• Becoming Animal: An Earthly Cosmology by David Abram
  Wednesday, August 31, 2011, 7:30pm. @ Canadian Memorial Center for Peace, 1825 W, 16th. Tickets: $10 (call 604-737-8858 to get your ticket).

I heard of him first through his book The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World. I am still working my way through it. Not because it is hard to read, but because it is so full. Here is what The Spirited Review writes of the book.

And here are some quotes form the book:

“The life-world is the world of our immediately lived experience, as we live it, prior to all our thoughts about it. … reality as it engages us before being analysed by our theories and our science.”

“Our spontaneous experiences of the world, charged with subjective, emotional, and intuitive content, remains the vital and dark ground of all our objectivity.”

“Language is not a fixed or ideal form, but an evolving medium we collectively inhabit, a vast topological matrix in which the speaking bodies are generative sites, vortices where the matrix itself is continually being spun out of the silence of sensorial experience.”

“To touch the coarse skin of a tree is thus, at the same time, to experience one’s own tactility, to feel oneself touched by the tree. And to see the world is also, at the same time, to experience oneself as visible, to feel oneself seen.”

“From the magician’s, or phenomenologist’s, perspective, that which we call imagination is from the first an attribute of the senses themselves; imagination is not a separate mental faculty (as we so often assume) but is rather the way the senses themselves have of throwing themselves beyond what is immediately given, in order to make tentative contact with the other side of things that we do not sense directly, with the hidden or invisible aspects of the sensible.”

—from The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World, by David Abram (1996)

So I have been thinking, catching thoughts buzzing in my head lately: something about our attention, something about awareness, where we places it, something about consciousness, something about who has more of it, who has less, about being and not.

I am also currently reading The Philosophical Baby: What children’s minds tell us about Truth, Love, and the Meaning of Life by Alison Gopnik.

Much of what scientist are showing/proving/ investigating now around children and their minds works for me. It is always pleasant to find what I observe and intuit in my poetic investigations on the topic is getting its scientific underlining, hems, and buttons.

The other day in a small group of enthusiastic writers/readers I admitted that I do not read too many novels (hence I did not feel adequate in the novel discussions afoot). One person turned to me and asked “You don’t read much…?” That could have been a question, or an unfinished sentence, since in fast conversations among numbers of people threads get dropped and picked up with the speed of lightning, which can also be quite refreshing…
but I was stumped, do not remember answering….

So perhaps this could be the answer. But I cannot define all the directions in which I read. Sometimes we guide our reading. Make choices perhaps imposed from outside. At my best, with my reading, I do not follow too many outside guidelines. Maybe, I have the psychology of a bee, following lines that I cannot always explain why I am drawn or compelled to read this or that book. Or what dance got me here. But I know I am on the right track when honey is made.

Sometime we have to read by stepping barefoot on the grass. Digging our toes in the earth. Sitting by a tree in the deep shade of the wood where the last sunbeam reminds you to worship the light. Or sometimes we read by growing things. So there are many many ways to read. And there is so much to read and so little time.
Back to pollination and cross-pollination.

Mother Tongue Publishing has done it again. In this latest contribution to The Unheralded Artists of BC Series we are introduced to Mildred Valley Thornton: a painter, a poet, an advocate for first nations, for women and art.

What we love startles us awake (says Aislinn Hunter in her latest book A Peep-show with views of the interior: Paratexts). And it is here that I find the source of Mildred’s strength and passion. She loved big and she loved a lot. This passion transfers to her art, and wakes us to the existence and the possibilities of dwelling in the world, of our interconnections with it and with each other. Art “as an essential and guiding component of life” (p. 15). Art as a place to “enter into quiet communion with the aesthetic elements that exalt and elevate the race” (p. 15).

I wondered if Mildred’s journey would have been different had she not left Saskatchewan?
I wondered if her art would have been more appreciated by the establishments of the time had she not been so outspoken? Such questions tugged on me as I read.

Author Sheryl Salloum takes us on the colourful and multifaceted journey that was Mildred’s life. (I allow myself to be on a first name basis here with Mildred, since I found myself so close in sensibility, passion and love, in such kindred spirit company that using Mildred’s second name to refer to her will just introduce an unjustified and artificial distance.)

Mildred’s activism, her involvement and contribution to local and provincial art, to cultural, literary and social groups is admirable. She encouraged and helped other artists express and make a living through art. She was fascinated with first nations people, which launched her into hundreds of portrait canvases documenting faces and activities of First Nations as historic documents.
“She painted people in such places as fields, barns, and in their beds. Instead of working in a comfortable studio over a series of sittings, Mildred usually had one opportunity and a limited time to capture the likeness and character of her subjects” (p. 40). Author Sheryl Salloum highlights that by working that way Mildred broke from the portraiture tradition of studio sittings.

