Sparrow

Last seen in the machinations of work.




Found nestled twigs bound with reed wrap

in small corners:




the adjudicating sections of his cubicle,

behind photographs of a wife, a child, a dog,

in pencil holders between HBs,

scattered across high grade drawing paper,

stacked neatly in the hibernation of drawers and

plumed between the keys on his keyboard.




Looked closer to find them in cufflinks,

in his shoe, beneath the arc of his sole,




and on having dinner once, amused then horrified

a fine young woman in fine strapless dress

by cleaning ear canals with a sheaf he

extracts from his belt.

cracked walkers

As the lights slowly fade back in to signal the intermission, a dozen or so of the modest audience do not get up, but keep staring at the spare, constricted stage, waiting for the visceral fugue of abuse, addiction and psychomania to dissipate. In the darkened landing above the main stage, a massive bearded figure in a dirty black beanie and a dirty black trench-coat lumbers about in a careful approximation of a drunken stupor. A man sitting next to me turns to his partner and remarks quietly, “I thought this was a comedy…”

He is joking, of course. Judith Thompson’s play The Crackwalker has been praised for many things, but one can be sure that no one has yet talked about its abundance of humor. And still the writing never gets so pessimistic as to be repulsive, the characters never so vile as to prevent our empathy, and the situations (except in regards to one character) never so hopeless as to become an exercise in nihilism. And this is where the true magic of Thompson’s play lies. She expertly captures the unique rhythms of speech and culture amongst people whose idea of the good life is to drive an 18-wheeler and live in Calgary.

The play follows two couples eking out an existence in the slums of Kingston, Ontario. Theresa, played to perfection by Marie Jones, is the first character we see on stage. She is a mildly retarded young woman who turns tricks on gay men and relates her sexual misadventures with an innocent glee. Her boyfriend Alan, played by an excellent Rick Jon Egan, works as a dishwasher and begins the play as harmlessly delusional. It his his slow unraveling into dementia and psychosis that is instrumental in the uncomfortable and traumatic climax. Sandy and Joe, played by Hannah Miller and Craig Pike respectively, are the second couple that we follow. Their relationship, while toxic and abusive, ends with some measure of hope for those that are left standing. The titular Crackwalker, an unrecognizable Simon Paabor, is a native man beyond all measures of society. He shambles and lurches in the background, occasionally mumbling incoherent invective and bringing a sharp contrast to these painful lives. One gets the sense that although the world the characters inhabit is brutal and without relief, there are unknown depths still beyond.

This new production is by the young company Staged and Confused. Its founder Micheal Murphy also wears the hat of director, and is incredibly passionate about the opportunities that have opened up for new talent rediscovering classic Canadian plays that are, for whatever reason, not being done. It also gives a chance for a younger audience not familiar with the Canadian theatrical ‘canon’ to experience landmark plays. Many of the crew were not familiar with the original productions, and have sought to bring a fresh, highly relevant vision to these dusty gems.

The Crackwalker in particular gains new, highly politicized facets in this gaunt, slightly abstracted remounting. Without for a moment becoming didactic, by simply presenting a hyper-real portion of life amongst the type of people we have learned to ignore, excites a rage at the social structures that constrain them. “Shut the window, shut the window!” the Crackwalker cries towards the end, as if the mere act of watching is too painful to bear. We hear much about social workers and irate employers, but never actually see them. The long arm of society becomes an invisible crane that is indifferent and ultimately impotent against the suffering we witness.

This is not to say that the production is perfect. There are moments when the action veers offtrack and strains credibility. Craig Pike’s Joe is the weakest link, swaggering across the stage with a hint of insincerity. We don’t completely buy the menace he is supposed to convey. And yet the story propels us. It is Theresa who ends up being the most compelling character. She has the first and last lines of the play, and it is her fragile innocence that we hope will never be broken.

