Kathryn Mockler's Blog, page 21
November 6, 2024
They had everything taken from them because they were Japanese.
There’s nothing left to do but pack. I can’t put it off any longer.
Haunted by the image of the Ishii family’s things being carried out of their home while they were driven away, we stuff everything into a few rooms in the house and put locks on the doors. The kitchen table and chairs and all the furniture, the lamps, our pots and pans, our gramophone and records, all Koichiro’s books, and our bed. We cram things into attic spaces and under porches. We put our dishes and valuables in cabinets built into the walls and then plaster them over to camouflage them. We pack things in sturdy trunks and bring them to the Japanese Language School or the Buddhist Church. Surely the church is safe.
Before they left with the first group to Kaslo last week, Koichiro’s sisters stored cutting tables, sewing machines, and irons there—the remains of Masako’s dressmaking business. There’s not enough room in our house to store it all.
We also pack everything for the move. It’s so hard to decide what to take when you don’t know where you’re going or when you’ll be back. And somehow it all has to fit into one hundred and fifty pounds each, and seventy-five pounds for children—another government rule. Only what we can carry.
I take my sewing machine and a mattress. That way, I’ll be able to make clothes for the baby and me, and maybe I’ll get some mending work. And I’m not sleeping on a dirty floor!
Of course, I’m also taking our cast-iron rice pot. The rest is mostly clothes, sheets, and other necessities. I don’t know what to do about all our pictures and meaningful or expensive items, like my wedding dress. I want to take them with me, but they won’t fit. So, I pack the dress and photos in a box and leave it with Koichiro. One day, when we recover Koichiro’s pistol and my wedding dress, we’ll pass them on to our children and grandchildren as heirlooms. I repeat this to myself like a promise or a prayer. I have to believe it’s true.
I wonder what Mom and Dad will do with Toshi’s urn and ashes. I close my heavy eyes. What painful, terrible decisions we’re being forced to make.
When my packing’s settled, I start taking things apart. I rip up our towels—blue like the sky on Sea Island—into squares for extra diapers, and I rip the seams of my waistband and undergarments. Between the layers of my clothing, I carefully place folded bills and then sew the seams back up, hiding the money inside. Everything is coming apart. But at least this, and my baby, I can keep safe.
The day we’re leaving, I go to the garden one last time. The snow peas and kiwi vines are getting taller, but their soil is dry. We haven’t had time to care for them. The mound over the pistol is still there.
Last night I left food for the black cat one last time. “Good-bye. Take care of yourself,” I said. She looked right at me. And despite my dislike of cats, I ask Koichiro—who will be here a bit longer—to keep feeding her. I tell myself it’s silly to worry for a cat when so many of us are afraid. But it still feels important. Caring for the little things feels more necessary than ever before.
I wonder what will happen to all the pets that belong to the Japanese people who live here. They can’t take them with their families to road camps or ghost towns. They can’t store animals away in the Buddhist Church.
I check the rooms upstairs. I check our bags. I’m so afraid I’m missing something we need, and that the belongings we’re leaving behind won’t be safe. I check the mailbox one more time. Still no letter from Jeanne.
When the bus comes, I kiss Koichiro good-bye. We don’t know when we’ll see each other again. I think Koki senses he won’t see his dad. He won’t stop crying. Koichiro doesn’t want to let him go. When he finally passes him to me, we hold each other close. If they took this wartime picture—the two of us with the baby nestled between—would we look like the enemy to them, or a heart breaking apart?
Excerpt from Obaasan’s Boots, by Lara Jean Okihiro and Janis Bridger, with permission of Second Story Press © 2023, p. 81-83Janis Bridger is an educator and writer who has many creative outlets and a love for the outdoors. She lives in Vancouver, Canada, close to where her Japanese Canadian grandparents lived before being interned. Janis earned a diploma in Professional Photography (Langara College), a Bachelor of Education and General Studies (Simon Fraser University) and a Master of Education (University of Alberta), specializing in teacher-librarianship. Social justice, diversity, and kindness are paramount in her life and embedded in her everyday teaching.Lara Jean Okihiro is a writer, researcher, and educator of mixed Japanese Canadian heritage living in Toronto. Intrigued by the power and magic of stories, she earned a Master’s (Goldsmiths College) and a Doctorate (University of Toronto) in English. Living abroad inspired her to learn about her family’s experience of internment. Lara writes about dispossession, hoarding, social justice, and carrying the important lessons of the past into the future.
caption...Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
Obaasan's Boots
by Lara Jean Okihiro and Janis BridgerSecond Story Press, 2023"They had everything taken from them because they were Japanese."
Cousins Lou and Charlotte don’t know a lot about their grandmother’s life. When their Obaasan invites them to spend the day in her garden, she also invites them into their family’s secrets. Grandma shares her experience as a Japanese Canadian during WWII, revealing the painful story of Japanese internment. Her family was forced apart. Whole communities were uprooted, moved into camps, their belongings stolen. Lou and Charlotte struggle with the injustice, even as they marvel at their grandmother’s strength. They begin to understand how their identities have been shaped by racism, and that history is not only about the past.
“A book that so beautifully captures the intimate and ongoing effects of internment on post war Japanese Canadian families. Bridger and Okihiro fully inhabit the idea that ‘history is not only about the past’ by tracing its present-day echoes and reverberations—in gardens, at dinner tables and through everyday familial relationships.”
