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TWISTEDWORDSREVIEW

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Are you the nextEditor-in-Chief, The Confluence?

Harman DandiwalProduction Editor, The ConfluenceCommunications Officer, CNCSU

Submissions, inquiries and requests can be made to news@cncsu.ca, in person at the CNCSU room 1-303, or mailed to “The Confluence c/o CNCSU 3330-22nd Ave. Prince George, BC V2N1P8.

All submissions are welcome, the authors of edited works used in the confluence receive a $20 cheque upon publication. Advertisement rates are available upon request.

Hello members,

I hope everyone is enjoying their spring semester of 2016. We are already three weeks into it and folks like myself who are still in holiday spirit need to buckle up and start submitting assignments.

As Ryan White mentioned earlier, be sure to take care of yourself when studying. Consider taking breaks if you feel too overloaded, and try your best to get at least 8 hours of sleep so you can avoid turning yourself into a zombie drooling all over the textbooks.

So here’s an important announcement. We are looking for the new Editor-in-Chief for the Confluence. I would highly encourage the instructors at the college to motivate students to apply for this position. We are currently accepting resumes from all students.

Meanwhile at CNC, majority of the college board except for Nathan Giede, Sheldon Clare and Mary Sjostrom voted for yet another 2% increase in tuition fee for the upcoming academic year. At CNCSU, we are actively fighting against the increasing tuition fee, increasing interest on student loans, reduced government grants and lack of proper funding to the institutions. We are hopeful that one day each and every student will have proper access to affordable quality education.

We have two major events coming up in February organized by the CNC Students. Firstly it’s the Chinese New year! The event was sold out last year, so be sure to grab your tickets well in advance from the International Education Office. Secondly, we have our 26th Annual Women’s Memorial March which is going to be held on 13th Feb at PG Courthouse. Come join us for the march to support inquiry on missing and murdered aboriginal women.

As usual, we are open to submissions for the confluence. I hope you enjoy reading this issue and continue providing us with feedback.

Have a great semester at CNC folks!

EDITORIALHarman DandiwalProduction Editor

The Confluence

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by : PAUL STRICKLAND

In addition, he deals with the effects of “Viagra with beer” and the issue of “counting publications by gender.” A key poem of Budde’s was “The Wreck,” based loosely on beatnik poet Allen Ginsberg’s 1956 poem, “Supermarket in California.” The poet shares his impressions from a recent visit to the supermarket, and the impact of “knowing the preservatives are doing us no good.” Darcy Taylor read from her own poems viewed as “bridges between all of us.” One was “Longing, Location, Logic, Lapse, and Legend.” She referred to internal “dangerous pressure, spiritual kiln fire.” Concerning the concept of logic, she said she was “alarmed at the worn-out words.” Janet Rogers, UNBC writer in residence, was the next to read. “Heading out to Nass Valley on 16, I find the road speaks to me,” she commented. She said Canadian poet Pauline Johnson was an inspiration to her. The poem “Three-Day Road” contained strong phrases and lines like “ . . . just struggling against the wind,” “. . . home for the brave,” “the political is the ironical,” “Is this where the arrows get broken? . . . “ and “America ca ca.”

The Twisted Words poetry reading at the Twisted Cork banquet hall late last month tested the outer boundaries of appreciation of the poetic art. Darcy Taylor, emcee, introduced Darlene McIntosh, who gave the invocation in the First Nations tradition. The first reader was Adrienne Fitzpatrick, who talked about her recent work in creative non-fiction. One story was a description of an afternoon with the Nakazdli. Taylor next introduced Prof. Rob Budde of the UNBC creative writing program, pointing out he is the author of eight published books. Budde read from “Testes,” working title for a book manuscript about the concept of masculinity “It’s an exploration of that software,” he said. One poem in that collection in preparation is “Catch as Catch”: “ . . . there in the bathroom glare, we have words . . . .” Others are “Change Room,” and “What Men Really Want,” which Prof. Budde said is “part sarcasm, part truth, part psychoanalysis, and part sad.” It makes the issue of men wanting “room to spread out on buses.” He said it treats of “irony best left to those who know how to use it without misunderstandings.”

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She also read a Pauline Johnson poem, “East Wood.” “It helps me understand river language,” Rogers said.

When introducing him as a significant national poet, Taylor said, “bill bissett is considered the grandfather of sound poetry. He is also an incredible visual artist.”

“I turned to the writing of poetry for my soul and my life,” bissett said. In his first reading, he demonstrated a commanding deep resonance, as of a traditional story-teller inspiring and encouraging a band. “ . . . I have seen the river flowing through us . . in the pouring rain . . . “

“Can we transcend the reptilian foe?” he continued.

He denounced the cutbacks and controls imposed by the recent Harper government, especially its decision to fire 27 RCMP officers from their positions on Parliament hill in the months just before shootings there. “Stephen Harper,” bissett exclaimed. “We got rid of him!”

