=')*;*-)'C%$&'/@*9%E$%%*&@&/%?*$%d-'$')E*;*,()/')-;.*')1-"*(+*?;[($&*/;'.($&*4$'/')E* education to the less-talented participants. The most frequently taught techniques are the easiest to master, and the more talented who could handle ambitious approaches must fend for themselves.

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My own forthcoming novella, Under the Trees, Eaten, has been called a twisted revitalization of K;);9';);B*(C%$,(?')E*;*&/;E);/')E*5%.9*(+*5,/'()<*X=%*&/($@B*')*#;$/B*')[%,/&*.'+%*')/(*;*5%.9*;/*;*9'H%$%)/* $'&>*(+*&/;E);/'()B*E%)$%*5,/'()<*K-$$%)/*;./%$);/'C%*.'/%$;/-$%*'&*&%%')E*;*A((?*')*4($>&*9%;.')E*4'/=*/=%* ideas and iconography of H. P. Lovecraft. I’m not an innovator in using obviously Lovecraft-inspired iconography for my original work. The comic series Fatale is the best example of this trend that I can /=')>*(+*A%,;-&%*'/*,(?A')%&*:(C%,$;+/';)*'?;E%$@*4'/=*;*#$(/;E()'&/*/=;/*4(-.9*)%C%$*=;C%*5/*')* :(C%,$;+/F&*4($.9R*;*+%??%*+;/;.%*4'/=*#&@,=',*#(4%$&*(+*/=%*&($/*+(-)9*')*?($%*+-/-$'&/',*&,'%),%I5,/'()* genres. D-E-&/*7%$.%/=*4;&*/=%*5$&/*/(*%"/%)9*:(C%,$;+/F&*E%)$%*;+/%$*='&*9%;/=<*^='.%*#(#-.;$*;/*/=%*/'?%B* Derleth’s stories are today considered retrograde. Lovecraft created the legendary iconography of Cthulhu, but Derleth synthesized the disparate images of the Lovecraftian mythos into an internally consistent canon. Most people now understand that this is a terrible thing to do, because it shackles future Lovecraftian stories into consistency with the mythology’s details. Thankfully, writers have since learned how to overcome this creative limitation. We ignore it. So Under the Trees, Eaten introduced a realistic contemporary woman into a Lovecraftian horror story featuring a smattering of Canadiana tropes and my own gleefully pessimistic approach to human drama. It’s the story of a woman coming to grips with her parents’ deaths in the context of a Lovecraftian contract with otherworldly aliens, through scenes describing imagery and events with the meticulous and evocative detail of the Iowa style. Pulp meets feminism meets literary singularity.

Singularity’s unspoken ambitions Yet literary singularity remains paradoxical. The perfect literary singularity is a description so precise and detailed that no general description or summary could be fully adequate to it. There is always some remainder. Literature of the evocative image actually strives for a remarkably ambitious goal, which the Derrida')1-%),%9*&/$%;?&*(+*.'/%$;$@*/=%($@*4(-.9*,()&'9%$*'?#(&&'A.%<*S)%*')/$'E-')E*,(),%#/*')*\;,d-%&* Derrida’s philosophy of language is that any linguistic expression is inherently inadequate to reality itself. The words of language can apply to more than one unique situation, so there is always in any description some remainder, some facet of reality that escapes any account. Even the institutionalized middling of which Bennett accuses University of Iowa’s creative writing program strives for a genuine impossibility. The puzzle of language has consumed the last hundred or so years of analytic and continental philosophy. For examples, see any of the following list: Ludwig Wittgenstein, J. L. Austin, Derrida, Bertrand Russell (though his work is often misunderstood by ignoring his dual focus on language and mathematics), Martin Heidegger, Rudolf Carnap, Ferdinand de Saussure, Jean Beaudrillard, Saul Kripke, Willard van Orman Quine, Donald Davidson, Elizabeth Anscombe, David Lewis, John Searle. I’m sure I’m missing plenty of people.

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That century’s literature was even more inventive in its forms, techniques, and subjects. Compared to the innovations of the last century, ours seems bland. Bennett’s article not only advertises his own book on the Iowa program, but is also part of a collection exploring the tensions between the MFA program establishment and the major New York publishing houses. The 21st century seems dominated by corporate priorities instead of artistic ones. In such an atmosphere, authors no longer innovate quite so wildly. When they do, those experiments do not receive the same popular enthusiasm as the inventive works of, for example, James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Samuel Beckett, Kurt Vonnegut, and Thomas Pynchon. Yet the literature of evocation quietly hides its glory. Writing a wildly ambitious novel is openly and obviously a grand gesture. I sympathize with artists who strive to create works that serve for the cultures of this century what Joyce, Marcel Proust, Beckett, Pablo Picasso, the Beatles, or F. W. Murnau supplied for the last one. And what Paul Cézanne, Charles Dickens, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Herman Melville did for the 19th century. Perhaps we’ll remember David Simon, Vince Gilligan, and Death Grips that way in decades to come. Writing the Great American Novel (or even the Great Canadian or Kenyan novel) is an ambition that requires all the skills of literary, narrative, and philosophical creation in a single, enormous #$([%,/<*6/&*4$'/%$*A%,(?%&*;*A()5$%*/=;/*,;)*A%*&%%)*+$(?*;*.()E*4;@*;4;@<* But here is the calm, sedate, humble style of evocative literature strolling out of Iowa with an ambition to do what some of the great thinkers of the last century have called impossible: craft language that is ontologically adequate to reality and life itself. The genre mashups that characterize my own Under the Trees, Eaten*;)9*&(?%*(+*/=%*(/=%$*'9%;&*+($*&=($/*)(C%.&*/=;/*6F?*?-..')E*(C%$B*=;C%*;*9'H%$%)/*+(,-&B* which is less ambitious in this regard. My own literary works are philosophically informed art, but don’t strive for singularity alone. I’m too ,(?+($/;A.%*')*/=%*#-.#@*4($.9*(+*&,'%),%I5,/'()*/(*5/*')/(*/=%*,-./-$%*(+*6(4;*;&*6*-)9%$&/;)9*'/<*2@*4($>* in this realm, like the works of philosophy that I most admire and value, aims to provoke a reader to think 9'H%$%)/.@*;A(-/*.'+%B*;)9*#%$=;#&*%C%)*,=;)E%*'/B*%C%)*')*/=%*$%.;/'C%.@*?')($*9%/;'.&*(+*()%F&*(4)*/=(-E=/* and ethics. ^=%)*&(?%*A$'..';)/*4$'/%$*(+*/=%*6(4;)*?(9%.*5);..@*;,,(?#.'&=%&*/=%*'?#(&&'A.%*;)9*,$;+/&*.;)E-;E%* completely adequate to the singularity of reality, I’m not sure what can happen after that, how the form can move on. Literature whose motive is to change the world will always be vibrant because the world 4'..*;.4;@&*=;C%*#$(A.%?&*/(*&(.C%B*;)9*/=(&%*&(.-/'()&*4'..*,()&/'/-/%*+-$/=%$B*9'H%$%)/*#$(A.%?&*')* /=%*+-/-$%<*!C(,;/'C%*.'/%$;/-$%*&%%>&*/(*$%1%,/*/=%*4($.9*#%$+%,/.@<*M-/*#='.(&(#=',;.*.'/%$;/-$%*&%%>&*/(* change it.

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Kira Sheppard

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Driving to Stephenville

Bridget Canning

When I was little we would drive to Stephenville every second Saturday to get groceries I liked it best when it rained ;&*4%*9$(C%*#;&/*E$%@*E$;)'/%*,.'H&*;.()E*/=%*XKW imposing and stark, the haunted houses of nature ennobled by the rain and fog. It was comforting knowing there it was cold and wet But so warm and dry here in the Chev pleasant shivers to remind me backs of parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; heads in the front seat, gently muttering CBC Radio. I could hypnotize myself staring at droplets on the window the vibration would carry them on journeys across the glass until they were gone from view, traceless and trail-less I imagined they went somewhere warm to reconvene with the others Pow-wow share anecdotes of racing from the sky and just be together safe from jagged grey faces with their romantic gloom and uncertainty.

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G677&*:6?/

Here I sit upon a rock, staring out at the sea. It sounds vaguely romantic, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not really. When @(-*.'C%*A@*/=%*(,%;)*'/*=;##%)&*4'/=*?-)9;)%*+$%d-%),@B*[-&/*/=%*&;?%*;&*()%*?'E=/*&'/*')*;*5%.9*(+* E$;&&B*($*-#()*;*A%),=*')*;*E;$9%)B*($*9;)E.%*()%&%.+*+$(?*;*/$%%<*M-/*4'/=*)(/*;*5%.9B*)($*;*E;$9%)B* nor a tree in sight, all I have is this rock, and the sea. But I think to myself that it should be romantic, that somehow the organic swaying of the seas &=(-.9*')&#'$%*?@*?')9*/(*&(?%*$%9%?#/'C%*,(),.-&'()&L*&(?%*E$;)9*/=(-E=/*/=;/*4'..*?;>%* everything which has happened, and which is happening, worthwhile. But the longer I sit here, staring, the more sluggish my thoughts become, and the colder the ocean breeze blows. My thoughts seem to skip aimlessly atop the waves, twisting back and forth like the froth upon the distant waters, building in one direction and then collapsing in a sheen of foam without going anywhere. And all the time the icy edge of the wind bites the ends of my consciousness more and more, irritating me, loosening my focus on the thoughts Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m trying to sort out and make sense of. I think it is hopeless, and I should return to the car where at least I will be warm. But a stubborn, frustrated pride keeps me glued to this rock. I may not reach any grand insights on this cold and clear evening by the sea, but at least I will not let the icy spring wind drive me away. I came here, I sat here, and here I will stay, staring at the sea, so long as I decide I must in order to put my stamp upon this spot. With the wind blowing the edges of my dress and whipping it up about my knees, I lift my legs upon the rock and wrap my arms about them. The thin matter of the dress is rough and comforting to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things I have most come to miss in this life. 2@*?')9*4;)9%$&*A;,>*/(*S,/(A%$B*/(*/=%*)'E=/*6*5$&/*?%/*2%.C')*&?(>')E*')*/=%*-#&/;'$&*A;$<*W%* 4;&*9$')>')E*;)*6)9';*M%%$L*6*4;&*/'$%9B*'/*=;9*A%%)*;*.()E*)'E=/*;)9*,-&/(?%$&*4%$%*A%E'))')E*/(* &/$;EE.%*(-/*(+*?@*,.-AB*()%*A@*()%<*6*9'9)F/*4;)/*/(*9%;.*4'/=*='?B*A%,;-&%*6*4;&*/'$%9L*;..*6*4;)/%9* to do was go home. But I would have to tell him to go home, that this wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the sort of bar where you could just sit around and hang out, that it was too late to begin a scenario or hook up with anybody anyway, and he would have to go home and give a big long think as to whether this was something he was into.

