Suspect

 

The Gas Station, Fall 2019

The French guy who works at the Hornby gas station – 

We were suspicious of each other 

and shot side-eye glances. 

Uncannily familiar. 

I knew him. 

Were we foolish in a field thirty years ago? 

Did he live in Whistler? 

Maybe Nelson? 

Lollapalooza 92? 

Super grunge – can’t tell if he’s stuck in the 90s or bringing it back. 

Probably both. 

Late 40s, maybe. 

Long salt and peppery hair – always in a low pony. 

High cheekbones 

Strong features 

Slim and fit 

Wore white waffle long-john shirts under t-shirts

 - usually some death metal band. 

I know this because I asked him about his shirts

 – and then I ran out the door. 

His garbage dump green ten-speed 

leaned against the brown tile wall  

beside the front door. 

He drove an old blue Volvo wagon – last washed in 1994. 

Coexist noncompliant.

The one time I saw him outside of working hours, 

he got out of his car with bare feet so dirty they were black. 

It was Fall, and he was wearing jeans. 

Had a partner.

He built a little farm. 

Super hot. 

One day, when I bought an ice cream sandwich out of boredom, 

he asked me if I was Danish. 

Our only attempt at prolonged conversation

other than 4.25. 

I told him I was Norwegian and French, 

and asked him why. 

He said I seemed very familiar. 

With a mouth of rocks and cotton

 - You too. 

We threw around some locales where 

we could’ve met, 

but there were none. 

And there we have it. 

I knew that guy from somewhere, and he knew me. 

And that was that.

Maybe we met at a gig? 

Oh well

C 

Ya

Misnomers

 

It was a late July afternoon when I met him. 

Out of boredom, I often poked around in the heaps of crap up at the recycling depot, 

daydreaming of uncovering some acclaimed BC potter's discarded wares

or a fixed-gear bike I could resell to a particular genre if and when I ever made it back to Vancouver. 

On this particular summer day, my foot was meditatively flipping broken plates over when a scruffy orange cat sashayed out from the bushes beside me. 

We greeted each other, and my eyes followed a smear of black grease down its back that ended at 

a gargantuan ball sack swaying between its legs. 

You've got some pretty big balls there, pussycat. 

A raspy voice belonging to someone who drank too much the night before 

piped up from somewhere behind me. 

That guy's responsible for 90% of the feral colony on the island. 

Embarrassed by my uncouth observation of the feline's anatomy and 

taken aback because I was being watched, I turned to see a 

fuzzy-haired, 

shirtless, 

overly tanned, 

leather-skinned dude

in his mid-40s 

leaning against a sheet of corrugated metal. 

This guy absolutely spent his formative years loitering outside a corner store in a

mesh number 83 half-top and nut huggers on his stolen BMX, trying to sell smokes to minors. 

He smiled a plaque-toothed grin and nodded in the cat's direction. 

His name's Göring. You know who Göring is? 

Armed with a useless history degree with a major in Nazi Germany, 

I knew who Göring was - but for the sake of any in-depth conversation, 

I played dumb. 

After a long mansplanation of the Luftwaffe's strategy, he introduced himself as Bishop. 

But I go by Bish. 

Oh fuck. 

My two best dude friends had sternly warned me about this guy. 

My female friends simply stated, 

Stay far away from Bish. 

Don't talk to him. 

Don't even look in his direction. 

He's not a good person. 

Which, of course, explains his cat's unfortunate misnomer. 

While making small talk, I slowly backed away.

It's super to meet you, Bish; enjoy your day with Göring! 

When I was far enough away, I turned my back to him. 

Hey, what's your name? Who are you with? 

I played deaf. 

He organized a beach party to celebrate Derek's death a year later.

Ask Around

morning coffee on my deck - one of the best things in life

 
Ask around. 

That's the answer you'd get on the Island when asking a question, discussing a challenge in your yard, or inquiring where to find a particular tool and the like.

When you live in a remote small community, a Google search for near me is futile. 

You have to ask around. 

Asking around means:  

knocking on your neighbours’ doors, 

chit-chatting, 

presenting situations and 

problem-solving. 

If the problem can’t be solved with a tete-a-tete with your neighbour, ask around branches out.

The neighbour asks their contacts, and you ask around some more. 

You ask around at:  

the hardware store 

the gas station

the corner store and 

the coffee wagon. 

It's a process that requires patience and persistence, 

standing around and asking around until a solution is found. 