Kyo Maclear, author of Virginia Wolf and The Wish Tree
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Janis Bridger & Lara Jean Okihiro | Issue 42
There’s nothing left to do but pack. I can’t put it off any longer.
Haunted by the image of the Ishii family’s things being carried out of their home while they were driven away, we stuff everything into a few rooms in the house and put locks on the doors. The kitchen table and chairs and all the furniture, the lamps, our pots and pans, our gramophone and records, all Koichiro’s books, and our bed. We cram things into attic spaces and under porches. We put our dishes and valuables in cabinets built into the walls and then plaster them over to camouflage them. We pack things in sturdy trunks and bring them to the Japanese Language School or the Buddhist Church. Surely the church is safe.
Before they left with the first group to Kaslo last week, Koichiro’s sisters stored cutting tables, sewing machines, and irons there—the remains of Masako’s dressmaking business. There’s not enough room in our house to store it all.
We also pack everything for the move. It’s so hard to decide what to take when you don’t know where you’re going or when you’ll be back. And somehow it all has to fit into one hundred and fifty pounds each, and seventy-five pounds for children—another government rule. Only what we can carry.
I take my sewing machine and a mattress. That way, I’ll be able to make clothes for the baby and me, and maybe I’ll get some mending work. And I’m not sleeping on a dirty floor!
Of course, I’m also taking our cast-iron rice pot. The rest is mostly clothes, sheets, and other necessities. I don’t know what to do about all our pictures and meaningful or expensive items, like my wedding dress. I want to take them with me, but they won’t fit. So, I pack the dress and photos in a box and leave it with Koichiro. One day, when we recover Koichiro’s pistol and my wedding dress, we’ll pass them on to our children and grandchildren as heirlooms. I repeat this to myself like a promise or a prayer. I have to believe it’s true.
I wonder what Mom and Dad will do with Toshi’s urn and ashes. I close my heavy eyes. What painful, terrible decisions we’re being forced to make.
When my packing’s settled, I start taking things apart. I rip up our towels—blue like the sky on Sea Island—into squares for extra diapers, and I rip the seams of my waistband and undergarments. Between the layers of my clothing, I carefully place folded bills and then sew the seams back up, hiding the money inside. Everything is coming apart. But at least this, and my baby, I can keep safe.
The day we’re leaving, I go to the garden one last time. The snow peas and kiwi vines are getting taller, but their soil is dry. We haven’t had time to care for them. The mound over the pistol is still there.
Last night I left food for the black cat one last time. “Good-bye. Take care of yourself,” I said. She looked right at me. And despite my dislike of cats, I ask Koichiro—who will be here a bit longer—to keep feeding her. I tell myself it’s silly to worry for a cat when so many of us are afraid. But it still feels important. Caring for the little things feels more necessary than ever before.
I wonder what will happen to all the pets that belong to the Japanese people who live here. They can’t take them with their families to road camps or ghost towns. They can’t store animals away in the Buddhist Church.
I check the rooms upstairs. I check our bags. I’m so afraid I’m missing something we need, and that the belongings we’re leaving behind won’t be safe. I check the mailbox one more time. Still no letter from Jeanne.
When the bus comes, I kiss Koichiro good-bye. We don’t know when we’ll see each other again. I think Koki senses he won’t see his dad. He won’t stop crying. Koichiro doesn’t want to let him go. When he finally passes him to me, we hold each other close. If they took this wartime picture—the two of us with the baby nestled between—would we look like the enemy to them, or a heart breaking apart?
Excerpt from Obaasan’s Boots, by Lara Jean Okihiro and Janis Bridger, with permission of Second Story Press © 2023, p. 81-83Janis Bridger is an educator and writer who has many creative outlets and a love for the outdoors. She lives in Vancouver, Canada, close to where her Japanese Canadian grandparents lived before being interned. Janis earned a diploma in Professional Photography (Langara College), a Bachelor of Education and General Studies (Simon Fraser University) and a Master of Education (University of Alberta), specializing in teacher-librarianship. Social justice, diversity, and kindness are paramount in her life and embedded in her everyday teaching.Lara Jean Okihiro is a writer, researcher, and educator of mixed Japanese Canadian heritage living in Toronto. Intrigued by the power and magic of stories, she earned a Master’s (Goldsmiths College) and a Doctorate (University of Toronto) in English. Living abroad inspired her to learn about her family’s experience of internment. Lara writes about dispossession, hoarding, social justice, and carrying the important lessons of the past into the future.
caption...Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
Obaasan's Boots
by Lara Jean Okihiro and Janis BridgerSecond Story Press, 2023"They had everything taken from them because they were Japanese."
Cousins Lou and Charlotte don’t know a lot about their grandmother’s life. When their Obaasan invites them to spend the day in her garden, she also invites them into their family’s secrets. Grandma shares her experience as a Japanese Canadian during WWII, revealing the painful story of Japanese internment. Her family was forced apart. Whole communities were uprooted, moved into camps, their belongings stolen. Lou and Charlotte struggle with the injustice, even as they marvel at their grandmother’s strength. They begin to understand how their identities have been shaped by racism, and that history is not only about the past.
“A book that so beautifully captures the intimate and ongoing effects of internment on post war Japanese Canadian families. Bridger and Okihiro fully inhabit the idea that ‘history is not only about the past’ by tracing its present-day echoes and reverberations—in gardens, at dinner tables and through everyday familial relationships.”
