Solsticey thoughts

That double-sun image is what I get to see every Solstice when first light streams into our living room. The effect results from sunlight coming through a lovely stained-glass window. Still, the way the image straddles the centre of our front door, it's a pretty magical way to mark the start of the day that is Solstice.

This Solstice sees me worrying about land use -- yet again. And once again, it's Surrey that seems enmeshed in the plans. If previous recent decisions are any indication, we're probably looking at the loss of more greenspace. Still, I am hoping that reason will prevail.

The area in question is Barnston Island, a delightful little treasure that can only be accessed (for now, at least)by a very small (and free!) ferry. Because the island is nice and flat, it's a perfect place for biking. But more than just a place for recreation, it's farmland, hosting a number of pure food ventures, such as the organic farm run by Avalon Dairy (you know, the folks who still put the milk into glass bottles).

Land on the island has been protected, as it's in the put to better use if it was home to an industrial park (there's an oxymoron if ever there was one).

Of course, there are a number of us who feel that Barnston Island should stay unindustrialized and remain in the ALR.

In Canada, today is not only Solstice, it's also National Aboriginal Day. There's more than a bit of irony in this fact when considering the fate of Barnston Island. The Katzie First Nations Reserve is also on the island. This morning's Vancouver Sun, besides reporting on last night's public meeting about the island's fate, also announced the death of former Katzie chief, Peter James. Chief James was well known for his strong voice in calling for protection of the land. We can only hope that his voice will echo long enough to see to it that no rash decisions are made.

As today's Sun reported, and Surrey resident Al Cleaver put so well, "When we lose farmland, we lose it forever."

Especially with Vancouver hosting the World Urban Forum, we need to be thinking long-term. If the costs of transportation continue to rise (and that seems much more likely than not), how good will produce from California or Chile seem? Don't we want to start planning for growing our own food? Especially where we already have the farmland, why indeed would we even consider paving it?

Yikes!

How is it that nearly three weeks have gone by since I've posted anything? Yikes.

It isn't that there haven't been things going on. There was Rhona McAdam's book launch in Vancouver for her new collection, Cartography (at the very bottom of that link to her publisher).

Just a few days later there was another launch, but in Victoria this time, for Steve Noyes' Ghost Country and Mitch Parry's Tacoma Narrows. (You have to scroll down quite a ways to find the image and info about Tacoma Narrows, but it's worth it, if only to see its shimmery cover art.) If you're up for reading a review of it, click here. Believe me, it was quite the experience having two such powerful books launching together.

Oh, and there's another story to go with this double launch, but that'll come in a separate posting. This is just a hint that there's much more to come, including the long-awaited, nearly-complete Reunion of the Chicks.

I'll be back -- and much sooner than in three weeks!

Radiant danse uv readingz

This was the sign outside Vancouver's Ironworks Gallery that greeted the many 'frenz uv bill bissett' who came to participate in the launch of the wondrous new book, radiant danse uv being. Edited by Jeff Pew and Steve Roxborough (aka rox n pew), the book presents a set of riffs and reminiscences for and about Canada's true poet laureate, bill bissett.

The Vancouver event was hosted by CBC's Sheryl MacKay. For those who've never heard her show, North by Northwest, it's a showcase of BC artists. The only bad part about her show is that it's broadcast at the bizarre (and non-artist-friendly) hour of 6am on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Like, ouch.

The 150-or-so performers and attendees had themselves a raging good time, and even got to browse several walls of brand new paintings by his billness. Beyond even the paintings was the sense of tribal connections -- old friends (or should that be 'frenz'?) reunited. Truly, it was one grand celebrayshun.

The best part of all (of course) was that bill was part of it all. Here he is, reading a poem to close the Vancouver event, accompanied by the inspired tootlings of Tim Lander.

But the raging went on. On to the ferry on Friday where I got to listen to some of the history behind the book. Lucky me, getting to spend a few hours with the editors behind the project. That's Jeff on the left, along with Rox and his elegant blond locks. I won't give away too much, beyond noting that Victoria's Cadboro Bay makes a swell spot to while away an afternoon, especially when accompanied by a few cold beers. I suspect that one of these years, Rox n Pew will be coming out with some sort of 'green-rumoury' behind-the-scenes project. If my time with them was any indication, they wouldn't have any trouble filling such a volume.

