A community of artists living and working on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Swimming, by Rojan Zét
At my bank you stand, one toe dipping in,
examining the surface without regard to
who shares this beach, this harbour, this
respite from the daily grind of noise,
dirt, and smother.
You drop your bag, the hat falls, and
pieces of clothing slide over your head
revealing armpits that close again to
let your abandon enter my darkness,
submerging quickly, effortlessly,
leaving the old world behind.
The first cold is a threshold to seclusion
and obscurity, but peace inspiring your lungs
propels you forward, washing, cleansing,
stripping away the stress of thought harnessed
by eight days.
You swim molded to my body, moving around me,
below me, above me, within me, tickling me,
suspended in the weight of this form, my
substance, current and tide, held by your
faith in me, our times together carried
by your trust.
Under the surface you are safe and when
this time ends, you are free to go again,
to come again, to emerge dripping, and
sit at my side.
by Rojan Zét
examining the surface without regard to
who shares this beach, this harbour, this
respite from the daily grind of noise,
dirt, and smother.
You drop your bag, the hat falls, and
pieces of clothing slide over your head
revealing armpits that close again to
let your abandon enter my darkness,
submerging quickly, effortlessly,
leaving the old world behind.
The first cold is a threshold to seclusion
and obscurity, but peace inspiring your lungs
propels you forward, washing, cleansing,
stripping away the stress of thought harnessed
by eight days.
You swim molded to my body, moving around me,
below me, above me, within me, tickling me,
suspended in the weight of this form, my
substance, current and tide, held by your
faith in me, our times together carried
by your trust.
Under the surface you are safe and when
this time ends, you are free to go again,
to come again, to emerge dripping, and
sit at my side.
by Rojan Zét
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Congruence
To lie with you together
descended from separate entries
yielded to the darkness of this
night's settled silence, the
untainted spirit's perfect
release to an other-realm
where agents of our bodies
meet like snakes curving a line
between sea and soil, the
coast of assignation
far from our beds.
To waken in this chamber
arising from separated exits
with the new day's climb bright,
fresh from its path through
the stars, shining in my
windows.
by Rojan Zét
descended from separate entries
yielded to the darkness of this
night's settled silence, the
untainted spirit's perfect
release to an other-realm
where agents of our bodies
meet like snakes curving a line
between sea and soil, the
coast of assignation
far from our beds.
To waken in this chamber
arising from separated exits
with the new day's climb bright,
fresh from its path through
the stars, shining in my
windows.
by Rojan Zét
Monday, April 30, 2012
Rainforest Soul: Prayer
Rainforest Soul: Prayer: The following is a prayer I wrote several years ago and has since been answered. I just came across this in my archives and it encourages m...
Monday, April 23, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Skate Board Dancer
On Salt Spring Island many wear leather hats,
Southwestern,
Broad brimmed, flamboyant, hand-made,
And each one uniquely appointed
With beads and feathers and bones.
A young woman, wearing such a hat,
With long hair, a vest,
A long full brown patterned cotton skirt,
Ruffled around the leather booted ankles
Sailed by as I hunched over a coffee
On Lower Ganges street.
She stood on a skate board serenely,
Utterly silent and unflustered
In perfect control down a busy sidewalk,
Her slender, graceful form
Swaying and bending as she steered
Her simple soft wheeled craft,
In a music box ballet
Passing pedestrians,
A superior being from another dimension,
Gracefully sailing safely
Accross a street
Busy with cars.
She was a soul of grace,
In her long ruffled dress,
Leather vest and hat,
electric,
No effort, no strain,
Drawn along by invisible magnets
Until she vanished.
She may have turned a corner
Or slipped through a time-space portal,
But she was gone.
My eyes
Follow her still.
~ poetry Charles Van Gorkom
Southwestern,
Broad brimmed, flamboyant, hand-made,
And each one uniquely appointed
With beads and feathers and bones.
A young woman, wearing such a hat,
With long hair, a vest,
A long full brown patterned cotton skirt,
Ruffled around the leather booted ankles
Sailed by as I hunched over a coffee
On Lower Ganges street.
She stood on a skate board serenely,
Utterly silent and unflustered
In perfect control down a busy sidewalk,
Her slender, graceful form
Swaying and bending as she steered
Her simple soft wheeled craft,
In a music box ballet
Passing pedestrians,
A superior being from another dimension,
Gracefully sailing safely
Accross a street
Busy with cars.
She was a soul of grace,
In her long ruffled dress,
Leather vest and hat,
electric,
No effort, no strain,
Drawn along by invisible magnets
Until she vanished.
