February 2018

I read and listen to all the Patti Smith I can get my hands on. I start having black coffee, brown bread, and olive oil for breakfast.

I put a deposit down on a new apartment on the south side of the river; I move in on March 1. We're going to go back to colonizing two whole apartments in the same building, like we did on 99th St; like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, like Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton.

I start a three-month contract as a copywriter for a bank. I've never gotten paid so much to do something I am so good at.

I return to the 90s Catholic music I grew up with. I need these ideas and these melodies; there is no escaping it.

Dylan and I go to France to attend the Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival, where Dylan's film PEAK OIL is premiering. We see Picassos and Van Goghs, and discover the Neo-Impressionists. Dylan convinces me to buy a long wool coat, one of those pieces of clothing that promises to transform you into the person you want to be. Surprisingly, I am very glad to return to Alberta.

I try to figure out what it means to be a wife while my husband is falling in love with someone else. She's incredible. I'm determined to pursue this less-taken path, convinced there is something magnificent waiting for all of us at the end.

I perform the long poems from Accomplice at a bar on Whyte called The Almanac. For the first time, my name is on a poster. For the first time, my words feel right in my mouth.

My current artistic heroes are all women, except for Van Gogh. Patti, Frida, Virginia, Sylvia (as always), Sally Mann, Andrea Arnold. It's taken me over 20 years to stop thinking of my gender as a liability.

I get an email saying CRICKET is going to screen at FAVA Fest in April. A sign of acceptance from the small-but-brilliant film community here. I am honoured and excited.

I stop using my smartphone. I delete most of my social media. The peace and focus I was hoping would return begins to return.

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1. The end never justifies the means; the means are the end. If the means are low, unethical, or unbearable, the means are one problem and the end you're inventing to justify them is another.

2. Your body will tell you when you are doing the wrong thing; in acute cases, it will break down and fall sick to prevent you from doing it.

3. Good work does not cause damage you will need to repair later; if it does, what is broken is more beautiful than it was before.

4. Distraction will be the end of you, if you aren't careful. Reject its sources and refuse to perform them.

5. Debt makes you a slave and takes away your ability to make decisions based on your own well-being. Avoid debt like the fucking plague.

6. Protect your arrogance and your compassionate urges equally; do not allow yourself to be convinced that anyone is so evil you should not be so arrogant as to feel pity for them. 

7. No one will ever value your time as highly as you do. Sell as little of your time as possible.

8. Love is a decision; love is paying attention; love is kindness; love is truthfulness; love is difficult; love is gratitude for what is there.

9. Love is the secret ingredient of sex. Love is the secret ingredient of good writing. 

10. Direct your work wholeheartedly towards an audience (at least one other person), but do not worry about the size of that audience.

The last day of the year

2017 was the year I got married for real. In Mario Martinez's book The Mind Body Code, I read, "For example, if you were wounded by shame as a child, as an adult today, it is very possible to consciously create for yourself living conditions that are based on honour."

In 2017 I learned to drive. What does it mean? It means that if last winter I hated this apartment on the wrong side of the river, if I insisted on renting an office for five hundred dollars a month just so I could be away from it, if Dylan and I fought because he was more free than I was, this winter I can drive away to buy donuts or go to a movie by myself any time I want. I can drive myself home from work at three-thirty on Saturday morning. I can drive to Three Hills in a blizzard. 

In 2017 I put up white curtains and dismantled the vinyl blinds. In February we painted our livingroom green and in July, while I was in Saskatchewan, Dylan painted the office crocus-purple. We had a Maxim calendar hanging in our front entrance. We bought two incredible photographs from our friend Jord Rule, who makes Alberta's perennial construction sites as grand as Greek ruins. 


I read these books: 

Just Kids (Patti Smith), The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Writings (Charlotte Perkins Gilman), War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy), The Story of My Teeth (Valeria Luiselli), John Steinbeck, Writer (Jackson J. Benson), Lincoln in the Bardo (George Saunders), An Experiment in Love (Hilary Mantel), Universal Harvester (John Darnielle), A Breath of Life (Clarice Lispector), The Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Atwood), Saved (Ben Hewitt), Debt: The First 5,000 Years (David Graeber), Ina May's Guide to Childbirth (Ina May Gaskin), The Glass Castle (Jeanette Walls), The Winter of Our Discontent (John Steinbeck), A Defense of Ardor (Adam Zagajewski), Lullabies for Little Criminals (Heather O'Neill), The Mind Body Code (Mario Martinez), The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Muriel Barbery), O Pioneers! (Willa Cather), My Brilliant Friend (Elena Ferrante), Project Compass (Lizzie Derksen, Matthew Stepanic, Robert Strong, Kristina Vyskocil), The Stand (Stephen King), The Crossroads of Should and Must (Elle Luna), Under the Glacier (Halldor Laxness). 

13 books by women and 11 by men and 1 by two women and two men. 7 in translation. 8 non-fiction and 17 novels. 