And at last on to the Solstice Cafe, for the Victoria launch. A few of the same faces, but a whole different scene -- and hosted by the always gracious Linda Rogers. What a way to start a long weekend in May.

But enough of these ramblings. Get thee out, I say -- and buy the raging book! Just be sure, for premium pleasure, to read it out loud.

Putting White Rock back on the literary map

During the '80s and early '90s, White Rock Public Library played host to a number of fine readings -- Robert Priest, Joe Rosenblatt, Lorna Crozier, Sharon Thesen -- and many more. But mandates seemed to change. Even though there'd been good attendance, the library veered away from readings they deemed 'too literary.'

But enough of grimy history; it seems time for a new page.

Last night saw a visit from Diana Hartog, promoting her new book, Ink Monkey from Brick Books. She read love poems, desert poems, explained the significance of the title creature, but really hit her stride when she started reading from 'Jellyfish Suite.' The poems in this section were magical, transporting us to undersea kingdoms where "...millions of jellyfish pulse...ghostly parachutes, dangling empty harnesses as they rise...".

In a longer prose poem, Notes to the Composer:, she read one of those lines I'm so famous for mis-hearing. "(They seem to invite metaphor.)" I remembered the word as the more active incite. But that's one of those little miracles that happen at a reading. We get a new window into the poem -- an experience the printed page (wondrous though it is) doesn't always offer.

It felt good to have White Rock be part of such a far-reaching tour: Montreal, Toronto, New York, Ottawa, Seattle, Bellingham, Vancouver, Victoria. The event felt like the beginning of some kind of renaissance for 'literary' readings out here. Let's just hope the powers-that-be at the library live up to all the promise that was in the air last night.

And hey, all you writers with new books: people in the audience even bought books! Here's a picture of Diana, signing a copy she sold.

I'm having a problem with "no problem."

Maybe I'm a person who says "thank you" too much. Maybe that's the reason I keep hearing "no problem." Whatever, what it comes down to is I'd like to hear a "you're welcome."

Or even nicer, the phrase I got spoiled to in Australia, the always-so-gracious sounding, "my pleasure." Wow, as if the person who'd done me the favour might have actually enjoyed doing so.

I'm not counting on anyone to start saying "my pleasure," but gosh, I'd be thrilled to get something but a mumbled "no problem" -- a phrase that usually makes it sound as if it is a problem.

And if you've been feeling this too and would maybe like to thank me, I'll say it in advance, "you're very welcome."

The End of the World As We Know It (with apologies to REM)

Okay, once again, I exaggerate. Still, as someone who comes from a line of crossword addicts (the gene for this from my grandma, Mayme), I must point out some serious end-time omens.

The first was two weeks ago, the last time I did a puzzle (see, I'm doing pretty well, having cut back from daily doses).

The editor in me complains when I find things misspelled in the newspaper. It complains a little louder when those mistakes are in the crossword. When the error's not in the clues, but in the puzzle grid itself, that inner editor just plain howls!

So this morning, when I decided to have a paperwork clean-up day, the crossword seemed the perfect excuse for more procrastination. Only what did I find, but yet another of what I deemed as an error.

The clue was something about running ______, which I took to call for amok. But there were five squares not four, so it worked out to have to be the much-uglier amuck.

A dictionary search informed me that this is an acceptable spelling. Grudgingly, I have come to accept such things.

But I still can't find an excuse for the error from that other puzzle, the inexplicable acquistions. To me, its definition, purchases, suggests a word with another 'i' in its midst, acquisitions. See why I'm in such a sweat?

Making history

Okay, just in a small way, but still. On April 28th, I was one of two writers who made history with the very first poetry reading at City Hall in Surrey, B.C.

When we first approached them, early in February, we were told in no uncertain terms, "City Hall doesn't do that sort of thing." As if it might be something they'd get arrested for.

Luckily, my partner for this reading was Ashok Bhargava, and he wouldn't give in so easily. He insisted we find another contact -- that we should try Councillor Judy Villeneuve.

