j/j hastain, long past the presence of common

Prelude

As an ethereal angel trying to tear through to the human realms—it matters to note that when it scratched that side of the ether, clouds that looked like claw marks appeared on another side of view.

This project is a promulgating document of sounding. A cyborgian gender being expressed by way of the slow chthonic appearances—these shapes with the lover—this brutal somatic effort at materializations of flesh by way of non-linear narrative.

Oh the specifities of a most personal fascia as the deepest type of manna—for the gods, for the viscosities of the ghosts as they all become body.

Each exact cadence, the credence—the desperately pursued creed.

A turning tuning fork.

A sumptuous supplication.

A visceral astral villa.

Oh orbital incandescent velour—tipping the dyad wick to upkeep such spiral roots.

This is what a cyborg's mantra would have to be—chanting the coos and the uncouth.

Usually, to name a thing is to fix it, to reduce it, but Colorado poet, musician, performance artist and dusie participant j/j hastain's long past the presence of common (Dallas TX: say it with stones, 2011), in fact, works to achieve the exact opposite. Through a collage aspect akin to a scrapbook of poems, prose and image, long past the presence of common writes to expand the naming through multiple voices and contradiction, none of which may actually contradict, and could even be considered as much a book of poetry as a poetics statement, manifesto and essay on the self. 

Through prose, fragment and image, hastain's long past the presence of common both insists and denies presence, writing out how difference is not contradiction, and how contradiction is not only possible, but sometimes makes the only sense possible.

I am trying to say that my origin is not based in or appropriately gaused by physiological history or genealogy, nor is it able to be understood by way of polarist systems. My truest pedigree is and has always been in the future, or to the side of, because its source is ether, only partly informed by form.

All of this to say—please

somehow to turn all exiles into eclipses.

Much the way much of Canadian expat nathalie stephens/nathanaël's ongoing ouvre explores the boundaries between gender, language, languages, genre and form, so too, j/j hastain's ongoing work attempts similar boundaries between gender, language and form, such as this fragment from the author bio on hastain's site attests:

j/j defines as Trans (which is different than transgender, though not at all discounting it):

‘I am interested in the differentiated usage of the prefix Trans when it is utilized in ways that are not at all related to a previously determined model with a binary derived basis. Merriam Webster defines transoceanic as “crossing or extending across the ocean” and translucent as “transmitting and diffusing light so that objects beyond can not be seen clearly” (www.merriam-webster.com).

Exactly 12 questions for rob mclennan; an interview by Cassie Leigh, October 2011

An interview with me by St. Catharine's ON writer Cassie Leigh, anticipating my reading on Friday (launching my new BuschekBooks poetry title, A (short) history of l.) at St. Catharine's ON reading series Grey Borders, with Liz Worth and Tim Conley.

Eileen R. Tabios on my work-in-pogress, "The Uncertainty Principle: stories,"

American writer Eileen R. Tabios wrote a lovely blog post on my short fiction work-in-progress, "The Uncertainty Principle: stories,"

Dany Laferrière, The Return

As soon as I open my mouth, vowels and consonants pour out into a disorderly mess and I have stopped trying to control it. I discipline myself enough to try writing, but after a dozen lines I stop out of exhaustion. I need to find a way that doesn't demand too much physical effort.

When I bought my old Remington 22, a quarter century ago, I did it to adopt a new style. Tougher, more intense than before. Writing by hand seemed too literary. I wanted to be a rock 'n' roll writer. A writer of the machine age. Words interested me less than the sound of the keyboard. I had energy to burn. In my narrow room on Saint-Denis Street, I spent all day typing feverishly in the dark. I worked, the windows closed, bare-chested in summer's furnace room. With a bottle of cheap wine at my feet.

In Montreal author and Hatian ex-pat Dany Laferrière's fourteenth novel, The Return (trans. David Homel; Vancouver BC: Douglas & McIntyre, 2011), he continues his explorations blurring the lines between novel, memoir and essay, blurring fact with the intensity of the truth. Originally composed in French and published as L'énigme du retour (2009), the book follows Laferrière's narrator, the semi-fictional Dany Laferrière, through the discovery of the death of his exiled father in New York, a man who left Haiti in the 1960s, and continues as the two return to the country they had both left behind. Journalist Dany Laferrière infamously left Port-au-Prince suddenly in 1976, after one of his friends, a journalistic colleague, had been killed by Baby Doc Duvalier's regime, ending up in Montreal where he started writing. A book, he once wrote, to save his life, later published as his most well-known work, Comment fair l'amour avec un Nègre sans se fatiguer (1985), which appeared as a film, was translated and published by Coach House Press as How to Make Love to a Negro (without getting tired) (1987), recently reissued by Douglas & McIntyre.

We want to retrieve the suitcase my father deposited at the Chase Manhattan Bank. Since I have the same first name, the employee gives me the key to his safety deposit box and asks me to follow him into the bank's vault. I step inside quietly with my uncles. That quality of silence exists nowhere but in a bank, a church or a library. Men fall silent only before Money, God and Knowledge—the great wheel that crushes them. All around us, small individual safety deposit boxes filled with the personal belongings of New York, city of high finance and great misery. The employee leaves us alone. I open my father's box and discover an attaché case inside.

I try to open it before realizing I need the secret code. Numbers and letters. We try everything: his birth date and his different given names, my birth date and my pseudonym. My uncles give me all sorts of possible leads, even the date their childhood friend met a violent death. As a last resort, we try his last telephone number before his mind went adrift. Nothing works. In the end, the employee returns, and we have to put the suitcase back. I could not have taken it with me without first answering a battery of questions that would have unmasked me. I slip the suitcase back into the safety deposit box. The employee closes the great vault of the Chase Manhattan Bank behind us.