Nine times out of ten, you’re given a name and a vague description of someone’s house. 

Lyel might know. Go ask him. He lives off Solans in the school bus with the house built on top. 

Now you have to go knock on a strange man’s door. Who's also probably drunk.

Word starts to get around that you're asking around. 

In a few weeks, there’s a ten-out-of-ten chance someone will knock on your door and help you solve the problem 

—no strings attached. 

That’s what community is all about

—helping your neighbour and, in turn, being helped by them. 

I remember a time I was working in my yard, and I heard the brass bird bell on my gate clang. 

It was an awkward and embarrassed dude I’d never seen before, 

Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I'm looking for Jean's house. I was given a brief description of what it looked like and was told it was over this way. I couldn't find it, and they told me to ask around, but no one was home anywhere. 

I empathized completely with the poor soul. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t know Jean. 

I pointed him toward my neighbours Scott and Bailey’s place and told him to ask around there.

After I sold my house on Hornby, I moved to another unfamiliar city. 

I tried to have conversations with folks and get to know people. 

I asked around about amenities, restaurants, and where to get plants for my garden

 – that kind of thing. 

 Nine out of ten times, the reply was, 

Just do a search. 

I flipped them off and walked away. 

No, I didn't. But I wanted to.

Stand Again

 

Me, Flo, and snap peas from my garden Hornby July 1, 2021

All I had left to love, to live for, was myself - and I’d never done that before. 

My life, as I had known it, was over. 

I’d lost everything.

But it was the loss of a future that I’d envisioned 

that hurt the most. 

You can't hurry grief. 

You have to sit with it. 

You sit with it until faith shows you you’re strong enough to stand again.

And you will.

Beach Shrapnel

Go to the beach access by Jane's - it's the beach with the furthest low tide on the island 

Park at the first curve in the road - 

Seawright off Central 

Pullover till your tires are almost in the ditch – 

just under the massive maples and random alders. 

You need to run into the ditch and up the steep embankment on the other side. 

Take the narrow path between the giant sword ferns – 

it'll probably be super muddy. 

Just a five-minute walk. 

If you're lucky, there's a piece of wood slapped over the mud by a previous beachgoer. 

Step slowly. Don't slip. 

You'll need your groin muscles to climb the ladder down the cliff face. 

A pair of bald eagles nest atop 

a giant dead cedar near the beach. 

They've been there for years. 

If you hear them, you'll know you're close. 

Be careful along this section – the terrain changes. 

It's a steep incline, and the rocks are slippery. 

The cliff's coming up. 

There's an old wooden ladder propped up against the cliff face 

Be careful climbing down. 

Sun blinks through them 

strobe-like, 

even in winter 

when their leaves are all gone. 

Pieces of salvaged sunbleached plywood, 

ancient candy-coloured paint 

still visible through the sludge of the Earth 

An eagle's screech 

ushers in a new type of air-- 

less dense and electric. 

The path narrows 

a flash of nuclear light temporarily blinds me, 

and I lose my balance on the slippery edges of jagged rocks 

as I'm hit with the wet shrapnel wind of the crashing waves.

Skin it

The corner store where we shot the shit.

She moved to that island thirty years ago without ever having visited. 

I met her at Fish & Chips - the fish and chips food truck down at Ford Cove.

A super cool woman. 

I'd specifically go down to the Cove to chat with her – 

but mainly off-season. 

Because the tourists were too much for me. 

She also worked stocking shelves and doing cash at the corner store. 

I thought that she was psychic. 

So, I sniffed around when I was with her. 

And she was. 

Folks would come into the Cove and have her choose their 

Lotto tickets. 

They'd line up sometimes six or seven deep. 

I watched them. 

Customer after customer came in with winning tickets. 

Myself included. 

She picked the Set for Life tickets for me. 

I started with winning free plays, then cash. 

Each win increased with each ticket. 

My lucky streak broke when I went against my intuition

that she was psychic 

and got my ticket from another gal. 

I haven't won since - and it's been three years. 

Cove Store under reno '21

We were both at the Nirvana concert at the PNE Forum in '94. 

She was at the front - against the stage and ended up passing out. 

While she was out, she saw seven white horses. 

That's when I knew I was dead. 

She had very cool style. 

We'd talk music, vintage, and jerkoff dudes. 

The eras we'd like to put together, 

the cut of the women's silky nylon 70s blouses, 

vintage Lees 

and why the 90s does 70s worked so well. 

She loved shopping at thrift stores. 