Like they say, networking pays. Next thing we knew we were helping two of the Events Co-ordinators to fill out the application forms that had to go to The League of Canadian Poets.
Here's a shot of Ashok and Sheenam (one of those terrific Events women), going over some last minute detail before the reading.

We had a terrific noon-hour crowd of about 30 enthusiastic listeners. I was able to make them laugh with my poems about kids and messy houses. Ashok touched their hearts with his more-thoughtful pieces, especially a wonderful one about the difficulties of learning English.

I can't help think we did more than make a bit of history. I think we might have opened some doors and minds to the idea of poetry.

Bush League

More and more, Stephen Harper seems to be doing his best to align us alongside George Bush.

The latest has seen him deciding (yet another of his apparent one-man proclamations) that the press may not provide images of the flag-draped coffins of Canadian soldiers coming home to be laid to rest.

Hard on the heels of the recent decision to no longer lower flags on Parliament Hill to half-mast, this smacks of more let's-be-like-GWB tactics.

To date, since 2002, there have been 15 Canadian soldiers and one diplomat killed in Afghanistan. Many more have been injured, many seriously.

Retracting the flag-lowering policy seems to be more than the usual spite-fostered anti-Liberal sentiment. It seems an indication that we are to expect many more deaths, in yet another conflict we probably have no business in.

While he's at it with these hide-the-war-under-the-carpet tactics, Harper continues to close his speeches with the hard-to-believe 'God Bless Canada' platitude. What I'd like to know is whose God? Whose Canada?

About the only integrity I can see from Harper's party is that at least they dropped the word 'Progressive' from their name.

Stepping 'Off the Page'

These happy faces have just had a big dose of poetry. They're students at the Invergarry Learning Centre in Surrey, BC.

That grey-haired one in the middle is me. And I'm the lucky one who got to provide the dose of poems.

Because I'm a member of the Federation of BC Writers, I'm able to participate in a program called 'Off the Page' -- an initiative that pays writers to bring their work to BC classrooms.

Anyway, look at the faces of those students. Not a frown among them. But really, weren't they just subjected to an hour of poetry?!

I’m convinced that the key to their happy faces is that their teacher, Pat Corder, did such a fantastic job of preparing them for my visit.

Pat got a copy of my book, Rattlesnake Plantain. She read it, then asked me for permission to photocopy a few poems, so the students could read them. I emailed her back, suggesting several titles she might like to use. Beyond that, I left the rest up to her.

When I arrived at the school library, I was happy to see a full-colour notice announcing my reading, encouraging students from other classes to attend the session (some did). Pat (and her colleague, David) greeted me – and even gave me lunch. Lucky for me, I’d arrived during their annual thank-you event for library volunteers.

While we ate, Pat told me some of the prep she’d done with her students. Not only had she reproduced all four of the poems I’d suggested she might choose from, she had gone much further.

The first section of my book is a suite of poems headed by brief descriptions of wildflowers. Pat had downloaded information on a buttercup-like plant, had purchased a potted sample of it, and challenged her students to write poems based on it as a prompt. She let me read a few of the students’ poems (only four – nothing overwhelming, just a nice taste). She also told me that during the previous day’s class, they had talked about my poems, and generated a few questions they wanted to ask me.

Then Pat went on ahead to her portable, to begin her class. After a few minutes, David guided me out through the maze of what looked like an army base to help me find the right portable. (If he hadn’t, I might still be wandering, I am sure.) Pat introduced me, and off we went.

At first the students were fairly shy, but I’ll admit, I probably scared them some – I know I can be pretty loud and fast-talking, and that I tend to jump all over the place when I’m keen on something (like poetry!). Still, they laughed in the right places, were thoughtful when the piece asked for that, and gradually started warming up with a willingness to ask.

We ended up having a good discussion about writing. We talked about how useful it can be to find a friend (or better yet, a group) who wants to write too. I even saw some scribbling as I spoke about guidelines for workshopping: ways to focus on improving the work; ways to ensure you’re critiquing the work, not the writer.

Much of this discussion took place over a post-reading tea. Pat had asked the students to bring some little treat from home. Once again, she’s such a star to think of giving them this ‘ownership’ of thanking me for coming. There were tarts, brownies and cookies (one of the young women explained that her husband had baked the cookies the night before).