My uncles stand in disbelief

in front of the iron door.

I feel light

not having to carry such weight.

The suitcase of aborted dreams. (“The Suitcase”)

For those unaware, Laferrière has been one of my favourite writers for years, ever since Coach House Press released English translations of two of his novels on the same day, way back in 1994, his Dining with the Dictator and Why Must a Black Writer Write About Sex? His prose has always had the ability to wrap itself around the reader's organs and take hold, slowly at first, before becoming a part of the body. This novel is no different, digging deep through a minefield of emotional and physical detail with compassionate honesty. There are emotional connections that Laferrière has always managed with his prose that bring the reader immediately in, done so well that it makes most other writing appear distant, even false. How does Laferrière manage to bring one in so quickly? Instead of his usual straightforward (comparatively) prose of all of his books save one, the poetry collection A Drifting Year (Vancouver BC: Douglas & McIntyre, 1997), The Return uses poems and prose to tell an extended narrative of the explosion of emotions around the death of an absent father, and the return to a homeland and family long left behind. But again, anyone who has read any of Laferrière's previous works knows that he might have left Haiti, but he certainly never left it behind. But does that make a return for the narrator/author Dany Laferrière easier or that much more difficult? This is, as one of the blurbs on the cover attests, a stunning and breathtaking book, and is easily one of his best.

Every family has its absent member in the group portrait. Papa Doc introduced exile to the middle class. Before, such a fate was reserved only for a president who fell victim to a coup or one of those rare intellectuals who could also be a man of action.

I took all possible precautions

before announcing to my mother

that my father had died.

First she turned a deaf ear to me.

Then took it out on the messenger.

The distance is so slight

between lengthy absence and death

that I didn't take enough care

to consider the effect the news would have on her.

My mother won't look at me.

I watch her long delicate hands.

She slides her wedding band

on and off her finger

and hums so softly

I have trouble understanding the words of her song. (“My Mother's Song”)

Ongoing notes: the dusie kollektiv,

Between the mail strike, my massive move, and the slow trickle of whatever chapbooks remain of the ninety-some to eventually appear, it has been a while since I've gone through another small stack of dusie chapbooks. 

Here are three of the most recent to appear, in one of my various mailboxes over the past few weeks.

Portland, OR: Jared Hayes' into the furrows (2011) describes itself as “an experimental collage,” merging texts by Paul Celan and Hélène Cixous, and “structures: by Jacques Lacan, John Cage, Alice Notley and Louis Zukofsky.

(I will begin with) its

youngest leaf (writing changes languages)

from its crumb (you will

have recognized it) probe for

(the line that makes them

vibrate) into the furrows (perhaps

you were going) the roof

over us (I write) there

(in addition to this) wrote

(how could I not be)

According to a bio online, Hayes previously particiated in dusie with a “chapbook homage to Ted Berrigan,” his RecollecTed (2006), suggestion an ongoing relationship with recombinating texts by established wrters, and I would be interested in seeing, perhaps, Hayes' work in a larger context, whether a larger project or some kind of poetic statement by the author. The structure is interesting, a variation of which has also been worked by a number of other writers including Margaret Christakos, Gregory Betts and Pearl Pirie, but I would like to see something more.

(there to the) astralflute from

(otherwise) fire the deep (beneath

this book had lived) remembrance

too (I could imagine) blue

black memory (I could imagine)

past start throw-dives (the commonplace)

a delusion (I escape myself

death) an unnamed up which

(back to life) dredge up

after (I am telling you)

Palo Alto, CA: Between Palo Alto, California and Bloomington, Indiana come Bronwen Tate and Ming Holden's the loss letters (2011), a call-and-response collaboration, responding to forms, other writers, each other and their daily situations. As the colophon writes, “These poems were written and emailed (mostly in Palo Alto, California and Bloomington, Indiana) on the dates that accompany them in compliance (mostly) with the following guidelines: Follow the order of forms. Reply within 48 hours. No non-poem communication. The poem is the message.”

Pantoum of Waiting for a Heartbeat [BT. 11.04.10]

There's nothing I can do

and I am doing it.

I eat brown rice,

pretend to sip my wine.

And I am doing it,

trying not to count days.

Pretend to sip my wine,

walk three miles each morning.

Trying not to count days,

I still think five weeks tomorrow.

Walk three miles each morning,

write the dissertation.

I still think five weeks tomorrow.

I eat brown rice,

write the dissertation.

There's nothing I can do.

There is some magnificent interplay between the poems, each piece taking a lead from the one before, two poets engaged in a real conversation that allows space for sestinas, pantoums, ghazals, sonnets and villanelles, and Mina Loy, Gertrude Stein, Orlando and Buddha. Not every piece might entirely work, but the highlights make the entire journey worthwhile, and this small publication a compelling sequence of correspondence between two poets.

I am always wary of presuming overtly what is merely suggested, as far as the lives of the authors are concerned. There is a loss here, losses writ about, but unclear where the poems begin and the biographies end, especially when Tate's biography ends with the line, “If you miscarry or have miscarried and walk to talk to someone, you can email her at dormiveglia@gmail.com.”

Sonnet for You [MH. 1.3.11]

I wonder who it is that listens in

When skies inside our skulls fill up with rain.