The Crackwalker plays at the Theatre Passe Muraille backstage till October 11^th. Go to www.stagedandconfused.com for more info.

the ideology of excrement

Slavoj Žižek is my new love. This Slovenian philosopher, practicing psychoanalyst, radical political activist and cultural critic, who likes using Lacanian analysis to cut through to the bone of various socio-political enigmas, as well as many other things, can seem to shed light on even the most banal. Here is a short clip of him expounding on the various types of toilets around the world and how they directly reflect the prevailing national ideology:

If you interested in listening to more, check out his lecture called “The Spectator’s Malevolent Neutrality“, in ten parts. The first half of the first part features another German speaker so you need to skip to 7:17 before Zizek starts speaking. His neuroses alone would make Woody Allen blush, but nevertheless the passion he displays in his work is infectious, and you’ll soon be sucked in.

rest in the peace you did not find in life, David Foster Wallace

The remarkable author died on Sunday, September 14th, in an apparent suicide. His wife found him at home, where he had hung himself.

I have only read his book of short stories, Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, but that alone sufficed me to be certain of his talents. He wrecks genre and form with an anarchic glee, but always, always maintains that empathetic thread to his characters, regardless of the zany situations they often find themselves in. In one of the title stories, for example, an unnamed ‘Hideous Man’, tells of his unusual, involuntary predisposition when having sex: whenever he comes, he cries out at the top of his voice, “Victory for the Forces of Democratic Freedom!”. This is, of course, entirely embarrassing for him, and has ‘cost him every sexual relationship he has ever had’.

But this bawdy element is only one of Wallace’s preoccupations. Perhaps what is most remarkable is how different in voice, tone, character, and plot all the stories are, and almost without exception how successful they are in evoking a visceral emotional response from the reader.

But authors are, in some way, immortal. Wallace has left behind him several novels, several collections of short stories, a collection of essays, and countless works of criticism. For me and several other readers, at least, we have not lost the opportunity to get to know this man and his mind.

Here’s a REALLY short story that appears at the beginning of Brief Interviews…

. . . . . . .

A RADICALLY CONDENSED HISTORY OF POSTINDUSTRIAL LIFE

When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.

The man who’d introduced them didn’t much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one now did one now did one.

karawane

jolifanto bambla ô falli bambla

grossiga m’pfa habla horem

égiga goramen

higo bloiko russula huju

hollaka hollala

anlogo bung

blago bung

blago bung

bosso fataka

ü üü ü

schampa wulla wussa olobo

hej tatta gôrem

eschige zunbada

wulubu ssubudu uluw ssubudu

tumba ba- umf

kusagauma

ba – umf

- Hugo Ball (1917)

the little clause that could

One wonders if the amount of material already written about Bill C-10 would surpass even the hefty 568 page tome itself. Of course, it isn’t the entire Bill that has created such an uproar among film and television industry professionals, as well as activists, media, and 52% of the public. It is a certain clause A-2 in section 120 that would ostensibly allow the Heritage Minister to withdraw tax-credits from film and television productions deemed “contrary to public policy”.

The Bill passed through the House of Commons late last year without much fanfare, but has since been land-locked in a Senate Standing committee on Banking, Trade and Commerce since December of 2007. The media began to pick up on the story in February, and during the Genie Awards many presenters such as Sandra Oh, Gordon Pinsent and Robert Lantos condemned the Bill after the Heritage Minister Josée Verner didn’t show up. Two of the industry stalwarts, director David Cronenberg and actor/director Sarah Polley have added their voices to the chorus of dissent, calling it an assault on the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Polley, who has a long history of invoking the ire of the Conservative government, came under fire in a press release about her “vested personal and political interests”, citing her ardent NDP support and an incident at an anti-Mike Harris rally involving riot police that knocked out two of her teeth. Amongst all of this back-and-forth Steve Waddell, exective director of ACTRA has succinctly stated that, “The government is overstepping its bounds and interfering in an arm’s-length process… Withholding public funding for film and television productions it deems offensive is a dangerous direction for this government that smacks of censorship”.

Josée Verner responded to the allegations by saying that the policy “…ensures that the government has the ability, in exceptional circumstances, to exclude certain material from public support. There is material that is potentially illegal under the Criminal Code, such as indecent material, hate propaganda, and child pornography. Currently, no provision in the Income Tax Act or regulations exclude such material. Bill C-10 addresses this loophole, in particular.” Many Liberal senate members have vocally opposed the bill, including Wilfred Moore who has asked “Are we trying to solve a problem that doesn’t exist?” Sarah Polley, in an interview with CBC stated that we already have these guidelines in place, “…it’s called the Criminal Code… Every work of art is subject to it when it is publicly funded… there are so many checks and balances already in place through Telefilm, the CTF, and the Criminal Code that I think it is redundant and sets a very dangerous precedent to have it that close to government policy.”