But the expressions of thanks went on: I received an interesting book of poetry (which, to my delight, I learned had been gleaned from a library book sale) and copies of some of the poems based on the little yellow wildflower. I was even presented with the potted plant that had served as the prompt for the poems – something to take home for my own garden.

Not only will I be receiving my fee for this reading (thank you, O gods of the grants!), but I will have a growing reminder in my yard of this very special event. I am also taking away a new appreciation for the amazing work that teachers like Pat Corder do.

Call the Olympics Police -- and while you're at it, the security monitors...

Notes from April 9th, YVR:

Walking to my gate for a flight to Toronto, I pass one of YVR's Inuit sculptures on display. Fashioned from bone, it's a wonderful piece of art.

But uh-oh -- smack at its centre, where the bone's been polished and etched, there's an image Vanoc might be interested in. Vancouver 2010's very own Olympic symbol, a stylized Inukshuk. The only thing that's missing is the colour. Brazen, eh. No doubt a serious infringement of copyright. Do you suppose the Inuit sculptor paid the fee to incorporate this trademarked logo?

As I'm jotting these notes, leaning against an upright recycling bin (which really makes a very good stand-up-at desk), I notice an out-of-place object sharing the surface with me. It's a fork, complete with four long, pointy tines. And no, it isn't plastic; it's metal.

What I'd like to know is how did it get here? After all those wand-waving metal detectors and x-ray experts peering into our carry-on bags . . . . And I wonder, if I touch it, will I be implicating myself -- fingerprints, y'know. Will I be considered an accomplice in some act of terrorism, even uncommitted?

I'm not even sure if I dare to report the fork. They might just suggest I was the one who brought it here. About all I can think is, so much for security -- or the show they put on to convince us that it means anything.

Finally, I decide I need to get rid of it. I use the edge of my notebook to flick it down into the bin. It lands in the midst of too many Globe and Mails with a silent thud, no doubt spoiling this lot of paper for the recycler. Paranoid? Of course, but you already knew that.

Besides, there'll be more to come on this. Toronto still beckons.

Passwords, other words, and (ultimately) paranoia

Someone drew my attention to the fact that all of us are accumulating way too many passwords and other items we're supposed to memorize. It used to be bad enough -- trying to keep track of your Social Insurance Number, your Driver's Licence number, your phone number, your bank account number -- heck, those were plenty!

Only now, all those bits of necessary information seem to have grown beyond anyone's expectations. It's sort of like Harriet Beecher Stowe's character, Topsy, who just 'growed.' Most people now have at least three telephone numbers: home, work, and cell.

I'll admit, I've finally started writing things down -- things I'm supposed to be keeping in my head. I've got just too many sign-in IDs, user names, and passwords to be able to carry them all around in my poor brain.

But here's where the paranoia comes in. Somebody steals into my room, finds the secret hiding place where I've got these weird little phrases stashed away. So what have I done to protect myself from the wrong set of eyes? Coded 'em, of course. Drawn a bunch of pictures that are supposed to trigger my brain -- so I (and only I) will know what kind of goofy licence plate mishmash I intended. Sound complicated? Ask me in a year. We'll see how many of those numbers and words I can retrieve. We'll see how many of those accounts I can still access. Ahem.

And speaking of words, I've got 10 new ones circling around in my head. They're this year's words from CV2's 48-Hour Poetry Contest. If you'd like to find out what the words are, and how this crazy contest works, take a peek here. But don't tell too many people. I'm working on a nutzoid piece of writing for it, and face it -- I don't want too much competition.

Starting to sound more and more like it oughta be Sorry

My name is Heidi and I'm a Surreyite. Yep, I live in that place that so long has been the butt of so many feeble jokes.

I used to live in White Rock, less than a klick from where I live now. The joke then used to be a parody of the adage from Love Story, 'Living in White Rock is never having to say you're Surrey.'

Today I had occasion to visit a part of Surrey I hadn't seen for a while. It's an older neighbourhood, one that's been settled for over a generation. I think of it as a place with ravines and tall trees.

But like so much of the rest of Surrey, even that area has lost much of its greenery.

Driving home, I passed many sites where trees were still in the process of being ripped out. Many of these had bark that was torn and hanging, as if some giant Godzilla had gnashed at them.