2017: We adopted a puppy from the Yu-kan Rental yard outside of Dawson City. We walked more of the river valley than we ever walked when we lived six blocks away from it. I watched Dylan care for a small creature and my heart and my uterus swelled. We let Ranger sleep on our bed and colonize the Gurba couch. We taught him that "Slumber" means Lie down, and "Release the Kraken!" means Get out of the car.

I published two chapbooks and a novel. I finished a set of short stories about Caronport. I finished my first funded film and showed it to a roomful of 30 people who buzzed and rustled before the movie started and asked the right questions afterwards. For the first time, I felt that my work was beginning to come all the way across to my audience. 


2017 was the year I grew my hair out for the third time. It was the year I started life modelling. The year I started reading my writing out loud. The year I wrote two rejected grant applications. The year my best friend of 13 years and I tattooed the woodcuts from Dutch Blitz on our right arms, above the elbows. The year I finally put together a decent CV. The year we drove up north and lived in a van for a month and I finished a lace sweater. The year I worked in a calzone restaurant for three months because not only were my accounts depleted, my credit card was maxed out. The year I did things for money that will show up in a fictional story one day. It was the year I realized I only ever want to work for myself. 

It was the year that my brother and sister and I were all writing novels at the same time. 

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In 2017 I forgot what it felt like to experience a sense of absolute loneliness and despair in my body. I stopped living as if I had been thrown out on the inhospitable crust of the world to scavenge by myself. I recognized a family who asks me to marry them in spite of my views on Beyonce, who hangs a gold sequinned stocking for me, who slums it on the north side, who makes smoothies in the morning, who sends me their stories and music, who reads my difficult words, who lets me be good. 

May we all be so lucky. 


"Today is the day of nothing. Today is down to the wire. Could there be a number that is nothing? that is less than zero? that begins where there is no beginning because it always was? I tap into this vital absence and I'm a young man again, both contained and complete." 

- Clarice Lispector, from A Breath of Life (translated by Johnny Lorenz), 3




The first two years that Dylan and I spent together, first in our opposite apartments on 99th Street, then in this subsidized, south-facing idyll of a co-op, we often got into serious arguments about poetry. I would write a new poem and after about 30 seconds' hesitation, email it to Dylan, then scuttle over to his desk to stand over his shoulder while he read it. He would tell me he was sure it was very good, but he didn't know anything about poetry. I would get angry and insist that understanding poetry was not an intellectual or esoteric skill, it was something any feeling, curious person could apply themselves to. I would point out that Dylan wrote beautiful songs with subtle, well-developed metaphors, complex structures, and lyrical turns of phrase. He would shrug. Later that night, or the next week, we would inevitably find ourselves sitting at the table with a bottle of whiskey between us, hashing out the painful truths of our divergent artistic sensibilities. 

Then, last October, Dylan emailed me a poem. It was called "yesterday," and it was about the painful truth of possessing a divergent artistic sensibility--namely, mine. I yelled a little when I read it. I replied: I KNEW IT! Holy fuck. We have been emailing poems to each other since, sometimes composing poems in direct response to something the other has written.

As a Yuletide present, for our families but also for you, we've collected our email poems to-date in a chapbook (hopefully the first volume of many, which we plan to bind in different colours, like Ted Hughes's original conception of The Rainbow Press.) We've printed 29 of them. You can order one here.

CRICKET screening

8:00 pm 

Monday, November 27, 2017

Exhibition Suite (upstairs)

Ortona Armoury - 9722 102 St. Edmonton, Alberta

Thanks to friends and colleagues and adopted family, thanks to all my GoFundMe backers, thanks to Aerlan Barrett and Johnny Blerot, this movie is done. 

The Jackson Pollock

Getting a cup of coffee is not the honest ritual it used to be, as sacred as a clean bra, or saying grace before a meal, or reading a magazine cover to cover. Such activities ground a person, more effectively even than religion. These days, coffee is decorated. It is too distracting to fulfil a person’s real need for a hot bitter sip, a little caffeine shiver—the get up and mojo required to face every goddamn new day. Now getting a cup of coffee is an event demanding several decisions about species of milk, as well as appreciation of the fern leaves and hearts and snails and apples that unnecessarily appear in coffee cups, which themselves are much smaller than they used to be. 

It makes me tired. And what is wrong with the world in which my son, graduated with a Master’s degree, can only find work making coffee? Not even making sandwiches and coffee. He stands in one place all day every day, behind a coffee machine that looks like a Camaro, and pours pictures in people’s lattes, which those people then cover with landfilling plastic lids and slurp while texting and driving. 

