The post AMPA Award Finalists appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

Michelle Hardy

A Review of:

If You Lie Down in a Field, She Will Find You There

Colleen BrownRadiant Press, 2023
ISBN: 978-1-98927-494-1
110 pages
$20.00 CAD

Remembering an Unremarkable Woman:

Colleen Brown will not allow memories of her “perfectly human and unremarkable” mother to be overshadowed by the “spectacle of her murder.” Brown’s memoir If You Lie Down in a Field, She Will Find You There, published by Radiant Press in 2023, investigates the story of her mother’s life. Only eight years old when Doris Brown died, Colleen Brown consolidates her own childhood memories with present-day adult interviews of her siblings and cousins, as well as with an essay written by her sister Laura twenty-five years ago. In the opening pages of her book, Brown admits that when younger, the only way she could attribute meaning to her mother’s life was to “willfully excise her death.” Now, Brown writes to understand the whole of her mother’s existence. During the process of remembering, this author’s childhood recollections create new interpretations of her family’s past.

Colleen Brown is an artist, primarily a sculptor, and this memoir is her first book. Brown chose to shape this work of creative nonfiction into modular sections of varying lengths. Narrator sections are untitled, while sections attributed to the memories of each of the five siblings are headlined by their first names. As writer, artist, and subject, Colleen Brown occupies all possible points of view in this text.

Brown is the first-person narrator as well as first-person Colleen, youngest sibling residing within the home. Also, Brown’s siblings refer to her in the second and third person when they speak to and about their youngest sister in interviews conducted for her book. The author is everywhere on the page yet often nowhere in the history; twenty years younger than her oldest sister, many family memories were created before Colleen was born. Sibling anecdotes and conversation snippets provide the colour and texture Brown needs to write about family events and circumstances she did not directly observe. Her brothers and sisters’ stories fuse with Brown’s own childhood memories to evoke images of her mother’s care. The result is a memoir in which Brown’s adept handling of language blends with innate artistic ability to push past the narrative pull of true-crime blockbuster into the aesthetic realm of literature.

Texture plays a large but subtle role in Brown’s memories of her mother. For example, she recalls her mother’s bedspread: thin sage-coloured cotton covered in chenille popcorn tufts. Looking back now on the memory of that fabric, Brown writes:

“Thinking about this weak backing having to support the regime of gridded chirpy pom-poms makes me feel slightly sick.”

The author’s present-day queasiness, at the recollection of her childhood mother’s bed, does as much heavy lifting as the tiny squiggles used to separate certain small but graphic blocks of text. These hard-break symbols, far more explicit than the description of a bedspread or the memoir’s gentle poetic spacing, warn readers to stop. To contemplate violent realities that create temporal and logical disconnects within Brown’s story. Not only are references to violence bracketed by these hard-break symbols, but also the syntax of the references is clipped and direct. These sentences stand alone. They are kept separate from descriptions of Colleen Brown’s mother, her family, and their life. What skill and authorial guts. To convey the weight of violence within this story while giving little time and space to heavy, morbid detail.

My favourite passages from this book contemplate the connection between language and violence. Specifically, language is examined in terms of its relationship to the buttons on the Brown’s new 1970s blender. Each button had a unique name young Colleen could neither read nor understand:

“The violence of chop and crush beside the whimsy of whip and puree, finished off by a horrifying liquify.”

After Colleen’s sister Laura carefully shows her “the inside where the blades spin to invisibility,” Colleen, even at her young age, remembers characterizing the text of the blender buttons as “flim-flam.” Too big of a gulf between “the actual mechanics of the machine and all the language” represented, she recalls. Skip now, past the blender metaphor, to the memoir’s end when narrator Colleen theorizes “a violent death contains narrative dark matter…do not touch.” In other words, language describing violence may initially exert a gravitational pull. But those same words become devoid of meaning when applied to someone’s life story.

Colleen Brown hypothesizes she would have been a different person had her mother lived. She also admits they may not have liked one another as adults had her childhood mother been permitted the opportunity to age. This kind of honest, raw self-examination is the real subject of memoir. Images of bedspreads and blenders aside, what kind of woman was Doris Brown? Colleen writes:

“Family and friends have used larger cultural narratives to place her in history and explain her to me at different points in my life. The most common contexts reached for are feminism, economics, and justice.”