Kyo Maclear, author of Virginia Wolf and The Wish Tree
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Big heartfelt thanks to all of the subscribers and contributors who make this project possible!
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Sometimes I'm Gullible
Moose Lake in Jasper Park | Photo by Kathryn MocklerSometimes I’m Gullible—Okay Mom, we’re going to do a guided meditation. Close your eyes and imagine a mountain.
—Okay.
—Now you’re walking up the mountain.
—Okay.
—There are trees and birds and plants and moss all around. It’s a beautiful fall day. The leaves on the trees are turning yellow and red, and you’re making your way to the top of the mountain.
—Okay.
Silence.
—Mom.
—Yes.
—Are you still walking up mountain?
—Yes.
—Keep going. All the way to the top.
—I’m out of breath!
—Wait, what? You’re out of breath?
—I’m out of breath from walking up the mountain!
—Really?
—No, I’m just kidding.
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Collaborative Writing: First Lines
Photo by Neil Thomas on UnsplashWriting PromptThis is a writing exercise that you can do with another person, a group, or on your own.
Set a timer for 5-7 minutes and write a list of 10-20 or more unconnected sentences. Give each sentence its own line. Don’t think about what you are writing, just make sure you have a long list of sentences.
If you are writing collaboratively, then share your lines with the group.
Pick a line that you or someone else has written and that resonates with you. Then start with that line and keep writing for 10 minutes. Don’t think about what you are writing. Just keep your hand moving. If you get stuck, repeat the line your chose over and over until you get unstuck.
Create a story, poem, or play from the results.
For Inspiration“My Life is a Joke” by Sheila Heti, The New Yorker
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No Arms in the Arts Book Club #4
Toronto Event - November 7, 6-8 PM
Two Send My Love to Anyone contributors are participating in this event—Farzana Doctor and Sydney Hegele
NO ARMS IN THE ARTS BOOK CLUB #4
Thursday, November 7th 2024 From 6:00 pm – 8:00 pm ET
It’s Ok (468 Queen St W, Toronto, ON M5V 2B2)
For our final edition before the Giller gala—and our first in-person event—2018 Giller shortlist and CanLit Responds organizer Thea Lim speaks with Farzana Doctor, Spencer Gordon, Sydney Hegele, Greg Rhyno, Daniel Sarah Karasik (author of Disobedience) and others about their new releases and their commitment to withdrawing from the Giller Prize in solidarity with Palestine.
The No Arms in the Arts book club is a free, hybrid event series featuring the writers who have withdrawn from the Scotiabank-funded Giller Prize as an act of solidarity with Palestine. Taking place within a growing movement of writers who refuse to let their work be used to artwash genocide, this conversation will ground readers in the aesthetic considerations, ethical commitments, and material consequences of a literature that is rooted in liberation.
The No Arms in the Arts book club is endorsed by Massy Books, Another Story, Canthius, Invisible Books, Book*hug Press, Trace Press, and the Watermelon Coalition. If you wish to purchase a copy of one of the books showcased in the book club, please consider your local independent pro-Palestine bookstore like Another Story in Toronto, or buy directly from the publisher.
Access info: The event space is fully accessible. Masks mandatory. Please reach out to us at authorsrespond@gmail.com if you have any questions about the event.
Register for this free event.
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November 5, 2024
Mirrors
Taras Chernus on UnsplashOne thing I love to do is to create a story from a story.
I like to think about an image or detail from a story I admire and use that as a place to start from.
Steven Millhauser reinvents the symbol of mirrors to great effect in his chilling and startling story “Miracle Polish” (link below).
How can you reinvent the mirror? Or how can we see the mirror or see how a mirror can function in a new way in a story?
Here’s a mirror prompt that gets you to approach the mirror image by grounding it in character and getting you to engage in some self reflection.
Writing PromptThink about a character you want to write looking at themselves in a mirror.
What do they see or not see about themselves?
What does the mirror reveal or hide?
Where are they?
What kind of mirror is it?
Why are they looking in the mirror in this particular moment in time.
What is the setting where the mirror is located?
As an entry point, ask yourself what do you see or how do you feel when you look into the mirror?
Or try writing about what a blade of grass or an object or animal sees when it looks into the mirror as in the above photo.
For InspirationI should have said no to the stranger at the door, with his skinny throat and his black sample case that pulled him a little to the side, so that one of his jacket cuffs was higher than the other, a polite no would have done the trick, no thanks, I’m afraid not, not today, then the closing of the door and the heavy click of the latch, but I’d seen the lines of dirt in the black shoe creases, the worn-down heels, the shine on the jacket sleeves, the glint of desperation in his eyes. All the more reason, I said to myself, to send him on his way, as I stepped aside and watched him move into my living room. He looked quickly around before setting his case down on the small table next to the couch. I’d made up my mind to buy something from him, anything, a hairbrush, the Brooklyn Bridge, buy it and get him out of there, I had better things to do with my time, but there was no hurrying him as he slowly undid each clasp with his bony fingers and explained in a mournful voice that this was my lucky day.
Read “Miracle Polish” by Steven Millhauser in The New Yorker Fiction Podcast
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November 3, 2024
Send My Love to Anyone | Issue 41
Hello friends,
I’m writing to you as I am dealing with a case of Shingles. Not surprising after having a very busy month, I was bound to crash, and the crash brought with it some Shingles. I did catch it in time to get the anti-viral treatment thankfully. PSA - don’t fool around with a rash that forms a circle! Shingles can be very serious.