Thudding to the ground, a severed fin,

A rosebud falls before it blooms again.

Who is it that would give us wings, then clip them?

By accident or malice, it still burns.

Torn out of us by someone who would rip them,

Our dreams take form then drop like stones by turns.

Sister, you need not have strength, faith, or hope.

To breathe is all I ask of you tonight.

You can lie still while thoughts of velvet rope

Binds you to the bed of nothing right.

But as you have for me, know that I'm listening.

That's the orb remaining, certain, glistening.

Berkeley CA: There is something magnificent about the play in Catherine Meng's long poem, I'M NOT WRITING PURE WAR THIS IS A GROCERY LIST (2011), writing across the page in a way that is difficult to replicate in such a post, writing: “the company name / a shore / a shoe a shoehorn / an octopus / exterior filtered through our liver / our lungs / our hung dog faces / our rag rugs / our place mats / our places.”

There are too few poets who really understand how to use space across the page, or how to work a political poem without ranting or becoming pedantic, but Meng manages to be compelling on both fronts, wrapping her poem across the full page in a way that probably sounds magnificent at a reading, as she writes: “he put the whole world / in his mouth / not long after / poetry left the page / where it was to begin / not either/or / but and/or / I put the whole world / in my mouth & / coughitbackup.”

Profile: Cameron Anstee's Apt. 9 Press (open book: ontario)

My profile of Ottawa poet Cameron Anstee's Apt. 9 Press is now up at Open Book: Ontario.

Cole Swensen, greensward

Over the course of a dozen trade books and numerous chapbooks, American poet Cole Swensen's [see her 12 or 20 questions here] poetry collections have evolved into a sequence of single-book explorations around an idea or series of ideas. Composing poetic sequences with all the thoughtfulness and research of a lengthy essay, Swensen's bounding energy and wordplay, liveliness and cadence have produced the finest poetry to come out of the United States over the past few years. Her poetry collections to date include: It's Alive She Says (CA: Floating Island Press, 1984), New Math (New York NY: William Morrow & Co., 1988), Park (Inverness, CA: Floating Island Press, 1991), Numen (Providence, RI: Burning Deck Press, 1995), Noon (Sun & Moon Press, Los Angeles, CA., 1997), Try (Iowa City, Iowa: University of Iowa Press, 1999), Oh (Berkeley, CA: Apogee Press, 2000), Such Rich Hour (Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 2001), Goest (Alice James Books, 2004), The Book of a Hundred Hands (University of Iowa Press, Iowa City, 2005), The Glass Age (Alice James Books, 2007) and Ours: poems on the gardens of Andre Le Notre (University of California Press, 2008).

Her most recent collection, greensward (Brooklyn NY: Ugly Ducking Presse, 2010), a “text by cole swensen with graphic collaboration by shari degraw,” seems to extend some of her previous works on gardens, such as the collection Ours, where she composed poems around notions of the garden, specifically Versailles and its creator, André Le Nôtre. Composed nearly as an essay, greensward is designed as a collaboration between poet and designer, combining stretches and blocks of text over, and alongside maps, drawings and other images historical and archival. The book begins (unpaginated) with these two blocks of prose-poem:

That whatever aesthetics is, it

can only be transmitted to other

species – and it can be transmitted

along with other higher cognatitive

functions – through gardening.

And less alone there, a garden is, in short,

an open link bent on forming more, ever

outward, a line between humans and other

species, falling open, a following thinned to

an horizon with all its attendant aesthetic

principles of balance, rhythm, motion, etc., and

the ethical principles inherent in them, and

in both directions, i.e., it comes back to us.

The way the images and design blends so well with the accompanying text (or, possibly, the other way around) reminds of Don McKay's infamous Long Sault (London ON: Applegarth Follies, 1975), allowing both the space to breathe, mix, co-mingle and even respond to each other. Most of the images in greensward are details taken from larger works by John Rocque (c. 1709-1762), an English surveyor and cartographer known for his engraved plans of English gardens, as well as his detailed map of London published in 1747. Swensen writes, “Well-known at the time for his maps of aristocratic estates and landscape gardens, John Rocque did an etching of a plan of Esher in 1737 that includes two horses in the margin. They are standing alongside a canal, and, facing each other, they are grooming each other's backs in perfectly reciprocal gestures that echo the perfect symmetry of the building on the far bank with its two towers and its two wings.” There are other images in the collection, by Humphry Repton, William Kent and Lancelot Brown, each from similar eras and geographies as Rocque. What exactly precipitated Swensen's fascination with 18th century English gardens, and does it make this project an extension of Ours, a follow-up, or merely the second of a longer series of book-length projects on gardens? As the press release for the book tells us:

Greensward looks at the interaction between animals, humans, and gardens. Often playful, it explores the question of whether animals other than humans have an aesthetic sense, posits that they do, and suggests that they develop it through watching humans garden. The short sections of poetry and prose, sometimes plainspoken, sometimes poised precariously on the line between sense and non-sense, are dovetailed into engravings of 18th century gardens by the artist John Roque. Graphic artist Shari DeGraw and poet Cole Swensen collaborated on excerpting elements from the garden maps and playing with scale and patterning to create a conversation between the visual and verbal elements. Two well-known 18th century garden designers also make cameo appearances, giving the text a historical sweep from the heyday of the English landscape garden to the present.

There is a lovely meditative edge to Swensen's greensward, in the way the poem wanders from point to point, exploring the minute details of various engravings by Rocque and his contemporaries, and just what purposes or meanings their animals held. What do animals know of aesthetics, of gardens?