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Earlier in the night I might have been more delicate, more seductive, more compelled to convince him to 4;)9%$*9(4)*/=%*&/;'$&*;)9*E'C%*;*+%/'&=*($*/4(*;*/$@L*;/*/='&*=(-$*6*[-&/*4;)/%9*/(*/;>%*(H*?@*/=$%%I'),=* spiked heels and wrap my arms around a pillow and go to sleep. He saw me coming and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“You’re probably closing up soon,” he said with a self-conscious, half-embarrassed grin. I smiled, swung myself onto the bar stool opposite him, swivelled to face him with my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands. “That’s right,” I replied, matter-of-factly. “Guess you weren’t in the mood for anything tonight?” W%*.((>%9*9(4)B*4'/=*/=;/*&%.+I,()&,'(-&)%&&*6*4(-.9*#$(A;A.@*5)9*&($/*(+*,-/%*'+*6*4;&)F/*&(*/'$%9<* “Yeah,” he replied. “Sorry about that...I just wasn’t in the mood.” “I haven’t seen you here before, have I?” I pressed on. He shook his head. “Where’d you hear about us?” “Well, a couple of friends of mine come here now and then. I mean, they’re a couple - two guys - they come here as subs and spoke really highly of the place. I was just...wasn’t sure what I was in the mood +($*/()'E=/*&(*6*5E-$%9*6F9*,(?%*9(4)*;)9*&%%*'+*/=%*?((9*+($*&(?%/=')E*&/$-,>*?%<*U($$@*'+*6F?*;*A'/*(-/* of it.” W%*&/((9*-#*;A$-#/.@B*#',>')E*='&*[;,>%/*(H*/=%*&/((.*A%=')9*='?*;)9*+-?A.')E*/(*#-/*'/*()B*?(C')E*;$(-)9* toward my side. I swivelled about in the chair, extending my elbows backward onto the table behind me, spreading my legs and wrapping my spider-web-stockings about the legs of the stool. Customers often found this pose unsettling for some reason, and it was pure instinct for me to move in on the feeling 4=%)*;*,-&/(?%$*4;&*-)&%//.%9L*%"#.($%*'/*.'>%*;*/=%$;#'&/*%"#.($')E*&(?%*9%%#*?%)/;.*A.(,>*4'/=')*;* #;/'%)/<*M-/*?@*%"#.($;/'()*4;&*#-$%.@*#=@&',;.L*#$(A')E*d-%&/'()&*;)9*9%,.;?;/($@*&/;/%?%)/&*'?#.','/* in the movements of my body. This was the language I enjoyed, expressing itself in motion about the bar stool and table on which I was propped. “Apologies accepted,” I replied wryly. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. It’s a fetish club, not the Sundance.” A wink? No, that would take it over the top. “Um...” he fumbled, zipping his jacket and pulling a pair of leather gloves from out of one pocket. “My name is Melvin, by the way. It was good to meet you.” I thought to myself what an odd thing that was for somebody to say, before you had introduced your own self.

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“Pleased to meet you, Melvin,” I replied. “Have a good evening, Melvin.” And with that he turned and hastily walked out the door. ---------When I am out here, with the wind stinging my face and the countless sounds of living things emanating from trees and shrubs and grass and pond and bog all about me, what do I feel? *6*?'&&*/=%*&/')E*(+*/=%*4='#B*&=;$#%$*;)9*?($%*9%.',;/%*/=;)*/='&*A$-/'&=*4')9<*6*4(-.9*4%.,(?%*'/B*(H%$* ?@*A;$%*&>')*/(*'/<<<%C%$*&(*.'E=/B*%C%$*&(*&=;$#B*A$'%+%$*A@*+;$*/=;)*/=%*&/')E*(+*4')9*()*1%&=*A-/*9%%#%$B* so deep that it buries itself within me and even now I can feel it. I miss the pull of leather and latex on my skin. Miss the tightening, stretching sensation as I move, miss how it melds about me and directs my movements, miss the thrilling fear of it ripping which alternates 4'/=*/=%*#-.&%*(+*/%$$($*;&*6*$%;.'k%*'/*4'..*)(/B*,;))(/L*/=;/*6*;?*/$;##%9*4'/=')*'/*;)9*'/*4'..*;..(4*?%*/(* move only to the most minuscule degree of its own senseless desire. I miss the fog of smoke enveloping me, miss the half-seen stares - hungry stares, thirsty stares, frightened stares, incredulous stares. The smoke and the strobelights melt the stares and the faces into a haze, allowing me to refashion them according to my own wishes. The smoke clears from my mind. Back at the edge of the pond, I crouch down by the water’s edge, .%//')E*?@*=;)9&*1(4*(C%$*/=%*/(#&*(+*/=%*+-$$@*4%%9&*(A&,-$')E*/=%*%9E%*(+*/=%*4;/%$<*6$()',B*6*/=')>*/(* ?@&%.+B*/=;/*6FC%*.'C%9*=%$%*+($*?(&/*(+*?@*/4%)/@I5C%*@%;$&B*;)9*@%/*,;)*=;$9.@*);?%*;*&')E.%*1(4%$*($* #.;)/*($*%C%)*/=%*/$%%&*4=',=*6*9$'C%*#;&/*()*/=%*='E=4;@<*6*&.(4.@*,.%),=*?@*5&/*;$(-)9*;*#.;)/B*;*4%%9R* something with a strong green branch and tiny bristling spikes up its sides and along its leaves. It culminates in a round, spiky purple bulb. I had a boyfriend once, a few years ago, who could name every 4%%9*;)9*1(4%$*;)9*/$%%*/=;/*4%*4;.>%9*A@<*6*;9?'$%9*/=%*>)(4.%9E%B*A-/*=%*=;9*/=%*;//'/-9%*/=;/*;)@* Newfoundlander should be able to do the same, and I thought that was stupid and told him so. He had a lot of attitudes about Newfoundlanders that were stupid. I once told him that anybody who said New+(-)9.;)9%$&*=;C%*,()&'&/%)/*,=;$;,/%$'&/',&*/=;/*9%5)%*/=%?*')*(##(&'/'()*/(*)()I3%4+(-)9.;)9%$&B* 4;&*9-?AB*;)9*;*A($%<*6*[-&/*=;/%*&/%$%(/@#%&<*W%*E(/*(H%)9%9*A-/*6*9'9)F/*,;$%B*A%,;-&%*=%*=;9*(++%)9%9*?%*5$&/<*D+/%$*;*4='.%*;..*/=%*/=')E&*6*.'>%9*;A(-/*='?*I*='&*>)(4.%9E%*(+*/=%*(-/9(($*4($.9B*='&* singing, his ability with any musical instrument you handed him, even his sense of humour - began (H%)9')E*?%B*A%,;-&%*/(*='?*/=%@*,()&/'/-/%9*;*3%4+(-)9.;)9*=-?(-$B*;*3%4+(-)9.;)9*/;.%)/B*;* Newfoundland knowledge. If you can’t separate your abilities and desires from some weird stereotyped image that cheap Newfoundland pop culture writers try and ingrain in their cheap songs and poems and A((>&B*/=%)*E$(4*-#*;)9*+-,>*(HB*6*/(.9*='?*(),%<*D)9*=%*E(/*')*;*=-H*;)9*9'9*[-&/*/=;/< e^=',=*'&*@(-$*+;C(-$'/%*1(4%$lg I looked up. A little girl was staring down at me, her arm around a big dog which was also staring down at me. I say little, but she was probably around ten years old, I guess. She was pretty, with blonde curly .(,>&*1(4')E*(-/*+$(?*-)9%$*;*W%..(*J'//@*/(d-%*;)9*(-/5//%9*')*A.-%*9%)'?*[%;)&*;)9*[;,>%/<*U=%*&/;$%9* 9(4)*;/*?%*4'/=*;*#.;,'9B*%"#$%&&'().%&&*.((>L*/=%*9(E*A@*,()/$;&/*/'./%9*'/&*=%;9*;)9*4($>%9*'/&*?(-/=* $%#%;/%9.@B*'/&*/()E-%*1(##')E*/(*()%*&'9%*;)9*'/&*%@%&*4'9%*4'/=*-);A;&=%9*,-$'(&'/@<

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6*#'),=%9*(H*/=%*1(4%$*6*4;&*=(.9')E*;)9*=%.9*'/*-#*/(*/=%*E'$.<*eX='&*()%Bg*6*&;'9<*U=%*&=((>*=%$*=%;9< “I don’t like those,” she said. “They have little spikes and they sting you.” “I like the sting,” I said to her, baring my teeth in a half grin. “Sometimes you need a sting to remind you of your place in the world.” The girl continued to stare, expressionlessly. Then she pointed at a small, stunted red rose peering out from the side of a bush. “I like roses,” she said. “Roses have stingers too,” I replied. “Only if you get too close,” said the girl. “I also like buttercups. Do you like buttercups?” “More than anything else in the world,” I replied. The girl’s mouth twitched, ever so slightly, in what might have been a near-grin. I turned back to contemplate my purple weed, and the gentle swells of the water beyond it. “Do you want to come walk my dog with me?” the girl asked. “There’s a trail around the pond. We can E(*&.(4*'+*@(-*4;)/*/(*.((>*+($*1(4%$&<g 6*/-$)%9*;$(-)9*?(?%)/;$'.@*()*?@*=;-),=%&B*;)9*/=%)*&/$;'E=/%)%9*-#<*6*A$-&=%9*?@*=;)9&*(H*?@* black vinyl pants, staining them with specks of golden dust. e6F?*9()%*4'/=*1(4%$&Bg*6*$%#.'%9<*e^=;/F&*@(-$*);?%lg “Alice,” answered the girl. “I live just over the bridge, with my mom and Spot. Spot’s the dog. I wanted to call him Aloysius after my grandfather, but he actually belonged to our neighbours before they moved away, and they named him Spot. I don’t think he likes the name Aloysius”. “What a shame,” I replied. “What’s your name?” asked Alice. “What if it’s a secret?” I answered her. “Can you keep a secret?” “Why?” she replied. “Are you hiding from somebody?””

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e3(Bg*6*$%&#()9%9B*&'E=')E*;)9*.((>')E*;A(-/<*e6*[-&/*.'>%*&%,$%/&B*'&*;..<*M-/*6F?*&-$%*4%*,;)*5)9*;*A%//%$* secret to keep, between the two of us. My name is Violet.” “Do you have a boyfriend?” Alice asked. “Not sure,” I replied. “Do you?” D.',%*&=((>*=%$*=%;9*5$?.@<*e6*9()F/*.'>%*A(@&<g “I heartily approve,” I replied, swinging a glance her way and smiling. “Maybe you’d prefer a girlfriend.” Alice shook her head. “I think boyfriends are cooler.” “How come? I always found girlfriends easier to deal with than boyfriends.” “I don’t know. They’re always cool on TV, and in the movies. I just don’t know any boys that I like.” “Well, there’s probably not a lot of boys around here,” I replied. “Or girls.” She nodded, slowly, as though she hadn’t considered this point before. “When you grow up and leave here, there’ll be plenty of boyfriends and girlfriends for you to choose from.” “Why aren’t you sure if you have a boyfriend?” she asked. I sighed, stretching out my arm to allow it to $-h%*/=$(-E=*/=%*4;'&/I='E=*4%%9&*;.()E*/=%*&'9%*(+*/=%*#;/=<* “Well, I think he wants to be a boyfriend,” I replied. “I’m just not sure if I like him, really. I mean, I like him, I’m just not sure if I think I want him for a boyfriend. He’s kind of...boring.” “Yeah,” Alice replied, tugging at the leash as Spot insistently circled a random clump of grass. “The boys I know are boring too. I wouldn’t want them for a boyfriend.” “Thing is,” I continued, “he’s kind of fun too. He keeps phoning me and wanting to hang out. And I do %)[(@*=;)E')E*(-/*4'/=*='?<*W%F&*[-&/<<<)(/*')/(*/=%*>')9*(+*&/-H*/=;/*?@*A(@+$'%)9&*;$%*-&-;..@*')/(<*S$*?@* girlfriends, for that matter.” e^=;/*>')9*(+*&/-H*'&*/=;/lg*&=%*;&>%9B*.((>')E*-#*;/*?%*4'/=*&(?%*')/%$%&/<* eU%"-;.*&/-HBg*6*$%#.'%9<*e6/F&*[-&/*/=;/*4%*,(?%*+$(?*&-,=*9'H%$%)/*A;,>E$(-)9&B*;)9*'+*@(-*=%;$9* &(?%A(9@*9%&,$'A%*-&B*4%F9*&(-)9*.'>%*&-,=*,(?#.%/%.@*9'H%$%)/*#%(#.%<*!C%$@*/'?%*6*/=')>*(+*='?*')*/=%* &%)&%*(+B*.'>%B*;*A(@+$'%)9B*'/*&%%?&*/(*?%*.'>%*'/F9*A%*'?#(&&'A.%B*A%,;-&%*4%F$%*[-&/*&(*9'H%$%)/*')*%C%$@* way. But then when we hang out together, somehow it just works really well, and we have so much fun /(E%/=%$<*6/*[-&/*>')9*(+*=;##%)&*/=;/*4;@<*6/F&*/=%*/=')>')E*;A(-/*'/B*/=;/F&*9'_,-./B*A%,;-&%*'/*&%%?&*.'>%*'/* &=(-.9*A%*&(*9'_,-./<*f(-*>)(4lg 48