She may have turned a corner
Or slipped through a time-space portal,
But she was gone.
My eyes
Follow her still.
~ poetry Charles Van Gorkom
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Bright Angel Park
Two strangers on that pebble beach under the swinging bridge
as trains departed and arrived, while the sun hid sinking behind
clouds, with birds talking to each other, to us, their mates...
we lounged watching silence flow between darkening trees and
circles on the surface making their announcements,
slowly first like a kiss then faster, each circle a target, and not
hearing the "All Aboard" or realizing the beginning of movement until
drops began reaching under my collar and overflowing your brow, no
desire for escape from this platform of ice cream, cake, glasses of
wine, candles, and the points of trees reaching toward dripping skies.
This flowing silent stream of twenty three years, one man enough, no
time for marriage, Russian, did you speak it, the Mongolian in China,
mother, sister, brother, father, daughters, rings on fingers,
the too deep male/female dynamic, ages, times, my feelings... your
thoughts... renovations, or was it your feelings and my thoughts.
Tracks extending from a rushing red machine dispatching timely
trains slowly beginning another journey, carrying baggage and
passengers, emotions and actions, then swaying like that bridge
down a line of steel laid by scattered crews - solid, gradual,
straight, curved, dark, hard, and firmly bedded ever leading
on and on and on -
while in our soaking jeans we wait not yet wet enough at
that empty bank, keeping dry the pebbles beneath us, still
some wine in our cups until one stranger asks,
"Will you ride with me?"
~ by Rojan Zét
as trains departed and arrived, while the sun hid sinking behind
clouds, with birds talking to each other, to us, their mates...
we lounged watching silence flow between darkening trees and
circles on the surface making their announcements,
slowly first like a kiss then faster, each circle a target, and not
hearing the "All Aboard" or realizing the beginning of movement until
drops began reaching under my collar and overflowing your brow, no
desire for escape from this platform of ice cream, cake, glasses of
wine, candles, and the points of trees reaching toward dripping skies.
This flowing silent stream of twenty three years, one man enough, no
time for marriage, Russian, did you speak it, the Mongolian in China,
mother, sister, brother, father, daughters, rings on fingers,
the too deep male/female dynamic, ages, times, my feelings... your
thoughts... renovations, or was it your feelings and my thoughts.
Tracks extending from a rushing red machine dispatching timely
trains slowly beginning another journey, carrying baggage and
passengers, emotions and actions, then swaying like that bridge
down a line of steel laid by scattered crews - solid, gradual,
straight, curved, dark, hard, and firmly bedded ever leading
on and on and on -
while in our soaking jeans we wait not yet wet enough at
that empty bank, keeping dry the pebbles beneath us, still
some wine in our cups until one stranger asks,
"Will you ride with me?"
~ by Rojan Zét
Friday, March 16, 2012
Vancouver Island Photographer, Neil Fatin
Chemainus Railway, photography by Neil Fatin
Read about Neil Fatin and find more of his artwork at Profile of an Artist
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Where Mushroom Shepherds Dwell, by Charles Van Gorkom
In the rain forest cedar groves,
Where man goes, there also grows,
In his gathered villages,
A cacophony of roofs
Parallel to the shaggy hills,
Cedar shaked and peaked,
Cascading in multiples
Of slashes and brows
Like the forest thick rich
In green moss sponges
That shed rain when they
Are finished feeding themselves
And all the varied leaf-mold life
They support.
Under them mythic mushroom shepherds
Dimly dwell, bright eyes
Under broad wooden brims,
Feed and worship and trade
With other races in hooded gear
And rubber boots
Who may be passing through.
Fingers wrap themselves for warmth
Round steaming burly mugs,
The conversations overheard
Like windy rain drops
Gutter running lively,
Far-ranging as condensation.
But gulls landed with no news off-island
Of any consequence,
Nor even weather mattered much
As long as the ferries
ran on time.
Learn about Charles Van Gorkom
Where man goes, there also grows,
In his gathered villages,
A cacophony of roofs
Parallel to the shaggy hills,
Cedar shaked and peaked,
Cascading in multiples
Of slashes and brows
Like the forest thick rich
In green moss sponges
That shed rain when they
Are finished feeding themselves
And all the varied leaf-mold life
They support.
Under them mythic mushroom shepherds
Dimly dwell, bright eyes
Under broad wooden brims,
Feed and worship and trade
With other races in hooded gear
And rubber boots
Who may be passing through.
Fingers wrap themselves for warmth
Round steaming burly mugs,
The conversations overheard
Like windy rain drops
Gutter running lively,
Far-ranging as condensation.
