The Revolution is Now

I definitely think Courtney the Spy is on to something. Somebody IS out to get us. But it's not who we think. So Agent C., count me in. We gotta be one step ahead of them. I'll be your sidekick in the land of spies, big ideas, truth and seeking. You know what's what; I had suspected this previously and only added in the DOUBLE AGENT comment to gauge your reaction to be sure of your allegiances. But at the hospitality suite late into the night last night after The Play's the Thing, I knew you could be trusted. We sized them all up, the drunken playwrights, poets, deemed them worthy. Got right to the heart of the matter. They're in on it too and can be trusted. The Revolution is happening and it's right in front of us at the Festival. So yes, I'll be the Robin to your Bat-Man. Moustache or otherwise. We gotta keep this festival safe from infiltrators. It's never been more important.

This was the scene as I left work yesterday, wanting to get back to another BIG IDEAS at Millennium. But I never got there. The police had Main Street all blocked off.

The authorities are getting restless. They know something is afoot. They're trying to stop us.



As I began snapping a few photos, you know, in case, who do I see stroll by? If you can believe it, one of the Thin Air Attendees I had met at the BIG IDEAS session w/ David Carpenter the previous day. I was shocked. What a coincidence. But I've learned at the festival this year there is no such thing as a coincidence. The astute and helpful festival-goer shall remain unnamed to protect his/her identity. But suffice it to say s/he reminded me of Freedom of Expression and to Be Ready. Knowing glances were exchanged.

There are more of us out there than what we might think. And we're ready. For the Revolution.

And I think Charlene knows much more than what she's saying. And is indeed the one behind it all anyway. The Festival is the front, so to speak, albeit, it's doing the work too, the work to get us to revolution.

Jay Diaz, fear not. She's just testing you with her jabs, her bobs and weaves. To make sure you're strong enough. Your drunken monkey kung fu is good, my friend. You're ready.

It's nearly time, people. You can smell it in the September air, feel it in the audience as they take in the words, the wine, creative flow. You can see it in festival-goers' eyes when you see them in the city, on the street. Call on Akna, Charlene. Folks, call on your goddesses or knomes, your own inner artist. Cover yourself in mud. Embrace the proud beaver, the moon-phases of our Canadian landscape.

It's the dawning of a new age (isn't that what they were talking about in the 60s, the coming of the Age of Aquarius?). The "pseudo fascist Canadian government" is going down.

Thank you, Greg MacArthur, and your rousing call to action from Main Stage last night in your daper (orange-plaid!) ensemble from Ragpickers. You're right, the world is waking up.

And thank you for asking, kevin mcpherson eckhoff, denim jacket and all, poetry is life. And you're doing it now. Be the Che to Charlene's Fidel. Bring the Great Exchange of Ideas all the way West when you go home to the Okanagan. Then we have the whole country covered (well, except Vancouver and Victoria, but we'll deal with them later.)

A new world, a new beginning. And Charlene, her Thin Air Minions, and all Festival-goers alike are leading the charge.

To Art. And Love. Poetry. Plays. To Wine and Cheese. Blogger Hugs. Jumping in all the way, not looking back, like only melancholy writers can. And pouringdownrain that lets you see right through to your own heart.

We can't be stopped. The Revolution is now. And Thin Air is the breeding ground for revolutionaries.

See you in the streets, in the woods, in the deep dark night or blinding sun, all over the place, everywhere.

**

Stacy drove to Winnipeg in two days and five hours from Clydesdale, Nova Scotia. She only planned to stay for a year, but it has been four already, because this city keeps you, holds you. Though she works at a corporate publishing company, she has learned about writing, art, urban living, praying mantis kung fu, cycling, goddesses, and the middle while here. She hopes to figure something out about preserving, wool, gentleness, Mandarin, and movement. And, always, poetry. For the duration. Email Stacy at anastasie.doiron@gmail.com.

Wednesday Night Pics...

The Great Exchange between the Art Communities of Atlantica and Prairieville has already begun in earnest, friends. (Watch out Stephen Harper. Watch out Sam Katz. We're talkin bout a revolution.)

Craig Francis Power rolled into town this morning from Newfoundland in a magic wheelbarrow, departing westward right after his book launch in St. John's last night. I like your plaid shirt, sir, as well as your book Blood Relatives. Your reading made me lament the misplacement of my accent. Bring more plaid shirts next time you come here, Craig. Lord tunderin jayzuz.