He continued reading from his poems. “In this mystical garden of words/are toxic people.” Referring to his poem, “y th longatudinal naytur uv our jellee roll,” from his ‘Hungree Throat’ collection, he said, “We are drowning in the demonstrative/ . . . Well th use uv unmodified demonstrativs is leeding 2/ incoherens in the public square . . . . “

His ‘sout refuge in an abandoned car” drew an especially favourable audience response, recalling unfriendliness to hitch-hikers “ . . . in wa wa n thn in Kenorra...” ”Fever Thoughts in the Arctic,” with powerful image called to mind by phrases like “ . . . over the purple ice mountain . . . ,” also struck a favourable chord with listeners.

The event Oct. 23rd drew about 65 people.

bissett was battling a flu or bad cold during his tour, but he spent more than an hour in the Twisted Cork lounge answering questions from students of literature, fans, and faculty from CNC and UNBC.

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TRAVEL:MEXICAN BUSIt’s mid-December and my partner and I are on a flight returning from Mexico. Still dressed for summer, I sit crunching the dried salt in the ends of my hair. The thought of Christmas Madness awaiting us at home does little to ease the sadness I feel at leaving. To distract myself, I shift my focus to a newspaper I picked up from the departure lounge in Vancouver a week ago. I read an article victoriously advising Canadians that our middle-class has nudged past America’s in conquering their quest for the ‘American Dream.’ It states that through the value and commitment we place on hard work, we’ve achieved prosperity and success. We’re rich—well on our way to having it all! I call bull-crap. The richest people in the world can be found on an antiquated Mexican city bus. My visceral reaction to this story angers me and I regret my decision to read it. It feels like an ugly invasion upon the beautiful memories I have mere hours to savour before the plane lands and I’m smacked in the face by the realities of my life. I close my eyes and try to dissect my thoughts, and in that dissection, I’m taken back to the first 24 hours of our vacation. After an evening spent people watching, we caught Vancouver’s Canada Line to our hotel near the airport. In observing an ever changing train-scape of riders, there was a constant denominator between them all: Oblivious to their surroundings and fully engrossed in the alternate reality streamed to them through the rectangle of plastic they coveted in their hands, hunched and closed to the real world with spines forming a protective letter C, their blatant disconnect was the screaming siren of what our society has become—an ADHD, disconnected and somewhat narcissistic, me and want wasteland.

by : LINDA GLOVER

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Hours later, we threw on our packs and charged through the doors of the Puerto Vallarta airport, giddy with excited anticipation. The heat and humidity hugged us in welcome as we made our way through the chaos to await our chariot—the Centro city bus. We paid our meager fare and were gifted a seat by a young boy who stood in our place. “Gracias,” we said. “You’re welcome,” he replied, pride in his English skills evident through his smile. We gratefully sat and the rumble started. Over the un-muffled groan of the diesel engine and the rattles and sighs of the ancient undercarriage beating itself over the time-worn roads, the rumble became magic as a beautiful noise grew within the bus. People were talking. To each other. They were turned in their seats, moving back and forth and offering greetings to one and other. They were smiling and laughing and engaged. They were present. In the moment. On the bus. The driver greeted every rider. Young men stood and offered their seats to the women and elders who boarded at different stops. Families fussed over their children—listened to stories, showed interest in little fingers pointed out of windows and offered snacks from their bags. At different stops buskers boarded and stood in the aisle to entertain their captive audience. A woman in curious clown make-up performed a comedy routine, and an elderly man in a polyester suit and cowboy hat strummed his guitar and sang songs of Johnny Cash and Charlie Pride in beautiful, broken English. At the end of each performance the audience offered up hard earned pesos along with their gratitude. We left the bus at the Malecon and headed into Old Town to find a room for rent. We followed a group of families who’d been riding our bus, and as we walked we drew ourselves closer to feed off their excitement. Soon we saw crowds in the streets and heard the sound of a marching band’s approach. As

we waited for the parade, a mother handed her young son a small roll of caps from a bag in her pocket. One-by-one he dropped them on the roadway and stomped them until they let out a crack, triggering his laughter and claps of approval from his family beside us. Such joy for all from such a simple game. Throughout our week in Puerto Vallarta, the bus and its community of riders played a critical and welcomed role in our quest to vacate, and a starring role in the dissection of my angry post-vacation thoughts. Our plugged-in, and prosperous ‘Smart Society’ has dumbed itself down to the point where an industry of personal coaching has been birthed: For a price, coaches will teach us the lost art of communicating in the real world. The Merriam-Webster dictionary offers eight definitions of the word rich. The first is ‘having abundant possessions and especially material wealth:’ the second is ’having high value or quality.’ Ironically, the opportunity cost of the first is the second. At the end of our time on Earth, our abundant possessions and material wealth—our achievement of the ‘American Dream’—won’t matter. Neither will our Platinum MasterCard, million dollar mortgaged homes, tricked out vehicles, Most Dedicated Employee Award, 700 Facebook friends, Twitter history, unlimited texting account or Instagram album. What will matter will be the value we put on the people closest to us and the quality we weave into our lives and theirs. This is a lesson easily learned by the example of the richest people in the world. They can be found on an antiquated Mexican city bus.