Her Dad owned a clothing boutique in Kerrisdale - similar to Hills. 

igneous rock outcroppings at Ford Cove

No kids. 

We lived in Whistler at the same time. 

1990-92. 

She worked at The Boot pub. 

Our paths most certainly crossed at some point. 

I was probably drunk and told her I liked her outfit or something. 

Shoulder-length blond hair – 

I like to keep it like Kurt's. 

She's edgier than her twin sister. 

A tough cookie. 

I never used to be like this. 

Old drunk dudes hit on her, and she's had enough. 

I'm tired of being nice. 

 - I can relate - 

The Cove

She found a dead sea lion with a perfect hide 

down at Sandpiper Beach. 

I wanted the hide for a rug. 

So she decided to skin it. 

When she was scoping out the situation, 

an old dude came over and told her he'd found it first. 

You're a woman. You don't have the means to skin it. 

They argued. 

He laughed in her face. 

Go ahead and skin it, then. 

She got her knives and started. 

The old dude sat on a log, watched and mocked. 

It took hours. 

She said around the third or fourth hour, 

she'd become so angry at the old dude disrupting 

what was supposed to be a cathartic ritual that 

she lost focus, sliced too hard, and tore through the hide. 

She kept skinning, and the old dude kept mocking. 

You're doing it wrong. 

By the end of the day, she had the hide. 

I didn't think you had it in you. 

She told me that whenever she looks at that 

tear in the sea lion's hide, 

hatred boils inside her.

 

Earth 88

Hidden Beach Summer 2021

Virtually all students of the extinction process agree that biological diversity is in the midst of its sixth great crisis, this time precipitated entirely by man. 

Edward O. Wilson, Harvard University, 1988 

You're already trying to hang on day by day by a mere thread. 

Then, the air thickens, suffocating you; your veins expand, your hands and feet balloon, 

and dizziness engulfs you. 

Yet, you must stay focused, not for yourself but for your dying cat. 

You must ensure she's comfortable and at peace.

Make sure she doesn't have a heart attack -

that would seal her fate. 

If that happens, there's no help. 

No vets and no escape from the island. 

You'll have to end your soul mate's suffering yourself. 

I had so much anxiety during the Heat Dome I thought I was going to collapse. 

When nature turns against you, survival is the only instinct. 

Your mind races, desperately seeking solutions. 

What do I have to do? 

How can I cool down? 

How can I lower my heart rate?

When I found the dead house sparrow on my deck, 

I knew the tide had turned, and I had to leave. 

I buried the little bird, wrapped in a shroud of paper towels, 

on a bed of flowers from my garden. 

The little bird now rests beneath a mound of rocks 

at the foot of the cedar tree on the East side of my property. 

The cedar, whose branch once danced across my yard 

like a wayward broomstick during a winter storm. 

One of two remaining cedars on my property. 

The cedar that stood beside the three Douglas Firs, 

where Flo and I drank morning coffee. 

My yard mainly consisted of conglomerate rock and salal roots, 

which made digging the grave for the little bird difficult. 

I knew Flo would die soon. 

Where would I bury her?

The Raven

Raven at Galleon Beach Feb 2021

A white raven flew in front of my car while I headed up HWY 19 past Qualicum Beach. 

The bird seemed to glide. 

Its wings pressed against its body as it floated past my windshield.

A surreal experience I took as an omen.  

It was the early morning of Friday, August 13th, 2021, and I was on my way back from Vancouver after 

unsuccessfully trying to secure a place to live. 

When I arrived home an hour later, my cat was dying. 

Hwy 19 where I saw the white raven

The monarchs of the island. 

The ravens were a constant fixture on my property, yet I hardly saw them. 

I knew they were there. My silent companions.

Watching me. I could feel them. 

I'd hear their deep gargling call and look into the Firs, yet see nothing. 

I talked to them every day. 

I asked them to give me a hand in the yard, 

asked them questions, 

and expressed my overall exasperation with my situation. 

They often blew by me, just overhead. 

I wouldn't see them coming; they'd just blow by. 

Gone before the sound of the broken air faded. 

In early September, a week before I left the island, a raven came to me in my yard. 

It sat in the grand cedar that guarded the grave of the little bird that died in the heat dome. 

On the tree's lowest branch, it sat unobstructed, watching me. 

It was lunchtime, and I was at the picnic table my dad built for me. 

My heart was heavy with grief. 

Grief over the loss of Flo. 

Grief that I had to sell the home that I loved. 