And what is wrong with the world in which my son is dead? The unbelievable shit frequency with which I forget. Yesterday I walked into the fancy cafe where he used to work. I say ‘fancy’ with about a box of iodized salt; I wouldn’t blame anyone for mistaking it for an industrial design studio with a species of chandeliers in bad imitation of the decor at Versailles. I walked in for the first time since it happened, likely sporting a sour look on my face. I never have been able to pretend to like a stupid person or a stupid thing. And what could be more idiotic than the establishment in which my son earned minimum wage for the last two years of his life? He always reminded me that it was minimum wage plus tips. Oh honey, hold the door. The place still made me sick. But he did all he could to calm me down about it, try to make me enjoy myself when I came to visit.

He invented a coffee design for me called the Jackson Pollock. Maybe I’m a hypocrite, but I got a kick out of it. I mean, the fact is that Blake could make one of those fern leaves in three seconds, and he made a point of taking about two minutes on my latte, allowing the brown foam to set a bit, then laboriously drizzling trails of white foam across the surface. Usually he ended with a big blob, slightly off the centre, of whatever was left in the pitcher. Once he almost got fired for the appearance of my coffee, until I told the manager to calm his soul, I had studied art history in college, I was just fine with an abstract design. I’ll never forget the look on Blake’s face. His scalp pulled back so his shaggy bangs rose above his eyebrows. He was mortified. I was damn proud of him. That was less than a year ago. 

The worst part of Blake’s accident is the feeling that I have lost my partner in crime, my son I wanted the world for and who apparently cannot even experience my own species of indignation any more. The impact of the other car broke his collarbone. They put a foam brace on him, even though he was probably already gone when it happened, so that his corpse wouldn’t be deformed. Not that they told me any of this beforehand. I went in to see him and thought they must have made a mistake, he was just injured. In fact, he broke his collarbone in fifth grade and it was probably exactly the same place. I thought, Why in hell would they bother with a brace, if he was dead? He looked just like he had the first time around. The funny way he would sleep flat on his back with his hands folded over his stomach like an old man. The attendant girl at the morgue got flustered. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. Christ, I was embarrassed. Blake, not my husband Bill, was the one who always understood what I meant.

Yesterday I walked in to the cafe, the only woman in the place not wearing ankle boots (more like sprained ankle boots, I always say to Bill). I ordered a regular latte from the new girl at the till. She was very kind to me anyway, even though I refused to consider any modifications or a five-dollar scone with jam for another dollar, and had that sexy young girl’s bedhead; Blake would have liked her. I waited even longer than usual for my coffee. I was grim but cheerful about it for twenty minutes, then I started to look for any species of real problem. Nothing. Nada. The girl at the till was still taking orders with her big smile. Men in dress pants and expensive sneakers were walking out as if they needed to take a pee, trying to balance recycled cardboard trays in one hand, reefing on their electronic car keys in the other and trying to shoulder open the double doors. Blake’s cafe used to be the main branch of a bank, for crying out loud. 

I peered around the topknot of the woman in front of me, probably a philosophy professor, and discovered the cause. The young man standing at the espresso machine was moving very slowly because of his collarbone brace. It held his neck stiff, like those snakey woollen scarves Blake and all of his friends were always winding around their necks starting the first of September. He couldn’t look down to see what he was doing, which was why he was taking so long to make every goddamn drink. Furthermore, he was sticking his ass out in order to put his eyes at the right level, and that was just causing a traffic disaster behind the bar. His hair was falling into his face, not improving the situation. I tried to push forward to get a better look, but the woman with the topknot stood firm. 

The next minute, she swooped in to take a compostable cup from the counter, turned around, almost crashed right into me, and spilled her coffee. She looked down at her duffel coat (probably from Holt Renfrew or some other place) and back up at me. What did she expect? I was standing in the same place the whole blooming time. Not my fault if she didn’t consider the fact that there was a line of people behind her. I stepped out of the coffee puddle that was spreading all over the floor and looked over to check on the handicapped barista’s progress.

He was standing up straight, half turned towards me and the redhaired woman like he wanted to know what the problem was. He looked about the same height as Blake and he had the same bony wrists and ballpoint pen reminders Blake always had written on his hand. I could only read one, something about picking Mom up at four o’clock. He was wearing one of Blake’s t-shirts, the green one I kept throwing out because it had bleach stains. It was in even worse shape than I thought; it had a big rip, and one of the sleeves was hanging off. At the back of his neck, his hair puffed over the top of the foam collar as if it had been growing over it. 

I took a step back and bumped into the person standing behind me. And the barista, he reached for the big velcro strap on his brace and turned around and I just about lost it.

There were all these stray chest hairs poking up above the collar of his t-shirt. Honest to Jesus that’s the first thing I noticed, even though the boy’s collarbone looked like a shiny red goose egg with sharp white piece of bone sticking through the skin. Blood was trickling down into the fabric of that godforsaken shirt, which it was already crusted with blood and in fact, some of the red stains were already turning brown. You could tell he was trying to stand up straight, but he looked like one of those dancing puppet dolls from The Sound of Music that one of the von Trapps has been jerking around; his chest was caving in while his shoulder dropped down way below where anyone’s shoulder should be.