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LET’

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Source: http://www.conceptdraw.com/solution-park/resource/images/solutions/food-cooking-recipes/Food-and-Beverage-Cooking-Recipes-Canadian-Apple-Pie-Recipe.png

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BODYIN THE

WOODSI The tiptoeing through daffodils was an ass spanking by my father always reassuring, “not to be a faggot” with pleasure belt in hand

I hope the irony wasn’t lost on him

II It was the woods that would label me, not the hard men that never cried, and would never let me.

III Glazed iced eyes, too cold and sticky for my maggot army to liberate Doomed instead blanketed, by the holed earth not ready to let go or put in the work. Just hanging around till spring, the scabs make (good eggs).

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IV I asked the father about his dreams it was a mistake in letters, I know the way she looks at me. She tells me to go to bed with a gentle refined fury, knowing the neighbors hear over flowery prose, “you motherfucker!” She vomits roses into a broken machine too lonely to self-destruct

V

It is too cold I don’t visit I think of you from my broken window when I am on stage Birds refuse to sing at funerals, I return to tell you the secret: About the girl I liked, the one boy – Ryan that would make my father sucuumb to his Export A greens and Pilsner breathe, and in his dreams be proud.

VI

It is spring, it stinks as I stand above you with the ill-fitting t-shirt draped over my mouth it pains me to see you like this, the marking bites of the curious foxes and coyotes and flightless birds housing in your cage

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by : MARY REID

peeling paint of the deck. Mom trailed behind me shoving a bag with snacks and drinks into my hands and told me to have fun. Oh, and be careful and be home for supper, that was always the closing comment be home for supper. The thickness of the summer heat was smothering but I pushed it aside and bounded down the deck steps. I glanced around looking for my bike. My bike was the bridge between childhood and young adulthood: freedom and no freedom. I saw the glint of blue metal shining out of the long wavy prairie grass. I pulled Baby upright. She was the first new thing that I had ever owned. Baby was mine and she had never been anyone’s before me. I was the first sweaty bottom to press down on the black vinyl seat, the first to splatter mud on her gleaming chain guard, and the first to put a small dent in the rear fender. I remember my dad holding my hand confidently as we walked into Hoffman’s hardware store to buy my new bike. It was the first time he could afford to buy me something new. My dad knew how I yearned for a bike. It was more than wheels and handle bars; it was my key to the lock of the freedom door. I could finally leave my yard I could go see friends. I would never again be trapped in the stifling existence of our farm. I pushed Baby out of the daisy patch bending the long necks of these happy flowers as I wheeled over them. Fat bumble bees buzzed lazily out of the path of my wheel as I directed my bike toward the lane. I was off to the gravel road that would lead me toward the refreshing water of a cool summer swim. Within a few moments I was sitting upon the saddle straining to reach my pedals. Dad thought it wise to choose a bike on which I could grow. The gravel crunched beneath my wheels as I bumped down the driveway toward the main road. Baby and I became one as we flew along the country road. The tickle of the handle bar tassels was slapping against my hands. The metal basket on the front of my bike was full of snacks and drinks. The clink of the pop bottles rattled against each other singing the promise of refreshment. I swerved off the main road and meandered down the forest path that lead to the swimming hole. The Blindman River was a narrow winding water that snaked its way

The double ring of the telephone jolted me out of my summer malaise; I bounced off our chesterfield and grabbed the receiver off the cradle. The curly black cord bounced off my bare feet, illuminating the dirt of summer that was nestled in the valleys between my toes. Leanne’s voice was beckoning me to go for a dip at the swimming hole. Living on a farm in central Alberta in the summer for a thirteen year old should have been bliss, but for me it was anything but. I always felt trapped by my situation. If it were not for “Baby”, my powder blue two wheeler I think that I would have died of boredom. Of course, all thirteen year olds feel that they are going to, just die from almost everything. I was happy for an excuse to get out of our hot trailer. It was these stifling hot mid- summer days that made me wonder why anyone would make a home with tin siding. It was as though we lived in a long rectangular baking pan nestled inside of a perfectly heated oven. I yelled to my mom that I was heading to the river to meet Leanne. I grabbed my swim bag and quickly glanced inside to make sure everything was in order and let the screen door slam behind me. I bailed out the back door and stepped onto the

BICYCLE, BICYCLE, I WANT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE

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through the country side. It was on this river on the elbow of a bend that our swimming hole hid. I skidded to a stop right beside Leanne’s bike. I snatched the bag of food and my swim bag out of my bike basket and began to descend the bank toward the water. Friends and freedom on a hot summer day made my heart smile. When I look back at that time in my life I always think of how much I loved that bike, my Baby, but thinking about it with the focus of hindsight I can see now that I was not so much the bike that I loved but the freedom and independence the it afforded me. My bike was essential to my growing up but I never treated it with any special reverence. I would drop it wherever my ride would end. It was my wings, the key to my emancipation from childhood; this emancipation and freedom was empowering and was coveted. I enjoyed every pedal of the adventure that Baby and I shared as we bumped down the gravel roads to independence.

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COMICAL STRIPS

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