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Yeah,” replied Alice, doubtfully. “Thing is, it’s hard to pin down what that special thing is, which separates a cool friendship from a real $%.;/'()&='#B*@(-*>)(4l*f(-*/=')>*(+*&(?%A(9@*;&*;*+$'%)9<<<A-/*4=;/*?;>%&*/=%*9'H%$%),%*A%/4%%)*/=;/* person, and somebody you can be in a relationship with? It’s that weird invisible line that always gets in the way...for better or for worse.” “I think I’m glad I don’t have a boyfriend right now,” said Alice. “It sounds pretty complicated.” I laughed. “Yeah, it is. Plus, I’m thinking of moving away. That doesn’t make things any easier.” “Where would you go?” asked Alice, looking up at me with a perplexed stare. “Everybody always goes away, even though they never seem to really want to.” I cast her an approving glance. “That’s pretty insightful, my pretty darling. If you left here, what would you miss the most?” U=%*#;-&%9B*&/;$')E*/=(-E=/+-..@*')/(*/=%*A-&=%&*;&*/=%*9(E*&)'H%9*')&'&/%)/.@*;/*;*/$%%/$-)><* “My dog. And my mom, and my room,” she replied. “And I think I’d miss the buttercups. I love the way /=%'$*#%/;.&*/-$)B*;)9*6*.(C%*/=;/*/=%@*A.(4*E(.9%)*9-&/*(-/*')/(*/=%*4')9B*;)9*6*.(C%*/(*&/;)9*')*;*5%.9*;)9* be surrounded by the buttercups and their golden dust. I wouldn’t ever want to leave that.” We walked some more then, in silence, occasionally murmuring about nothing of importance. And when the sun began to grow faint on the far horizon, we sat down side-by-side with our backs against a tree, and we watched the buttercups blow breaths of golden dust into the wind. ---------Now I stare over the waters, and as I do, I feel a strange strength within me. Just being here, just sitting =%$%B*?;>%&*?%*+%%.*;*#(4%$*4'/=')*?%L*/=%*>)(4.%9E%*/=;/*'/*'&*6*4=(*9%/%$?')%&*4=;/*6*9(B*;)9*4=%$%* 6*E(<*6*/;>%*&/$%)E/=*;)9*#.%;&-$%*+$(?*/=%*+%%.*(+*?@*1%&=B*+$(?*/=%*4')9*4=',=*4$;#&*'/*?($%*/'E=/.@* ;)9*?($%*+-..@*;)9*?($%*,(?#.%/%.@*/=;)*/='&*1'?&@*9$%&&*%C%$*,(-.9<*`$(?*/=%*=;'$*4=',=*4$;#&*;$(-)9* ?@*=%;9L*6*=;/%*'/&*9'&&%?A.%9*&/;/%*A-/*6*.(C%*/=;/*'/*'&*1@')E*;A(-/*?%*;)9*/=;/*'/*'&*;*#;$/*(+*?%L*/=;/* it plays with the wind just as the wind plays with me, that the surf paints my arms and my neck and my cheeks, that my breasts stare into the wind as though daring it to turn about, that I am embraced by all of this world about me and that it is my choice that it be so. I used to drive out the TCH to lose myself. I’m from the generation that grew up in town, that spent more &-??%$&*()*/=%*?;').;)9*($*/=%*oU*/=;)*=-)/')E*($*5&=')E*($*9(')E*/=%*&/-H*/=%@*&;'9*?@*E$;)9#;$%)/&* used to do around here. To me, the world beyond St. John’s was a mystery, but sort of an irrelevant one, since it seemed to be fading away anyway. I had friends from out of town, of course, but they spent all their time trying to get into town, and certainly didn’t leave me with a favourable impression of their hometowns when they spoke of them. In fact I was convinced I would die of boredom if I had to grow up in a place without a theatre or a library or even a fast food outlet to hang out at on the weekend. !"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+

Those were the things important to me at that age. And even now, the attraction of outport Newfoundland has failed to impress me any more than it did then. But the one thing that did attract me was the anonymity of it. Not a soul there would know me, chances are, and I didn’t know what town 6F9*%)9*-#*;/*'+*6*9$(C%*;.()E*/='&*$(;9*+($*;*,(-#.%*(+*=(-$&<*X=%@*4%$%*9%;9I%)9&B*;..*(+*/=%?L*;)9*;..* identical, with their gravelly roads and vinyl-sided shops and ugly little houses strewn about haphazardly on hills overlooking the one road. The only thing they had in any abundance were run-down churches, the majority of them closed for business these days. Yes, the world outside the overpass seemed a great mystery - not one I cared about, but one I could lose myself in if I felt I needed to. And so rural Newfoundland has a function, even for me, even now. Isn’t it strange how sometimes you dive into relationships without thinking about it, only to regret it later 4=%)*@(-$*/=')>')E*&%.+*,;/,=%&*-#*/(*@(-L*;)9*/=%)*;/*(/=%$*/'?%&*/=%*&?;..%&/*9%/;'.*4'..*?;>%*@(-* hesitate. It was the thought of leaving that made me hesitate, or at least I think that’s what it was. Who’s grown up here and hasn’t been torn by that thought, at some time or another? It never seems to wrack my friends on the mainland in the same way. I guess it’s because it’s such an ordeal to leave here - as expensive ;&*1@')E*=;.+4;@*;,$(&&*/=%*4($.9B*;)9*&(*@(-*>)(4*/=;/*4=%)*@(-*.%;C%B*,=;),%&*;$%*@(-*4()F/*A%* returning any time soon. And why even bother beginning something here, when you’re just going to leave it? U/'..B*4=%)*=%*#=()%9*?%*-#*;)9*')C'/%9*?%*/(*/=%*4')%*&=(4B*6*,(-.9)F/*5)9*/=%*4'..*4'/=')*?%*/(*&;@*)(<* The night began pleasantly and raced past in a haze of laughter. Before we knew it the three hours were -#B*/=%*.'E=/&*4%$%*,(?')E*()B*;)9*/=%*9(($4;@&*A%E'))')E*/(*5..*4'/=*&?;..*>)(/&*(+*+$'%)9&*/$@')E*/(* 9%,'9%*4=%/=%$*/(*,;$$@*()*9(4)/(4)*($*,;..*'/*;*)'E=/<*3(/*4;)/')E*/=%*#.%;&;)/*1(4*(+*/=%*%C%)')E* /(*&-A&'9%B*6*4$;##%9*;)*;$?*;$(-)9*2%.C')<*6/*&%%?%9*%;&@R*)(/*/((*,.(&%B*)(/*/((*,=-??@L*'/*[-&/* seemed the right thing to do. “Want to get out of here?” he asked. I nodded, stabbing a slice of cheese as we passed by the table. “My place is close,” I said. I didn’t feel like walking, at least not far, although I wanted very much to be (-/&'9%B*;)9*/(*.%;C%*/=%*&/'1')E*&4%;/@*;'$*+($*/=%*,$'&#*,='..*(+*;)*;-/-?)*?(()<* Mel nodded in acquiescence. We went outside, arms still around each other. A faint part of my mind was 4()9%$')E*4=;/*/='&*?%;)/L*6*9()F/*-&-;..@*#-/*?@*;$?&*;$(-)9*#%(#.%B*)(/*;&*A-99'%&B*)($*;&*.(C%$&L* especially not people I’m barely beginning to know and haven’t found a category to put them in. But &(?%=(4*(-$*;$?&*[-&/*&%%?%9*/(*5/<*S=*4%..B*6*/=(-E=/*/(*?@&%.+<*U(?%=(4*%;&'%$*/(*4;.>*/='&*4;@<

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We made the mistake of purchasing three bottles each on our way out, and as we trudged up the hill behind the Delta, our pace slowed and our breaths laboured in the misty night. Breathing out, my breath formed a small trail of steam, but despite this the night felt warm, unnaturally warm for late October. My dress felt comfortable, and even the cool midnight breeze on my legs was more pleasant than chilly. eW%@Tg*6*@%..%9*-#*/(4;$9*='?L*=%*4;&*;.?(&/*;/*/=%*#%;>*(+*/=%*='..*4=%$%*'/*/-$)%9*$'E=/*/(4;$9*?@*(4)* street. “How did we manage to get six bottles of wine for $40?” “I think two of them were free,” he answered, pausing and turning around, panting slightly. His shirt was 9;?#*;)9*='&*(4)*A$%;/=*1(4%9*.'>%*?'&/*;A(-/*='?<* “That’s what I thought!” I replied. “Score!” eX=%@*=;9*&(?%*>')9*(+*9%;.*()L*+$%%*A(//.%*4=%)*@(-*?;>%*;*#-$,=;&%*($*&(?%/=')EBg*=%*,()/')-%9<* “Whatever. We totally scored!” I yelled back. He laughed. 6*#-..%9*?@&%.+*/=%*$%&/*(+*/=%*4;@*-#*/=%*='..<*X=%*$(;9*9'C%$E%9*')*/4(*=%$%L*(-$*(4)*#;/=*.;@*/(*/=%*.%+/B* ;*/;..*,=;')I.')>*+%),%*$-))')E*;.()E*/=%*&'9%*4=%$%*'/*+%..*#$%,'#'/(-&.@*(H*;A(C%*/=%*U/;9'-?<*M%/4%%)* /=%*$(;9*;)9*/=%*+%),%*4;&*;*4'9%*%"#;)&%*(+*E$%%)*5%.9B*/=%*E$;&&*?'&/@*4'/=*/=%*?'9)'E=/*9%4<* “Time for a smoke?” I looked up at him inquiringly, and then, giggling, dropped my bags onto the grass and rolled onto my back. He laughed and joined me. Side by side, we lay there silently for several moments, staring up at the cloudy night sky. We couldn’t see the stars, but now and then the moon would burn through the mist, and trails of wispy cloud would race across its surface. My breath returned to normal, but my heart continued to beat fairly rapidly. I reached into my purse and felt about +($*;*,'E;$%//%*#;,>B*%@%&*&/'..*$((/%9*()*/=%*&>@B*/=(-E=/&*'9.@*1(4')E*4'/=*/=%*,.(-9&B*/(-,=')E*()*/='&* thought and that: the wine, the warm night breeze, the strange fellow lying panting beside me. I removed a joint from the pack and stuck it in my mouth, lighting it without moving from my far too comfortable position on the grass. Breathing in the smoke, while the moonlight bathed my face and the breeze tugged the edges of my dress around my thighs, felt absolutely glorious. ef(-F..*=;C%*/(*E%/*@(-$*5..*(+*/='&B*A%+($%*@(-*E(Bg*=%*&;'9<*K.%;$.@*/=%*/=(-E=/*=;9*A%%)*()*='&*?')9B*/((<* I leaned over on my side, propping myself up by an elbow. I inhaled deeply once more, and passed the joint over to him. The sudden shift in position didn’t work, so I rolled over onto my back again. “Absolutely,” I replied, taking in the night sky in all its fullness. “I wonder if this kind of perfection exists in other places, too.”