It's hard to imagine what this city is going to look like in even another two years. What was once perhaps known best as the butt of bad jokes is likely going to become Canada's answer to the worst of New Jersey.

What was once maybe a place for 'hicks' who lived in semi-rural bliss is fast becoming nothing more than a sea of pavement crammed with thousands of identical homes.

Character? Greenspace? Respect for the future?

Like I said, 'Sorry.'

Sudden book launch

And no, that doesn't mean this was an unplanned launch. It refers to the title of Elizabeth Bachinsky's new book, Home of Sudden Service (Nightwood Editions). This meant a new page for the poetry series at Maple Ridge's ACT, as usually it's Liz who's doing the hosting, not the reading.

Among the poems she read was the beautiful, "Pack" with its opening stanzas:

We learned to sell ourselves early in life. Got badges
for good sales and how to sew. The deft among us praised
for the perfect square knot, we chanted, feverishly
fumbling, Right over left, left over right and under . . .

Polite, our socks yanked tight up under our knees,
we made vows to the Queen. We really meant them.
Our secret hand signals, our hierarchy,
we were like the Freemasons, only smaller.

I love the simple, naive honesty of a line like 'We really meant them.'

Bachinsky is a terrific reader, serious enough about performing her poems that she's taken vocal instruction. It shows. When she dropped her voice into the chant, 'Right over left...' you could almost see the furrowed brow of an earnest nine-year-old.

But she writes about more than the world of nine-year-olds. She's got either a heck of a memory or an even better imagination, because man, she's got the teen angst thing down perfectly, complete with hormones. Consider this, describing her lustful plans for boys:

(from "At Fifteen")
. . . They are so polished
beneath their shirts and jeans.
They are so lean, penises
rearing, eager, impatient as ponies.

This poem, dedicated to Irving Layton, makes me think Layton must must be hovering somewhere nearby, chortling lecherously at these lines.

The night was rounded out by an opening performance from the always-entertaining Lyle Neff. The Vancouver poet, who's always seemed to want to be thought of as a bit of a bad boy, has mellowed with fatherhood. For one thing, it's made him look at death differently.

He riffed his way through a batch of poems from his latest collection, Bizarre Winery Tragedy (Anvil Press). When he came to the close of a piece called "Think of Teeth," he offered this bit of self-criticism "a bit precious at the end." To which I say, "No, Lyle. The words simply complete the piece."

And to close this piece, I offer an uncharacteristic portrait of Neff -- on his knees. I'm not sure if he was begging Liz for an autograph, or was simply in ready-set position for the long race back to the city.

Today is supposed to be a birthday party

But it's not. Today's the day my friend Pattie should be celebrating. A number she'd probably just refer to as being 'older than dirt.'

Only she isn't having a party. Still, I remember her. Here's a poem I wrote for her. It was in a beautiful chapbook called Chickweed, produced at St. Peter's Abbey in Muenster, Saskatchewan in October of 1999. Holly of Four Corner Books might even still have a copy or two. Here's the poem:

"Wind Chime Woman"
(for Pattie Cropas)

the wind chimes remind me
of you on lonesome nights

how many did we spend together
banishing demons or men for each other

laughing or crying on my porch or yours
mostly over cheques that bounced or never arrived


so why didn't you phone instead of going to that hotel
then sitting it out alone for three more tormented days

and how did you ever get yourself so many pills so many colours
you knew they'd wait til afternoon to open the door and find you

that they'd do your room last let you sleep in as long as you could
how they maids all loved you worried you tipped more than you should


I need to kid myself pretend you were wearing your soft turquoise robe
that your hair was arranged just how you wanted it to look

and for once I hear no pounding nails or cutting lawns or
too fast trucks driving down this narrow street of ours

just the storm blowing strong
through the wind chimes


And I can't help remembering the bill collector who phoned a couple of weeks after she was gone. I told the person that no, Pattie wouldn't be making a payment, even though there was an amount that was overdue. I told the person that someone I'd known and loved had eaten all those pills because she knew she couldn't pay her bills.

Weird dates

Here it is again, March 19th. Three years since George Dubya decided to play his dirty little games in Iraq. I should have been able to call the date when this would begin, based on dates significant in my dad's life.