The most vehement supporters of the Bill, the Federal Conservative party, religious lobbyists like Charles McVety, and groups such as Canadians Concernced about Violence in Entertainment and REAL Women of Canada deny that it is in any way a restriction of free expression. Productions that do not fall under the purview of ‘public policy’, they say, are still allowed to continue, just without the support of tax-payer money. Furthermore tax-credits are not a subsidy; they are awarded only about 18 months after production, and simply enable external investors, or those involved in the production to save some of their own money. However this caveat is exactly what many are in uproar about, as the guidelines towards receiving tax-credits being so vague, writers and producers could only know whether they would receive anything after the production is long over. President of the Writers Guild of Canada, screenwriter Rebecca Schechter has stated that “the guidelines [will] force writers to self-censor…They will be trying to decide how much violence is appropriate and whether the sexuality shown will meet the criteria for educational purposes.” Furthermore, the ambiguous, after-the-fact nature of the Bill would make it impossible to ensure any repayment of bank loans. Even foreign investors take tax-credits into account before any financing. The Royal Bank of Canada has even gone on record to state that “Should the assumption of eligibility currently underlying all bank loans to this industry be compromised or diminished by Bill C-10, this will indeed limit the ability of the bank to continue funding Canadian content production.”

The tax-credit program was instituted in 1995 and has since then funded 12,000 productions for a tune of more than $22 billion. What is perhaps most astounding amongst this ideological food-fight is that this clause already existed. Verner pointed out to the Senate committee that the clause was not, in fact, new, but originally instated in a draft legislation in 2002 by the Liberal finance minister John Manley. She is partially right. While the tax-credit exemption in the Liberal Bill was based on the Criminal Code, the new exemption has a set of vague regulations that have yet to be legislated. All of which propels the controversy to a politically partisan stage, one in which the Liberals hold more intrinsic trust from the industries in question, while Harper’s current Conservative government is suspected of holding a ‘religious agenda’ behind its federal reforms. This isn’t hard to understand when characters like Charles McVety, who is happy that “somebody is finally listening”, has said that it was his tireless lobbying that prompted the conspicuous clause in the first place. He has also called to have films that ‘promote’ homosexual behavior to be classed as exempt under the guidelines. And with the recent $45 million in cuts to arts funding by Prime Minister Harper, axing programs like PromArts, Trade Routes, Capacity Building Programs and Stability Programs, the question of a subversive ideological agenda has become ever more omnipresent.

On the bright side – if there can be said to be such a thing – several Liberal senators have stated that they have made the proposed amendments to the Bill that would would hearken back to its original form, using the Criminal Code as the concrete set of guidelines that would govern “public policy”. Following the amendments the Senate can now send the Bill back to the House of Commons to be reconsidered. Now we just have to wait for them to come back from their summer vacations.

. . . . . . .

Some Arts Programs that were cut:

PromArts: A travel grant for artists administered by the Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade. Cost: $4.7 million.

Trade Routes: A grant that helps cultural groups export and sell products abroad, administered by the Department of Heritage. Cost: $9 million.

Canadian Memory Fund: Distributes money to Federal programs that digitize cultural heritage collections. Cost: $11.7 million

Culture.ca web portal: Web site charting the cultural happenings around Canada. Cost: $3.8 million.

Northern Distribution Program: Distributes the Aboriginal Peoples Network to 96 Northern communities. $2.1 million.

scream

Oh my singularity!

Eve Ill

While encumbered by the mighty weight of York’s required readings, I must – in order to remain sane – also entangle myself with a book of my own choice. At this time it is Comte de Lautreamont’s only completed work, Les Chants de Maldoror, published in 1868. Comte de Lautreamont is the pseudonym for Isidore Ducasse, a French Uruguayan poet who died in Paris at the age of 24. The book itself did not gain any sort of popularity until decades later, as is often the case with works of genius.