William Kent's trademark was the dogs. Dogs fill all his garden sketches—they bound on ahead, or they chase a rabbit; they race back toward their people, they leap around the children, and are always shown “taking off,” which is to say, their back feet are always on the ground while their front leap into the air and stop there, poised as sheer energy, as energy surely becomes the arcing that ultimately untangles the body.

And the dog keeps her eyes locked on the vanishing point, which alone is what is pulling them (dog and man) silently, smoothly, inexorably into the heart of the 18th century. It's the future that vanishes, not thinking, and the dog sets off at a run, as it is, as it always has been, her gift and her wish to bring it back to him.

12 or 20 questions (second series) with Laura Boudreau

Laura Boudreau is the author of Suitable Precautions, a collection of short fiction. Her short stories have appeared in a variety of literary journals and anthologies, including The Journey Prize Stories 22, Canadian Notes & Queries, 10: Best Canadian Stories, The New Quarterly, and The Fiddlehead. She is the winner of the 2009 PRISM International Award for Short Fiction. She lives in London, England.

www.lauraboudreau.com

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Suitable Precautions is my first book, and it was a terrifying experience to see it for the first time. Here was something I was intimately familiar with — every word, every comma — and yet there it was in a completely unfamiliar form. It was uncanny (paging Dr. Freud...) and extremely gratifying, and I felt sick to my stomach. Which went some way towards settling an argument amongst my friends: it is, I think, possible to be so happy that you barf.

Now that the book is out in the world, I feel more confident about and secure in my writing, and also excited to tear down all my old architecture and start again from scratch. We’ll see what comes of that.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
Plagiarism. I remember stealing one of my dad’s bedtime stories and repurposing it in kindergarten. It went over really well, and I was hooked. Narrative just makes sense to me, and I enjoy the freedom that comes from not being tied to objective truths or facts.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
Things usually start slow, creeping along, paragraph by paragraph, until I’m tapped out. When I come back to the piece, I start from the beginning, reading and revising to get into the right mindset before adding anything else. The image I keep in my head is that of a Japanese rock garden: I think about raking the gravel again and again until it’s completely smooth. As a result, my first drafts tend to look very similar to my final drafts, though there have been some exceptions.

4 - Where does fiction usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a “book” from the very beginning?
My story “Strange Pilgrims” began with a conversation I had with a mailman. “Hurricane Season” started with me seeing a book cover that featured a woman in a bikini. “Way Back the Road” was more of a thematic project — I wanted to try writing a story about, or at least involving, religion. “The Dead Dad Game” came to me as a title first, and then I had to figure out a story to match. As a result, Suitable Precautions is a diverse collection in which each story can — and must — also stand alone.

There’s a line in an Isaac Bashevis Singer story that resonated with me while I was trying to bring these stories together: “She gained the kind of knowledge that comes from staying at inns and listening to all sorts of talk... [She] learned how vast the world was and how odd people could be.” I like to think of Suitable Precautions in that way — that it’s made up of stories from travellers who are seemingly unrelated, and yet bound together by bonds they can’t exactly name.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I like readings. I think of them as part reward, part test, part show, and so they necessarily come after my creative process, which is a private one. I read aloud as I’m working, which I think helps when it comes to public readings, but that’s not the reason I do it. If it sounds right out loud, it’ll sound right in your head, which is the way most of my readers will encounter these stories.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
I have concerns, but I don’t think of them as theoretical. My concerns are about people and relationships, and the real-life consequences of people being in those relationships. I think the questions I’m asking are the kind that you might overhear on a city bus: Why is he being like that? What happened to her? Where do we go from here?

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I think writers are observers and entertainers. Some are critics. In my opinion, they are not unacknowledged legislators (Shelley was a bit full of it on that one). I don’t think writers — myself included — are necessarily smarter or more insightful than non-writers; they just can get it out there better. There’s a responsibility that comes along with that talent, but also an inherent danger. I’m reminded of something Denis Johnson said: “And I realized that what I first require of a work of art is that its agenda — is that the word I want? — not include me.”

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Depends on the editor. To riff on one of my favourite children’s poems, when it’s good it’s very very good, and when it’s bad it’s horrid.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you’ve heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Mark Strand, in a writing master class, once said (or perhaps said that someone else said?) that the conclusion to a piece should be at once completely surprising and totally inevitable. I strive for that.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (short stories to journalism to the novel)? What do you see as the appeal?
The appeal of switching it up? Money, mostly. Seriously. Short stories are a tough sell. Not like journalism is a path paved with gold, but at least the rate per word is more encouraging, and the whole exercise is generally time limited. I also genuinely enjoy meeting and interviewing people. My favourite interview to date was with a Jungian psychoanalyst in Zurich. His office was the land that the 1970s forgot, and we faced off in these huge arm chairs. There was definitely a Running with Scissors feel to it. It’s nice to have an excuse to do things like that, to have a way to get access. As far as novels go, the challenge is appealing, as is the respectability and marketability of the form. I have a feeling it’s going to be a difficult jump, but that’s my next move.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I recently quit my job, so my typical day has gone out the window. It’s delightful and strange, and I’m trying to make the most of it, because it’s not going to last. I tend to do my best writing in the evening or at night, but I’d like to find a way of shifting it to the morning. I think that would be more productive, and more in line with the rest of the daily goings-on of the world.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
The shower. I don’t know why it works, but it does.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
The smell of my husband’s favourite old t-shirt.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Sometimes music. I won’t say which artists or albums, just in case I get sued.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Denis Johnson, Lorrie Moore, Michael Winter, Daniel Scott Tysdal, David Bezmozgis. My all-time favourite short story is “Symbols and Signs” by Vladimir Nabokov. A close second is “Brothers and Sisters Around the World” by Andrea Lee. I couldn’t keep writing if I didn’t return to these stories now and again.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven’t yet done?
Go to China.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I’d like to be a stage actress, but I think I’m too uptight. Also, wouldn’t I need to be taller, or at least thinner? I think I would have made a good teacher, and I hope to have the opportunity to test out that theory at some point.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
If I knew that, maybe I could cure myself and others of the disease. Writing is a profession based on rejection and poverty, and that can’t be healthy. Then again, not many addictions are.