I was saddened to find out that our Vancouver Art Gallery has only one canvas of hers and has only displayed it about three times. Just when I was considering renewing my family membership there. I might have to ask them some questions first.

Hoping to leave a historic legacy with her art Mildred tried to keep the collection together in the hope that the government will purchase it and keep it in the province. She was so distressed by the lack of a reasonable outcome that she wrote a codicil to her will where she wanted her paintings of First Nations people to be destroyed. Thank goodness the work remained in tact.

Sheryl Salloum says in an interview: “Readers will find the art of Mildred Valley Thornton fascinating because they will discover that Emily Carr is not the only intriguing early female BC artist. Thornton was accomplished with both watercolours and oils and portraits and landscapes. The book has 100 beautifully reproduced images of her paintings as well as 18 rare and significant photographs.
Readers will also be astonished by the adventurous, confident, and passionate nature of a Canadian woman who, in the early part of the twentieth century, was ahead of her times.” I know I was taken by Mildred’s passion and unceasing struggle to build bridges and better understanding of First nations people through her art.

Hope you can pick up a copy of this or any of the other three books which cover the life and art of sculptor David Marshall, painter George Fertig, as well as The Life and Art of Frank Molnar, Jack Hardman & LeRoy Jensen.

This week at the Gala Night on Friday August 12 Mother Tongue Publishing will receive Pandora’s Collective Publishers Award for their contribution to Canadian books, for their brave and courageous undertaking to bring new and forgotten voices into the literary and art conversation.

After I put the book down I found it circling around my head. Echoes calling me back to contemplate what was stirred, what was raised. The Poltergiest became my own history haunting my present. (As if I needed more encouragement.) And the doors of my wardrobe, or shall I say wordrobe started to rattle.

I found a shared space with the stories told, the way Robert weaves the present and the past. There were even moments that remind me of instances in my travel poems. Of layers, of juxtapositions. That was spooky. But, really, more joyful to find a sensibility which resonates, one that is not afraid of time travel. Or raising things up…

(Aside: I was also reminded how during the time I lived in Bulgaria poltergeist stories were a staple. I worked with a producer on a documentary about a family who drew media attention for having a poltergeist in their house. I am a skeptic by nature, but when the carpet flipped and the washing machine stood on its edge and no rationalizing or reasoning could help me, I started to listen. (Then I contrast that with my life here in North America. How often do you hear people sharing stories of ghosts and poltergeists?))
That too is spooky.

Though the book begins with

i don’t like to tell
this story, i sd, &
sipped my coffee
black, because people
will think i’m
crazy, & i smiled,
but maybe, i sd,
maybe i should write
a poem about it,
sure why not, she
sd, because they
think you’re crazy
for writing poems
anyway

Robert does tells the stories through his poem. As he goes through Childhood, Rome, Barcelona, Ukraine etc. He tells them well using the tools of poetry to enhance the story, the moment, and its significance.

I loved it when the children in Sunday School ask their teacher: “will there be cougars in heaven?” The urgency of their questions, the curiosity of their young minds, challenging the adult world, the rigid ideologies that it gets wrapped in.

Do you hear your poltergiest rattling in your words, in your house, in your bones? Listen.

WOWEEEE. It is like the Tao Te Ching but more colourful. I love that part about sitting by the campfire with Plato, melting the Forms into marshmallows. The playfulness of the book dabs from a palette of delight onto the grey matter of the adult mind. I love how you get really in between things, like a child fitting between a wall and the refrigerator. So original! So refreshing! I am also really impressed by how you create a mood and an aura with so few words. Quite masterful…

Thank you, Alex, for engaging with It. Your words too are poetic and refreshing. The child fitting between the wall and the refrigerator…love it.

Here is another view of It from freelance writer and editor Christina Shah:

‘It’ is that window, that urgent bright day which reminds us of the possibilties that call us, if only we’re willing to step out from our four walls. Each page of ‘It’ is a dynamic meditation, a burning juxtaposition, a study in inner tension. ‘It’ is brave– Elza gently takes the reader’s hand, and, with her trademark sense of humour asks the critical questions in a compassionate, high-spirited way. The result is the reigniting of that fundamental spark of wonder that exists within all of us. Elza is both teacher and student in this beautiful epistemological exploration.

Thank you, Christina for taking part in It and being part of It. Thank you for sending this along.