But Colleen Brown has an artist’s eye. So, she weaves these strands of ideology with her family’s memories of colour, shape, and specificity. Eventually the whole texture unifies, and it’s more than a statistic. It’s a woman, a real woman who existed in time and space.

Some components of the book felt unexpected or difficult to process. Uncaptioned photographs caught me off guard, despite the text’s detailed bibliography. And I found Laura’s interaction with her mother’s murderer in the psychiatric ward unsettling. But I think this says more about my own contemporary-media-shaped expectations than any deficiency in the writing. The pronoun shifts caused a minute amount of confusion. But overall, the multiple voices, style, tone, and structural setup worked for me. Readers should also visit https://colleenvbrown.org/  to view the author/artist’s same-titled art exhibition; the images posted there relate directly to this memoir.

The title If You Lie Down in a Field, She Will Find You There evokes both haunting threat and comforting reassurance. Despite the heartache it induces in me, I find Colleen Brown’s memoir quiet and restful. This true-crime story is not a plot-driven thriller. However, it does contain momentum as readers strive to comprehend: what happened to this woman? And in a broader sense, how has her daughter coped? Colleen Brown’s memoir subordinates her mother’s murder to her unremarkable life, and by doing so underscores that death was not the conclusion to Doris Brown’s story.

The post If You Lie Down in a Field, She Will Find You There appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

Blue Portugal
by Theresa Kishkan
University of Alberta Press (2022)

Blue Portugal, Theresa Kishkan’s new collection of essays, presents life as mosaic. Kishkan stitches and mends together bodies, shelters, and family histories in both Europe and Alberta. She shines a bright light through this mosaic, traces all of the soft details of cities new and old–from riverside shacks in 1918 Drumheller to the cobblestone streets of Czechia and Ukraine. Regardless of location, however, Kishkan is consistently able to guide the reader around a slow meditative meandering circle about an idea or trope, seemingly lackadaisical at first, until diving in an often unexpected direction to piece together what at first glance looks like dislocated stories, events, and people.

The slow circling of the first two essays in Blue Portugal, “A Dark Path” and “Blue Etymologies”, evokes haibun-esque movements–a casual and precise description, and subsequent reflection, of one’s surroundings. Even at the micro level of writing in these two essays, Kishkan’s history as a poet becomes obvious; verbs are strong, and rarely is a word out of place, as strong narrative voice carries a seemingly mundane topic:

What the cloth remembers, I will remember too—gathering the stones, sewing the circles that became the growth rings of larch, tying cotton string as tightly as I could. And the cloth and I will also remember the raucous sound of adolescent pileated woodpeckers finding their wings, learning what a voice sounds like in open air, in the morning, before the heat begins (17).

This precision from the first two essays is something that I feel the final essays lack. For example, in the essay “Blueprints”, Kishkan starts a section with “There was a shop in Brno I passed when I walked from my hotel to the university where I was teaching for a week” (92). The excessive copulae and general weakness of verbs set the tone for an essay bogged down by flat language, contributing to a pacing issue characteristic of the later half of Blue Portugal. While the writing in the first half was precise and Kishkan’s wordcraft was enough to keep my attention during the descriptions of the mundane everyday life, this feeling sometimes wanes in later sections, causing the collection to slightly drag.

Despite these occasionally sluggish sections, I still saw promise in the last two essays–“The River Door” and “Museum of the Multitude Village” which delve into family and provincial history. Some sections remind me of Jordan Abel’s Nishga, as Kishkan makes use of fragmentary maps, old family photos, and unreliable first-hand accounts from the 1910’s to augment her own narrative and piece together a family history. I do wish that Kishkan had done more with the visuals–overlaying and blurring boundaries between the visuals included, and perhaps just more visuals in general. Statements like “In the digital version of the microfilm I was sent by my son in 2016, after I’d discovered the information about the camp and their residence there, I can see tattered pieces of a map but some are missing and I can’t make any sense of it” (148) come and go in text only with no use of a visual, no artistic re-rendering of pieces of history. These omissions just left a few sections, although informative, a little flat and incomplete, unable to hold the attention of readers less invested in Kishkan’s family history–a point even Kishkan concedes: “Everyone is nice to me but I know they don’t understand my urgent need to determine where my grandmother lived, where she lost first one, then a second, and finally a third family member in a short period of time” (146).