Sharon McCartney nearly had us all rolling in the aisles with her poems, including one from the voice of Marie Antoinette seconds after the guillotine dropped its silver fist ("a short poem" ha!) and one channelling a lusty Dorothy who has the hots for The Tin Man that set the audience a'titter, pleasantly. Sharon arrived to us from lovely Fredericton and had a leisurely, though vibrate-y, journey to Winnipeg in a coffee-propelled hovercraft. Nevermind that there is no actual way to get here by water all the way (hmmm, or is there?... Saint John River, St. Lawrence, Red River...) but the JavaHopper is amphibious as well as environmentally sound, so no worries. Sharon! You can recruit me anytime for your Railing Against Things movement. Dear Readers, get her book of poems, For and Against!


Marjorie Poor won the draw for all the books that were read tonight. Lucky! (I keep fillin out those ballots, but...)
Marjorie is one of my favourite people in Winnipeg, though I don't know her that well, but I often see her at literary events out and about.
A shout out to Sarah Klassen who helped convince Marjorie I should take her picture.
Marjorie... what are you favourite books?! Like ever, I mean.


Michael Wex signs a copy of his book for me.
It'll be hilarious if tonight's reading is any indication.
"Like The Godfather but without the crime," his book details the life and times of a noodle kugel-eating old fellow whose dying words are, "Of course I'm alright. I'm a blogosphere celebrity."
I've been trying to get through Skinny Legs and All for months, but The Frumkiss Family Business is next on the list.


At the very end of the night, theatre all but empty, four writers remain standing:
Michael Wex, Craig Francis Power, Sandra Birdsell, Sharon McCartney.
Also, four wine glasses missing, says bartender.
Coincidence? I think not.

* * *

Stacy drove to Winnipeg in two days and five hours from Clydesdale, Nova Scotia. She only planned to stay for a year, but it has been four already, because this city keeps you, holds you. Though she works at a corporate publishing company, she has learned about writing, art, urban living, praying mantis kung fu, cycling, goddesses, and the middle while here. She hopes to figure something out about preserving, wool, gentleness, Mandarin, and movement. And, always, poetry. For the duration. Email Stacy at anastasie.doiron@gmail.com.

Woods Versus City - nature wins every time

Rain. Late.
Drenched posterior on two wheels - on way from work to home (to pick up overdue books) to library for BIG IDEAS w/ David Carpenter - encountered:

• cars cars cars
• nearly clocked by one car on Notre Dame
  
• stared down by anti-abortion activists circling HSC
• elderly man (won't say gentleman b/c he was far too chippy) w/ cane ambling across Toronto Street cursing at passing car because it was there and even stopped for him
  
• potholes that add years
  
• lakes of scummy rainwater between traffic and curbs
  
• barricades blocking one-way streets
• cut off by tour bus (probably carrying the Chicago Blackhawks) near MTS Centre
  
• cars cars cars
  

Came to dripping halt right outside Millennium doors. Arrived at Carol Shields Auditorium on second floor, only five minutes late.

The Big Idea? Nature.
The reverence for it, respect. The solitude and serenity it can provide.

And David Carpenter rocks.
Self-proclaimed old fart and ex-hunter, he was irresistibly refreshing, kind, astute in his comments and answers, affable. He slowed down the pace of the entire day, in a good way. Allowed focus, clarity. An hour of calm. I'd listen to him, chat with him, any day, way more than I would Poe's raven or the Ancient Mariner.

Am also intrigued by "The Return of Artemis," a chapter in one of his books. The huntress. David says women are increasingly turning to hunting, more than anyone. Even more than aliens, which we all kind of are anyway, at least to moose.

And he knows how to get right to the core, doesn't he, albeit gently.

He asked me, "Do you willingly live in the city?"

Sigh.

Alright, David Carpenter, I'm moving to the woods. I just might need you to teach me how to hunt, though. My naturopath says I must eat meat.

(Also... may or may not have seen Courtney The Spy there. But if so, I am inclined to believe she's a DOUBLE AGENT. The plot thickens. May need to move to woods for my own safety as I am not sure of intentions and allegiances of said Spy; and I overheard this agent say her father used to hunt, and so he may have passed skills on to her so I may not be safe in woods either. Tricky.)

Ok, off to Main Stage, Family Business. Late! Feet soaked, wool socks funky. Going anyway, with or without rubber boots.


David Carpenter.
A Hunter's Confession
Inspiring fellow.
Please tell me what muskeg is. And coolies.
And how to get to the Wild Hay Valley.


Rubber boots in audience.
We all need a pair. City or Woods.

