words, images and musings on life, literature and creative self expression
I have been staring at Barrie Cooke’s pencil sketch for a month, sucked into the mesh of scribbled lines whirling between two figures in a boat, hauling in a curved fish in a net. They are a man and a boy to my eyes—an older boy, 17 or so—straining under the weight of the pike. … Continue reading "A poet whispers: How complete+ final the feeling as I lift its curve in the net by Ellen Dillon"
The stamps on the envelope were still moist. I noticed they were foreign. As I got to the window I realized that I was, in fact, in another country, somewhere unfamiliar. I didn’t know where. To confirm or dispel my sense of foreboding, I went into the bathroom. A stranger’s face looked at me from … Continue reading "That strange face in the mirror: Maybe This Time by Alois Hotschnig"
I think, it doesn’t matter where I am, whether calm or with nerves shot to pieces, in the mountains, in towns, sleeping well or sleeping badly, it doesn’t matter, I am quite lost, wherever I am. I want to surrender. I wish to retire. I am tired. I’m not disappointed, but I can’t cast my … Continue reading "“I fall awake and think, I want to go home”: Is Beauty Good by Rosalind Belben"
Colette’s The Pure and the Impure opens in an opium den in Paris sometime during what would come to be known, looking back through the veils of nostalgia, as the Belle Époque. Our narrator, also named Colette, arrives, not as a participant but as a writer intent on conducting a little research. Perhaps, it is … Continue reading "A walk on the wild side: The Pure and the Impure by Colette"
There are very few things that man needs: to love, to be happy, to eat; and then he dies. Yet there are over six thousand languages spoken in the world — why do there need to be so many in order to make such simple desires understood? And why do we manage it so rarely, … Continue reading "“Is your heart still beating? If so, how?” – The Heart of Man by Jón Kalman Stefánsson"
Toronto consists of enclaves. All right, and parks. Enclaves are areas inhabited by minorities. There are a hundred and five minorities in Toronto, and new ones are being created all the time. Surrounded by invisible lines, walls and wires of separation and by a very visible medley of customs and languages, these minorities are becoming … Continue reading "Living in exile: Dying in Toronto by Daša…
Father Luis Cordoba was a large man, and his heart even larger—too large, in fact. When, after attempts to treat his condition with a pacemaker, diet, and exercise proved insufficient to ease his poor organ’s further decline, it became apparent that he would require a transplant. But while waiting for a suitable donor to die, … Continue reading "To live is to love life: Aside from My Heart, All is…
On the street in front of a sleazy bar in a low-rent part of an unnamed city there has been a catastrophic incident. A man who was, just moments before, inside the bar, suddenly walked out and stepped in front of a moving bus, intentionally or otherwise. Now he lies disfigured on the pavement. The … Continue reading "A dark, grimy fable: Glantz by Tobias Ryan"
In recent weeks, talk, at least in the literary circles I circle, has turned to literary prizes and prize winners, more explicitly to the question of the use of AI to at worst generate complete stories or at best, toss ideas around in the creation of said stories. So, wanting a fresh, pre-artificial intelligence take … Continue reading "In it for the money : My Prizes—An Accounting by Thomas…
Roughghosts is twelve years old today. I debated whether or not I would officially mark this day with a post as I typically do, but have decided as the day nears an end, to say a few words anyhow. My immediate thought was to comment on the ongoing gnashing of teeth about the death of … Continue reading "A few thoughts on twelve years of blogging"