While I’m recovering, I’m excited to share with you the new issue of Send My Love to Anyone and to let you know about some SMLTA updates.
UpdatesSend My Love to Anyone has expanded with some new sections. As always everything is free for two months and the archive is available to paid subscribers. Thanks so much to the SMLTA paid subscribers who enable me to offer honorariums for unpublished writing and essays on the site. What a gift! I am honoured by your support of this newsletter.
Some of you may know that I have a separate Substack called Where Do I Start? which is focused on writing prompts and resources. I’ve decided to bring it over to Send My Love to Anyone instead of attempting to run two different newsletters. I’m always neglecting it, and thought it would be easier to manage over here. So if you’re a subscriber of the prompts, I’m migrating all the content to SMLTA and soon will be adding new content to Where Do I Start? It’s the same name—just a new location. All my writing resources and links now can now be found on the Send My Love to Anyone’s homepage while craft pieces will be located in the Words Count Section.
’s fabulous column The First Time is still going strong, and I have my own column called On My Mind where I write and post random things.
Send My Love to Books and Film will cover short and long reviews of poetry, fiction, essays, and films.
Please note that the Send My Love to Anyone newsletter will still be delivered once or twice a month. I like to keep the email releases infrequent because I don’t want to flood your inboxes. However, I’m always updating the website if you’re looking for something new to read between issues.
And now onto Issue 41!
Issue 41Issue 41, features new poetry by Christine Walde, an essay on Writing with Dissociative Identity Disorder by Lilian Nattel, and some short short fictions by Gary Barwin that are not part of his new collected stories. For OCD Awareness Week in October, I shared a story from Anecdotes. As always I offer readers Gatherings, a curated list of what I’m reading, listening to, and watching.
I’d also like to draw your attention to my prompt about doors, which is just about my favourite writing prompt of all time.
Book GiveawayI’m doing another book giveaway in November to support Palestinian families in Gaza. If you donate, send me an email or screenshot, and you’ll be entered in a book draw.
Please take care.
If you like this newsletter, consider subscribing or sharing!
xo
Kathryn
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Send My Love to Anyone | Issue 41That idea wasn’t mine. This product is known to contain chemicals that cause cancer. Add it up. What’s the answer. Statistics show that two-thirds of anything is one-third that’s not. My brain stem hurts. A flaming ball in space wearily makes its way to Earth. Stephen Hawking’s DNA. Clone that shit! Artisanal chocolate. Enough of this. Give me what I want.","size":"md","isEditorNode":true,"title":"Christine Walde | Issue 41","publishedBylines":[{"id":21201715,"name":"Kathryn Mockler","bio":"Kathryn Mockler is the author of Anecdotes (Book*hug Press) which was a finalist for the 2024 Trillium Book Award and shortlisted for the 2023 Danuta Gleed Literary Award. She teaches creative writing at the University of Victoria.","photo_url":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazon... My Love to Anyone","publication_logo_url":"https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f... My MindOne day as I was walking to school, I came upon a discarded burning-schoolhouse firework on the sidewalk, which was only burned on one side. A dud. I glanced at it and then attempted to continue on my way until I was struck by a force within me that I could not control. The force pulled me back toward the firework and said, You must …","size":"md","isEditorNode":true,"title":"Burning Schoolhouse","publishedBylines":[{"id":21201715,"name":"Kathryn Mockler","bio":"Kathryn Mockler is the author of Anecdotes (Book*hug Press) which was a finalist for the 2024 Trillium Book Award and shortlisted for the 2023 Danuta Gleed Literary Award. She teaches creative writing at the University of Victoria.","photo_url":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazon... My Mind","id":150466105,"type":"newsletter","reaction_count":1,"comment_count":0,"publication_name":"Send My Love to Anyone","publication_logo_url":"https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f... CountWhere Do I Start?
You start with an object, a door, and then move into the sensory details around that object, before you start thinking about conflict or characters or scenes.","size":"md","isEditorNode":true,"title":"Doors","publishedBylines":[{"id":21201715,"name":"Kathryn Mockler","bio":"Kathryn Mockler is the author of Anecdotes (Book*hug Press) which was a finalist for the 2024 Trillium Book Award and shortlisted for the 2023 Danuta Gleed Literary Award. She teaches creative writing at the University of Victoria.","photo_url":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazon... Do I Start? ","id":150243033,"type":"newsletter","reaction_count":0,"comment_count":0,"publication_name":"Send My Love to Anyone","publication_logo_url":"https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f... the ArchiveSupport Send My Love to Anyone
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Gary Barwin | Issue 41
Newer: Not New or Selected Short FictionSnow Globefor Ben Niespodziany
The Good Lord throws a snow globe against a tree. This is the church and this is the steeple. The world is broken fingers. They wrap themselves around a snow globe and shatter it against a tree. The tree reaches into the vault of heaven and gathers the snow globe of the world between its branches. I know what you're thinking. I know what you hope.
NocturneLike the night sky, the clarinet has ten thousand fingerholes. The clarinet has twenty thousand fingerholes. Because the world has ten thousand fingers. Twenty thousand. Would you wear the sweater of a serial killer if it had been thoroughly cleaned? Why or why not? And if you took away the sweater, what would be left?