If you live with It you will also find how mischievous It can be. Next thing I know, It is in the lavender between the two little pine trees we have been growing from seed. My son brought them home from kindergarten. He will be going into grade six this September. Another way to measure time. A way to slow down time. A way to forget to measure. And the book of It has already befriended these two survivors and is not coming in, even as it begins to rain.

Love the intro to the interview, Mike: Welcome back to Q&A, my ongoing series of interviews with authors I like, special Conflict of Interest Edition. I admit I rarely will bother to write about someone I do not like. There is plenty of that already. (But I also do not get paid to write commentary or reviews, nor for most of my writing.)

I am always curious how a poet thinks about poetry, what fuels their passion and commitment to it. What I like to find is a match between what the poems do and say, and the philosophy of the poet. (No, not explaining their poems. I mean the roots that nourish and grow their poetry).
Which is the case with Rob. I find his honest and open approach does service to poetry. So does his dedication to his work. I enjoyed his book and count on seeing and hearing a lot more of Rob in the years to come.
Here is an excerpt from the end of the interview:

Perhaps more helpful here would be my thoughts on the ideal poem. For me, the ideal poem gives pleasure immediately on first reading. What that specific pleasure is is not overly significant; what matters is that there is pleasure first. As Robert Frost said, “A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom,” to which W.S. Merwin added “And it will never end in wisdom if it doesn’t begin in delight and continue in delight.” Both ring true to me.

The second requirement is that the pleasure produces a curiosity, and a desire to re-read the poem. On subsequent readings, the poem then needs to prove layered and nuanced enough to consistently release new bits of pleasure and induce new bouts of curiosity, every reading encouraging another, accruing pleasure along the way. To make a poem that lasts like that indefinitely is probably impossible, but there are certainly some poems that are still alive for me after dozens of readings.

Thanks, Rob.

Yes, the book of It is finally here. Now in its physical shape. My treatise to creativity and imagination has a worldly form. I know the picture is not that great, but the excitement makes up for it. I had no idea when the book will arrive due to our mail delivery drought (I want the best for our mail workers, but (hey guys) for some one who depends a lot on mail to do her work, I am hurting here). Yesterday a FedEx man (lost in the little streets and dead ends of False Creek) called me, and there they were.

Tried taking photos of myself with the book but the excitement was too much for the camera to contain. (Too goofy.) So we will do without those. Suffice to say that having the physical book feels pretty good, even though the virtual one felt very good too. (Perhaps a little less on the actual feeling part.) I love the size and I am happy with how the cover turned out. For those of you who want to do your own orders here is the print-on-demand version and for those who just wanted it as simple as possible here it is as a pdf. For those of you who would like to get a copy when you see me, I hope to have some on hand.

Tonight the book of It will make a modest appearance at the Jewish Community Center. Here are the details:

Thursday, June 23, 2011, 8-10 pm
An Open Mic in connection with Vancouver Keep it Spectacular! (Mixed Media Paintings and Drawings by Joel Libin)

Location: Sidney and Gertrude Zack Gallery at the Jewish Community Centre
950 West 41st Avenue (just east of Oak Street in Vancouver)
Free Admission

Open Mic includes a diverse array of Vancouver artists: Tom Myring (Acoustic Guitar), Victor Cobian and Broken By Fire (Concert), Ryan Nadel (Short Story and Poetry), Poetry by Bonnie Nish, Daniela Elza, David Shewell and Robin Susanto, Joel Libin (Short Story and Poetry), Jeff Cunningham (Video Artist), Ryan Smith (Video Artist), Ira Cooper (Video Artist), Peter Koulouris (Video Artist)
Additional Open Mic Participation

Maybe I will see you there. Or maybe you will see me there. In any case.

Jude inhabits her work well. It is offered in a voice that captures and invites you to listen. There is no exhaustion in these poems, despite the material they deal with.

“How does the dangerous night
accumulate in the mouth?”

(p. 11)

Struggling with bipolar illness will give you an extra doze of exhaustion from and with life.
Yet these poems are lean, pared down to their essentials.

“to this bed
I am silenced

by my reflection
in the many-eyed mirror”

(p. 13)

It is not easy to hold my attention for the duration of a 20 minute reading. I tend to drift and get distracted if the reader is not there, if the words do not turn into a speckless window I can see through. My attention was held, I laughed and listened to the end.

Jude writes about bipolar disorder, drug haze, family ties with humour and grace. In the same breath that she makes you laugh, she holds your head to the edge of this despair and grief that “pools under the tongue.” Jude’s struggle is not tucked away in the closet. It is out, it troubles.

“Chunks of me
break off. Don’t leave

me on the edge
of this knife—

I am not sure whose blood
I’ll draw.”