But gulls landed with no news off-island
Of any consequence,
Nor even weather mattered much
As long as the ferries
ran on time.
Learn about Charles Van Gorkom
Friday, March 9, 2012
Duffy Masterson
Profile of an Artist
At an early age Duffy found joy in rendering his favourite super hero’s from the pages of his many comic books. Although his interests have taken him in many different artistic directions over the years, (music, photography, etc...), his love of creating a world and it’s inhabitants on the fresh, clean, white, unspoiled surface has always given him the most enjoyment.
Primarily a self taught painter, Duffy has studied many wildlife and landscape artists, through books and articles, however one stands out among the rest... Robert Bateman. He marvelled at the worlds he could create while remaining loose in style. Duffy strove to achieve a similar aesthetic... and still does today.
Duffy had the opportunity to learn directly from Bateman as is evident in his more recent works. Having Bateman as his one and only teacher has admittedly tainted his style but Duffy would have it no other way. “Having the opportunity to learn from such an accomplished and iconic Canadian artist was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He will always be present in my work, and I consider that to be an honour.”
"... painting is not something I do, it is
something I have to do or I can't sleep"
Learn more about Duffy Masterson at www.duffymasterson.ca
At an early age Duffy found joy in rendering his favourite super hero’s from the pages of his many comic books. Although his interests have taken him in many different artistic directions over the years, (music, photography, etc...), his love of creating a world and it’s inhabitants on the fresh, clean, white, unspoiled surface has always given him the most enjoyment.
 Distant Prey painting by Duffy Masterson |
Primarily a self taught painter, Duffy has studied many wildlife and landscape artists, through books and articles, however one stands out among the rest... Robert Bateman. He marvelled at the worlds he could create while remaining loose in style. Duffy strove to achieve a similar aesthetic... and still does today.
Duffy had the opportunity to learn directly from Bateman as is evident in his more recent works. Having Bateman as his one and only teacher has admittedly tainted his style but Duffy would have it no other way. “Having the opportunity to learn from such an accomplished and iconic Canadian artist was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He will always be present in my work, and I consider that to be an honour.”
"... painting is not something I do, it is
something I have to do or I can't sleep"
Learn more about Duffy Masterson at www.duffymasterson.ca
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Dan's Axe
© Manuel Erickson
STUART HEADED HIS ULTRA-LIGHT AEROPLANE NORTH, following the logging roads to "his" forest. On this sunny, spring day, he almost felt he could fly without the wings of the fabric-covered bird. More of the terrain came into view as he gained height. When he found smooth air, he leveled off and flew toward the plain between two snow-covered mountains.
This was his element.
On his left, the majesty of the familiar mountain towering a thousand feet above filled him with awe. Its slopes were thickly treed; by contrast, Stuart knew the logging roads he followed could only lead to large regions of naked ground.
Near the summit, he glimpsed a sparkling, living glacier—a remnant of the last ice age. Below, mountain goats scurried to hide from the whine of the approaching machine. "This is what Anna and I came here for," he said aloud, and his heart lifted a notch.
A scent reached his nostrils. Stuart did not recognize it, except that it was sweet. He knew it would be one of a variety of wild flowers growing in the Clayoquot area. He dipped the nose of the aircraft and saw a green field spotted with white. He thought the flowers might be baby’s breath or snow drops.
Tomorrow was the first anniversary of their arrival on tranquil Vargas Island. They loved the retirement house they had built on the eastern side. A vision of its stone and log walls momentarily filled his mind. It's paradise here, he thought, smiling to himself. At long last, we've found a good place to make our home.
He continued to follow a logging road. As he flew around the curve of the mountain, a higher one came into view to the east, its snowy summit reflecting the rays of the afternoon sun.
Suddenly he saw something on the plain between the two ramparts. "Oh no! My forest's gone!" he shouted into the cockpit. He felt his eyes begin to water, but ignored it and circled, studying the ground below. Logging equipment littered the shaven surface. Stumps and discarded trunks lay everywhere, strewn into grotesque heaps.
When he had seen enough, he rounded the lower mountain, flew west over the ocean, then headed for his airstrip on Vargas Island.
He didn't go straight to the house, though he knew Anna would be waiting. Instead, he went to the little dock, pretending the motor needed attention. He stepped into the boat, took off the gas cap, looked inside, put it back on. Absently, he pulled cables and moved switches up and down. His hands dropped to his sides, and he sat a while. Taking a can, he bailed the water that had accumulated since the last rainfall. He stepped onto the dock and carefully examined the slightly damaged bow. After his last trip a gust of wind had blown the boat into the dock before he was able to finish tying it up.