Joe (or JB as we called him) was born on a day that seemed innocent enough, December 7th. Only then in 1941, that day took on a new significance: the raid on Pearl Harbor. And of course, that meant one thing to the Americans -- the time had come for them to enter the war.

Later on, once he was home from flying big bombers over Africa and Italy, I came along and he married my mom. What day would that have been? September 11th. No further explanation required.

So in 2003, when GWB was tossing around his WMD crapola, I figured he'd start his attack on February 28th. Why? Because that's the date my dad died. It seemed to go along with all the other weird significant dates in his life.

So when that date came and passed, I almost thought all those peace prayers and marches had worked. That maybe it wouldn't happen after all.

But as we all know, that hope disappeared. And wouldn't you know it, whose feast day is celebrated today? Who else, but JB's namesake, St. Joseph.

Maybe by next year February 28th will take on a new significance. I'd like to think it could be the day when there's a declaration of peace. That would somehow close this odd little circle of weird dates for me. Fingers crossed.

Is 'Lost' losin' it?

When Lost first crashed its way onto Wednesday night TV, it felt a lot like Survivor -- but with a great script.

As Jack triaged his way through the chaos of the beach, he established himself as a leader. And the combination of the rest of the characters clicked right into place. Kate's strength, Sayid's technical skills, even Sawyer's smarmy survivalist charm. There was poor, strung-out Charlie. And craggy-faced John Locke, who got up from a wheelchair and turned into Wilderness-Knowledge-Man. Heck, there was even Claire, close-to-busting pregnant.

Flashbacks gave us back-stories, fleshing out the players, filling us in on who they'd been in their pre-island lives. These helped us understand what was going on. Helped us see why Michael and Walt were so strained with each other. Showed us who Jin-Soo had been. Explained things we needed to know. Even Hurley (as if he needed fleshing out) had his secrets.

Each week drew me in further. Radio distress calls, the out-of-place Ethan, a set of mysterious numbers, the French woman with her jungle hideout. More and more, the show was taking on elements of X-Files.

And every week, like some tropical buffet, the show set out more surprises. The one that caught me out most was Sun-Kwon's revelation. Still, the basic story seemed one of survival and hope for rescue, right down to building a raft.

So what's been its undoing? The underground chamber, though an element that's drastically altered the islanders' world, seems to have also been its Pandora's box.

Since its opening, things have been in decline -- and not just in the predicament of the characters.

This season has been a hodgepodge of repeats and reruns, frustrating for someone who's watched it from the start. I guess it's all part of network pandering to lure a new set of viewers. Just last month, instead of a new show, they played the 2-hour pilot. This trying to 'catch up' a new audience feels insulting to those of us who've been loyal.

Six Feet Under started out with a small but loyal following. But they didn't flip-flop back and forth, trying to please everybody. They called it Season One and then went on.

The only new show that's aired these last few weeks (and yes, I know, there was competition from that audience-grabber, the Olympics) was one that focused on Claire. And her flashbacks didn't even go back pre-island.

But that's no excuse for last night's show being yet another repeat. These days, there's even a comic strip that seems cheesed over Lost. Ever-nerdy Monty has been stumbling around on the island, and looking very lost.

It's time for the show to get back on track with some new episodes (there is one scheduled for next week, so fingers crossed). That, or bring in the rescue boats. Just please, do something soon.

Celebrating Freedom to Read Week

Last week was Freedom to Read Week.

On Saturday, I was part of a group of readers celebrating this event. Besides making me think about the freedom to read, I couldn't help thinking about the freedom to write. So here I go, writing about our event. By the way, that's Liz Bachinsky and her partner, Blake Smith. The people up at the top are Bob, Kasey, and Janet. There's more about all of them as you scroll down. Go ahead and exercise your freedom to read on!

Our celebration offered snippets from books that had been banned or challenged. It also featured "outrageously priced and outrageously sweet" Danishes. And no, these weren't cartoons. These were the real thing, complete with cherries and blueberries.

Author Marion Quednau, who organized the evening, read from the recently-challenged Three Wishes. Written by the well-respected Canadian author, Deborah Ellis, this book presents remarks from Palestinian and Israeli children. They offer their views on how the ongoing conflict has affected their lives. Yet the York (Ontario) District School Board has decided this book is 'inappropriate' reading.