He was looking into the distance behind me, calm as you please. All these beads of glass were stuck in his stubble, in the oval shapes that would only surprise a person who’s never seen a shattered windshield. His face was covered in blood, evenly like someone painted it, except where the blood had been obviously washed away by the tears running out of his eyes, which they never blinked at all, and the snot coming out of his nose. There was even glass in his eyelashes, that I always teased him should be featured in a mascara ad.

I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t stupid, but before I could speak up, the manager showed up at Blake’s elbow. He smiled me, seedy little bastard, and said he was sorry for the wait. My regular latte would be right up. 

Blake nodded at me and the shard of bone in the goose egg poked out farther. The goddamned philosophy professor reappeared. 

The manager took the cup out of Blake’s hand and slid it across the counter toward her. And then Blake opened his mouth. Pieces of his teeth sprayed out and bounced off the counter. It was like some clumsy person spilled a cup of dry rice. The redhead professor leaned in toward him, elbowing me while she did it. Blake didn’t even look at me. He didn’t even look at his mother once. Some of his teeth shards fell down the redhead’s blouse, which was of course open and when she leaned it showed cleavage. He flapped his hand at her replacement coffee and oh god he told her it was an abstract design.

Project Compass cover + launch

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Yesterday, while I was wiping tables in the calzone place where I've been picking up mid-day shifts, I opened a copy of Avenue magazine that someone had left lying there and saw a review for our book. So that is official. 

Above, you can see the cover image. To be entirely honest, I don't like it; on the other hand, when did you last hear an author raving about the perfect symbiosis between book cover and book? The point is that, in this day and age, it will be printed on real paper.

Now. The book launch for Project Compass will be held on October 30, 2017 at Riverdale House in Edmonton from 7-9 pm. I would love to see you there, participate in a giddy hug, and scrawl my name in your copy. 

Project Compass

Perhaps you remember the hints I dropped (back in March) about a secret project I was working on. Well, things have come together very quickly, and I am proud to tell you that Project Compass, a collaborative novel I wrote in company with fellow Edmonton writers Matthew Stepanic, Kristina Vyskocil, and Bob Strong, is going to be released next month. October. 

What is a collaborative novel, you ask? Think of the film Night on Earth by Jim Jarmusch, or any day-in-the-life of x-locale story. It's like that. Much like a movie director, Jason Lee Norman, editor at Monto Books, dreamed up the idea for this four-strand rope, convinced us that it was a good idea, and then wove our stories together. All four of us authors wrote a novella-length story set on a particular day (summer solstice, 2016) and in a particular place (Edmonton, Alberta, Canada). Each one of our four protagonists focuses their narrative and physical journey on one compass point of the city (North side represent!) and as the longest day of the year progresses, they begin to converge in the North Saskatchewan river valley that runs through the middle of Edmonton. 

I wrote my portion of this novel over this past spring and summer. I rented an office and wrote the first draft by hand, in pencil on lined loose leaf. It was the most difficult writing experience I've undertaken, but I know the story is the best I've written. There's an excerpt below, which I hope will intrigue you. 

Pre-orders for the book are open here and now: http://www.montobooks.ca/http/wwwmontobooksca/shop/books/project-compass


It is three o’clock in the morning on the longest day of the year.

In your dream, you are singing Schubert and you and I are still the same person, elastic, joyful, and promising. It is your graduation recital from the Victoria Conservatory. You are twenty-three.

You are wearing a blue dress you sewed yourself out of satin; it has the puffy sleeves and unflattering waist of women’s formal wear in the eighties; still, you are radiant. This is one of the happiest days of your life. Graduation recitals are long solos for each Vic Con student. You are the only one singing this afternoon and you picked the repertoire, the kinds of squares that will be served at the reception, and the venue. Most of your classmates used the Anglican church or the conservatory’s concert theatre but you asked that art gallery downtown if you could sing in one of their big, skylit rooms. They wheeled in a baby grand for your accompanist, and when you toured the room yesterday, it was perfect. But overnight they hung a new show so now you are singing against a backdrop of large-scale nudes. Your parents, flown in from Edmonton, are sitting in the audience. A paper cone full of flowers lies on the folding chair beside your mother, ready for your father to give it to you as soon as the recital is over. You sing the last bars, with the big interval you have been practicing for seven months, and then—you are still counting—there is a single beat of silence in that airy room. For the first time, the applause can only be for you. You wonder if it’s possible that you will actually become an opera singer. That and having children are the only things you want to do.