All that took only a few minutes. With a sigh, Stuart got to his feet and trudged to the house.
He was determined not to say anything to Anna. He knew he hadn't much of a chance of getting away with it. After forty years of marriage, Anna had her ways of penetrating any nonchalant behaviour Stuart might care to use.
"Have a good flight, dear?" she asked.
"Um-m, okay, I guess." He picked up a magazine and started to open the pages.
"Where did you fly?"
"Just a few miles north of here."
"See anything?"
"Um?" He pretended to be reading. "Oh, nothing—nothing at all.'
Anna sat in her chair and looked at him. "Stu, I know something's bothering you. Is there something wrong with the plane?"
He let the magazine drop to the coffee table and looked at her. He deeply loved his wife, a patient, knowing woman. "No, Anna. Nothing’s wrong with it. I…I saw something…" He sat on the sofa. A dark shadow appeared on his face. He couldn't hide the facts from her. It wouldn't work and he would feel miserable if he tried.
Anna left her chair and joined him on the sofa. He took her hand. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead burst out crying. Anna was shocked. She took him in her arms. "Oh Stu, what's wrong?"
"I..I saw fresh…fresh clearcuts…from the plane…just north of Cypre River. I don't…my god, Anna, what are we going to do? Where can we go?" He grew quiet.
Anna held on to him, but said nothing. On the porch, black and white chickadees and drab brown finches, hopping and chirping, took their fill from the several feeders they had put up. Inside, the silence roared.
Next morning Stuart shopped in town. Landing back at his home dock in the afternoon, he lifted the motor out of the water and locked it in place. Every time he did this generated good feelings because clean drops fell into the water. By contrast, on Lake Ontario oily slime would drip from the motor. Stuart stepped onto the dock, tied up his craft and looked around. As he had often done, he gazed again on the snow-capped mountains ringing the beautiful Sound, and smiled. A whale broke the surface a short distance from shore, its geyser caught by the wind, making a full-coloured, if brief, rainbow. Crying gulls swooped close to the water, doing their jobs as cleaners of the sea. There can't be a place as wondrous as Clayoquot, he thought, but how long can it last?
He scooped up the groceries and started up the narrow, slightly inclined path to the house. This first anniversary of their new on Vargas would be celebrated in style, no matter what.
"Hello, Anna," he called as he opened the unlocked door. "I’m home."
Anna laid down a book and greeted her husband with a smile and a kiss. "I've missed you," she said. "Here, put those on the counter."
"And I missed you. Did you finish the book?"
“Almost,” said Anna. “I can write more of my review now.” She led him into the living room. “Sit down. I’ll make coffee. That trip to Tofino is really tiring.”
He sat, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Nothing needed to be said about yesterday. Today was different, a special day.
As Anna prepared the coffee, Stuart looked at the room. Each time, he saw something new. There was a knot in a log he hadn't seen before; it looked like a bird. Below the logs, there was a space in the fieldstone that looked as if it disappeared into a dark hole, but he knew it was just the way the light from the mid-afternoon sun entered the windows and played merry tricks on his eyes.
Anna brought his coffee, then sat in her chair, sipping her own mug of tea. "You know," he mused, "I believe we've been happier here than anywhere else, up to now." As he said it, the clearcuts he had seen filled his inner vision. He rose and went to the window. Through the light green leaves of new spring growth, the sea sparkled in the sun. Below and above the surface, life abounded, wheeling, dancing, eating, being eaten. Just below the verandah, a deer nibbled at the newly-planted tomatoes in the vegetable garden. Black bear and wolves roamed the Island; they were raising their litters and care was needed when walking in the forest.
"It's taken us a long, long time. This little bit of paradise.." he trailed off. Anna joined him at the window.
"Yes," she agreed, and she slipped her hand into his. "I love this place, too. It's my home."
That meant a lot to Stuart, as Anna had always said about each place they lived that it was not home to her, only a place to stay a while. He smiled at her, finished his coffee and went to the kitchen to start their anniversary supper.
Early next morning, Stuart walked to his short grass airstrip. At sixty-five, he had thousands of hours' experience and even taught the occasional student. Dan was waiting for him.
"How's my aeroplane, Dan?"
"Just fine,” he answered with a grin that revealed a missing front tooth. Stuart recalled the logging accident that almost broke Dan's neck. Instead, it took his tooth and left him with a severe limp and a somewhat stiffened hand. "I checked everything and made sure the tanks are full. All ready for my lesson!"