Quednau also read work by the Hungarian writer, George Faludy. His poem, 'Learn by Heart This Poem of Mine' reminds us how fragile freedom can be.

Hearing the Faludy poem reminded me of the Russian poet, Osip Mandelstam. His wife, Nadezhda, went so far as to memorize his poems, as she feared his work might become 'disappeared.' Imagine, keeping someone's work safe by storing it in your mind.

Poet Liz Bachinsky read a poem by bill bissett. He's the poet who drew the wrath of Les Wedman, then Member of Parliament. Wedman railed against bissett's writing and tried to make a case against the Canada Council. After all, it uses taxpayers' money to support the arts.

Liz later read (along with Kasey Kieler) from Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho. Kasey also read from William Burroughs' Naked Lunch, as did poet Bob Martens. Janet Vickers, yet another poet, read from D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover. She also read a poem by Pablo Neruda.

Because I used to work in the Surrey School District, I read from two picture books that were deemed unsuitable by that school board. The two I read from were Asha's Mums and One Dad, Two Dads, Brown Dads, Blue Dads. It probably sounds crazy to think of picture books as any kind of threat, especially as the books seem to do a good job of promoting tolerance of differences -- an attitude that is among the goals of the province's primary curriculum.

But apparently in Surrey, tolerance of differences doesn't always apply, especially if 'different' happens to mean gay. The Board has spent a million dollars trying to keep three little books away from children's eyes.

Other artists whose works were read included J.D. Salinger, Kurt Vonnegut, and Robert Munsch. All of them have had work challenged or banned.

It was more than twenty years ago that George Faludy spent time in British Columbia. During that visit, Alan Twigg of BC Bookworld talked with him. Faludy's closing words are as powerful now as they were then: "Poetry, freedom. It is like air. You know you must have it only when it is taken away from you." You're even free to read the whole interview here.

Who says there's no such thing as a time machine?

Apparently they've got one in South Dakota. And it sounds like they're planning to use it so they can take South Dakotans back more than thirty years.

That state's legislators are working on a law that would challenge 1973's Roe v. Wade decision. That's the Supreme Court decision that made medically safe abortions possible.

Ironically, the bill's main sponsor is a woman, Senator Julie Bartling.

As might be expected, the bill has been presented to 'save lives.' Yet the current bill won't even allow abortions in instances that threaten the mother's health.

But shouldn't an already existing life be worthy of protection? Isn't this supposed to be a place that values Mom (and apple pie) right up there with their flag?

The capital of South Dakota is Pierre. But folks there don't pronounce it like the French name. They say 'peer.'

Or, as women facing unwanted pregnancies might be thinking, 'pier.' As in something to jump off of.

Why would anyone hire an editor?

You know how to write. You've been doing it since you were little. So why would you need some fancy-schmancy editor?

Imagine what might happen if you gave yourself a haircut. Sure, your hair would be shorter. It might not even look too bad, especially if you can ignore the back of your head. But after a day or so, you realize the haircut isn't quite the look you'd wanted. You probably end up going to a hairdresser to get it fixed.

Hiring an editor is something like going to the hairdresser to get the haircut repaired.

You've written a piece that you think is pretty good. You might even have thought about trying to get it published. Then someone suggests you send it to an editor. But why would you do that? Won't an editor change your precious words? Won't they make it into something that's no longer yours?

Just as the hairdresser who's fixing your haircut probably won't suggest purple dye to camouflage the messy cut, an editor's job isn't so much to change your work as to enhance it.

Sure, an editor can find mistakes in your work and help you fix them. But an editor can also point out spots where your meaning isn't clear, where you need to give your reader more (or less) information, where you're writing in generalizations, or too arcanely. [Ed's note: arcane refers to secret or inside information. Could you use a less obscure word here?]

Don't be afraid to explore the idea of hiring an editor. Especially if your words are venturing out into the realm of publication, you'll want your work [Ed: and your hair] looking as good as possible.

Tomorrow is finally here.

I'm a writer, editor, pretty good cook, and procrastinator. Although now that I've made the first entry here, maybe I can finally cross off that last item.