How I Became A DeerIt was new science and I was happy to participate. My bones, my muscles, my nerves, my organs, my eyes. Almost everything except my skin. They extracted all of it and lay me out on a long table, a team of seamstress surgeons sewed a deer skin over me. My eyes aligned with its eyeholes, my legs slipped into the trousers of its legs. It wasn't an exact fit, some changes, small reworkings were necessary. Precise modifications to my original structure. It was only natural. And when they were done and I was ready to stand, they spoke to me quietly about my new life. A tail. Being a quadruped. Antlers. They’d attached the antlers onto me. They were the only solid parts of the deer, except, of course, the hooves, that I'd been given. I adapted quickly. I liked the hooves, antlers, my long body and my tawny skin. It was only after a few weeks that I wondered about my old skin. I remembered how cautiously they had removed it, sharp knives, held breaths, precise peelings back and rollings off. I stepped to the edge of the forest and peered out, careful to not to be observed. I saw my skin, my skin stretched over a slightly stooped and wary body. I knew it was the deer. The deer into whose skin I'd been sewn. I considered that now, stepping through the city, its neighbourhoods and downtown, there was a deer, dressed in clothes of course, but also in my skin. There was the deer acting human, wet eyes and smooth head, but walking quietly, keeping to corners, saying little. Remembering the trees and the multitudinous eyes of their leaves. Boarding elevators to the twenty-second floor and climbing into bed, the covers pulled to its long slim chin as it waited for others to arrive.
DreamIt’s an ancient dream, bees in the mouth instead of teeth, a mouth of bees instead of tongue, the breath, each organ—heart, lungs, liver—turned to flower. yeah, step-down transformer of late spring, the blood turned to buzzing and the figure-eight of bees. distant traffic on the wind and left-over leaves falling from the sky, my phone app identifies a red-tailed hawk unusual here, sleep glistening with words, honey-slow braid of warmth and fear.
Wedding SongThere’s a wedding in the valley of teeth, mouths fill the aisle. I don’t know if I’m going to be ok, the man in the burning building said. I love you so much. The best part of any story is the small dog, hardly noticed, not when all the people have heads made of cake and are forlorn.
To EndThe war to end all spoons. The war to end all clocks. The war to end all fingers. The war to end all clouds. The war to end all lizards. The war to end all moons. The war to end all coastlines. The war to end all mouths. The war to end all sand. The war to end all crevices. The war to end all kites. The war to end all whispers. The war to end all thumbs. The war to end all mountains. The war to end all puddles. The war to end all fires. The war to end all puppets. The war to end all extinctions. The war to end all birth coaches.
Gary Barwin is a writer, composer and multimedia artist, the author of 32 books including Scandal at the Alphorn Factory: New and Selected Short Fiction 2024-1984 (Assembly Press), the play Ovaryman (with Tom Prime) published in Dead Code and other dramatic entertainments. (Anti-Oedipus Press) and with Lillian Allen and Gregory Betts, Muttertongue (Exile Editions). garybarwin.com
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
Scandal at the Alphorn Factory: New and Selected Short Fiction, 2024-1984
by Gary BarwinAssembly Press, 2024Support Send My Love to AnyoneScandal at the Alphorn Factory: New and Selected Short Fiction, 2024–1984 couples brand new and uncollected stories with selections of the most playful and ambitious of Barwin’s previous collections, including Cruelty to Fabulous Animals, Big Red Baby, Doctor Weep and Other Strange Teeth, and I, Dr. Greenblatt, Orthodontist, 251–1457. Known as a “whiz-bang storyteller” who can deliver magical, dream-like sequences and truisms about the human condition in the same paragraph, Barwin’s trademark brilliance, wit, and originality are on display in this can’t-miss collection of short fiction.
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Big heartfelt thanks to all of the subscribers and contributors who make this project possible!
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Gatherings
No Arms in the Arts Toronto Event
Thursday, November 7th 2024, 6:00 pm - 8:00 pm ET, Toronto (venue TBD)
For our final edition before the Giller gala—and our first in-person event—2018 Giller shortlist and CanLit Responds organizer Thea Lim (An Ocean of Minutes) speaks with Farzana Doctor (The Beauty of Us), Spencer Gordon (A Horse at the Window), and several Toronto-based writers about their new releases and their commitment to withdrawing from the Giller Prize in solidarity with Palestine.
From the Draft Reading Series: An Archive of Care
November 22-24, 2024 | Entirely on Zoom.
What traces does care leave behind? Texts, images, scars, tears, belly-laughs, rituals, memories? For its 19th season, the Draft reading series has condensed our programming into a single weekend. Curators Kern Carter, Therese Estacion and Tyler Pennock have invited a stunning collection of authors to commemorate acts of care: giving and receiving, chosen or imposed, private, public or something in between.
A detailed version is available here.
To register, please use this form:
https://forms.gle/Fc8o9oXJZz2pf1HV7
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Calls for Submissionsex_puritan
A post shared by @ex_puritanRecommended Reading“Some memories never heal. Rather than fading with the passage of time, those memories become the only things that are left behind when all else is abraded. The world darkens, like electric bulbs going out one by one. I am aware that I am not a safe person. Is it true that human beings are fundamentally cruel? Is the experience of cruelty the only thing we share as a species? Is the dignity that we cling to nothing but self-delusion, masking from ourselves this single truth: that each one of us is capable of being reduced to an insect, a ravening beast, a lump of meat? To be degraded, damaged, slaughtered–is this the essential fate of humankind, one which history has confirmed as inevitable?”