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“I’m sure it does,” he said, coughing slightly as he inhaled. “Besides, you’ll be having quite the adventure!” I found it hard to read his tone. Was he honestly excited for me? Was he trying to hide a disappointment at my impending departure? What made things more complicated was the fact that I didn’t even know how it was that I wanted him to feel. “Thanks for inviting me out tonight,” I said. Truthfully, I hadn’t had such a fun night, nor felt so simply content, in a long time.

“No problem,” he replied, passing me back the joint. “I hope we’ll have the chance to do it again sometime.” “Hey,” I said, driven by a sudden spontaneity which I could neither stop nor make sense of. “When I’m away in Nova Scotia, or Toronto, will you come visit?” “Absolutely,” he replied, without so much as pausing. “Anytime. You just let me know when.” eN$(?'&%lg*6*;&>%9B*')=;.')E*9%%#.@*;)9*/=%)*$(..')E*A;,>*(C%$*()*?@*&'9%<*W%*=%.9*-#*='&*.'//.%*5)E%$< eN')>@*&4%;$Bg*=%*(H%$%9<*6*E'EE.%9*;)9*/((>*='&*#$(+%$$%9*5)E%$*')*?@*(4)<* “You know that’s serious,” I replied, raising my eyebrows in what I thought was a look of maximum sincerity. e7%;9*&%$'(-&Bg*=%*;)&4%$%9<*6*$(..%9*A;,>*(C%$B*A-/*(-$*5)E%$&*$%?;')%9*%)/4')%9<*3(4*/=%*,.(-9&* were thinning, and I could see the faint pinpricks of stars beginning to shine through. One moment the &>@*'&*%?#/@B*;)9*/=%*)%"/*'/F&*+-..*(+*=(.%&*(+*.'E=/<*D.?(&/*4'/=(-/*$%;.'k')E*'/B*6F9*?(C%9*A%@()9*='&*5)E%$B* and taken his hand in my own. Silently we watched the stars, one by one, tear through the black clouds. 2@*5)E%$&*&/$(>%9*/=%*(-/&'9%*(+*='&*=;)9B*/=%)*#.;@%9*;.()E*='&*5)E%$&B*%C%)/-;..@*#$(A')E*/=%'$*4;@* into the thick of his warm and pulsing palm. His own hand caressed the outside of mine, and I thought to myself that the touch of hand on hand could be so much more intimate than a kiss, or a hug. When did the idea of kissing him pop into my mind, I wondered suddenly. Turning my head ever so slightly, I glanced over at him. He lay on his back, eyes glued to the night sky. I turned my head again I enjoyed the play of our hands for several more moments, the street silent beside us, the stars singing overhead. “We’d better get moving,” I murmured. “Yeah,” he agreed. But neither of us moved. We lay there until every last star had made its appearance. X=%)B*;/*?@*&-EE%&/'()B*=%*-&%9*='&*,%..#=()%*/(*,;..*;*,;AB*;)9*9$(##%9*?%*(H*()*='&*4;@*=(?%< 52

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---------There is a loneliness in the wind, and sometimes I wonder whether I am the only one who hears it. I hear '/*;&*6*&'/*()*/=%*%9E%*(+*/=%*,.'HB*;&*'/*,$'%&*'/&*4;@*/=$(-E=*/=%*A-&=%&*;)9*/=%*/$%%&*A%=')9*?%B*;&*'/* swings about me and beyond me and over the waters’ spray. I hear it wherever I am alone, and when I am alone the sound has a distinct quality, one which only appears at these times as though to say ‘I too am lonely’. Is the wind lonely? I ponder this as I sit here, staring down at the foamy waves below. The sea is restless, and impatient, and it makes me impatient as well. The crashing and twisting sets my )%$C%&*()*%9E%B*;)9*'/*'&*().@*/=$(-E=*;)*%H($/*(+*4'..*/=;/*6*?;>%*?@&%.+*&/;@*=%$%B*&'//')E*;)9*&/;$')E*'/* down. 6*5)9*?@&%.+*/=')>')E*(+*D.',%B*/=%*.'//.%*E'$.*6*?%/*()%*9;@*;&*6*4;.>%9*')*;*);?%.%&&*/(4)*A@*/=%*&%;<*6*4'&=* she were here. ‘Why haven’t you left?’ she would ask, and her dog would shake its head in echo. ‘I’ve got an important job here, and I can’t leave it now,’ I would reply. Or maybe, ‘I decided the buttercups were too pretty to leave them all alone.’ Or maybe just, ‘I wimped out.’ And I would remember Melvin, and how he had taken me out to dinner the weekend after the wine show, and told me that he’d taken a job in Vancouver. The news didn’t surprise me, nor did the lack of anything I felt inside. The sense of loss is something natural for us here, as those we care about all leave us, one by one. And those of us who stay feel only the loss, not the sense of new, or of adventure, or of a strange world without. The sense of loss builds within us all, and it’s such a part of us that we forget it, adding to it year after year, a dull throbbing ache as we realize nothing is permanent, nothing stays, nothing seems to have purpose when our own permanence in this place leaves us empty and alone. But I still have the wind, and this rock, and the spray of the water on my face. And all about me, here in some unknown outport village, whose name I never want to know, the buttercups blow in the wind, as /=%'$*E(.9%)*9-&/*1'%&*;4;@*;,$(&&*/=%*&%;<

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M*17&*/$#,-$#*71/7/$1,$K3*,&*$G*33+$#*&$7*B1,2$/3;&701,2$,&%($ #,-$B36)*&$1,=17&D./=(-E=*K($)%$*M$((>F&*.'/%$;$@*;)9*,$%;/'C%*;$/&*,(??-)'/'%&*;$%*1(-$'&=')E*')*?;)@*4;@&B*e?;)@* locals do not feel as though the broader arts community is entirely accessible for writers, musicians, and artists who are not as well established in the community,” says Marta Croll-Baehre, a student at Grenfell College. Croll-Baehre and a handful of others have come up with a plan to address the problem and try to make the arts community in the province’s second-biggest municipality more accessible: organize an event to celebrate community-based arts, and invite everyone. They’re calling it “The Tangle”. “The Tangle is a creative celebration of community-based arts in the Corner Brook area,” Croll-Baehre explains. The public event, happening April 19 at Swirsky’s in Corner Brook, will serve as a “showcase of local and emerging writers and the ‘tangling’ of art and spoken or written word. The event will not only

These pieces of art were created by participants of a collaborative workshop held last month as a precursor to The Tangle.

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If the event is well-received Croll-Baehre says the seven founding members and ART DOCK: Community Arts Collective, with the help of any new members who join along the way and several community partners and supporters, will try to make The Tangle an annual event “to showcase all of our local budding talents.” A collaboration workshop was held in Corner Brook in late March, some of the results of which will be featured in the April 19 event. The general submission deadline for The Tangle has passed, but CrollBaehre says everyone is welcome to join them at Swirsky’s on Broadway. “Our event is unique because of the writer-artist collaboration in both the workshop and the actual public event,” she adds. “Although artistic collaboration has been done in the past with Gros Morne Summer Music Festival and several other community Arts events, Corner Brook members now have the opportunity to collaborate and perform with other local artists and writers.” In addition to the inaugural and subsequent annual events, Croll-Baehre says there’s a “purposeful elusiveness” behind The Tangle’s name. “All I can tell you is that there will be tangles popping up around Corner Brook, so keep your eyes peeled!” ‘The Tangle’ happens April 19, 7:30 p.m., at Swirsky’s in Corner Brook. The event is free and open to all ages. Stay up to date on further announcements by the group through its FB group and event pages by searching for “The Tangle” on Facebook, or email the.tangle.cb@gmail.com for more information.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153; in memory of Loretta Saunders. Mixed media, melted wax, acrylics and marker on canvas.

O3*&77#$P#6,-&*/$QRSTUVWXRYZ

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[.,-O3*&77# \*1,$AB'%#*-

The search has ended, A-/*4%*4'..*>%%#*5)9')E*@(-B*:($%//;< ^%*4'..*5)9*@(-*A%,;-&%*@(-$*=(#%&B*5$%&B*;)9*E.%;?')E*9$%;?& will outshine and outlast what a single body ever could. We found you, Loretta, when your life and disappearance - like shockwaves- shook our countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shallow consciousness in which we relegate Inuit to the lowest rungs of schooling to a single hair colour, to the lowest level of protection. I found you, Loretta, in a poem by Liz, a dear friend of yours and a mentor to me, about just how exhausting, how unfair is the struggle to prove how strong, wise, 5%$,%B and brilliant a Nunatsiavut woman can be.

