unidentified fiction remains and the true nature of banff

I recently spent a week at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity as part of celebrating the University of Alberta's Writer-in-Residence 50th anniversary [and there was even a livestreamed showcase reading by the group of us, which I posted about over here]. I honestly can't fully process all the adventures during that week, with a group of writers it would have been stellar to see even individually, let alone as part of a group. And did I mention I briefly got to meet Daniel MacIvor? (and yes, I know it's a Brad Fraser title I mangled, above). MacIvor was in Twitch City, you know, which was a small work of genius. And did you see him recently in an episode of Law and Order: Toronto? I got to hang out with Michael Barnholden and Adèle Barclay, meet writers such as Ryanne Kap, Sharanpal Ruprai and Conor Kerr. The wealth of the company was staggering.

We had a week, most of which was our own. We caught meals, although I was at breakfast first, most mornings. My body said, 8am, time to get up [although post-karaoke, I missed breakfast altogether, which allowed ryan fitzpatrick that morning's first slot]. One morning I even managed an hour's work before leaving my room, and another, about half an hour's work before anyone else showed up for coffee and morning what-nots. While there, I was attempting to further my novel-in-progress, the one that rests somewhere between On Beauty (2014) and the follow-up, downstream from Missing Persons (2009); a novel that follows the threads of a handful of folk who don't necessarily interact, but exist within the same stretch of relative time. I hadn't presumed I could finish it, but after a week sitting within its pages (and at least four days prior attempting to re-enter), I think I can now actually see that light at the end of the tunnel. The week included a planned dinner or two, a karaoke night (and second round, given it was so successful) and a trip to town (which I did skip, needing to sit at my desk). We had our big showcase reading, which was incredible.

J.R. Carpenter [see my review of Carpenter's latest here] has a collaborative app you should check out, This Is Not A Good Sign, a curious eco-poetic of phrases one can overlay atop photographs, presumably of landscapes or whatever else, I was playing with while there. I spent the week taking the occasional picture as part of such, a number of which I did post over at Instagram, and am hoping to continue on same, here and there. It was very cool to hang with ryan fitzpatrick [see my review of fitzpatrick's latest here], get some good conversations with Fred Wah and Daphne Marlatt, get to learn (or learn better) folk such as Conor Kerr, Cody Caetano, Joshua Whitehead [see my review of Whitehead's latest here], Jason Purcell [see my review of Purcell's latest here]. Caetano's memoir is so remarkably, powerfully, good. I read much of it on the flight out. And so many other folk were around, there, participating, wandering through or wandering by. You probably already know I produced a handful of chapbook titles for the week as well, by myself, Fred Wah, Daphne Marlatt, J.R. Carpenter, ryan fitzpatrick and Derek Beaulieu. Copies were distributed free to all the participants, with a small handful left over for the reading event (further copies will be distributed through the University of Alberta Department of English and Film Studies, prod at Jordan Abel if you wish for copies, he has a bunch).

I worked to further this novel, as well as attempting a "Banff notebook" project, akin to "the green notebook," a journal-essay stretch from that week I'm still working to hammer into some kind of publishable form, with the hopes to start posting excerpts from same across my substack real soon. There were drafts of a poem, however slow. Sketch-notes. There might be something else, also. I am thinking through the bounds of a poem, certainly.

This was my first time spending any length of time at Banff Centre (beyond two days in May 2008 I don't really count, as I never quite landed and didn't know anything or anyone, so kept fallow).

There were quiet conversations and loud gatherings, languid stretches of walking solo, working solo, walking to town. I made a bad joke at a museum [a solid joke, really], and lost my breath singing, and walking, and standing [higher altitude, you know]. I took a big swing attempting a song from Frozen 2 at karaoke, which didn't quite land (but big swings are the point, certainly). I saw two full days of snowfall, and an overcast so complete, they put the mountains away for safety, only returning them once it cleared. I stayed out too late with writers, and the one night all the writers crashed, I stayed out too late with playwrights. I bought a t-shirt the wrong size, and had dessert with every meal. I got some nice time with Derek Beaulieu, and saw his office, far more ordered than had it been mine. 

Oh, and our final night there, as Thomas Wharton, Marilyn Dumont and I were walking through town back from dinner, catching a group singing loudly hey now, you're a rock star, get your game on, hey, and realizing the group was all dressed as characters from the Shrek animated films. A bridal party, clearly. Did Wharton take this picture? Dumont at the front, there. The bride (dressed as the prince, centre) was so proud of the fact that this was all her idea. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. In hindsight, I did wonder, what might have been the theme of the wedding?