I’m a good writer, and I think I have some interesting things to say. That hasn’t been true with other jobs I’ve had. I guess I’m also a sucker for the promise (if not the realization, or reality) of fame. But the kind of Smart Person Fame™ that doesn’t require you to get plastic surgery. The kind of fame where you can buy fruit from the market without getting hassled by paparazzi.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver, and Anvil! The Story of Anvil, a documentary film by Sacha Gervasi.

20 - What are you currently working on?
What to wear for my book tour. Just in case the paparazzi do show up.

Laura Boudreau reads in Ottawa on Thursday, October 6, and Montreal on Friday, October 7 as part of a Biblioasis tour with Rebecca Rosenblum and Cathy Stonehouse.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;

rob's first two novels now (apparently, only) available via the author,

As part of a shift with Toronto's long-running The Mercury Press, the last copies of my first two novels--white (2007) and missing persons (2009)--are (apparently) now available only through me, with a half-dozen boxes appearing recently at my front door. If anyone is interested in either one, they're $20 each (postage included; outside of Canada, $20 US) either via my paypal on the sidebar, or by sending cheques to me at: 402 McLeod Street #3, Ottawa ON Canada K2P 1A6.

Related links; the Globe & Mail review of white; review/article on white in Edmonton's Vue weekly; white on the 2008 ReLit Award longlist ; Cassie Leigh on missing persons ; the short essay I wrote on the geography of missing persons;

It's disappointing to have all my fiction out-of-print. Here's hoping that I can get that third novel placed, fourth done and out, and/or even that collection of short short stories finished. Sigh,

12 or 20 (small press) questions: Spencer Gordon on Ferno House

Ferno House is a collective of designers, artists, and writers committed to designing and producing the most beautiful chapbooks, anthologies, and broadsides possible. As electronic mediums and digital designs contribute to the abolition of the book as physical, lasting artifact, Ferno House works in an entirely different direction, assembling its publications with a keen attention to craft and tactile beauty. Ferno House’s commitment to process and in-house production ensures that every book is an irreplaceable work of art. Books are designed by award-winning graphic designer Arnaud Brassard using in-house tools and materials. Illustrations are provided by visual artist Patrick Larkin. Editing and promotional materials are supplied by writers Spencer Gordon and Mat Laporte.

Spencer Gordon is a writer and editor. He is the author of Lonely Planet and Other Stories (Coach House Books, forthcoming). He co-edits the online literary journal The Puritan (www.puritan-magazine.com) and the micro-press Ferno House (www.fernohouse.com). He blogs at http://dangerousliterature.blogspot.com and teaches writing at Humber College.

1 – When did Ferno House first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all? And what have you learned through the process?

Ferno House began slowly, in trickles and teases. Mat Laporte is rumoured to have lived in a flat in Edmonton that was known as Ferno House: a kind of collective of artists from various disciplines living under the same roof. In 2008, I remember chatting up my roommate Arnaud Brassard, an incredibly gifted designer, about printing some of my stories in short-run editions. At the time, I was enrolled in the University of Toronto's MA in English/Creative Writing, which meant I was surrounded by a very close-knit workshop of six other writers (plus our mentors). I suggested to them that we compile samples of our work and release a chapbook (inspired, as I was, with recent collaborative projects with you—I'm thinking of Departures (above/ground 2008)—and what Andrew Faulkner and Leigh Nash were doing with The Emergency Response Unit, among other things). Arnaud agreed to help our class design and bind this baby. We soon realized that if we wanted to keep making books, we should probably establish some sort of organizational name. That first chapbook we did was For Crying Out Loud, and the "name" became Ferno House, as Mat Laporte was moving to Toronto and was going to join us in our endeavors. The rest is nightmare.

Goals have of course shifted, as I'll explain below. We learned very quickly that making and selling books is crazy difficult. Sometimes it feels like trying to sell knitted i-phones.

2 – What first brought you to publishing?

My first forays into publishing were with The Puritan (www.puritan-magazine.com), which I began with Tyler Willis in the crisp fall of 2006 in Ottawa, Ontario. Our first issue came out in the winter of 2007. It was a ratty-looking colouring-book-esque lit mag that we still joke ourselves about. We released seven issues in total, and then went belly-up from debt. New life was breathed into the mag in fall 2009 when we made the leap from print to the web. It's going strong to this day with the support of grants and tons of submissions and a great staff of readers, and I'm proud of what we've accomplished since that crazy fall.

As a developing writer living in Ottawa, I inevitably fell in with some small press types (the chapbook folks, the reading series hosts, the poets and fiction-writers), which broadened my understanding of small-scale publishing and how this literary game fits together.

3 – What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?

Small publishing should be beautiful! It should aspire to match whatever a big press can do with production values and go beyond the standards of the form. It should (ideally) explore other sorts of printing options that are just too demanding or expensive to do en masse.