The Return of Artemis, dawn of a new age, people.
Somethin's happenin up there in the atmosphere.
Long gun registry or otherwise.

She's comin back.

Pick your wild zone.

**

Stacy drove to Winnipeg in two days and five hours from Clydesdale, Nova Scotia. She only planned to stay for a year, but it has been four already, because this city keeps you, holds you. Though she works at a corporate publishing company, she has learned about writing, art, urban living, praying mantis kung fu, cycling, goddesses, and the middle while here. She hopes to figure something out about preserving, wool, gentleness, Mandarin, and movement. And, always, poetry. For the duration. Email Stacy at anastasie.doiron@gmail.com.

Monday Night Pics...

My Mom, Dorothy, picked up a copy of Theodore Fontaine's Broken Circle: The Dark Legacy of Indian Residential Schools.

She was in town with my Dad, Paul, for a week. My Mom loves northern Manitoba and lived in three different communities there, God's Lake Narrows, St. Teresa's Point and Garden Hill, where she taught early years school children. My Mom also has much better style than I do.


Carolyn Smart's Hooked chillin with smart red couch;
"Life is murder. Art is worse."
Carolyn is a great reader, very expressive.


I like Eva Wiseman and would like to have coffee with her.
I like her hair and her jacket. Vibrant.


Audience member Leanne Fournier buying a copy of Eva's book Puppet for her daughter, Angela. Leanne, I like your scarf and your smile. Angela, be good to your Mom.

**
Stacy drove to Winnipeg in two days and five hours from Clydesdale, Nova Scotia. She only planned to stay for a year, but it has been four already, because this city keeps you, holds you. Though she works at a corporate publishing company, she has learned about writing, art, urban living, praying mantis kung fu, cycling, goddesses, and the middle while here. She hopes to figure something out about preserving, wool, gentleness, Mandarin, and movement. And, always, poetry. For the duration. Email Stacy at anastasie.doiron@gmail.com.

Manitoba-Maritimes Underground Network Looking for You

There are two things I know this morning: I love fog and I miss my parents already. They were here for a week, and if Air Canada does it's thing (doubtful), they took off from the Winnipeg tarmac twenty-eight minutes ago. I can count on less than one hand (can you do that?) the times I've seen fog enfolding itself around Winnipeg and the times I get to see my Mom and Dad here. So I got to have both last night, fog and my Mom and Dad... at the first Main Stage show no less. Ok, I can't help it; I'm a little melancholy this morning. They're headed back east (the actual east, not Ontario) and I'm installed in my cubicle; my lungs miss fog and my lonely heart misses family. But we had a good time last night at the Re-Writing History show, and I'm glad they got to take in at least one Thin Air event. And meet a good friend of mine who shall remain nameless for the moment because s/he brought a lovely bottle of peach liqueur and shared it with my Dad who said it was delicious. We were sitting near the back. (Sorry, Michael Lista if we were rowdy-ish towards the end of the show; you were right in front of us.)

My Dad the electrical engineer was here for a conference about lightning and grounding. Before an Aqua Books event the other night (On the Same Page panel), I overheard him telling Chandra that if you're caught in a lightning storm it's best to stand on one leg, not under a tree and not holding metal. You can't tell me engineers aren't poets. (I think my Dad liked Michael Van Rooy, too, but we're shy sorts sometimes so didn't talk to him, even though he seems very friendly and approachable.)

Anyhow, last night my Dad quite liked Carolyn Smart's poem "Ardent" from her book Hooked, which contains seven poems from the perspective of seven different women. "Ardent" captures Elizabeth Smart's voice, of course the lady who wrote "By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept," which has to be one of the best titles out there. Dad jotted this quote down from Carolyn's reading of "Ardent":

"Life is murder. Art is worse."

Indeed. What else can you say?

I dragged them around to some of the places I haunt in Winnipeg. They are definitely more patient than I am. And I'm quite sure I'd drive them crazy if they had to be around me all the time or if they couldn't go back to their house in the countryside... Though all three of us agreed we quite liked Eva Wiseman and Carolyn Smart's readings best.