— Human Acts by Han Kang
Percival Everett, Sally Rooney, Viet Thanh Nguyen, Kaveh Akbar, Michelle Alexander, Naomi Klein, Téa Obreht, Peter Carey, Jericho Brown, Natalie Diaz, Mary Gaitskill, Hari Kunzru, Rachel Kushner, Jhumpa Lahiri, Justin Torres, Raven Leilani, Susan Abulhawa, Valeria Luiselli, Jia Tolentino, Ben Lerner, Jonathan Lethem, Hisham Matar, Maaza Mengiste, China Miéville, Torrey Peters, Max Porter, Miriam Toews, Leslie Jamison, Layli Long Soldier, and Ocean Vuong are among the hundreds of prominent authors who have signed an open letter pledging not to work with “Israeli cultural institutions that are complicit or have remained silent observers of the overwhelming oppression of Palestinians.”
Read Hundreds of Authors Pledge to Boycott Israeli Cultural Institutions by Dan Sheehan in LitHub
Habiba’s SubstackThe silence of death is louder than all other sounds Between death and life, between fear and safety, between darkness and light. In our city, you can taste the taste of death in the alleys of the streets that have turned to ash. You know whenever you pass through the darkness of its alleys, you can smell the scent of death. We walk in the dark roads and empty streets and fear grips our hearts, whether we…Read more21 days ago · 15 likes · 5 comments · Quds Mon AmourIt is with great sadness that we note the passing of Roy Miki, professor emeritus in Simon Fraser University's Department of English. Professor Clint Burnham offers an overview of Roy Miki’s life and career:
In Memoriam: Roy Miki, professor emeritus, SFU
Fire!! was a pathbreaking showcase for Black artists and writers “ready to emotionally serve a new day and a new generation.”
Read A Radical Black Magazine From the Harlem Renaissance Was Ahead of Its Time by Jon Key in Hammer & Hope
Bhakti Shringarpure Recommends Writing by Hammour Ziada, Leila Aboulela, Amir Tag Elsir, and More
Today, Sudan and its glittering capital, Khartoum, are under siege as conflicts simmering for decades have manifested into full-blown war. Hundreds of thousands of people have already been displaced, the death toll is increasing, the country’s rich resources are being plundered, and the damage to architecture and infrastructure has become unimaginable.
Read To Understand a Country: 8 Immersive Novels About Sudan in LitHub
This story began as a fairy tale.
I was nineteen, an aspiring writer myself, when I first read the fiction of Alice Munro. Fresh out of an MFA program in my mid-twenties, I moved to Victoria and stumbled upon a job at a bookstore co-founded by my literary idol. For the next nine years, as head of social media at Munro’s Books, I proudly advertised this connection (“Yes, that Alice,” the shop’s website boasted), happy to fill in the blanks of our icon’s elusive public persona with a fantasy of motherly sacrifice—for her bookselling days had coincided with the parenting of her young daughters, a time that predates the current Government Street location. Munro herself never worked in that building, a neoclassical marvel with lofty ceilings and a loftier origin story.
Read Undoing the Fairy Tale of Alice Munro by Justina Elias in The Walrus
Last year, I went to the doctor to get a referral for two long overdue hip replacements. The week leading up to my doctor’s visit, I tried not to eat up all the sugar in the house. I prayed a lot. I assumed the worst. And the worst, at that point, was that this doctor, all the way up in New York, would tell me I had an incurable disease and I was going to die.
Read Letter from Home by Kiese Layman in The Bitter Southerner [Thanks to Carriane Leung for sharing this essay.]
New research reveals that people who are experiencing climate-related distress are more likely to engage in collective action. History, by contrast, shows that manufactured optimism can lead to complacency and the shirking of responsibilities.
In the 1990s, hope – coupled with doubt – was the fossil fuel industry’s antidote to the precautionary principle, the sensible idea that some problems had such dire implications that humanity should err on the side of caution even if the science was not completely settled. When George Bush was president, he was initially so concerned by the impact of fossil fuels on the climate that he looked into regulating the oil industry. But he backed away from this on the grounds that future generations would probably develop new technologies to solve the problem. Call that dumb, call that wishful thinking, or call that hope, the result was the same: no action.
Read Would abandoning false hope help us to tackle the climate crisis? by Jonathan Watts in the Guardian
On notetaking!
sweater weatherhow i'm taking notes (for now)Hello friends…Read more8 days ago · 108 likes · 22 comments · BrandonFeud(al)Codawe scum the fluid-slick world pebble, are 70% water, are an empire of aqueducts; we—extinguishing ourselves soon enough —know the fluttering formations of jacaranda seeds can find quiet only in the hollow we are becoming © Tolu Oloruntoba…Read more18 days ago · 3 likes · 2 comments · Tolu OloruntobaRead ’s “Coda”
Many of us who have spoken out against Israel’s war on Gaza have not only opposed the war, but also drawn connections between the violence there and other interlocking crises: mass death and displacement in Sudan, the Congo and Haiti; the disparity between U.S. military funding for war and funding for escalating climate catastrophes; the expansion of carceral systems, including surveillance and militarization of policing; and the increased criminalization of dissent following the racial justice protests in 2020, quelling connections between the global and the domestic. Suppression of dissent also suppresses connections between people and communities in a time of organized abandonment, a time when we need each other even more.