But more importantly, perhaps, is the literary responsibility of small publishers. Why go to the established names for work that can always find a home with another press, be it ECW, Anvil, Insomniac, or whatever? We've published a few "known quantities" in our anthologies, but the great majority of work we've released has been by relatively unknown authors, or authors still polishing their craft. As Stuart Ross wrote, many authors today skip the "sacred" chapbook stage of their careers. This notion wormed its way into my brain and lodged itself there maliciously. It is sacred. It's good to release work on a smaller scale when you're still honing your voice. As others have pointed out, chapbooks (and small publishers) are great for single or smaller groupings of work(s) that don't naturally lend themselves to a full-length collection. Finally, it allows you to do stuff that's suicidal from a monetary/advertising aspect. What the hell is Dinosaur Porn, anyways, if not a grand experiment, a game, and a challenge?

4 – What do you see your press doing that no one else is?

Our goal is ambitious. We want to make the best damn chapbooks in the country. We want people to associate Ferno House with excellence, and to recognize micro-presses as doing something culturally and aesthetically vital. We've made missteps and blunders, but we're getting better, and this fall's line-up of chapbooks is gonna look so seductive that divorce rates are sure to skyrocket after the launch. Yes. You're gonna leave your spouse for one of these bastards. And you're gonna cradle it in your filthy bed of cheatin' and lies and feel good.

So: to make the best possible home for a small collection of writing, assembled with immense patience and care. To elevate the standard staple-stitched construction paper insanity that one typically associates with the micro and the marginal. To insist that each book is a work of art. And to foster a sense of community and support, even when “community” seems increasingly difficult to define.

5 – What do you see as the most effective way to get new chapbooks out into the world?

We're still working on that! For now, all we can say is promote like what you do matters, like what you do will please or baffle or otherwise make an impact. Seek out craft and zine fairs and sign up. Sell online (do all that PayPal nonsense—our Etsy account is always ready to make a deal; this is a business, after all, even if we're just trying to break even, and it can't continue on good will alone). In any case, treat chapbooks like they're cooler and more exciting than Random House's next bestseller, and be open to courting different communities when the literary one gets indifferent or bored.

6 – How involved an editor are you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?

I prefer to dig deep, get messy, shove stuff around and operate on punctuation. So does Mat Laporte, judging by his edits. Why edit a piece if your suggestions are only going to be cosmetic? There's a fine line between asserting your will/peddling your own biases and an author's distinct vision, and the editor's job is to negotiate it carefully, enthusiastically, and patiently.

Everything we do comes from a place of respect. We wouldn't want to publish something if we didn't love it. Edits are ultimately up to the authors; we're still working out the bugs.

7 – How do your books get distributed? What are your usual print runs?

Distributed? Our feet. And Canada Post for mail orders. We used to stock select bookstores, but we've since decided to go a different route. Past books have been in the 120 to 200 copy range. First edition fall chapbooks are in tiny print runs of 60 copies each. If we sell out, and there's a large demand, we'll make more. Don't overextend, don't break the bank, and don't amass heavy inventory. Keep it light, and keep moving. Like a shark.

8 – How many other people are involved with editing or production? Do you work with other editors, and if so, how effective do you find it? What are the benefits, drawbacks?

Each of our books has gone through a different editorial process. Andrew Faulkner and Leigh Nash (of The Emergency Response Unit) and I edited Dinosaur Porn, our joint-press reptile project. I lightly edited For Crying Out Loud and For Crying Out Loud II, and worked with Mat Laporte on his own chapbook, Demons. Mat and I also tag-teamed David Brock's Black Metal Melody and Liz Howard's Skullambient. Mat has been the first and best editor of my own work, Feel Good! Look Great! Have a Blast!

With editing and production combined, we've got four main players in the Ferno House stable: Mat, Pat, Arnaud, and me. Arnaud Brassard, as I've mentioned, is the brains behind the design and production aspects of Ferno House. We've been steadily amassing a stock of equipment for Ferno House (like a perfect-binder, a screen printer, etc.) so that all the books can (hopefully) be made entirely in-house. Arnaud is a one-man design and printing monster. The literary community is lucky to have him involved in printing their works, for he's coming from a very different background, bringing an entirely different set of talents and observations to the game.

My answer to your question about editing is probably quite typical of most writers/editors. I find working with other editorial perspectives refreshing and surprising and rewarding; the conversations that develop around the micro and macro can be extremely illuminating. It's excellent to have your work read by a sensitive and careful editor and to pay back his or her hard work down the road. So the benefits are obvious. Drawbacks can develop around ideas of ownership and vision; when a writer is being obstinate or when an editor is not getting a project and wants to inflict his or her biases on a different tradition or set of rules (or a tradition or rule-system misunderstood). Editors make mistakes just as much as blundering scribblers. It takes an excellent working relationship to acknowledge error, to argue constructively, and to be able to defend strikes and additions without endangering a friendship and professional relationship. Blah blah blah.

9– How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?

As the previous answer outlined, I'm keenly aware of the compromises and sacrifices that go on between publisher, editor, and writer. You can't think of what some generic editor might say about your own work; you have to just riff, follow your instincts, while keeping in mind the reactions of a few golden ears. I am open and amenable to editing in general (workshopping with various groups—including at universities—has prepared me to take criticism and to receive the blow of disapproval).