"Okay." Stuart felt a little shiver as he anticipated the flight. He didn't want to see that clearcut again; it frightened him—especially with Dan beside him. He entered the little trailer that served as an office, put his flight itinerary on the desk and scanned the booking sheet; then he approached the plane. "I guess you’re my only student this morning.' They got in, adjusted their helmets and safety belts and Stuart turned on the intercom.
"Stu," Dan said suddenly, "I'm very glad you and Anna settled here. I…I wanted to fly all my life and thought I'd never do it 'til you came along. Thanks.'
"I know, Dan. I know," Stuart said. He remembered how grateful he had felt toward his instructor twenty years ago, and Dan was roughly the age he was then. Five minutes later they winged into the air, over the trees, and across the narrow strait to the practice area.
"Why did you come to Vargas, Stu?" asked Dan after they landed.
Stuart stroked his chin as he studied Dan carefully. "We wanted a peaceful, beautiful place to live for the rest of our lives," he said. "We chose to build our house on Vargas because we believe the government will keep the area free of logging, because.." His head dropped as he remembered the clearcuts he had seen and that Dan paid for his lessons with money earned from logging.
"Stu?" said Dan. "You okay?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm fine." He took a deep breath. "The government's environmental principles are laid down in black and white, Dan, but I don’t know how honest those people are." His face turned stern.
As they tied down the plane, Dan searched Stuart's face. "You annoyed with me, Stu?"
"Of course not!" he snapped. "Well.." He told Dan about the clearcuts. "I guess I think it's your fault, somehow, because you used to be a logger, but I know it isn’t."
"That life was good to me 'til I got hurt. I'm pensioned off now, but if I could still work, I'd snap up the chance to log again. Wonderful life. Guess I just feel different about it than you."
"Sure, I understand." He didn't want to argue with Dan.
Dan took something from his shirt pocket and held it out for Stuart to see. "When I got pensioned off, the company gave me this golden axe for my years of work and because I once saved somebody's life. It means a lot to me, Stu, maybe as much as your plane means to you."
Stuart looked at the axe lying in the palm of Dan's hand. "May I?" he asked.
Dan nodded.
Stuart took the memento between his thumb and forefinger, studied it, turned it over. "Oh! It's fourteen carat gold. Wonderful. Thanks for showing it to me, Dan." He gave it back; and Dan put it away.
They said good-bye, and Stuart started home. He thought about his talk with Dan and became aware of a new appreciation of him. Dan had saved someone’s life. Stuart had never done that.
As he walked, the discussion with Dan faded to gossamer. He loved to touch the leaves of trees and other plants—to give himself, somehow, a sense of oneness with them, just like flying made him feel closer to the creatures of the air. Your life is my life, he whispered as he stroked the bark of a Western Red Cedar. Birds large and small flew overhead, searching for food for themselves and their brood. "Just like humans," he muttered, smiling.
His talk with Dan returned to him. "Maybe Dan is as responsible for that mess as other loggers," he thought. "In his mind, he's still a logger."
Later that afternoon, Stuart looked out the kitchen window and sighed. The setting sun painted the clouds in hues of red, orange and purple. He smiled, feeling good; by contrast, across the water a neighbour was burning trash, the dark grey smoke rising high in the still air. The fire had burned day and night for four full days., and Stuart shook his head.
Supper was almost ready, and he turned on the radio. The news was just starting.
"The premier of British Columbia," the announcer intoned, "has disclosed the government's decision. Clayoquot will be logged up to fifty percent; one-third will be preserved; and seventeen percent will be a mix of logging and preservation." There followed a brief interview with the premier, and Stuart caught the odd phrase."…won’t please everyone…the best solution.." The announcer ended the story: "..it is generally believed the logging companies got more than they expected."
Stuart padded down the hall to his wife’s study. "I suppose you heard about Clayoquot," he said.
"No, what?" asked Anna. She did not look up from the book review she was finishing for the Tofino Weekly.
He told her. "How is it possible to have both preservation and logging at the same time?" he asked, mainly to himself.
"Greed," said Anna, and rose from her desk. They entered the living room.
"And they've given the companies more than they asked for!"
"Greed."
It seemed to add to his general feeling of alarm, discontinuity and concern. After a minute, he said, "Look, Anna. We came here because we love nature—the tall trees, the clean air." A dark shadow crossed his face. "Look what they’re doing to it!" He slumped into a chair. "Did you know the government bought shares in the company that's going to log Clayoquot?" he murmured.
"No. How did you know?"
"Heard it on the news." He put his chin in his hand. "But there are ministries that tell the companies where, when, and how they’re to log." He paused. Anna looked at him, and she frowned, giving her face a troubled look.