Read Literary Institutions Are Pressuring Authors to Remain Silent About Gaza by Lisa Ko in truthout
Writing for People Who Hate WritingWrite Because You Want To“I have dreamed…Read more19 days ago · Jessica JohnsonRead Write Because You Want To by Jessica Johnson
jacob_wren_writer
A post shared by @jacob_wren_writerFrom A Queen Without a Country: Nate Lippens, Interview in Full Stop
Recommended ViewingNight of the Living Dead (1968)
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November 2, 2024
Christine Walde | Issue 41
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MicrodoseText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThat idea wasn’t mine. This product is known to contain chemicals that cause cancer. Add it up. What’s the answer. Statistics show that two-thirds of anything is one-third that’s not. My brain stem hurts. A flaming ball in space wearily makes its way to Earth. Stephen Hawking’s DNA. Clone that shit! Artisanal chocolate. Enough of this. Give me what I want.At My Signal Unleash HellText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedWhatever happened to Paris Hilton? Fraud. Afraid to be found out. The midnight cry of gulls confused by neon daylight. This is what the future looks like. It was all personal to me. Boxing kangaroos and octopi. Real pecan wood. Scraping wet vanilla bean. We reach the summit. Take the girls to the sheik. Maggots fester, healing the wound. Heads are gonna roll.MillenniumText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedMore sparkle is necessary. Defeat the beasts from the evil planet. X always marks the spot. We strive for meaning; we’ve lost our way. Meet me in the parking lot. What have you got to say? Shout it from the sidewalk, let us know you’re cray cray. Between luminous bouts of sleep, I dream words half-mouthed, half-heard, morphing and shifting as bubbles in front of my face. RIP Carrie Fisher. Make the jump to hyperspace.MonocultureText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedIn the years that followed. Prediction’s splinter. Wait after permissions. Dolorous entrances. Contamination. Memory spits in phosphorescent sawdust, vacuums. Shells glimmer on the iridescent floor of mirrors. The DMT elevator, zoom in: o the horror. Instigating mischief, poking a hole. Tearing at the picture, lifting from a corner.ParabiosisText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe millennials of Silicon Valley are banking their blood for the future. At the variety store beside the DQ in the small strip mall: Protect Your Identity Shred Here. Shaking the delicate hand of the plastic surgeon. Yes, there’s an app for that. Our data defines us. Play this at 33 RPM. I’m a social butterfly. Watch me flit. Download my preservation aura.Titles For AnythingText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe Singularity Turing Test. Natural Language Terms And Conditions. Metahuman Technological Determinism. Signal Processing. Cybernetic Totalism. Second Order Expressionism. Hive Mind Output. Viral Stoner. Mulholland Ambrosia. Jazzercize Party Animal. Eight Of Swords Eraser. Desert Island Thong. Absentia Headache. Neruda Cichli. Nerve Agent Assassin. Polonium Apothecary. Futurist Waistcoat Whistleblower. The Grey Hazards Of Leisure. The Mental Load. Shingle Spit Still Life With Two Eagles. Off Grid Granite. Chronic Corner. Katie Moore’s Law. Coke Sign Gel Nail Polish. The Experienced. Single Use Architecture. Late Bus. Mojave Phone Booth. Surviva Liferaft. Kid Zone Panpsychism. Sober Ways Of Dealing With A Dead Sibling. Garden Bay Lake Charades. Chuck-A-Nut Fire Island. Bitcoin Pacific Challenger. Blockchain Refraction Network. Summit Fingerlings. Bunion L’origine. Mainland G-Spot Taboo. Cassini Berth. Subliminal Satan Decision Theatre. Bhag Danger Pay. Music For Smart Moontime Children. Cup Nation Troubador. Margarita Fujiwhara Effect. Skycheck General Strike. Stewardess. Hill Of The Muses. Cruising Altitude Debt Dynamics. Cabin Crew Collect Call. Instagram Athena. Woman Alive. Zone Three Austerity Colony. 05m05s. Fuschia Bites. Charlie Gibbs Fracture Zone. Future Didactics. Dirty Writers. Orbit Insertion. Peinture De Feu Sans Titre. Nostromo. Ridon Burial Of The Geometric Period. Colonnes San Fin. Self-Destruct Atelier. Hot Wrap. Boundary Stone Of The Archaic Fountain. Laptop Mafia Eucalyptus. La Coeur Sur Deux Chaises. Looking At Blue. Ergodic Dreams. In C Formulae. Tassel Bag. Polyhedral Tuna. The State Of The Worry. Le Kid. Window Seat. Zona Fumatori. La Source. Ruins. The Void Devouring The Gadget Era. Silver Bedhead. Aqua Alta Peaches. The Epley Manoeuvre. Cocco Shock. Spritz Pudenda. Aphrodite. False Flags. Primary Coordinates. Zika Blunt Explosives. Liquidator Underlinings. How To Live In A Bikini. Winter Booty Tan. Bifolia Travel Bug. Starfish Prime. Biologica Reserva Mandala. Vampire Kill. TV Or Not TV. Denver Iguana Boot. Nardil. Sin Salida. Playa Beckett. The Long Room. Ways Of Seeing A Seashell. Semper Liber. Juicyfruit Warp. Mothership. Autonomous