Putting aside these blemishes, the collection manages to tell Kishkan’s story—one many can relate to. It is a story of battling injury, keeping family together, uncovering a nearly-lost family history, and everyday acts of creation. Kishkan’s Blue Portugal gives the reader a blueprint for charting and tracking one’s own history through all the highs and lows–a valuable read for anyone tackling autobiography or essays.

The post Review of Theresa Kishkan’s “Blue Portugal” appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

“Siddhartha at Paia” by Diana E. Hayes from Volume 32 Number 2 – YouTube

Barbara Pelman reading her poem “Quaker Service, Argenta” – YouTube

Bedfellows by Kendall Bistretzan – YouTube

Divers at the Community Pool by D S Stymeist – YouTube

The post Volume 32 Number 2 Video Readings appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

How often do I visit this place? The memories that drift in
and out are not my own and they constantly drag me back to this
town. I remember going to school. I remember going to the church
across the street from that school. I don’t remember riding my bike
from the settlement to my grandmother’s house. I don’t remember
spending the evening playing cards with her. I don’t remember
waking up to begin the day-long trip it would take to get back home.
My Dad told me about blood memory. The memories of ancestors
or close relatives that flow through NDNs to deliver us messages or
remind us of our traditions. The unfamiliar memories that visit me
are my Dad’s.

He tells me to go back home. The persistence of these
memories is a sign that it’s time to revisit. Maybe I’ve spent too
much time in the city and it’s creating a disconnect from my people,
he says, but I need to be here. Being here gives me opportunities
that I don’t have in High Prairie, but he’s right, I’m giving up a
lot to be here. I don’t have access to family or tradition and the
old ways serve no purpose here. What use is it to speak a language
that no one understands? What use is it to tell stories no one cares
for? Part of me is dying for the sake of assimilation, but I survive.
Since I last spoke to my Dad, the blood memories have been more
persistent, more vivid, and always there, in High Prairie, the draw
becomes stronger. I can no longer ignore it and I decide to leave.

The next day, I spend the afternoon at the Cozy Corner with
a pint. I’ve never been to this pub before, but always wondered
what it was like as a child. Walking by, seeing the neon sign, encased
in a rouge housing, I would imagine what it looked like. The main
room had red carpet with walls draped in maroon cloth creased like
accordion bellows. There are circular tables small enough for two
people, draped in the same maroon that hung on the walls. Each
table had its own circular shroud behind it to offer some privacy
from the other patrons. Cigarette smoke permanently hung in the
air which softened the lighting and created orange halos around the
bulbs hanging above each table. The only detail I got correct was
the cigarette smoke.

The walls and floors are painted in a matte black that looks
sticky to the touch. Plastic furniture is strewn about the room with
no particular seating arrangement in mind. In addition to the smell
of cigarette smoke, the smell of mildew and old piss also hangs in
the air. My disappointment in the Cozy Corner assures me that
there is no reason to return.

I leave the pub and make my way to the car. As I sit in the
driver seat gripping the steering wheel, I contemplate the rest of
my visit here. An unfamiliar place like the Cozy Corner was a bad
start, but I’d like to keep visiting old haunts and go from there. My
childhood home is the next place I visit. High Prairie is small, and it
only takes a few minutes to get to the house. I like longer drives. It’s
a time for contemplation and to listen to songs that somehow never
overstay their welcome. A small break from the real world. I drive
slowly.

A playground where I spent most of my adolescence comes
into view. The large poplar trees are still there with their snowy
seeds strewn about the ground. At one point, this place was open
with sky always visible from the patchy grass below. The small
buildings peppering the town were the only objects on the horizon.
Now, a firehall and an arena box the place in. The trees, now stifled,
compensate by rising above the new structures which in turn, blocks
the sunlight that was previously plentiful.