A month before you finished your diploma in voice performance, one of your instructors told you to think about videotaping your recital. Therefore your father borrowed a camcorder from your mother’s sister’s husband. It is set up on a music stand in the aisle beside your father’s seat, recording your beatitude as the applause renews itself and your instructor comes up to present you with a bouquet of carnations, beating your parents to the punch. They don’t mind. Your father is a teacher and he respects this teacher’s privilege over his own as a mere and sometimes dubious parent. But he is not dubious now. He is having the same revelation as you. He is ready to concede that the family history he plans to write might begin with the birth of his own mother in a hamlet in German Poland, go on to describe her youth and courtship with his father in the Lutheran choir, her escape with five small children from Russian soldiers, her loss of her son, the author, age two, when the pillow he was swaddled in was thrown into a baggage car, the family’s voyage to Canada, their settlement in Yorkton, the potatoes she peeled to feed a family of twelve, the stroke his brother had at fifteen, his own graduation from teacher’s college, your birth—and end with a modest account of his daughter the German-Canadian alto’s promising career. Your mother is in awe of you, and when she congratulates you she giggles nervously, making you believe your recital is a mystifying joke to her. No, the mystifying joke is your mother, the little girl who lived to play football, feeling a silly laugh bubble in her throat when she tries to say she is proud of you. You start to turn away from her, abruptly incensed by how awkward it is to juggle two bouquets, and feel yourself falling through the floor.

You are sitting bolt upright in bed, awake. This is your old bedroom. It looks as it did before you left for Victoria, the gold-coloured shag carpet, the ivy plant you pinned to the walls, the record player in the corner, the polyester bedspread, though the room is still dark. You are fifty years old. You are sweating.

from "A Defense of Ardor," by Adam Zagajewski

"On the other hand, it's easy to "freeze" into irony and into a daily existence lived reflexively. This, I think, is the real danger of our historical moment, and not priestly pride (though we shouldn't overlook the dangers of religious fundamentalism). Moreover--though I may not be a neutral bystander here--ardor and irony are not symmetrically comparable. Only ardor is a primary building block in our literary constructions. Irony is, of course, indispensable, but it comes later, it is the "eternal finetuner," as Norwid called it; it is more like the windows and doors without which our buildings would be solid monuments, not habitable spaces. Irony knocks very useful holes into our walls, but without walls, it could perforate only nothingness."

You're invited

to the first Open Apartment of the year (because I think we all feel that the year really begins in September). Bring yourself and whatever you've been reading or writing, if you'd like to read aloud. I will make tea, coffee, and possibly cake. Also, you can meet our puppy, and I'll read some poems from the new chapbook.