10– How do you approach the idea of publishing your own writing? Some, such as Gary Geddes when he still ran Cormorant, refused such, yet various Coach House Press’ editors had titles during their tenures as editors for the press, including Victor Coleman and bpNichol. What do you think of the arguments for or against, or do you see the whole question as irrelevant?

Well sir, I of course have reservations. Many people assume that self-publishing abandons the notion of peer review; that it is too self-serving to merit respect; that it clouds notions of quality. While all these complaints may be legitimate, I'll try to briefly justify publishing my own work. Firstly, Ferno House is funded by the four of us; there are no granting agencies or investors to appease. What I do with my own money is my business. Secondly, I wanted my chapbook to look like a Ferno House chapbook and no other. I didn't even consider sending it somewhere else. Thirdly, Mat Laporte and Arnaud Brassard wanted to release a chapbook of my poetry; I didn't force this on anyone, and Mat edited it over the course of a few weeks. Last year Mat released his own chapbook with Ferno House, and it was both successful and fun. Fourthly, it's a god-damned chapbook, twenty-eight pages in length, in a first-edition print run of 60 copies, made by my friends and me. This isn't the Giller Prize judging committee, and this isn't even a small press. Finally, I've published and paid and put over dozens and dozens of writers over a few short years. So here is some poetry. Enjoy it.

11– Who were your early publishing models when starting out?

I've looked to many little presses as early models for Ferno House. I'll name a few. Matthew Firth's Black Bile Press. The work Amanda and Charles Earl do with Bywords and AngelHouse. Your work with above/ground. BC's Lipstick Press. Mark McCawley's Greensleeve Editions. Stu Ross' Proper Tales Press. The amazing range of work released by Jay MillAr and the Book Thugs. My peers—Cameron Anstee's Apt. 9 Press (one of the best in the country) and The Emergency Response Unit. Jim Johnstone's Cactus Press. jwcurry. I know Mat's deeply inspired by Ted Berrigan's enormous energies. We're in awe of a number of American micro-presses such as Ugly Duckling, mud luscious, and so forth. The list goes on and on ...

12– Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?
  
Very important. We do hold occasional readings and launches. Our fall launch is scheduled for Thursday, October 6, starting at 8 pm at The Supermarket, 268 Augusta Ave., Toronto, ON. Please come.

13– How do you utilize the internet, if at all, to further your goals?

Getting the word out via social networking. Selling books online to people who can't physically come and buy 'em. One day we'll have a site that more adequately matches our aesthetic.

14– Do you take submissions? If so, what aren’t you looking for?

At this time, we're not taking submissions. We're too little to receive them. We want to find something we like and chase after it. This may change as we grow or evolve, but for now it's gotta be solicited work.

15– Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they’re special.

Skullambient is by Liz Howard. Aside from being a poet herself, she's a very active member of the Toronto lit community, organizing the Avant-Garden reading series and taking part in the Influency Salon. Her work was brought to my attention by Mat Laporte, who's a huge supporter. Skullambient is informed by an infusion of biology and physics (being a researcher obviously helps her with the subject matter). It's gutsy and hyper-attentive to the slippery instability of language. Skullambient is angry and sad and kind of insane, a place where English and French, the North and the Laboratory, the masculine and the feminine collide. It's full of violent ruptures of sense and tense, meaning and obscurity. And it makes beautiful, lonely music.

Black Metal Melody is by David Brock, who's just won the 2011 Herman Voaden Playwrighting  Competition. Dave's more known for his librettos and plays than his poetry, which is kind of a shame, because he's a wicked poet. As the title suggests, his book is all about everyone's favourite musical genre, black metal (among other sub-categories). It's a work of linked poems, a narrative of one hyper-sensitive teenaged boy's near-simultaneous discovery of metal and first love. The poems are obviously informed by a real passion for the awesomeness and absurdities of the genre, and Brock's exploration of those awkward, fumbling years of revelation and raw heartache make it both hilarious and oddly touching. It's sure to please. And it's blacker than all hell.

My book, Feel Good! Look Great! Have a Blast! Is the best poetry chapbook of all time. Period.

12 or 20 (small press) questions:

rob mclennan reading in St. Catharines, ON with Tim Conley + Liz Worth, October 14, 2011

Grey Borders Reading Series presents...
rob mclennan,
Tim Conley,
& Liz Worth

Friday October 14, 2011 @ 7pm
at Mahtay (241 St. Paul Street, St Catharines, Ontario)
free event, donations encouraged

for further information, contact Eric Schmaltz at schmaltzeric@gmail.com

12 or 20 questions (second series) with Cathy Stonehouse

Cathy Stonehouse (photo credit: Daniel Henshaw) is the author of a collection of short fiction, Something About the Animal (Biblioasis, 2011) and two collections of poetry, Grace Shiver (Inanna Publications, 2011) and The Words I Know (Press Gang Publishers, 1994). Co-editor of the creative nonfiction anthology Double Lives: Writing and Motherhood (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2008), her poetry, fiction and nonfiction have appeared in a wide range of journals and anthologies including Best Canadian Stories 2010 (Oberon), White Ink: Poems on Mothers and Mothering (Demeter, 2008) and Beyond the Small Circle: Dropped Threads 3 (Random House, 2005). Cathy emigrated to Canada from the UK in 1988 and currently lives in East Vancouver, where she writes, edits and teaches creative writing at various Lower Mainland colleges. Check out her website for more information: www.cathystonehouse.com

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

My first book, The Words I Know, taught me that publishing a book does not necessarily change your life; it came and went, and I still had the same work to do--start over again! My recent work, especially the fiction is very different. Less innocent.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

Poetry always felt like my first language. It was also easier to hide inside. I wrote poetry (bad, of course) at a very early age and never stopped. But there were always stories waiting to get out. Eventually poems started to feel claustrophobic, so I flung open the door.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

I write my initial draft quickly, but usually abandon most of it as the work begins to take shape, and end up writing "the real thing" very slowly. The work takes shape on the page, sentence by sentence; I have to get each sentence "right," or somewhat right, before I move on.