Sensory Meridien. bill bissett. Pura Vida Gridwing. Command Eye Riptide Reef. The Notebook Messenger. Two Degrees. Surfo. Snow Day. Ruling Patterns. Precariat. Space, Inc. Meditation On A Box. Ancestor Simulation Spelunker. To Do List. Vault 7. Simulation Theory. Dinner Party Inside Job. Catch As Catch Can Hydra Loop. Sober. Empty Threats. Raymond Pettibon Gasoline Nukes. EKG Whoosh. Wall Label Coming Soon. Original Housing. The Strength Of Weak Ties. Fake Screen Time. The Real World. Free WiFi. Breakaway Market Value. Time Travel Chord Progression. Torrefaction Foncée, Extinction Elegies. DMT Biobag. Drugs. Executive Control. The Consensus Of Truth. David Bowie And Peter Frampton Search For A Beer In Madrid. Gone Grey. Your Mission. The Water Age. Busy. The Obstacle Is The Opportunity. Sweet Jamz. Weeping Angel Failure. Surveillance Capitalism Red Wings. Action Academic Freedom. Triple XXX Infinity Comb. Marble Juggler Of Gravity. Ulysses Cloud Chamber. Continental Shelf Life. Perfect Binding. Glory Ice Box Cookie. Fidelity. Sob Story. Theoretical Armature. Chorus. DJ Funeral. Spring Concert. Live Reef. A Note About Pronouns. Mister Lady Miss Dandy. Liberty Screenshot Wish List. Shipping Containment. Piston Of The Draft. Negatives Pace. Butterflied Reams. Debt Of Nations. Anthropocene Economics. The Two Moons Of Earth. Wishing Chair. Before The Internet. After The Internet. Not It. Nihilist Milkshake. Made In China. Organs Of Perception. Fugitive Asteroid. A Diamond In Your Mind. Brides And Bachelors. Zone Apollinaire. Killer Bass. Synonyms For Void. Introspection Engine. Sir Tim Berners-Lee. Saint Artemisia. Starfucker. Swimming After A Sailing Ship Already Sailed. There Are No Original Ideas Anymore. Constant Apocalypse. Forever Beyond Our Ken Doll. Quincy Jones Daydream. High Jump. Egg. The Epoch Of The Masters Of Levitation. Stars Of The Lidless. Considering The Sexual Styles Of Many Modernist Men. Obsolescence Report. Disaster Planning. Purple Haze Phase. Chinook Cookbook. Everything You Did As A Balloon. Surveyor. No Touch. Ultimate Check. The Hoodie Gone Glam. Privacy Commissioner Moonlights In Vermont. Reilluminations. Virtual Reality Drawing Board. Operating Systems. Second Ferry Rumours. Mystery Machine. Quiver. Vellum Intentions. The Agitator. Backward Going. The Kingdoms Of Story. Feather Star Virus. Biology Of The Book. Light Sails Futurology. Lagtime Microdose Laser. Deep Space Integration Nanocraft. AI Roster Notan. CYMK Moon Hookers. The Magnificent Isaac Hayes. Prussian Blue Suicide Mission. Digital Shadow Aura. Mic D’Echo. The Hypersurface Of Simultaneity In Laws Of Motion. Kung Fu Rose. Retinal Parabiosis. Verge Escarpment. Social Butterfly Playbook. GPS Dart. Current Location Installation. The Auction. An Americano In Paris. Endangered Worldline. Absolute Elsewhere. Pray For Aleppo. Magic Eye Mobile Order. Unknown Square. #NYE17. Weather Reporter Aircraft Carrier. Qubit 5.0. Gen X Dynamics. Cheetah Slug. Chilled Champagne Chamber. German Saboteur Cache. Rainbow Flick. The Physiological Optics Of Stereoscopy And Persistence In Sound And Vision. Womanifesto. Sex Maniac Authority Control. The Knitters. Haunted Topic Modelling. Obstetric Phantoms. Acid Soccer Mom Jeans Wash Day. Stud File. Anchoress. Catalogue Confessionale. Domestiques. Alien Midlife Crisis. Ontological Dynamos. Helicopter Flight Path. Capsule Wardrobe Costume Change. Pandorra La Vella. Nude Leopardtard. Zero Subfield. Active Passing Lane. Fourth Wall Kombucha Scobie. The Tempters. Space Junk Foot Passenger. Full Cream Ice Cream Orange Scream Sickle Circle Sandwich. Armour For Man And Horse. Eye Of Tiffany Ra. The Alpe D’Huez Affair. Maya Codex. Pornographer. The Word For Arrow. Dubsar. MOOCS On Mars. The Logic Of Paper. Abandoned Library. Paintings of Frequency. Male Fantasy Horror Movie. Langue Privée. Mirror Island Sneeze. Taboo La Raza. Morning Cleaning. Remote Control Threshold. Bengal Lounge Vestibule. We Are Open. Reality Cheque. NASA Suitcase. Solar Sunset. Christine Walde (she/her) is an artist, poet, and academic librarian whose work combines library and archival research with interests in artists' books and multiples, experimental poetry, prose, visual poetry, performance, and the visual arts. Her work has been published in print and online in Canada, the US, the UK, and Germany, and has been exhibited both locally and internationally. Her artists' books are held in both private and institutional collections, including the Art Gallery of Ontario. Walde is the Fine Arts & Grants and Awards Librarian at the University of Victoria Libraries and lives on the traditional territory of the Lekwungen people in the Cascadia Bioregion of the Pacific Northwest. www.christinewalde.comSupport Send My Love to AnyoneSupport Send My Love to Anyone by signing up for a monthly or yearly subscription, liking this post, or sharing it!
Big heartfelt thanks to all of the subscribers and contributors who make this project possible!
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