Sunday, September 3

2:00 - 5:00 pm

the Arts Hub building on 118th




I mail off a stack of Accomplice copies, more than I expected to (thank you). I interview for a job I don't really want, and don't get. A friendship ends--and with the very woman who gushed over Cat's Eye with me. During daylight hours I am sad but soberly relieved; at night I have nightmares in which she lets me know I won't get away with this. Dylan's parents buy a 1980 Dodge camper van christened "Mr. Copperbottom" by the lovely man selling it. We pack it up with a box of books, two plates, two bowls, and the bag of cat food. Simpkin, Dylan, and I drive off, heading north. In Grande Prairie, Mr. CB's carburetor dies. We lurch into a liquor store parking lot and set up domestic bliss, the three of us for one last night. We draw the curtains, expecting to wake up to a cop knocking on the window. In the morning a young man with huge, meaty hands and blunt, dirty fingers tows us up to a mechanic's shop in Dawson Creek. It looks more like a truck graveyard than a place any vehicle might drive away from. Long grass smothers at least twenty chassis rusting behind a building so dilapidated the sign is no longer legible. The mechanic's name is Little John; when we meet he is wearing a t-shirt that says "I apologize in advance for my behaviour tonight." We want to run away, but when John starts working on the van, he wraps his arms around the engine, tugging on levers and letting the flaps on the carburetor flutter against his cheek while Dylan guns the engine. He is delighted with the carburetor, which, he announces, is royally fucked up. This will be interesting, he says, and rubs his hands together. Dodge parts are like gold in Dawson Creek, he says, but lucky for us he has a buddy who works in the scrap yard. Miracle of miracles, Buddy has a Dodge carburetor just sitting on the shelf, gathering dust, and he can bring it by in the morning. Meanwhile, Little John says, we're welcome to camp in the yard. Hell, he says, one guy was there for a month while John rebuilt his engine from scratch. Dylan makes pasta and tomato sauce on our two gas burners across from the bed. We draw our curtains and try to read, but around five o'clock, restless and irritable, we decide to walk downtown to find a cafe/bookstore called Faking Sanity. We drink coffee, eat carrot cake, eavesdrop on the knitting group, and leave with Ina May's Guide to Childbirth, a copy of Franny and Zooey to replace our tattered copy, and a collection of plays by Sam Shepherd, who has just died. The skies in Dawson Creek are magnificent. When we get back to the van, Simpkin is gone. For the first time, we notice a hole in the floor left when we uncovered the engine. We search the truck cemetery and call his name until it gets dark, then leave a bowl of food out and try to sleep. I am convinced he will come back during the night, and jump onto our bed as soon as we open the van doors. He does not come back; the rattling of the food dish that we hear all night is every neighbourhood cat except Simpkin feasting on the bait meant to coax him home. We cry all morning. The scrap carburetor works, though for the rest of the trip, Dylan has to be careful not to flood the engine, especially when backing up. On the day we leave Dawson Creek, Little John's shirt says "Dick's Taxidermy: Stuffing Beavers Since 1978." We spend the night at Liard, taking mushrooms and wrinkling in the hotsprings. Two days later we make it to Dawson City, where our friend Joanna has been working all summer. We park the van next to her trailer in the Bonanza Gold RV Park and for the next two weeks, make a vegetarian dinner together every night, go on long walks, and explore Dawson. Dylan introduces everyone to his wife, which makes me extremely happy. (Something has anchored, surely and safely, since we got married; or it is as if we were two rowboats lashed precariously together and now we have finally reached a proper ship. We board gratefully and attend to our new positions as crew.) We go to the free store, adjacent to the dump, and retrieve a small brown plate, three books, and a men's dress shirt. We go swimming in a dugout, take the ferry (free, 24-hour, provincially-funded) to West Dawson and walk down the beach to a wrecked riverboat while the Perseids flicker overhead. We admire Dawson's pickup trucks, modified in myriad ways and with unprecedented pioneer style. A week in, Joanna mentions that there are still two puppies left unclaimed from her new dog, Lupin's, litter. It is suppertime, and beginning to rain, but we all set off down the highway to the Yukan Rental yard when a charismatic young French-Canadian man emerges from the one-room shed where he lives to call a pack of Dawson mutts. Though I don't want to live in a shed, Dawson makes it painfully obvious that the civilized south draws arbitrary and bourgeoise lines around how people are allowed to live their lives. Lupin is soon embroiled in a familial dispute with his siblings and mother, who hadn't expected to see him again. One of the puppies jumps up and licks my face. He looks like a black lab. The French-Canadian insists that his grandmother was raped by a wolf. Like most dogs in Dawson, he's mostly bear dog. Dylan, who has been on a westerns kick, names the dog Ranger, and I tack on Charlie, for Steinbeck's dog, and Yvonne, because my sister Grace thinks Yvonne of the Yukon is as good a title as any. I get a three-day job washing dishes in the hippy cafe where Joanna works and feast on free kale bowls and miso soup on my lunch breaks. Dylan works on a new screen play, reads Annie Dillard, and takes the dogs on long walks. I finish War and Peace. Both of us start writing grants for a September 1 deadline. On our last night in Dawson, Joanna leads us and all three dogs up into the woods in West Dawson, to a cabin where a band called Power Duo from Prince George is playing a bonfire show to about 20 skids and 17 dogs. We stick out a little, too-recently showered, but everyone loves the puppies. No one looks at a cellphone. A beautiful girl with a round face like a renaissance painting debates the most desirable interval between showers with a man named Louisiana Josh. The girl across from us passes around a deconstructed caesar (a bottle of Clamato and a bottle of vodka, which she monitors to keep at roughly equal levels); but Dylan and I have decided to stop drinking for a while. I don't miss it much. We drive four days home, stopping in Dawson Creek to look for Simpkin one more time but no luck. Edmonton is frenetic, self-absorbed, and rich, and we are uncomfortable surrounded by new cars and new clothes. Our apartment feels huge and luxurious as a Japanese bathroom. I start going through closets and cupboards, trying to figure out exactly what we have and if we need it. We take Ranger to the FAVA summer barbeque, where Dylan wins 6 passes to the Metro Cinema, Laura shows a short film she made on one roll of Super8, and I show off the green lace sweater I finished knitting in the van. I plan the first Open Apartment of the year. Hannah comes upstairs for breakfast and we eat the jam I made from highbush cranberries in Dawson. We borrowed a sieve from the owner of the hippy cafe to strain out the seeds. 

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My friends, the book is done. After innumerable setbacks, hiccups, frustrations, garden paths, consultations, and fuck-ups, there is a box of 100 nearly-perfect green poetry books sitting in my office and I would like to send you one. 

If you, dear soul, pre-ordered one of these books back in the winter and have long since given them up for dead, I am nevertheless putting your copy in the mail this week. 

If you'd like to order a book now, in full assurance of the physical existence of the item you are paying for, click on 'Shop', above, and you'll see a listing for this modest collection of poems. 