"It's like the pot calling the kettle black,” he added. "Why do I feel sick?"
"Because, my love, you care."
"And the government and logging companies don't?"
"No."
They talked through supper. "Our values are different," Anna said softly. "We believe in living within the means nature has provided. The logging companies only want to harvest the trees, and soon there won't be any left. That's what scares me. Then what will happen?" She frowned more deeply, lending shadows to her face; her breathing seemed to become shallow, as if she were anxious. "Why not join a political party and fight it out there?" she asked.
"I'm too old. And I hate parties." He took a breath. "For years we worked for parties." His hands waved in the air. "We were scrutineers, we walked the streets with candidates, put up signs, phoned voters. What good did it do? We educated ourselves, I suppose. Parties have their own agendas, their own petty power bases to protect, but you and I have no power." He paused. "I feel awful." He rose and stomped around the room. "You said 'harvest' a minute ago. They don't harvest. They trash!" He sat down again, very agitated, then said, his voice barely audible, "Those clearcuts to the north are immense. The animals and birds are killed, too… You know, the government are rapists."
"I feel as though I've been violated." Large bags seemed to grow under Anna's eyes, and new lines carved themselves into her skin. She covered her face, stifled a sob, then said with uncommon huskiness, "We just built this house. I don't want to have to find yet another 'ideal' place. I—forgive me, Stu—I don't want to live another ten or twenty years, just to see what my world will be like then."
He rose and put an arm around her. "Anna,” he said softly, "if everyone who feels like us decided not to live, there would be no one to fight for the forest and the air."
She turned to face him, and whispered, "Didn’t the government promise to safeguard the forests?"
"Yes. That’s how I would fight them, if I had the strength, but I'm wrung out."
"I'm tired, too. Tired of everything."
Next day they rose at six-thirty, as usual. Each was quiet as they began their morning rituals. Anna, her haggard look betraying an uneasy sleep, reached over and turned on the radio. Stuart trudged back from the bathroom and slowly pulled on his clothes.
"I feel I didn't sleep," he breathed, and went to the kitchen. He had put instant coffee into mugs, filled the kettle and was plugging it in when Anna called him. He started back to the bedroom and met Anna in the hall.
"Stu," she said breathlessly. "There’s going to be a mass protest!" Her eyes were wide and her face had taken on an almost wild look.
"Let's sit down, Anna," he said quietly, and led her to the living room. "Now, dear, tell me what you heard."
"It was on the radio just now. The Mountain Club, The Wild Society and even Benjamin Kernaghan, the environmental lawyer, are coming here! To Clayoquot!"
"When?"
"In a few days. They're going to block the logging roads. They'll force the government to change its mind. Isn't it wonderful, Stu?"
The kettle boiled. Stuart went to the kitchen, looking thoughtful, poured hot water into the mugs, added milk and returned to the living room, giving one to Anna.
"Um-m. Just the way I like it." A smile coursed across her face, and Stuart was pleased.
They sat together quietly on the sofa, watching the sun’s first rays illuminate the garden, sipping the hot liquid, holding their steaming mugs in opposite hands, their other hands clasped together.
"Let’s do it," Stuart said softly, and looked at her.
"You mean, join them on the blockade?"
"Absolutely."
"We've got to stand up for what we believe, don't we?" She looked at him. "Yes. Yes, we can't let them ruin our lives without even a whimper."
"Whimper. That reminds me of the book you’re reviewing; what’s its name? About the Holocaust."
"The Holocaust Revisited. How the Nazis threw gypsies and Jews into cattle cars, shipped them across Europe and dumped them into extermination camps, with hardly a whimper from the persecuted."
"Exactly, Anna. Well, this planned slaughter of Clayoquot's trees will be more than whimpered about. With the help of the others that are coming, I think not only will the government hear us—the world will hear us. Where are you going?"
"To call the Nelbergs on the other side of the island. They’ll be interested in this." She paused. "Do they know you're teaching Dan to fly?"
"Yes."
"Good. Don't worry, Stu," she said, "They’re up early and they’re conservationists, like us."
It rained over the next few days. Heavy mist shrouded Vargas and Clayoquot Sound. No wind stirred. They walked outside and saw the new, light-green leaves of spring laden with the water that nourishes plants and animals alike. An occasional bird chirped; deer stood and watched them, then trotted off among the trees. They were careful to watch for bear and wolves.
Anna whispered, "It's like a cathedral in here."
"To me," said Stuart, "the trees are weeping."