My small detour wraps me around a small church that has
no obvious changes to the exterior, but now hosts a small sandwich
board advertising a real estate listing. A place of worship now being
sold for the land it inhabits. A small part of me wants to take it
back. A small victory for NDNs, I think. If it’s still here, I’ll consider
it.

I decide to park outside the church. Walking would lengthen
my trip before my confrontation with the old house. I also want
to look like a passerby upon my arrival. Enough time has passed
that I would be considered a stranger in these parts. It also doesn’t
help to be an NDN casually wandering through a largely white
neighborhood.

Strolling along the opposite side of the street, I look at the
surroundings trying to observe any changes from my last visit. Most
of the houses remained the same as I remember, variations of 70s
style bungalows or ranch houses with the same brown, green, and
orange tones reminiscent of the time. The trees that line both sides
of the street remain the same too, forming a large shady archway,
shielding residents from the outside world.

While the street and surroundings remain the same from my
memory, my house has gone through several changes. The familiar
two-tone white and gray paint scheme has now transformed into a
dull shade of blue that envelops the entire house. The trim around
the windows and the eavestroughs are now painted black. A modern
look that looks out of place in this environment. The old gravel
driveway is now paved with black asphalt. No doubt to match the
trim of the house. It’s odd to see a renovation in a neighborhood
that’s barely changed.

There’s an entryway into the alley right beside the house. I
make my way around to the back. They built a fence. A fence my
dad always intended to build. It’s eight feet high with slats arranged
vertically; A privacy fence, meant to keep people in and “other”
people out.

I continue my walk down the alley. I find a bike leaning
against one of the neighbour’s fences. An old red and black singlespeed
with “Vagabond” written on the frame. No handbrake to
speak of. It’s one of those coaster systems that require you to pedal
backwards to stop. No obvious owner. Either abandoned or left here
carelessly. I have one of my dad’s memories of riding his bike and
want to recreate that moment. I borrow the bike.

I start heading east of town, passing the playground from
earlier and two public schools. I pass by the only grocery store in
town. It looks the same as I remember it, but with a different name.
It’s a place worth visiting for the sake of nostalgia and a chance to
buy smokes. It still has the strange pebble patterned vanilla linoleum
in it. I used to think they were tiny marshmallows stuffed together
between two thin sheets of plastic. The registers are also wrapped in
that same linoleum. The turn tables being used in place of modern
conveyor belts also have that same wrapping, except with brown
rubber trim that protects the edge of the turntable from rubbing
the walls of its housing. I ask for a pack of cigarettes which is pulled
from a cabinet behind the register covered in the same linoleum.

I leave the grocery store and continue east towards the edge
of town. An old farm comes into view. There’s a barn that sits on
a tilt, unsure of whether it should fall or not. It looks like it needs
to rest. An old grain silo lays flat on the ground next to it. The silo
made its choice.

The barn looks over at the silo in mourning.

The same style of bungalow found in my old neighborhood
sits on the other side of the property. I remember the boy that
lived there. He died in a snowmobile accident when I was in the
sixth grade. His father attempted to jump over a snowbank without
realizing his son was sitting underneath. The anguish his father felt
after his wife left drove him to sell the property. From the looks of it,
no one ever bothered to make an offer.

As I pass by the farm, I feel a pull directing me further east
down the road. Every attempt to stop is ignored and I feel my body
continuing forward. I want a chance to consider where I’m being
led, but my legs continue pedalling forward despite my attempts to
resist. I finally stop at an old car lying in the ditch beside me. The
vehicle is overgrown with the native plant life that was there
for years before the car called this place home. The car’s windows
are empty voids with only the rubber lining that once kept the
glass secured in its frame. There are tiny specks of glass within that
rubber lining. Inside the cab, the only thing left behind are the metal
frames that would have held the fabric and foam creating the seats.
The car appears to have been burned, but there are traces of the
original colour speckled throughout. At one point, it could have
been seafoam green, but the lightness of the colour is deceiving. Fire
transformed this car, and all evidence of its original form is lost.