They're some of the best I've ever written. I'm so pleased I finally get to share them with you; it's been too long.



what I promised my husband

On Tuesday, June 13, at approximately 7:15 pm, Dylan and I got married in our livingroom. Nine people whom we care about very much and a lovely wedding commissioner named Jody gathered around us while we made our vows. I cried, and then had to go lie down with Simpkin for a minute in the other room. Anna and Eliot were our witnesses. Dylan made potroast and I made a rhubarb crisp. It was very warm in the apartment. Anna brought a tiny plant which I managed to repot before the ceremony started. Laura brought a bouquet of flowers as big as a child. Gwen and Trevor brought champagne. Lauretta brought some of the teacups she received as wedding shower gifts over 50 years ago, and she also brought the typed-up story of that wedding shower. Ashleigh ordered pizza for August and Al. There was a bottle of wine from 1988 (Dylan's parents bought it when he was born), which might have turned into vinegar at any point during the interim 28 years, but instead became a divine elixir. Laura read from 1st Corinthians. Anna read from bell hooks. Gwen pronounced a Celtic blessing. Trevor quoted Sonnet 116. Ashleigh read (on my request) two stanzas from "The Country of Marriage" by Wendell Berry. Alley-Oop got a little drunk. I wore my strappy blue shoes. Kaylin came after work and gave us stick and poke tattoos on our fingers. (We cannot stop looking at them.) Laura read from East of Eden. Dylan said these things. And I said this:


As everyone here already knows, I started to love you reading your reports from Missinippe. They were full of your courage and honesty, your understanding of other people, your romanticism, and beautiful sentences--and reading them, I was exhilarated. I found something so important in them I realized it would be be easy to drop everything else. My life had become disconnected from the world and I was lonely and I didn’t know how to be loved by anybody. I did drop everything, much to your confusion, and we have become something extraordinary and volatile and capable of much more good together. You are brave to marry me. 

I know that both of us take what we are doing seriously. We both know that loving another person is difficult and profound, and that building a life together is a kind of monumental work, so I have a few things I will promise you.

I promise to speak to you as truthfully as I know how.

I promise to assume the best of you, and to do whatever I can to enable you to be an artist and a good person.

I promise to work for the life that is honest and happy for both of us.

I promise to take care of you.

I promise to share everything I have with you.

I promise not to keep scores.

And I promise to give you the freedom to love and be loved by people who are not me, and to respect all of your relationships.

I love you on a literary, epic, primal, and cosmic scale, and I am so honoured and happy to become your wife.

heat during the day and storms at night

We go to California in April, but something feels off.

For one thing, we can't really afford to be there. Paradoxically, we spend way more money than usual. It's almost as if we're trying too hard to have a good time. We see Sigur Ros in concert. I eat grits for the first time, also biscuits and gravy. We go to a Warriors game in Oakland, where I see Steph Curry in the flesh, even if we're too far up in the stands to identify much more than his number, his floating three-point shot. We make an extensive tour of Motel 6 rooms. Laura and Tom are along with us, the four of us splitting two queen beds along gender lines. For five American dollars, I buy a large piece of upholstery from an art supply recycling store, planning to make a bed cover out of it. I take pictures of Laura. We drop off some more of Evan's IMAX film at Fotokem, and enjoy how glamorous it all is through Laura's eyes. We go to the beach. Driving through rural Oregon, we see a kind of poverty and despair I've never associated with "American life." On our way home, a blizzard traps us in the mountains for an extra night. It shouldn't be so stressful but it is. We're rushed and broke. The mountains loom black over us, the mountain town we stay in has a gothic, murderous energy. 

Back home, it's difficult to regather ourselves. Part of it is that the things I'm working on are all long-term projects in their final, grinding stages. Part of it is that we seem, vaguely, to have misplaced our priorities. I don't organize Open Apartment. I drink more than I need to. I avoid looking at my credit card statement. I dread writing, dread showing the day's progress to Dylan. I wonder why pursuing creative work full-time (with two nights a week pouring beer at the Empress) feels so hollow and abstract, so disconnected from our real needs. There's no question that my work has taken me away from most other aspects of living this winter. I've barely even been cooking. And I've struggled to maintain a belief in the worthwhile nature of what I am doing, even as I've immersed myself in a world of patterns on a screen and imaginary money. Our culture does not take very good care of freelancers.

It isn't that I've decided writing and film are not important, or that my work, my projects (many of which will finally be completed and fully realized this summer) are a misuse of my time. But I have been using my work as a way to excuse myself from the realities and concerns of my life, and no wonder the result has been lethargy, confusion, aimlessness, pleasure-free excess. 

Now the summer has broke on us, in all its heat during the day and storms in the evening. We have a new focus. I reread a book by Ben Hewitt that explores how misplaced the West's definition and pursuit of wealth has become. (I cannot recommend it highly enough.) We make a budget. Dylan cuts my hair, banishing the mullet once and for all. The society that I lease my office from announces that it has to give up its space at the end of June. Ashleigh asks me to play violin on some of her new songs. I remember that I'm good at making bread, that for all the money I've been spending, I've abandoned many of the pursuits that actually make me happy. I start planning a film about our summer. 