Les Chants de Maldoror is about the celebration of the principle of Evil. That is pure, unadulterated, irrational, innocence-slaying, no-holds-bared, 200% proof Evil. There are verses in this long poem of such brutality, of such irredeemable thought, that the beauty with which such passages are written become a poignant guilt in the heart of the reader, forcing one to question the deepest nature of the event and its titular perpetrator, the anti-god and the anti-human, Maldoror.

Here is a verse from the first Canto, relatively tame but nevertheless filled with a merciless pain:

. . . . . . .

You will not see me at my last hour (I am writing this on my deathbed) surrounded by priests. I wish to die cradled upon the waves of the stormy sea or standing upon a mountain . . . my eyes directed not upwards. I know that my annihilation will be complete. Moreover, I shall expect no mercy.

Who is opening the door of my death-chamber? I said that no one should enter. Whoever you are, leave me. But if you wish to distinguish any sign of sorrow or fear on my hyena’s face (I use this comparison although the hyena is more beautiful than I and more pleasant to look upon), be undeceived. Let him draw near. It is a winter night, the elements battle on all sides, and the child contemplates some crime against one of his playmates, if he is as I was during my childhood.

The wind, whose wailing has saddened the race of man since the beginning of man and of the wind, carries me off over the world on the bones of his wings, some moments before my last agony, eager for my death. I shall again gloat secretly over the innumerable examples of human wickedness (a brother loves to watch unseen the actions of his brothers). The eagle, the crow, the immortal pelican, the wild duck, the wandering crane, awakened shuddering with cold, will see me pass in the glare of lightning, a horrible and happy apparition. They will not understand what it means. On the ground, the snake, the great eye of the toad, the tiger, the elephant; in the sea, the whale, the shark, the hammer-fish, the shapeless ray, the tusked sea-lion, all will ask themselves what is this contradiction of the laws of nature? Man, trembling, will whimper and bow his head to the ground.

“Yes, I surpass you all in my inherent cruelty, cruelty the suppression of which does not depend upon myself. Is it for this reason that you prostrate yourselves before me thus? Or rather is it because you see me flying like a frightful comet – novel phenomenon – through blood-streaked space?”

(A rain of blood is falling from my mighty body like the ebon cloud that heralds the hurricane).

“Fear naught, my children, I shall not curse you. The evil you have done me is too great, and too great is the harm I have done you, that it should have been involuntary. You have gone your way and I have gone mine, both similar and both perverse. Necessarily we must have met in that similitude of character. The resultant shock has been fatal to both of us.”

Then the people slowly raise their heads and, regaining their courage, stretch out their necks like snails to see who it is addressing them thus. Suddenly their burning, rotting faces, displaying the most awful of passions, writhe in such grimaces that wolves would fear them. All together they rise like an immense spring. What curses! What shrieking voices! They have recognized me. And now the beasts of the earth unite with man and add their weird bellowings. No more mutual hatred. The two hatreds are turned against the common enemy, myself. They come together with universal consent. Supporting wings, raise me higher, for I fear treachery. Yes, let us disappear little by little from their eyes, utterly satisfied, witness once again of the consequences of passion. My thanks, O Rhinolophus with your snout surmounted by a horse-shoe shaped crest, for having awakened me with the motion of your wings.

I perceive now that actually it has all been a passing sickness and with disgust I feel myself returning to life. Some say that you came to me to suck out the drop of blood left in my body. Why is this hypothesis not the reality?

. . . . . . .

I would that I could redeem you…

shotting

There was a shooting in my neighborhood two days ago. I got home at around 12:15am to half-a-dozen cop cars criss-crossing the street, cordon tape strewn about between the houses, blocking off access to the next street over, the ‘crime-scene’. The shooting had happened about 20 minutes before I arrived. What seemed like the whole neighborhood was gathered at the streetcorner, voices buzzing with speculation and a weary fear.

I used to live by Jane and Shoreham for 2 years, and have witnessed the same thing only once before. I had always believed that Thornhill was one of those quiet suburban neighborhoods exempt and innocent of the grisly realities of city life, but now I realize that it was a rather naive idea. ‘Security’ is a concept made up by real-estate companies to sell their houses. The only way to acheive it is to be dead.

Oh, and I quite like the suspect description: black male wearing a dark hoodie and blue jeans. Yeah.