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D)9*:($%//;B*6*=(#%*/=;/*6*4'..*5)9*@(-*;E;')B* When ignorant views, like exhaust fumes, are uttered about Labrador life, gender, Indigeneity. I hope that I can speak with some of the truth that made your voice shake and your people’s stories known. D)9*6*9$%;?*/=;/*?@*,(-)/$@*4'..*5)9*@(-B*:($%//;B* when we declare that each woman’s life is precious, when we demand that the violence ends. 4=%)*[-&/',%*'&*)(/*[-&/*E$;_/'*')*c((&%*M;@B* not just facebook lamentations, but when Stolen Sisters’ stories form national inquiries, and when our colonial cultures are torn down and transformed – ().@*/=%)*4%*4'..*%C%$*$%;..@*5)9*@(-B*:($%//;< So the search has ended, M-/*4%*4'..*>%%#*5)9')E*@(-B*:($%//;B ^%*4'..*5)9*@(-*A%,;-&%*@(-$*=(#%&B*5$%&B*;)9*E.%;?')E*9$%;?& Will outshine and outlast what a single body ever could

!"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+

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K36*7&/B$91:0#&'$9#*71,$#,-$F0&;$E#B/$9#2#]1,&

K3'36*V:3**&:71,2$1,H6/71:&$ 1,$F0&$G12$O#,N6/71,$G*#+& ^3*7B$B&#*/$'#7&*$70&$:*&#73*$35$70&$O#<*#-3*$L#2$1/$7#+1,2$#:713,$#2#1,/7 1''&2#''B$;#,65#:76*&-$L#2/$#,-$70&$:0#,2&/$?&3?'&$0#=&$;#-&$73$70&$<'6&( %017&$#,-$2*&&,$73$76*,$#$?*3.7>$@&$#'/3$0#/$#,$1;?3*7#,7$;&//#2&$#<367$70& L#2)/$/&&;1,2'B$'3/7$;&//#2&> S)*D#$'.*bB*.%&&*/=;)*;*4%%>*;+/%$*/=%*:;A$;9($*1;E*/-$)%9*YZB*/=%*+($?%$*3%4*:;A$;9($*N;$/@*2WD* +($*:;A$;9($*U(-/=*;)9*,$%;/($*(+*/=%*:;A$;9($*1;EB*2',=;%.*2;$/')B*&%)/*;)*%?;'.*(-/*/(*?%9';*;)9* ($E;)'k;/'()&*4'/=')*/=%*#$(C'),%<*2;$/')*$%,%)/.@*.;-),=%9*;*,;?#;'E)*/(*%9-,;/%*#%(#.%*;A(-/*/=%*1;EF&* /$-%*9%&'E)B*4=',=*=;&*A%%)*?;)'#-.;/%9*/(*/=%*#(')/*/=;/*?;)@*(+*/=%*1;E&*)(4*1(4)*;,$(&&*:;A$;9($* ;$%*?'&$%#$%&%)/;/'()&<*eX=%*#$(A.%?*&/%?&*+$(?*%H($/&*A@*-)&,$-#-.(-&*9%;.%$&*;)9*?;)-+;,/-$%$&*/(* E%/*;$(-)9*/=%*,(#@$'E=/*$%d-'$%?%)/&*A@*,$%;/')E*1;E&*/=;/*=;C%*/=%*4$()E*9'?%)&'()&B*4$()E*,(.(-$&* ;)9*4$()E*&=;#%*;)9*&'k%*(+*/=%*A.;,>*&#$-,%*/4'EBg*2;$/')*%"#.;')%9*')*/=%*%?;'.<*eX=%*?;$>%/*'&*1((9%9* 4'/=*/=%&%*QA((/.%EF*C%$&'()&*(+*/=%*1;E*;)9*'/*'&*;*&(-$,%*(+*?-,=*,(),%$)*/(*:;A$;9($';)&*4=(*&%%*/=%&%* +;.&%*$%#$%&%)/;/'()&*;&*;)*;H$()/*/(*(-$*=%$'/;E%*;)9*,-./-$%<g D+/%$*$%,%'C')E*2;$/')F&*%?;'.*4%*9%,'9%9*/(*,=%,>*/=%*:;A$;9($*1;E*9%#',/%9*()*X=%6)9%#%)9%)/<,;F&* ?;&/=%;9<*S+*;..*/=%*1;EF&*?;)-+;,/-$%$&B*().@*^')9,(*!)/%$#$'&%&*')*N($/-E;.*K(C%*()*/=%*6&.;)9*E(/*'/* $'E=/B*=%*/(.9*-&*A@*#=()%*()*D#$'.*a*+$(?*='&*=(?%*')*K($)%$*M$((>B*;)9*(-$&*4;&*')*+;,/*;*^')9,(*1;E<* X=%*:;A$;9($*1;E*X=%*6)9@*-&%&*')*'/&*?;&/=%;9*'&*;*9'E'/;.*'..-&/$;/'()*(+*;*#=(/(*/;>%)*A@*\(=)*2;$/')*')* Labrador, who graciously allowed us to use his image. But through the photo imaging and editing process the original colours were lost, so Indy photographer and Landwash graphic designer Graham Kennedy is =;C')E*;*E(*;/*'/*/(*&%%*'+*4%*,;)*$%&/($%*(-$*:;A$;9($*1;E*/(*'/&*($'E');.*,(.(-$&<

I'/#:&(@03(&'034$(F#0%("B035(5'.(7": In 1973 the Newfoundland Government called upon the people of the province to begin planning ways to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Confederation the following year. In December ‘73 Martin—who had been elected to the House of Assembly as a member of the New Labrador Party for the district of :;A$;9($*U(-/=*')*;*A@I%.%,/'()*')*Qrjp;)9*;*+%4*+$'%)9&*e9%,'9%9*/=;/*&'),%*/=%*#$(C'),%*4;&*1@')E*/=%* ,(.()';.'&/*1;E*(+*M$'/;')*4%*)%%9%9*;*1;E*(+*(-$*(4)Bg*=%*$%,(-)/%9*')*jZZj<*eU'),%*/=%*E(C%$)?%)/*4;&* )(/*')/%$%&/%9*')*,$%;/')E*;*)%4*#$(C'),';.*1;E*4%*/=(-E=/*'/*;##$(#$';/%*/(*?;>%*;*1;E*+($*:;A$;9($< “Our intention was that this would be simply a celebration project and expected nothing further to come of it,” he continued in his 2002 letter. “We purchased some cloth in the appropriate colours. My wife sewed aY*1;E&*II*()%*+($*%;,=*/(4)*;)9*C'..;E%*')*:;A$;9($B*()%*/(*A%*#$%&%)/%9*/(*%;,=*(+*/=%*/=$%%*2%?A%$&* of the House of Assembly in formal ceremony, and two for ourselves. I took [a] felt marker and drew the /4'E*()*/=%*4='/%*&/;H*=;.+*(+*/=%*1;E<

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X=%*:;A$;9($*W%$'/;E%*2-&%-?B*E'C')E*;)*;,,(-)/*()*'/&*4%A&'/%*(+*/=%*&'E)'5,;),%*(+*/=%*1;EF&*,(.(-$&* $%#$%&%)/&B*/=%*4='/%*A;$*;/*/=%*/(#*(+*/=%*1;E*e$%#$%&%)/&*/=%*&)(4&B*/=%*()%*%.%?%)/*4=',=B*?($%* /=;)*;)@*(/=%$B*,(.(-$%9*(-$*,-./-$%*;)9*9',/;/%9*(-$*.'+%*&/@.%&<g*X=%*A.-%*A;$*;/*/=%*A(//(?*(+*/=%*1;E* “represents the waters of our rivers, lakes and oceans. The waters, like the snows of winter, have been (-$*='E=4;@&*;)9*)-$/-$%9*(-$*5&=*;)9*4'.9.'+%*/=;/*4;&*(-$*&-&/%);),%*;)9*/=%*A;&'&*(+*(-$*%,()(?@<g* And the narrower green bar in the centre “represents the land - the green and bountiful land, which is the connecting element that unites our three diverse cultures. “The twig of the black spruce tree, in two year-growths, represents the past and the future. The shorter growth of the inner twigs represents the hard times of the past, while the longer outer twigs speak of our hopes for the future. The twig is typically in three branches and represents here the three original founding races of modern Labrador - the Innu, the Inuit and the white settler. The three branches emerging from a common stalk represents the commonality of all humankind regardless of race.”

J#.(,3-,0&.?("(&,.25-3E(01(20403-& TheIndependent.ca columnist Brandon Pardy ,(??%?($;/%9*/=%*1;E*')*='&*\;)<*jYB*jZiY*,(.-?)* “How Labrador got its colours”: I don’t think anyone could have predicted how quickly and fervently it would be adopted ... Within months /=%*,(.(-$&*4%$%*1@')E*%C%$@4=%$%<*X='&*4;&*#;$/.@* in response to political unrest, but in large part I think people believed in the idea of unity amongst the ,(??-)'/'%&<*6/F&*)(/*;)*;)/'I)%4+(-)9.;)9*1;E<*6/F&* )(/*;*&%#;$;/'&/*1;E<*6/F&*;*1;E*/(*,%.%A$;/%*/=%*9'C%$&%* identities of Labrador in a single image. In the spring of ‘73 Martin gathered interested people together in Goose Bay to discuss forming a group to preserve Labrador’s heritage. The Labrador Heritage Society was then born. eM@*/='&*/'?%*'?;E%&*(+*/=%*1;E*4%$%*A%')E*#$')/%9* on souvenir items such as lapel pins, badges and car stickers,” Martin wrote in 2002. “Unfortunately the images did not conform to the original design. 6)C;$';A.@*/=%*,(.(-$&*4%$%*;4;@*(HB*-&-;..@*4'/=*/=%* green too light and the blue too dark. The horizontal bars became of equal width and the twigs in some instances looked more like leaves of the marijuana plant. It was an embarrassment.” 62

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X=%*:;A$;9($*W%$'/;E%*U(,'%/@*;##.'%9*+($*;)9*4;&*E$;)/%9*,(#@$'E=/*(+*/=%*1;EF&*9%&'E)<*eD/*/=%*&/;$/* the copyright was brought in to protect the integrity of the design, but we asked that people who were ?;)-+;,/-$')E*/=%*1;E*E'C%*/=%*:;A$;9($*W%$'/;E%*U(,'%/@*siZ*($*&(?%/=')E*.'>%*/=;/*/(*=%.#*/=%?* manage the business,” Martin told The Independent on April 6. “We thought this wasn’t a very big tax t*^%..B*/=%@*5E-$%9*'+*/=%@*,=;)E%9*/=%*9%&'E)*/=%@*4(-.9)F/*=;C%*/(*#;@*,(#@$'E=/B*4=',=*'&*)(/*/$-%* because if it’s sold under the name ‘Flag of Labrador’, then you have to have the correct dimensions and colours and all that. But the Heritage Society, not having any money, declined going after these people... so we just let it go. Now there’s hundreds of those damn things out there that don’t look at all like the :;A$;9($*1;E*t*X=%$%*;$%*9'&/$'A-/($&*')*:;A$;9($*4=(*;$%*/$@')E*/(*5)9*,=%;#%$*1;E&<*6/*A('.&*9(4)* %";,/.@*/(*%,()(?',&<*X=%@*4;)/*/(*E%/*/=%*,=%;#%&/*1;E*;C;'.;A.%*;)9*/=%@*9()F/*,;$%*'+*'/F&*/=%*4$()E* 1;E*p*/=%@*,;)*&%..*'/*;&*/=%*`.;E*(+*:;A$;9($<g J)(4')E*?;)@*')*:;A$;9($*e4%$%*A($)B*.'C%9*;)9*9'%9*-)9%$*/=%*1;EBg*2;$/')*&;'9*=%*9%,'9%9*'/*4;&*/'?%* /(*E%/*;*=;)9.%*()*/=%*&'/-;/'()<*eU(*/=%*5$&/*/=')E*4%*9(*'&*%9-,;/'()<<<;)9*4%*E(*(-/*4'/=*/='&*.'//.%*&/@.%* sheet and say, ‘If you’re going to make one’ down at your craft shop or down at the school art class or something, ‘here’s how to do it,’” he explained (see page 62). e^%F$%*E(')E*/(*&%%*=(4*/=;/*/;>%&*(HB*;)9*/=%)*/=%$%F&*;*/=(-E=/*/=;/*#%$=;#&*)(4*4%*&=(-.9*A%* licensing one or two manufacturers only through the copyright holder, the Labrador Heritage Society, and /=%)*'/*A%,(?%&*;)*(H%)&%*'+*@(-F$%*?;)-+;,/-$')E*4'/=(-/*;*.',%)&%*t*/=%)*4%*,;)*E(*;+/%$*@(-*4'/=*;* stronger case than just copyright. So that’s the next stage but we haven’t got there yet.”