Grief that my dad was given just a few months to live 

and grief that the pandemic still raged.

The raven sat motionless. 

We looked each other in the eyes 

Hello. It's nice to finally meet you. Would you like to join me for lunch? 

 ~This ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling ~

My dad built me the picnic table and benches. I had to leave them behind.

I'd brought out stuff to make an avocado sandwich, but I'd forgotten my napkin in the kitchen. 

I told the raven not to eat my lunch while I went back inside. 

When I returned - no more than thirty seconds later, 

all that remained of the avocado was the spotless pit. 

The tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, cheese, and bread – all still there. 

I was confused by how fast the theft happened. 

I'd left numerous meals outside unattended, and nothing was ever touched. 

I went to the cabin to get another avocado. 

When I opened the door, the raven landed atop it. 

I'd experienced so many unexplainable things during my time on Hornby that 

nothing shocked me anymore. 

I smiled at the bird. 

Did you fly in from the Night's Plutonian shore? 

I almost expected it to answer, Nevermore to my obvious Poe reference. 

Unafraid, the raven perched on my open door, watching me in the kitchen. 

He didn't flinch as I made my way out back to my lunch.

Facing the bird while I ate, I asked him about his day,

his thoughts and

whether that was the first avocado he'd tried.

He didn't move his eyes from me. 

It'd be a lie if I said I wasn't a bit nervous. 

A sound in the woods made me briefly turn my head from our conversation. 

I turned back, and the raven was gone. 

leaving

During my last few days on the island, 

I looked for my silent companion, 

talked to him, 

and called out to him, 

but there was nothing. 

The day to leave my home had come —my final goodbye. 

Holding back tears, I locked the door the raven had perched on, 

put the key under the mat and 

headed out the side gate. 

The raven landed atop. 

My heart dropped.

Knowingly, we looked into each other's eyes, 

My friend. Thank you. 

I walked over to my car parked at the driveway gate, 

and the raven followed. 

He perched atop the gate. 

I got in my car and backed out of the driveway for the last time.

The raven watched me as I pulled away.

Split

My woodpile

I saw it the moment I stepped into the yard. 

The covered pile of wood in the backyard confirmed this place would be my first home. 

The pile was about 75 by 25 by 8. 

I don’t know how many cords it was, but it was a lot of wood. 

A sixty-forty split of Douglas fir and Western red cedar; 

the firewood came from the trees on my new property. 

The trees fell to make room for the cabin, 

and the good ones were used to build it; 

the remainder put aside to be dealt with later. 

On a perfect day in late July, a few months after I moved into my new home, 

I decided to start chopping the wood. 

Alone amongst the trees, 

I took the first swing with the old axe I’d found 

in the shed behind the cabin. 

The blade lodged - 

the wood didn’t split. 

I tried again, 

but with anger. 

Yes. 

Striking with anger 

felt good. 

And even better

when 

I screamed. 

Wood 

Swing 

Strike

Scream 

Trance-like rhythm. 

the first pile of wood I split

Every piece of wood 

a memory. 

Each strike split my heart open – 

again. 

I screamed up to the trees, 

phrases, curses, profanities, 

names. 

The memories were too real. 

I was in it all again. 

But this time, 

I 

took control. 

Some pieces of wood were 

rotten and termite-infested, 

the larvae still moving deep inside. 

Others, when hit with my axe, turned to dust. 

Some smelled so pure

they brought me down from my rage, 

and I could turn away 

- for a moment. 

Some I pulled apart with my hands.

Others were impenetrable— 

knots, 

deep tangled secrets 

that I could only split around. 

Or not at all. 

Trauma. 

The trees. 

I chopped wood for hours on that perfect day in late July. 

It felt like thirty minutes. 

When I decided I was done, 

I walked away. 

A few hours later, I returned. 

Raw but awake. 

Gently, I picked up each piece of split wood, 

each memory, 

and carried it to the back of the covered wood pile

 – the side hidden by trees. 

Private and protected. 

I wanted them kept safe from harm, 

so I could burn them - 

triumphantly. 

My resolved memories 

fueled the flames 

that kept my cat and me warm; 

they heated food that gave us sustenance. 

And then 

they turned 

to ash. 

That first pile of wood I split on that perfect day in late July was 

the first split into myself. 

A Self, close to half a century old - 

knotted branches, 

lichen and moss, 

cracks, 

and stories. 

But in the centre, beneath the drying bark, the first ring - my beginning.

My small wood stove

The woodpile