We go out to Laura's family's property for the first time in over a year. We make plans to leave Edmonton for a while, to do other work and try other ways of living.  Laura uses our apartment to shoot her first short film. One day we receive a box of fancy cheese from Canadian cheese makers, an obscurely-motivated but lucky-for-us Canada 150 promotion. Skye and Jenna are finally able to print Accomplice. We spend an evening working on a puzzle and watching I Am Trying To Break Your Heart, the Wilco doc, at Jord's place. I take my road test and fail it twice, and finally master the hill park and book another test for tomorrow morning.

"It is a largely unacknowledged truth that the contemporary American life is lived under a guillotine of fear. We fear disease, poverty, terrorism, loneliness, and death. We spend a lifetime seeking security because we are told the world is an insecure and dangerous place; that peril lurks around each corner. We spend so much of our time believing those fears and trying to abate them that we don't even stop to consider whether our anxieties might be misplaced. We don't even wonder if perhaps the things we fear are, at least in part, the tragic outgrowth of our misguided attempts to create an artifice of security. We have disease because we have allowed our food to be commoditized and thus subject to the profit-borne whims of corporatism; we have poverty because we have believed the lie that money buys security and because we have created a system that unjustly allows money to beget money; we have terrorism largely because we have meddled and assumed the righteous stance of American exceptionalism; we have loneliness because we no longer need one another; we have death because it is inevitable and we know this, yet because we have come to see ourselves as separate from nature and its laws, we believe that death is something to be vanquished."

- Ben Hewitt

Accomplice update

Hello my friends,

Writing briefly to all of you who preordered Accomplice--we've missed our hoped-for release by a couple of weeks, but that's only because we've been trying to suss out printing this book on a RISOGRAPH printer owned and operated by Jenna Heinemann and Skye Olson. This is an exciting opportunity because:

1) it's a unique manufacturing method with an aesthetic that lends itself very well to our book design

2) I would rather pay Jenna and Skye than a big printing company

3) we have more control over certain design elements--i.e. we can, if we want, riso the inside pages and silkscreen the covers

4) printing with Jenna and Skye makes this a five-woman collaboration--if we can make this work, it'll be something of which I'm pretty proud

With any luck these books will still be mailed out to you shortly. Thanks for your patience!


XX Lizzie

State of the Union, Part 3 (life)

It is 3:50 on Saturday afternoon.

It is two hours before I have to leave to go to the Empress and twelve hours before I will be home in bed, asleep. I am 26. The birthday cake in the fridge is half gone. Our livingroom walls are painted green. Winter is back. Dylan is going to cut his hair. War and Peace is not as bad as I thought. My grandma is in the hospital. My mother is back from Florida; she loved it. The fridge is humming. Ashleigh is on sick leave. Venture Publishing is seven months late, paying me. Peter's new album is finished. Laura is finally taking Video Kitchen at FAVA. Fear is still the most useless and damaging thing. The Steinbeck biography is just as good as I hoped. I am a terrible drunk. My friends are kind and almost unbelievably generous. New York University is not going to let me into their creative writing program. Kyle is living one door down from Shawn. Sigur Ros is playing a show we are going to in April. Kyanite is an ideal transmitter of energy from one being to another.  Abstract: The Art of Design is pretty good TV.  3b drawing pencils are ideal for writing stories. The March page in the Maxim calendar is not as good as January. Simpkin is chiller by the day. It is important for us to be deliberate and choose better symbols for ourselves. Dylan and I are going to get married in October. 

State of the Union, Part 2 (angst)

"It occurs to me that in my adulthood I've vehemently espoused the idea that "being an artist" is not a state of being at all. I've ridiculed that idea, called myself in bohemian moments of unproductivity a poseur. Just having produced art--in my case, mostly, having written things--is what makes an artist, and is the point of the "creative life." As if the whole shifting plasma of thoughts, feelings, interactions, and experiences that finds its nexus in my body was nothing but a production line, and if I was serious at all I would be looking at weak links to eliminate. 

Though this idea has freed me up to try to work even when I don't feel inspired, I wonder whether it has cheapened the experience of (or the search for) inspiration. I also wonder whether feeling like an artist--enjoying that heady and visceral experience of individuality, of total concentration combined with free association, the pleasure of synthesis, of making something--was and perhaps should be again my primary goal, reason for writing at all. Just that I enjoy it. Just that I find life, and find life meaningful in it. 

I wonder too if this detachment from notions of inspiration and process has made me consider my inspirations less sacred, caused me to betray them or default on them at the last minute. The deadline might scare you into sitting down at your desk, but does it produce the best ideas or the patience and pleasure required to see them through?

I have been so scared to stop working lately." 

- journal, February 25, 2017


"My soul is not a little white bird. I haven't any soul, nor much of agonized ambition any more. I shall go ahead, but I wonder whether that sharp agony of words will occur to me again. I wonder whether I shall ever be drunken with rhythms any more . . . I shall write good novels but hereafter I ride Pegasus with a saddle and bucking pads, and martingale, for I am afraid Pegasus will rear and kick, and I am not the sure steady horseman I once was."

- Steinbeck, letter to Dook, February 25, 1928