>(-.#.%.$(2"44(10-(3#/5@(":"/#&5(K.+,40/5"5/0#L Despite its original purpose, to serve as a “statement of identity — nothing more, nothing less,” the :;A$;9($*1;E*=;&*A%%)*%?A$;,%9*A@*#%(#.%*;)9*E$(-#&*;,$(&&*/=%*M'E*:;)9<*X=%*3-);/&';C-/* E(C%$)?%)/*-&%9*/=%*1;EF&*,(.(-$&*')*'/&*(4)*1;E*;)9*/=%*A.;,>*&#$-,%*/4'E*4;&*-&%9*')*/=%*`$;),(I X%$$%)%-C'%)*1;E<*`($*&(?%*/=%*1;E*=;&*;.&(*A%,(?%*;*&@?A(.*(+*:;A$;9($*')9%#%)9%),%*;)9*'&* currently embraced by individuals gathering to discuss and re-evaluate Labrador’s governance. “It was never meant to be a political symbol, and we made that clear right from the outset,” Martin said ')*/=%*D#$'.*a*')/%$C'%4<*eX='&*'&*)(/*;*&%#;$;/'&/*?(C%?%)/B*/='&*'&*)(/*;*&%#;$;/'&/*1;E<*X='&*'&*;*1;E*/=;/* states who we are, what our culture is all about, what our land is all about and the connection of the people with the land … Down through the years some people have, in their protest movements, held -#*;*1;E<*6/F&*/=%'$*$'E=/*/(*9(*&(B*'/F&*/=%'$*1;EB*/=%@*,;)*4;C%*'/*4=%$%C%$*/=%@*#.%;&%*;)9*+($*4=;/%C%$* $%;&()<*M-/*/=%*1;E*'/&%.+*$%?;')&*;*&/;/%?%)/*(+*'9%)/'/@*;)9*'/*;.4;@&*4'..<g There is one crucial point it seems Martin and those advocating for Labrador independence, or a dramatic restructuring of how The Big Land is governed, could agree on, however: the unfair exploitation of Labrador’s resources will not stop unless the people of Labrador do something about it.

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e!"#.('/;/'()B*'/F&*;*#;$/*(+*(-$*.%E;,@B*;*#;$/*(+*(-$*=%$'/;E%B*;*#;$/*(+*(-$*,-./-$%L*4%FC%*;.4;@&* been exploited,” he told The Independent. “I’ve got a document dated 1835. It’s a petition from the 5&=%$?%)*')*U;)94',=*M;@*/(*/=%*c(C%$)?%)/*(+*3%4+(-)9.;)9*')*U/<*\(=)F&B*;)9*/=%@F$%*&;@')E*/=;/* /=%*'?#%)9')E*5&=%$'%&*$%E-.;/'()&*;$%*E(')E*/(*9%,'?;/%*/=%*&;.?()*5&=%$@*;)9*=-$/*/=%*5&=%$?%)*')* the Bay. Nothing has changed. Sometime in the late 80s the Government of Newfoundland, and the c(C%$)?%)/*(+*K;);9;*6*/=')>*&#%,'5,;..@*')*/='&*,;&%*p*/=%@*,=;)E%9*/=%*&;.?()*$%E-.;/'()&*;)9* /=%@*A(-E=/*(-/*;..*/=%*&;.?()*.',%)&%&*;)9*/=%@*9%#$'C%9*/=%*&;.?()*5&=%$?%)*(+*/=%'$*$'E=/*/(*?;>%*;* livelihood catching salmon. “From 1835 to 1980 and on into the 21st century, this kind of exploitation continues, and it will continue because we’re a very small political entity,” he continued. “Votes matter. We don’t have enough votes to change things in the House of Assembly. We tried making a dent in it back in the 70s with the New Labrador Party. We made some changes because we had a sympathetic government in the form of Frank Moores’ Tories. Because they were sympathetic and saw the injustices being done, they corrected some things. But you’re not gonna correct them because of the overwhelming vote outside of Labrador +($*/=')E&*/=;/*;$%*'?#($/;)/*/(*(/=%$*#%(#.%*+($*9'H%$%)/*$%;&()&<*D)9*&(B*4%F..*;.4;@&*A%*%"#.('/%9<g Martin said he’s happy to see a bit of resistance to some of the controversial resource development projects in Labrador: “In a democracy dissent is always healthy. People have not only the right but the $%&#()&'A'.'/@*/(*(H%$*9'&&%)/')E*C(',%&*4=%)*/=%@*+%%.*/=;/*&(?%/=')E*'&*4$()E<*X=;/F&*#;$/*(+*4=;/* democracy is all about and it’s healthy to do that, and I’m happy to see people in Labrador doing that.” But he concluded with a sobering observation. eU(*.()E*;&*4%*;$%*)(/*-)'5%9B*&(*.()E*4'..*/=%*c(C%$)?%)/*(+*3%4+(-)9.;)9*;)9*/=%*c(C%$)?%)/* of Canada exploit our resources. Why not? If they can take it without fear of any repercussions of course they’ll go ahead and take it,” he said. “So it’s important that people understand that they have to act in unison. I don’t think that’s going to happen to a great degree in Labrador because I’ve 4;/,=%9*+$(?*%;$.@*,='.9=((9B*4=%)*6*A%,;?%*;4;$%*(+*9'H%$%),%&*+$(?*4'/=')*?@*(4)*,(??-)'/@B* ;)9*/=%)*9'H%$%),%&*+$(?*4'/=')*/=%*9'&/$',/<*:;A$;9($';)&*.'>%*/(*E%/*;/*%;,=*(/=%$F&*/=$(;/&B*;)9*/=%* ethnic [groups] are against one another, the various districts are against one another, the people in the community up on the point don’t like the people down on the bottom. It’s always been the same, and 6*4(-.9*.'>%*/(*/=')>*;/*/=%*A%E'))')E*/=;/*/=%*1;E*4(-.9*=;C%*&(?%*%H%,/*()*/=;/p;)9*'/*=;&*/(*&(?%* degree—but I would like to see it a more unifying force. I would like to have people see it as a way of getting around their disagreements, and getting around their objections to one another for a common good. Because if they don’t stick together they’re going to continue to be exploited.”

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The Axe Man Cometh

Anthony Elson

X=%*&'.C%$*1;&=*(+*;*&4')E')E*;"%

The price to pay was determined that day

There in the mid-day sun

At the amount of about eight grand

And to end each swing the steely ring

We don’t know why it was so high

Told of a job well done

And I guess we’ll never understand

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

At the end of each arc it found its mark

But late last fall I know we all

And released torment from the soul

Heard that old axe ring

As each solid thunk took a generous chunk

D)9*'/*&%%?&*/(*?%*/=%*5);.*+%%

From a Nalcor hydro pole

Was about a thousand bucks a swing

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Then came the police whose palms were greased

Don’t worry Dennis ‘cause all of us

With the corporations’ gold

^'..*=%.#*@(-*4'/=*@(-$*5)%

Then uncontested they arrested

Then one day we might all have a say

The perpetrator we were told

And chop down the whole damned line.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

The news report said they brought to court one Dennis Woodrow Burden

Who stood that day and had his say And ‘tis no doubt we all heard ‘en $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Well you can bet that a date was set To appear before the court

When the date came around guilty he was found As we listened to the report

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The Guns of Labrador @#,/$_3'';#,, They brought guns `($*-&*/(*5E=/*%;,=*(/=%$< D)9*5E=/*4%*9'9R* At Battle Harbour1 the guns blazed, And we died. They brought guns For us to hunt for them. And hunt we did: U.;-E=/%$')E*+-$*()*/=%*',%*1(%&B Bear in the forests, Birds on the wing. And we died too: S)*/=%*',%*1(%&B In the forests, Under grey restless skies. They brought guns `($*-&*/(*5E=/*/=%'$*4;$& `;$*(H*;,$(&&*/=%*&%;&< D)9*5E=/*4%*9'9L*;)9*9'%9*;&*4%..< And died so well. In France â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Cambrai!2L*')*M%.E'-?*O*:%9%E=%?T3 And all across the wine-dark sea: ^=%$%*'/*4;&*(-$*A.((9*/-$)%9*/(*4')%L* Our body and blood for their sins. They brought guns For us to defend their land: The far northern reaches of a kingdom they spurned and coveted all at once. Defend it from faceless foes from across the poles Who might one day come over the ice Or under the waters. And so we watched.

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They brought guns And damn little else. They brought guns for us to do their bidding Which we did. They brought guns for us to kill each other Which we did. They brought guns for us to kill their foes Which we did. They brought guns for us to guard this land Which we did. While they watched from afar: In comfort and in splendour. They brought guns. And now, when they come to take the land X=%&%*)%4*+(%&*')*/=%*E-'&%*(+*(.9*+$'%)9&L These old foes in the guise of new friends When they come at last to take whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left To clear the trees and build the dams To power the cities and factories of the south Where the guns are made Will they fault us if we use these guns to defend our land? Will they condemn us if we turn these guns against them? Will they turn their guns on us, who have for so long and so quietly carried guns for them? If they do, let them remember: It was they who brought the guns.

Notes: 1 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Legend has it that the Montagnais, supported by the French, fought a great battle against the Inuit in Battle Harbour in 1760 )*+,-./0-%+1-2+-+3&045+3-0+6+/-$$47"745+%'+'&0$870'+90-'#7:+;&8'+<8%1-=>+-'+6'?%$+@0&.+ Rigolet, died here on November 20, 1917. He was called the best sniper in the British army. A+B+C757D87.+1-2+-+3&045+3-0+6+/-$$47"745+%'+E74D%?.:+;&8'+E4-=7>+-'+6'?%$+@0&.+F&0$8+ West River, died here in September 1918. !"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+

Taking it to the street Brian Carey A<367$`$B&#*/$#23$D$0#-$#$:0#7$%170$#$*&71*&-$.*&;#,$#<367$ ?03732*#?0B$#,-$0&$%#/$7&''1,2$;&$#<367$#$/&*1&/$35$?3*7*#17/$0&$0#-$ /&&,$-1/?'#B&-$#7$#$'3:#'$35.:&>$F0&/&$?3*7*#17/$%&*&$35$?&3?'&$%&$ %&*&$<370$5#;1'1#*$%170($?&3?'&$%03$%&$%36'-$357&,$/&&$-3%,73%,$%0&,$ %&$%&*&$+1-/>$F0&$/7*1+1,2$701,2$#<367$#''$701/$%#/$70#7$70&B)*&$#''$ 23,&$,3%$a$70&/&$?&3?'&$#*&$H6/7$;&;3*1&/> A--$73$701/$70&$5#:7$70#7$#/$#$?03732*#?0&*$D$0#=&$<&&,$1,L6&,:&-$ <B$;#,B$2*&#7/$3=&*$;B$'15&($/3;&$35$%03;$0#=&$53:6/&-$3,$?&3?'&$#,-$ 0&'?&-$73$7&''$70&1*$/73*1&/>$D$%#,7&-$73$-3$70#7($D$%#,7&-$73$<&21,$ 73$/03%$70&$=#*1&7B$#,-$:0#*#:7&*$35$?&3?'&$70*3620$;B$?03732*#?0B>$ D$%#,7&-$73$'&7$?&3?'&$/&&$%&$#*&$#''$-155&*&,7$B&7$/3;&03%$/03%$%&$ #*&$#'/3$;6:0$70&$/#;&>

