She can’t tell her bus pass from a bird so knows the pills have found their way to the microphone in her brain and she’ll have to walk. The mating ritual of the clouds is pornographic and she blushes wondering why it’s even allowed. A part of her had sat down many years ago and refused to get up. This is who she feeds these pills to in the hopes that she’ll be trusted and then perhaps liked. Her therapist has not weathered well and is now leaking, water getting into his voice so when he says mother
Sean Caulfield is an Edmonton artist whose work explores the impact of technology on the environment and our bodies. He is interested in creating visual images that blur boundaries between the biological and the technological, the organic and the mechanical, and which challenge viewers to consider the implications of this merging. Caulfield is a Centennial Professor in the Department of Art and Design at the University of Alberta. He has exhibited his prints, drawings, and artist’s books extensively throughout Canada, the United States, Europe, and Japan.
Something happened to my super-speed. The flash of quickness I once relied on to propel me past any other living kid left me and I began to limp from an ache localized at the top of my left leg. This progressed into a sharp and steep pain, preventing me from walking, from hobbling, until finally I simply hopped everywhere on my right foot.
There’s only one thing you can do with a sawed-off rifle, a low IQ, and curiosity about human biology. You awake at sunset, yourself still, a storm-eye of boredom, drink, and LSD. That’s the only thing that ever made sense, was tidy or clean: how convenient and pre-emptive excuses are, arising out of capitulated-to desires, imbibing, cussing, so many ‘good times.’
You were estranged from yourself, not yourself, that night. But this is even truer sober. We can guess your past
Carolyn Campbell has exhibited her work throughout Canada, and has taught painting, drawing and design at the University of Alberta. Her work has been featured in numerous publications and she was a finalist in 2009 for the Kingston Prize National Portrait Competition. She works from a studio in downtown Edmonton.
Canada was the first country in the world to perform a legal same-sex marriage. On January 14, 2001, Elaine and Anne Vautour, and Kevin Bourassa and Joe Varnell were married in Toronto in a double wedding. Initially, the ceremony was legally contested, but it was affirmed by the Ontario government two years later. It was a milestone in Canadian civil rights history.
After Ontario’s same-sex marriage decision, and numerous cross-country constitutional challenges, other provinces followed suit.
The Canadian maple leaf is a powerful and positive symbol, unique in the world as a national emblem. Instead of abstract shapes, often stemming from outdated symbols of nobility, this country honours an everyday concrete object from lowly nature. In other words, our national symbol is also simply a leaf on a tree.
I was a third-grader when I first entered a psychiatrist’s office. The prelude to my visit was a skipping lesson I gave my brother, who was in first-grade at the time, one morning before school. Not skipping as in using a skipping rope, but the locomotive kind in which you lift your knee and hop forward. I wanted to share with him my recent discovery of the joy and giddiness that comes from literally bounding through space. Perhaps I should have realized that skipping is an outdoor activity.
A friend and I recently walked into a dark cave-like room full of young, cool men and women. Most seemed to have tattoos, piercings, and smartphones. We didn’t fit in, though it wasn’t at all uncomfortable. We were at the nightclub/bar to attend a Toronto lecture series called Trampoline Hall, a monthly lecture series with a twist: the speakers are not allowed to be experts on their chosen topic. In other words, they are just like you and me at the office water cooler, chatting about things they know nothing about. The talks are almost always funny, thoughtful, and interesting.
One typical Monday morning in September, Londoners narrowly avoided collision with each other in their rush-hour dance through Paddington Station. Navigating the crowd, I slipped on the slick marble floor as I headed for my train to Somerset. A drop of water splashed against my face and I looked up. It was raining inside the station. These were not the tear-shaped raindrops teachers taught us to draw as children but flat cushions of water that pooled on the platform.
The 1980s. Beginning of the long decade, the century’s late works. Snow on the grid, field bisected by a late model John Deere’s progress in low gear with a front-end load of straw bales. Its operator’s daughter dons her brace, thinks her scoliosis the devil’s work on her, a not-good-enough Christian. Her mother talks scripture on the phone in the kitchen and the kitchen smells of coffee and it smells of dog. Christmas lights
The DHC-2 Beaver bush plane is often credited with opening up the Canadian North. It was manufactured by de Havilland Canada in Downsview, Ontario, between 1947 and 1967, yet it remains a common sight throughout the country due to its rare abilities. It’s easily recognized by its very loud “Wasp Jr” engine.
Dogs of the world, anonymous wanderers, moral conundrums, I find them by the road, scavenging milk cartons thrown from the bus: feist pups galled with mange, old hounds, blind and lame, at the end of their utility.
Such I once whispered secrets to and begged to keep and was commanded to lead into the woods to execute and bury. And my father was not a bad man. And Saint John Perse wrote, “I had a horse. Who was he?”