With the bike left on the road, I approach the car and
attempt to pry open the driver’s side door. Years of rust causes the
handle to fall off at the first attempt. I brace my foot against the
back panel next to the door and place my hands on the frame of
the window to pull it open. The door finally gives, and rust can be
heard rattling down to the ground below. I stare at the inside for a
while when the pull comes back and forces me to sit in the metal
frame of the seat. My hands place themselves on the bare metal of
the steering wheel. I look out where the windshield used to be and
see how the car got here.

§

I work at the mill in town. I haven’t been working here long,
but I’m a fast learner and quickly move up the ladder. I started on
the table saw, then moved to the plywood press, and now foreman.
It’s not hard work, but it is unfulfilling, unchallenging. I don’t know
what else I would be doing. Staying at this mill, in this town, is
becoming normal. It scares me.

I like to watch the rest of the employees go about their days
during my lunch break. I watch another foreman moving along
the catwalk and he stops at a section that hangs above the plywood
press. He looks intoxicated, but that’s common around here. A lot of
guys drink during lunch. This section of the catwalk is a good place
to end a break because it’s also close to the burn pile. Have a smoke
after lunch, inside away from the cold, and throw the cigarette butt
into the pile afterward.

The man threw the remains of his cigarette into the pile. He
lingered staring into the flames fuelled by sawdust and scrap lumber.
One of the millwrights yells toward the foreman from below. The
noise of the machinery and other workers is overwhelming. I can’t
hear what he’s saying. The foreman looks below into the press
and spits on it. The millwright from below continues to yell. The
foreman inches closer to the burn pile and begins to push himself
up onto the railing. Many others join the millwright. The cacophony
of voices goes unheard. The foreman stands on the railing, looks at
his co-workers one last time, and jumps.

The next day, I pack my car with the few things I own.
Clothes, comics, a guitar, and an old quilt my mother made. There’s
a small city with more work, better work, two hours away from
town. There’s also a college there that offers programs outside of
trades. I’ve done this kind of work for so long and now I have the
motivation for a change.

I drive east out of town. My head starts hurting. Headaches
are normal for me, so I think nothing of it. Pop a couple Ibuprofen
and keep driving. The pain gets worse. A throbbing pain that starts
from the top of my head and feels like it’s moving around the crown
of my skull. I pull over. I’m disoriented from the pain, and I pull
too far from the road which leaves me in a ditch. I turn the car off
and try to catch my breath. The pain doesn’t stop. Lurched over
the steering wheel, I begin dry heaving. I open the door and lean
over to vomit. I’m trying to brace myself against the door while also
trying to hold my head up. I slip and fall out of the door headfirst.
My body hangs out of the cab while I struggle to push myself back
up. I keep slipping and finally give up. I just lay here and wait. I feel
myself being pulled from my body. Like someone is here pulling me
slowly away, and the further I am away from my body, the better I
start to feel.

I remove my hands from the steering wheel and try to rub
the rust from it on my jeans. I sat so long in the metal frame of
the seat that my clothes are stuck on the hooks meant to hold the
missing cushion. I finally get loose and leave the car. I pick up the
single-speed and begin my journey back to town to return the bike
and collect my car.

The post Blood Memory appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

At its heart the Bear
Clan protects us,
Puskamoose declares.
our peoples need
aggression, that modern
Canada makes us smile
at being inappropriate.

Drops deck screws,
clearance twine, two
packs of Thrills
atop counter, bears,
cousins to spirits
Creator lets loose
to haunt our north.

He says he’s seen them,
waking up in the static
of his TV when Global
goes off air for night,
bothered by post anthem
white noise, he knows
they’ve come in season

In keeping with ancient
teachings, town Cree
like him don’t follow.
First saw them after
a Scott Tournament
of Hearts replay. Heard
hunger in their stirrings.

The post Eddie Puskamoose Showers History at the Main Street appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

The post Frogs Fell from the Sky: Fiction in Poetry appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

The post 2020/2021 Annual Prose and Poetry Short List appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

The post Review of Lauren Carter’s “This Has Nothing To Do With You” appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.

The post Review of “I Will Be Corrupted” by Joseph A. Dandurand appeared first on FreeFall Magazine.