@&*&$#*&$/3;&$35$703/&$?0373/b

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%%%><*1#,:#*&B?03732*#?0B>:3;

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_3:+($?#?&*b

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“When you were little you had baby root beer?” Bud asked. “Yes. They brought it to the car. On a tray. It hooked on the window. Every second Sunday me and Pop and Nan would come here and I would have baby root beer and fries. Just like you.” Leonard said. “That’s a lot. Every second Sunday. We never come here.” Bud took a slurp of his root beer. eX='&*4;&*/=%*().@*+;&/*+((9*#.;,%*')*/(4)<g*:%();$9*&;'9<*e3(4*/=%$%*;$%*+(-$*($*5C%*#.;,%&*/(*E(<g* Bud knew them all, and was good at spotting them from his car seat. e6F?*5C%<g*M-9*&/;/%9<*e6F..*A%*&'"*')*U%#I%?IA-$$<g “We will try to make it out here once a year. I promise,” Leonard added. A pair of women, Leonard’s age, sat at the table next to them. The one in the sweater twinkled her 5)E%$&*;/*M-9<*eK-/'%*#'%Bg*&=%*4='&#%$%9< X=%*4(?;)*;$$;)E%9*/=%*+((9*(H*/=%'$*/$;@&<*eX=%$%*&%%?&*/(*?%*?($%*4$%;/=&*/='&*@%;$Bg*&=%*&;'9B* wiping her face with a napkin, even though she had not eaten anything. X4(*?($%*4$%;/=&*:%();$9*5E-$%9<*X=%*5&=%$?;)F&*>'9&*?-&/*A%*;..*E$(4)*-#<*N$(A;A.@*/=%@*?(C%9* into town. He had just came back from the site a few minutes ahead of the women. Maybe they were driving into town. He had to pass it, turn around and come back. He was home. Just watched the national news and had a typical low voltage seizure because they were all over Canada Day on the news, but didn’t mention Memorial Day at all. It was like one of the key days of remembrance in Newfoundland was being ignored. They always had their Dominion Day and we always had our Memorial Day. Confederation never changed that. But now it was Canada Day. All K;);9;*7;@<*U(?%*5$%4($>&<*K(),%$/&<*X%.%C'&'()*;9&*+($*$;>%&< D)9*/(*/(#*'/*(H*/=%$%*4;&*&#%,-.;/'()*/=;/*/=%$%*4;&*E(')E*/(*A%*;)*;))(-),%?%)/*/(?($$(4*;A(-/* /=%*5&=%$@<*6/*=;9*A%%)*&-EE%&/%9*/=%*+%9&*4%$%*E(')E*/(*&=-/*'/*9(4)<*D+/%$*bZZ*@%;$&*(+*5&=')E<*6/F&*.'>%* /-$)')E*(H*);/-$%<*W(4*,(-.9*@(-*&=-/*9(4)*;*5&=%$@l*eU=-/*9(4)*A;)>&T*6)&-$;),%*,(?#;)'%&Tg*=%* had yelled at the television. Fishermen from all parts of the province were coming into town.

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Noelle had left to help her friend Cheryl. Cheryl and Howard lived out in da Pearl. Howard was acting up ;E;')<*W(4;$9*.(&/*='&*.%E&*A%.(4*/=%*>)%%&*I*;*?')%5%.9*')*J-4;'/*I*;)9*/=%*;9&*+($*4%%9*>'..%$*#$(A;A.@* sent him well past Leonard’s sense of indignation. Military guys liked their liquor, but there’s only so much pain you can bottle up. The phone rang. At 11:30 pm. Who calls at 11:30 pm? The baby was asleep. “I’ll never forget it,” the non-sweater gal said. She was on the same side of the table as Leonard, and he never really got a good look at her. She was wearing a light blazer, changed somehow, but it still looked .'>%*;)*(-/5/*+$(?*2';?'< The sweater gal picked up her soft drink. She was going to have to listen to it again this year. “We were coming up behind the tractor trailer. Full of oil pipes it was. Burf said ‘Whoa’ as the truck just swerved on Kenmount Road without slowing down. I thought I saw the pickup on the side of it as we approached, but I can’t really be sure. We slowed down. There was a massive crack sound. Then the pickup was under the rear wheels of the big truck. The big truck started to turn over. All those pipes. The pickup was there - crumpled. Behind, there was a streetlamp. We saw it shake. That’s when the car hit the pole. I remember watching in slow motion as the globe from the streetlamp fell. Sparks everywhere. Then the car came screeching past the pickup in the other direction. In the air. It hit a transport truck that 4;&*/$@')E*/(*;C('9*/=%*#',>-#<g*U=%*?;9%*;*&#'))')E*?(/'()*4'/=*=%$*=;)9B*5)E%$*#(')/%9*9(4)*/(*/=%* /;A.%<*M-9*4;&*#.;@')E*;*&?;..*&4($9*5E=/*4'/=*/4(*+$%),=*+$'%&<* eX=%*,;$*='/*/=%*/$-,>*')*/=%*E$'..<g*U=%*#-),=%9*/=%*;'$*4'/=*=%$*5&/<*eD)9*/=%*,;$*I*()*5$%*I*1%4*(C%$*/=%* #',>-#*;)9*%"#.(9%9<g*`')E%$&*(-/&/$%/,=%9<*eX=%*&%,()9*A'E*/$-,>*4%)/*(H*/=%*$(;9<*6/*4;&*+-..*(+*&/-H* for the Regatta. Plush toys... soaked in glycol. Giant bags of popcorn seed spilled everywhere.” Bud stopped playing with his french fries. Perhaps it was hearing the word ‘toys’. Perhaps it was popcorn. His Dad hated popcorn. He stared at the lady. She kept on going, with a lower voice. “Burf sort of hit me, trying to slow the car down. I had a miscarriage, apparently. Lucky it must have been twins. The lefties always survive.” “You think that caused the miscarriage? I thought you were headed to the hospital anyway.” eX=;/F&*4=;/*6*/(.9*M-$+<*W%*,;-&%9*/=%*?'&,;$$';E%<g*U=%*/((>*;*)'AA.%*(+*=%$*A-$E%$<*M-9*5&/%9*&(?%* more fries.

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“Then all the police and ambulances showed up. Seemed like two minutes. We parked and looked. There was nothing we could do for anyone. Burf was just released from Dorchester. He wanted to stay .(4<*X=%@*4%)/*$'E=/*/(*/=%*,;$*I*/=%*5$%?%)*I*4'/=*/=%*[;4&*(+*.'+%<*D)9*6*)%C%$*/(.9*@(-*/='&*A%+($%*I*/=%* /4(*5$%?%)B*/=%@*9'9*;*QP(,>B*N;#%$B*U,'&&($&F*A%/4%%)*/=%?*/(*&%%*4=(*4(-.9*(#%$;/%*/=%*[;4&*(+*.'+%<* X=%$%*4;&*)(*#(')/<*3(*=-$$@<*X=%*5$%*[-&/*>%#/*#(##')E*-#<*X=%*,;$*4;&*&(*A%;/%)*-#*;..*/=%*4=%%.&*=;9* A%%)*>)(,>%9*(H<*f(-*,(-.9)F/*/%..*'+*'/*4;&*$'E=/*&'9%*-#*($*-#&'9%*9(4)<g eX=%*5$%?%)*[-&/*9(*/=;/<*X=%*&%)'($*5$%?;)*;.4;@&*4')&<*W%*#.;@&*&,'&&($&<*X=%*(/=%$*E-@*#.;@&*#;#%$<* They just do it. Teamwork, command thing,” the sweater gal said. “I remember that from when I worked Emerge. Firemen are a bit odd.” “C’mon Bud. Let’s go.” Leonard gently suggested. e2;@A%*/=%*5$%?%)*#-/*-#*;*4$%;/=*/='&*@%;$Bg*2';?'*E;.*&;'9< “Wreaths!” Bud piped up. “We saw wreaths. They are for my mom,” he said. “She died when I was little. In a car crash. In a car.” He slapped his little hands together. “Always wear your seatbelt,” he advised. Leonard did not know whether to feel ashamed, proud or sad. There would always be a numbness. A part of his heart was gone, forever. He looked into the space in between the others. “That’s the night the music died.” For most people that was the day the rock had been papered over. Bureaucracy erased geography. For :%();$9*'/*4;&*/=%*9;@*=%*A%,;?%*-)/%/=%$%9B*,-/*(H*+$(?*/=%*4($.9<*c(9*.%+/*='&*.'+%<*3(4*='&*.'+%*4;&* Bud, and for the time being, he was Bud’s.

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K1,&;#$C3'171:#$P7>$N30,)/$76*,/$3,& N6/71,$G*#+& GH70+$87+I-2$+J7-0+$87+<$:+;&8'K2+#8-I$70+&@+-+I&I?4-0+&'*#-.I?2+5&#?.7'$-0J+ "4.+270%72+8-2+I0&H7'+$87+I&170+&@+"4.+$&+75?#-$7+-'5+@&2$70+87-4$8J+I?/4%#+ dialogue about important issues.

e6*/=')>*/=;/*/=%*;$/&p;)9*6*?%;)*/=;/*C%$@*A$(;9.@R*C'&-;.*;$/&B*?-&',B*5.?B*%/*,%/%$;p'&*;*$%;..@* accessible and non-intimidating way of engaging with social and political issues,” says Paula Graham, a PhD student of sociology at Memorial University in St. John’s. 6*5$&/*?%/*c$;=;?*;/*W;$A(-$&'9%*N;$>*9-$')E*/=%*S,,-#@*?(C%?%)/B*;*&#%,/;,-.;$*?(?%)/*')*='&/($@* when people around the world began assembling in public spaces daily to share ideas and talk about &(?%*(+*/=%*?(&/*#$%&&')E*'&&-%&*+;,')E*-&*/(9;@<*N%(#.%*+$(?*9'H%$%)/*4;.>&*(+*.'+%*,;?%*/(E%/=%$*(C%$* a common desire to confront the madness and injustice of a global economic system that marginalizes and oppresses some as a means of privileging others. Many of us learned to communicate more %H%,/'C%.@*4'/=*(/=%$&*;&*4%*-)9%$&/((9*?($%*;)9*?($%*/=%*&'E)'5,;),%*(+*(-$*&=;$%9*=-?;)'/@B*;)9* thus our collective power. But when it came to engaging others outside the group and growing the local conversation into a broader public dialogue, we realized just how disenfranchised we actually were. Understanding problems like colonialism, systemic human rights abuses, poverty, climate change ;)9*=(4*,;#'/;.'&?*4($>&*;$%*,$-,';.*/(*;)@*%H%,/'C%*;,/'()*')*;99$%&&')E*/=%?B*A-/*/=(&%*(+*-&* participating in Occupy Newfoundland quickly found that even as a united group we were hard pressed to meaningfully engage the media and public in developing a deeper understanding of our societal woes. No matter how important a topic may be, if people don’t want to talk about it they don’t want to talk about it, and indeed engagement is one of the biggest challenges facing the global social justice community. However, some found ways to carry the conversations initiated at Harbourside Park out into the community. Graham is one of those people. :;&/*D#$'.*&=%*')'/';/%9*;*.(,;.*,=;#/%$*(+*K')%?;*N(.'/',;B*;*9(,-?%)/;$@*5.?*&%$'%&*&-&/;')%9*A@*;* 2()/$%;.*?%9';I;$/&*)(/I+($I#$(5/*,(..%,/'C%*/=;/*')*$%,%)/*@%;$&*=;&*E$(4)*')/(*4=;/*'/*&;@&*'&*/=%*.;$E%&/* volunteer-run, community and campus-based documentary-screening network in the world. Having attended other universities with Cinema Politica chapters, and in search of a way to bring people together /(*.%;$)*;)9*/;.>*;A(-/*#$%&&')E*'&&-%&B*c$;=;?*&;@&*&/;$/')E*;*U/<*\(=)F&*,=;#/%$*(+*/=%*5.?*&%$'%&*[-&/* made sense.