(p. 55)

I managed to read the book in one sitting (which was another surprise for me). I read half of it in one direction. The other half—back to front. Of course, with a few breaks in between to exhale deeply.

Jude relates that at first she documented her experience in journals. She wrote about what she was going through at the time. The poems came later out of that writing. Through stripping down to essences.

“Though it has been years,
I remember the first time we kissed.
You came like a breath
under water.
I stitched you to me
with the green threads
of my primal need.”

(p. 50)

The forward to the book is by Phillip W. Long, MD, DPH FRCP, Jude’s psychiatrist of seventeen years. He says: “Jude continued to write throughout her illness, giving a unique glimpse into the mind of a poet navigating the heights of mania and the depths of depression.”

The book is also a celebration and a testimony to overcoming. Amidst the marks and scars, is the strength of the human spirit to find humour, irony, and beauty in it all. Humour—that sure sign that some kind of healing has happened. To understand your predicament and still be able to sing about it.

“We sing ourselves back
and become once again whole.”

(p. 43)

These are poems you want to hear read aloud.
Under the music that runs like a river, there is a grief that pulls you through the eye of a needle.
Stretches you so thin that you do not know where to begin. Through this eye look at the map of this northern landscape. (No, seriously, do click here and look at the google map of understories. I love what Al has done.) These poems are destinations. Destinations with people. Portraits ripple to the surface of water, and when the water stills, ever so briefly, you catch a glimpse of the neighbours, of Berenice, the logger, or the old drunk at the end of the return line of shopping carts trying to tease 25 cents out of it (in Blessed).

Then there are “the mountains folded into the shadows” and the forest and the glaciers and the river which “wears the spectre of wet limbs”. “Go down the the river and swallow it whole” (Go Down to the River) Get it down, urges Al. Swallow this tangle of human and natural landscape because we cannot tell where one ends and where the other begins. This constant tug-of-war. And there is no telling. How can we? Gulp this river down, the whole mess of it. And find beauty there. Make it yours.

Arthur Joyce rightfully says, “Rempel proves that it’s the poet, not the environmentalist, who makes us ache to preserve the natural beauty of the world.” (see his review of 4poets (Mother Tongue Publishing, 2009))

And of course there are the crows: “even Mr. Crow frustrated that his knowledge of tools/isn’t getting things fixed?”
Of course, I would notice the crows.

“Then nothing, but the slow breathing/that is the forest and everything in it.”
Sit here, in “the slant of light in the trees/and the time it spells.” Let it wash over you.
Lie down with this sorrow that runs just under the surface of things.
Let it wash you clean.

The place was not just buzzing with excitement and energy, it was literary bursting at the seams. (Here you can see some photos on Rob’s own blog).

I enjoyed Aislinn Hunter’s reading “to warm up the room” as she said. (Here is a bit of an introduction and a little interview with Aislinn Hunter Rob posted on his blog a day before the launch.)

Aislinn did a gracious and generous introduction of Rob and highlighted the effort and persistence it takes to put out a first book of poems. No kidding. I think there is something quite valuable in more established poets to introduce and nurture younger emerging poets (ok, let us agree physical age here has nothing to do with poetic age). I consider myself a young poet.

Then, of course, it is always great to have music. And that was contributed by a group called Jasper Sloan Yip. You can check them out again on Rob’s blog. (Rob took the time to introduce each of the features on his blog a few days before the event. Brilliant, Rob.)

And then there was Rob. I love when Rob reads because he knows how to read. See, this whole writing business is one thing, but then when it comes to delivery, that is a whole other bag of tricks. And Rob has got that figured out, as young as he is. He will not bore you till you drool. (And if you do, it will be for other reasons.) It is always a pleasure to listen to poets who read their work like it is … their work. I call that inhabiting the work. Read it like you felt it when you wrote it. Make me feel the energy, the excitement, the disappointment, the lament. That initial surprise, shiver, grief.

I was lucky to have read the book prior to the launch. So that was another new experience for me. I would hear poems I had already read. And there was a certain pleasure when Rob hit on poems that I enjoyed and loved in the initial reading. (Ok, I admit, I read it twice.)

Here is a list of some of my favourites: The Wailing Machines, Early Rain (where the title comes from), Rejection Slips, Haiku 1-4 (made me laugh), Wait, December Sonnet, The Same Thing, Computer Monitor Ekphrasis, Lyric.

When you get a hold of the book let me know what stirred you, what surprised you. And make sure you make it out to a reading sometime. Make a request. Rob will read you your favourite poems. I think he will. Why wouldn’t he?