4 - Where does fiction or a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

I get very big, ambitious ideas that I mostly can't execute, so I have to write all those out and then return to the particular piece at hand, which usually begins with a sentence or an image. Quite often, ironically, the seed sentence or image has to be taken out of the final work. I have several "book" ideas in my head, on the go, but which will come to fruition depends on how the groundwork goes.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I hardly ever read, because I am quite a hermit, but in fact I love reading, and find the live experience very energizing and inspiring. I get very anxious beforehand, but high afterwards.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

How do the beliefs we hold about ourselves and the world break down in the face of crisis, and what is left to notice when everything seems to have been destroyed--these are the moments I have been charting lately, partly to see how the dreaming, imagistic mind can be thus revealed. I guess I'm interested in the unconscious, its poetic qualities. My own unconscious does a lot of my writing, and there is a language there I want to protect. What is the unconscious of our culture? What and who do we refuse to acknowledge as real?

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

The writer/artist these days is pressured to provide entertainment, diversion, and reassurance, in the sense that this is what's often rewarded; the writer/artist is also pressured to be a personality or celebrity. I hope there is still a place for writers/artists who function more shamanistically, monastic fools, and visit wild places to bring back important messages for the larger culture.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

I had a great experience working with John Metcalf, a gift of ruthless precision operating simulaneously with unconditional acceptance. If the editor "gets' your work, what you are doing, it's essential and tremendous. If the editor does not, and is trying to impose their own agenda, it can be a disaster.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Poet Suniti Namjoshi once told me to take praise and criticism equally lightly, and to not take either personally. That is a great help.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?

Different truths emerge in different ways, and moving between registers allows for a variety of entry points into the larger culture. Nevertheless I tend to spread myself too thinly in most aspects of my life, and something can get lost in the cracks. I admire writers with a steely focus. I also appreciate that genre differences are often oddly superficial, and enjoy exploring this.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

Right now I am too busy to have a routine; I just take pen and paper everywhere and write copious notes on the bus. In my dreams I* inhabit a timeless, gorgeous place in the woods where I spend all my time working up to writing incredible fiction, usually at night, but in life I'm an overcommitted, urban working parent with about two hours a week to "write;" weirdly enough, I seem to get almost as much done when I'm busy and conditions are terrible as when conditions are apparently perfect. I get a lot of ideas while running or in the bath.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

I am extremely self-critical and tend to abandon projects that don't meet my standards; I also get bogged down by ambitious ideas I can't carry out. I therefore lower my expectations. I draw and make collages. I also read.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Dead leaves: a British woodland in the autumn.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Visual art especially. I have often drawn my way into a poem. I also find the work and working processes of visual artists, land artists & sculptors very inspiring.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

Paul Celan; W. S. Graham; Alice Notley; Ingeborg Bachmann; John Clare; Olga Broumas; Lydia Davis; Jane Bowles; Edward St. Aubyn; Tove Jansson. An eclectic mix. Every year, usually in the depths of winter, I reread John Buchan's The Thirty-Nine Steps. I've read it about 30 times.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Something useful, e.g. build a school, conserve some land or alleviate human suffering in some tiny way.  Creatively speaking, I feel like I've barely begun. I need to live until I'm 90 just to get through the first two or three items on my list.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

I'm currently training to be an expressive arts therapist, which is basically about exploring the power of metaphor. That feels right. I'm also a closet visual artist. If I had not been a writer I may have been a criminal, a mental patient or a statistic. If I didn't need to write so badly I would love to be a biologist or a farmer.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I have always been compelled to write, it's a kind of burden really. Earlier it was a way to have a secret, glorious life, and to be disembodied. It ended up bringing me into my body and the world, though, which is fortunate. I have at times wished to have the urge surgically removed, or to be healed out of it. But the urge passes. I write because I love to read and wish to enter the conversation.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Book: At Last, by Edward St. Aubyn. Film: Mary Poppins. My 7-year-old watches it about once a week.

20 - What are you currently working on?

New stories and a novel; floating pieces of personal narrative. Trying to organize my life so I can write again. Drawing horses.

Cathy Stonehouse reads in Ottawa on Thursday, October 6 at Collected Works Bookstore as part of an Ontario Biblioasis tour with Rebecca Rosenblum and Laura Boudreau..

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Call and Response; Amanda Earl's response now on-line

Amanda Earl's "In the Tempo of Now - Selected Poems," a response to John Hewett Hallum's show of photographs, "MOMENT(O)," are both available for view in Ottawa's Red Wall Gallery at the School of the Photographic Arts: Ottawa until the end of October. Examples of the project with introduction are available online here as a pdf, with the full text inside the gallery at SPAO,

The second in a series of eight poetic responses, curated by rob mclennan, the first was Pearl Pirie's "The Walls of Jerusalem - Selected Poems and Process Notes," a response to Leslie Hossack's Cities of Stone - People of Dust" (available here). See Amanda Earl's response to Pearl's poems here. Upcoming responses by Monty Reid, Sandra Ridley and Christine McNair.