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ef(-*9()F/*=;C%*/(*A%*;)*%"#%$/*')*;)@/=')E*/(*,(?%*4;/,=*;*5.?Bg*&=%*&;@&<*ef(-*9()F/*=;C%*/(*A%*;)* %"#%$/*')*;)@/=')E*/(*E(*.'&/%)*/(*;*A;)9<*D)9*'+*;*A;)9*'&*&')E')E*;A(-/*#(.'/',;.*'&&-%&B*($*'+*;*5.?*'&* about political issues, then it’s kind of...an avenue for talking about really dire things, where people can =(#%+-..@*+%%.*,(?+($/;A.%*(H%$')E*/=%'$*(#')'()*;)9*;.&(*,(?+($/;A.%*;&>')E*d-%&/'()&< e6*/=')>*/=;/*#%(#.%*;$%*$%;..@*&,;$%9*/(*;9?'/*/=;/*/=%@*9()F/*>)(4*&/-HBg*&=%*,()/')-%&<*eD)9*6*/=')>*;* 9'&,-&&'()*;+/%$*;*5.?*&,$%%)')E*'&*;*#$%//@*;,,%#/')E*#.;,%*')*/%$?&*(+*;&>')E*;*d-%&/'()*/=;/*?;@A%*@(-* don’t want to ask in a more formal setting.” Last April, with the support of Memorial University’s Department of Sociology and the help of some C(.-)/%%$&B*c$;=;?*($E;)'k%9*K')%?;*N(.'/',;*U/<*\(=)F&*5$&/*5.?*&,$%%)')EB*Surviving Progress, in the university’s Arts building. Ever since, she says, the monthly screenings have consistently drawn good turnouts. The group has even teamed up other community groups to host screenings, which are often +(..(4%9*A@*#;)%.*9'&,-&&'()&*($*,;&-;.*,()C%$&;/'()*;A(-/*/=%*5.?&F*&-A[%,/*?;//%$< “The times we’ve collaborated with other groups have been perhaps the most important [with] the most diverse audiences, which is kind of the point of Cinema Politica,” Graham explains. “[E]very time that happens I notice that there are people who attend the screening who have never come before, which makes me think that these collaborations are really important because they’re [attracting] a whole other group of people.” Last November Cinema Politica teamed up with the People and the Sea*5.?*+%&/'C;.B*4=',=*'&*,-$;/%9* by Memorial University sociologist Barbara Neis, to screen <-4.&'+,&'"57'$%-4B*;*5.?*;A(-/*=(4*M$'/'&=* K(.-?A';F&*&;.?()*+;$?')E*')9-&/$@*'&*')/$(9-,')E*C'$-&%&*/(*4'.9*N;,'5,*&;.?()< eD/*/=;/*&,$%%)')E*4%*=;9*;*&#%;>%$*;)9*;*)-?A%$*(+*#%(#.%*4=(*=;9*%"#%$'%),%*')*5&=')Ep4=(*,;?%* +$(?*;*5&=')E*+;?'.@p;)9*;.&(*$%&%;$,=%$&*4=(*4($>*()*5&=*&/(,>&Bg*c$;=;?*$%,;..&<*eX=%$%*%)9%9*-#* being a conversation between these people who I don’t know otherwise would have connected with %;,=*(/=%$<*U(*6*$%;..@*=(#%B*;)9*6*9(*/=')>*'/F&*/$-%B*/=;/*K')%?;*N(.'/',;*U/<*\(=)F&*'&*(H%$')E*;*#.;,%* where these people can, even if they don’t talk to each other, know each other exist — and that there ;$%*#%(#.%*(-/*/=%$%*')*9'H%$%)/*5%.9&*($*9'H%$%)/*#$(+%&&'()&*4=(*;$%*/=')>')E*;A(-/*/=%*&;?%*'&&-%&B* even if they don’t agree.” Graham recounts another screening, Vanishing of the Bees, which documents the global phenomenon of bee colony collapse disorder. “There were a few people who were bee keepers who happened to be at the screening, and so other people in the audience could ask questions to them,” she recalls. “And that was cool. It wasn’t just us talking about bee keeping — there were people there with direct experience, so it was cool to give people that opportunity.” One of the things that sets Cinema Politica apart is the interaction and conversation that typically follows a screening. People are often moved to share ideas and discuss possible solutions to problems ='E=.'E=/%9*')*/=%*5.?&B*c$;=;?*&;@&B*A-/*')*/$;9'/'();.*5.?*&,$%%)')E*&%//')E&*;$%)F/*E'C%)*/=%* opportunity to stay in their seats and talk to one another.

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“There’s a possibility for conversation at every screening but we don’t necessarily have a panel or a speaker at every one,” she explains. “But when we do I think that kind of facilitates discussion even more.” S)*D#$'.*q*K')%?;*N(.'/',;*&,$%%)%9*c;&.;)9*jB*;*&%d-%.*/(*/=%*D,;9%?@*D4;$9*)(?');/%9*5.?*/=;/* explored the negative impacts slickwater fracking, or hydraulic fracturing, is having on communities ;$(-)9*/=%*o)'/%9*U/;/%&<*N$'($*/(*/=%*&,$%%)')E*c$;=;?*&;'9*=%*4;&*=(#%+-.*/=%*5.?*4(-.9*A$')E* /(E%/=%$*#%(#.%*4'/=*9'H%$%)/*')/%$%&/&*;)9*#(&'/'()&*()*+$;,>')EB*#;$/',-.;$.@*&'),%*/=%*c(C%$)?%)/* of Newfoundland and Labrador will soon make an important decision on whether or not to let the controversial practice, and means of accessing natural gas, into the province. U'),%*'/&*?;)9;/%*'&*/(*A$')E*#%(#.%*/(E%/=%$B*K')%?;*N(.'/',;*9(%&*)(/*'?#(&%*;*1;/*+%%*+($*;9?'&&'()* to its events. All screenings are “pay-what-you-can”, a system that makes attendance and participation ')*9'&,-&&'()*;,,%&&'A.%*/(*%C%$@()%*4=%)*/=(&%*4=(*,;)*;H($9*'/*#;@*4=;/*;9?'&&'()*/(*;*5.?*?'E=/* normally cost, or more. “When we collect donations people are really willing to give,” says Graham. “We get a lot of professors and [working] professionals who often donate. But also a lot of students and a lot of people who $%E-.;$.@*;//%)9*4=(*9()F/*)%,%&&;$'.@*9();/%*p*/=;/F&*/(/;..@*5)%B*;)9*'/*&;@&*/(*?%*/=;/*/=%@*;##$%,';/%* =;C')E*;*5);),';..@*;,,%&&'A.%*/=')E*/(*9(<g As an added bonus, Cinema Politica is bridging a gap between the academic and wider communities by attracting people to the Memorial University campus who might not otherwise go there. “As far as I can tell,” says Graham, “I think Cinema Politica is encouraging more of a relationship between the university and the community.” 9&0+.&07+%'@&0.-$%&'+-/&?$+,%'7.-+L&4%$%#-+<$:+;&8'K2>+-'5+$&+2$-J+%'@&0.75+-/&?$+?I#&.%'D+ screenings, ‘Like’ the group on Facebook or visit their website: www.cinemapolitica.org/stjohns.

Cinema Politica and the Council of Canadians co-presented ‘Gasland 2’, a documentary about how fracking is impacting communities across the United States, on Tuesday, April 8 at Memorial University.

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Contribute Landwash is an online journal of literary and creative arts, edited and curated by The Independent. 6/*+%;/-$%&*#(%/$@*;)9*#$(&%B*&=($/*;)9*&%$';.'k%9*5,/'()B*&=($/*&,$'#/&B*%"#%$'?%)/;.*4$'/')EB*.'/%$;$@* essays, photo-essays, visual and multimedia art of all forms, and more. Many contributions are solicited. However, if you think you’ve got something absolutely fabulous, exceptionally creative, or otherwise absolutely imperative to share with us, we’ll be happy to take a look at it. You may contact Landwash Editor Hans Rollmann at hansnf (at) gmail (dot) com with a pitch or even a fully completed submission. If you’re providing a pitch for a piece, it’s best if you also provide a sample of your writing so that we’ll be able to run it through our top-secret supercomputers and produce a brainscan of your brain’s creative lobes. Brainscans are an essential part of the submission process. Just kidding. Maybe. Also keep an eye out for occasional public calls for submissions or literary contests. What are we looking for in contributions? Ahh…if only we could encapsulate that in words. We want ?;/%$';.*/=;/*'&*E((9B*#$(C(,;/'C%B*,=;..%)E')EB*E((9B*9'H%$%)/B*-)-&-;.B*')&'E=/+-.B*E((9B*$%C%;.')EB* satisfying, creative, and good. It’s got to be good, though. How does one quantify good? “Beauty awakens the soul to act”, said Dante. WTF, did we just quote Dante? “Beauty is not caused, it is” replied Emily Dickinson. WTF, did we just…anyway, Aldous Huxley, not wanting to be left out of an otherwise stimulating threesome, burst in upon them to proclaim: “Beauty is worse than wine, it intoxicates both the holder and beholder.” Anyway, we do not advocate over-intoxication (too frequently) but that should give you an idea of what we’re looking for. Intoxicate us. We also accept darkness and incisive wit. We will not publish everything we receive. We won’t be able to provide profoundly good reasons for why we do or do not, because unlike Notable Literary Elites we do not #$%/%)9*/(*#(&&%&&*&%,$%/*>)(4.%9E%*(+*4=;/*'&*E((9*;)9*4=;/*'&*A;9L*$;/=%$*4%*&'?#.@*>)(4*4=;/* moves us and what does not, and we judge neither. But we do publish what moves us. There’s simply no kind or rational way of explaining it further than that. You can always publish your own literary journal: in fact, we HIGHLY ENCOURAGE you to do so. There can never ever be too much literature ;)9*,$%;/'C'/@B*$%E;$9.%&&*(+*4=;/*/=(&%*4=(*&%%>*/(*>%%#*/=%*5%.9*/(*/=%?&%.C%&*?'E=/*&;@<*^%..B*,;)* you blame them? We must all earn a living. Nonetheless, if you would like to see whether your creative 4($>&*5/*')/(*(-$*u')9%,'#=%$;A.%B*')9%5);A.%B*')%"#$%&&'A.%*;)9*-//%$.@*A%;-/'+-.v*C'&'()B*4%*%),(-$;E%* you to submit. Submit! Each issue we also challenge our writers – and our public – to produce a piece of creative writing around a particular theme. If you wish to take up that challenge, the next issue’s special theme is: “When sun-rays crown thy pine-clad hills…” Get creative!

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grahamkennedyphoto.com !"#$%"&'()(*+,-.&&/0#&(01(23453-.6&(/#(73+