The clouds had cleared, revealing a sparkling blue sky. The protest took place on the main logging road leading into the Sound. Stuart, Anna and the Nelbergs had driven there in the Nelbergs’ four-by-four van. The last few kilometers to the main parking area were slow and difficult because of the hundreds of vehicles on the narrow gravel road. They parked and managed to work their way to a temporary stage, carrying folding chairs and food.
People milled about in organized confusion. Someone stuck a piece of paper into their hands. "Oh, there’s going to be a rock concert in a few minutes," said Sheila Nelberg, studying the hastily printed document.
"And Benjamin Kernaghan will speak right after," observed Anna, looking over Sheila's shoulder.
"Good," said Allan Nelberg, his eyes lighting up. "Just the kind of music I like."
"Let's not set our chairs too close to the speakers," said Stuart, looking at Allan. "We won't be able to hear ourselves think."
They went to the rear of the crowd, but more hundreds more crowded in behind them. They looked around. "It's amazing!" said Anna. "No one’s smoking here."
"Maybe they want to show the trees respect by not smoking," suggested Stuart.
"Or maybe they simply don't want to risk a fire," said Allan.
"Oh, Al," said Sheila, a little scornfully, "you're too practical."
"Look! They’re going to start the concert," said Anna.
"And I didn’t bring my ear plugs," said Stuart.
As the players mounted the stage, a faint chant started from inside the audience, then grew louder as more and more took it up. "Save—our—trees! Save—our—trees!" The band was ready to start, but the din had grown too thunderous for them to play. Instead, they joined in the chant, waving, dancing and jumping. One of them thrust his fist into the air. Some members of the audience were standing; others began to jump and shout, waving their fists as well.
Anna became frightened. "Stu," she shouted over the clamour, "I think we should move to another spot."
"So do I," said Sheila. Stuart and Allan exchanged glances.
"But they're just exuberant.." said Allan, unconvinced.
"All right," said Stuart, and they started to collect their things.
They walked back down the road a short distance. "I wonder why the police aren't here," observed Stuart as they walked.
"Actually, they are," answered Allan. "I saw a few on the periphery of the crowd."
"This crowd isn't what we bargained for," said Anna. "It’s a lot bigger and rowdier than I thought."
"Would you like to go home?" asked Stuart.
"No, I still want to show my support. What about you?" she asked Sheila and Allan.
"I want to stay," said Allan.
"So do I," said Sheila.
They started to unfold their chairs where they stood, under the boughs of a large red cedar. They heard the sound of a heavy motor, and a logging truck appeared a few hundred metres behind them, the driver revving its engine. Its long flatbed was empty of logs, but several dozen loggers rode on it instead. The standards that hold the logs in place pierced the sky, like spears. Together with the bright headlights, it appeared as a behemoth, bearing down upon the four of them. A second truck was behind it, and a third behind that. On each rode dozens of loggers.
The four left their chairs and hurried back to the crowd. To the first few protesters he saw, Stuart said breathlessly, "Logging trucks are coming!" Each of them spread the word, and it caught like wildfire.
Strangely quiet, the huge crowd began to move as one, like ants, along the road. Only a few murmurs could be heard. The crowd had taken on an ominous character. Stuart and Anna held hands tightly, separated by only a few rows from Allan and Sheila, who also held hands. The few police could do nothing to control events.
The four had spread their message too well. They wanted to get away, but were driven relentlessly forward by the momentum of the human current that surrounded them.
"Allan! Sheila!" Stuart called. "Try to move over to the trees on the right."
"Can't!" Allan called back. "It's all we can do to stay on our feet."
Suddenly the trucks were in front of them. They braked to a dusty halt, and the loggers began jumping off, some coughing up dust. The ant-like column split into halves. It surrounded and outnumbered the loggers. The crowd stopped moving, and Stuart and Anna found themselves at the front quarter of the lead truck. They tried to escape, but were hemmed in.
"Some of those men have rocks," Stuart said quietly to Anna, but not quietly enough. Those beside him heard the remark, and picked up their own stones.
"I'm frightened," said Anna. "What's going to happen here?"
"Let us through!" said a logger from the lead truck. "We have our work to do and our families to feed."
"Soon there won't be any trees left for you to cut!" a nearby male voice answered.
"What will you do then?" shouted another.
"There's millions of acres of trees!" answered another logger.
From somewhere, a rock dropped from the blue, sparkling sky, hitting a child on the head. The child fell. A woman screamed. "Damn you!" shouted a male voice. The crowd surged. The driver of the lead truck revved his engine. A whistle sounded, and the loggers jumped back onto the flatbeds. A rock crazed the windshield of the first truck, which drove forward straight into the crowd, splitting it into two parts and forcing the protesters to the sides of the road as the trucks roared by in clouds of choking dust. The band started to play as loudly as possible, hoping the music would help reestablish control.