And last night brings me back to fog. I really think the prairies (what I have seen of them anyway... I haven't been west of Brandon yet, yikes, so Manitoba anyway) and the Maritimes (which doesn't include Newfoundland by the way, not that I have anything against Newfoundland, but if you want to include The Rock then you have to say the Atlantic Provinces, and I think for these purposes, geographically and otherwise, it's best to put limits and say the Maritimes), especially Nova Scotia have a lot in common and we should band together and make things happen. Make art happen. Life and Art. Damnit. We can just bypass Ontario, stop for croissants in Quebec, and get right to it. Maybe my Dad the engineer and my engineer brothers can rig up some sort of easy, eco-friendly transport device so all the artists between Manitoba and the Maritimes can flow freely between... salt ocean air and clear blue prairie sky, rolling green hills and jovial flatness all in the same day; this could change us, could change the world. I hear there's an artist in town already who regularly rides the rails between Winnipeg and Halifax. If you know anything about this idea, tell me, share, put it out there. I think there's lots of fodder here, lots of grounded, colourful, self-driven and determined folk, lots of beauty and connection to nature; and goshdarnit we know how to get things done, yep. G'wan now (Go on now), as my Mom says. Let's get 'er done. The relationship would be mutually beneficial and supportive. It's not about taking over the country, because you know, we would have already if we really wanted to, but we have better things to do; we're better doing our own thing, on our own terms.

Do you have Manitoba-Maritimes Underground Network (or a better name) ideas? We can save the grain silos and lighthouses, or use them to make solar villages, treehouses, art and music...

I don't know what exactly this has to do with Re-Writing History, but I have a few ideas, ahem. Email me yours or post a comment. I think it's more about where we're going though, the movement forward... what we can do now...


**

Stacy drove to Winnipeg in two days and five hours from Clydesdale, Nova Scotia. She only planned to stay for a year, but it has been four already, because this city keeps you, holds you. Though she works at a corporate publishing company, she has learned about writing, art, urban living, praying mantis kung fu, cycling, goddesses, and the middle while here. She hopes to figure something out about preserving, wool, gentleness, Mandarin, and movement. And, always, poetry. For the duration. Email Stacy at anastasie.doiron@gmail.com.

September Air

When I walk down sidewalks now, autumn, true autumn in this city is Thin Air, is about writing, words, and a clean slate, a time to be less small and more brave. The air is different, catches you, wakes you up. Our pendulum days that chill you to the bone but for mugs of tea, and the was-just-wearing a sarong-last-week, but-I-didn't-get-to-Gimli-yet, frost-could-wreck-the-last-stalks-of-rhubarb, I-have-no-idea-where-my-winter-coat-is-and-I-refuse-to-find-it, kind of cold. The kind of air that only lasts a few breaths of days, before winter hits and we're on to other things, survival. The air where for a few days our world seems suspended.

September. Pull on your wool sweater. Lock the door behind you. Step into the chilly evening, already surprisingly dark. Not in too much of a rush. Feel crisp, clear air through you. Breathe in memory, exhale present.

Head over to Main Stage.

I remember my first Thin Air: 2006. I had just moved to Winnipeg and had only been here a month, and I knew exactly one person in the city. I didn't know anyone in the writing community, but back east Anne Simpson had tipped me off about the existence of Winnipeg's writers' festival. I came across one of the glossy, free programs and that was that. I couldn't tell you what writers I saw at Main Stage that week the first year. I was just happy to be somewhere, literally in from the cold, and listen to someone speaking their own words to a warm audience. I could sit at the back with my toque pulled over eyebrows, drink my glass of white, wear an ugly plaid shirt from the 90s, and no one minded. I didn't have to say anything. I just had to be there. That's something, and it felt pretty important, good, hopeful. For someone who felt like she had no place in this city, for one week out of that year I had one.

All those years we groan about the end of summer, the sadness in the pit of stomach, the coming of September, school, whatever that might mean for you... maybe that's still there a bit.... But one of the best things I've learned in Winnipeg so far is that September doesn't have to be a time of endings necessarily; it is one of beginnings.

Thin Air had a hand in turning that one over in my head for me, drawing me in and linking me with this city when it could've been easier to leave, head for higher, warmer ground.

The air is pretty damn good here, I'd say.

What is it to you, September air?

Hope to see you at the festival!

**

Stacy drove to Winnipeg in two days and five hours from Clydesdale, Nova Scotia. She only planned to stay for a year, but it has been four already, because this city keeps you, holds you. Though she works at a corporate publishing company, she has learned about writing, art, urban living, praying mantis kung fu, cycling, goddesses, and the middle while here. She hopes to figure something out about preserving, wool, gentleness, Mandarin, and movement. And, always, poetry. For the duration.

Hands on: Stacy Doiron

This is Stacy's first year blogging.

I'm looking forward to getting to know her. You should too.