The crowd, choking from the dust, re-filled the road. A large circle was gathered at one spot. The Nelbergs edged their way over.
"What happened?" Sheila asked.
"Someone's hurt," a voice answered.
"Can you see Anna and Stuart?" She asked Allan.
"Not yet."
The circle parted, and a paramedic entered. A few moments later, the medic slowly walked down the road to the parking area. The circle opened. Two men each carried an adult, a woman and a man, their arms hanging limply at their sides, their heads lolling back. Sheila uttered a gasp. Her hand covered her mouth. Allan stared at the sight. The two men put their burdens down under the spring-green boughs of a mature maple.
Slowly, unbelieving, Sheila and Allan approached the couple lying on the ground. They stood over them for a few seconds, and Sheila started to cry. She knelt. Allan knelt too, trying to wipe away the tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Oh Anna!" whispered Sheila through her tears. Gently, she touched Anna's lifeless face, then Stuart’s. She turned and threw herself into Allan’s arms, sobbing.
"Why did this have to happen?" said Allan, half choking. "It isn’t fair."
A man knelt beside Stuart and Anna. He looked vaguely familiar. Allan watched him put a golden axe inside Stuart’s shirt pocket. The man left.
Allan removed the axe. He felt angry; then his eyes fell upon an inscription containing one word, Dan.
That fall, a committee composed of the executives of the Mountain Club and the Wild Society called a joint press conference. "Ladies and gentlemen," began Timothy Broderick, president of the Mountain Club. "Last spring, two beloved members of the Vargas Island community were tragically killed when a logging truck ran them down during a protest in Clayoquot Sound. They were not members of any environmental group—simply a retired couple who had searched long and hard for a spot to build their last home. They loved the woods and all of nature. Their legacy is their love for the forest. It is very sad that their lives were sacrificed, and we feel their loss deeply."
Timothy stepped aside, and June Ziegler, president of the Wild Society, continued. "Clayoquot iwas still a very emotional issue," she said, "and today we hope we have worked out saner procedures with the provincial government. At the time of the accident, environmental groups across Canada expressed their sympathies to the families of this couple. Today we jointly announce an annual award that will be given to a person or organization who has contributed most to the preservation of Canada's wilderness: The Stuart and Anna Memorial Award."
She held up a plaque. In the centre at the top, Dan's golden axe reflected the sun.
~ story by Manuel Erickson
STUART HEADED HIS ULTRA-LIGHT AEROPLANE NORTH, following the logging roads to "his" forest. On this sunny, spring day, he almost felt he could fly without the wings of the fabric-covered bird. More of the terrain came into view as he gained height. When he found smooth air, he leveled off and flew toward the plain between two snow-covered mountains.
This was his element.
On his left, the majesty of the familiar mountain towering a thousand feet above filled him with awe. Its slopes were thickly treed; by contrast, Stuart knew the logging roads he followed could only lead to large regions of naked ground.
Near the summit, he glimpsed a sparkling, living glacier—a remnant of the last ice age. Below, mountain goats scurried to hide from the whine of the approaching machine. "This is what Anna and I came here for," he said aloud, and his heart lifted a notch.
A scent reached his nostrils. Stuart did not recognize it, except that it was sweet. He knew it would be one of a variety of wild flowers growing in the Clayoquot area. He dipped the nose of the aircraft and saw a green field spotted with white. He thought the flowers might be baby’s breath or snow drops.
Tomorrow was the first anniversary of their arrival on tranquil Vargas Island. They loved the retirement house they had built on the eastern side. A vision of its stone and log walls momentarily filled his mind. It's paradise here, he thought, smiling to himself. At long last, we've found a good place to make our home.
He continued to follow a logging road. As he flew around the curve of the mountain, a higher one came into view to the east, its snowy summit reflecting the rays of the afternoon sun.
Suddenly he saw something on the plain between the two ramparts. "Oh no! My forest's gone!" he shouted into the cockpit. He felt his eyes begin to water, but ignored it and circled, studying the ground below. Logging equipment littered the shaven surface. Stumps and discarded trunks lay everywhere, strewn into grotesque heaps.
When he had seen enough, he rounded the lower mountain, flew west over the ocean, then headed for his airstrip on Vargas Island.
He didn't go straight to the house, though he knew Anna would be waiting. Instead, he went to the little dock, pretending the motor needed attention. He stepped into the boat, took off the gas cap, looked inside, put it back on. Absently, he pulled cables and moved switches up and down. His hands dropped to his sides, and he sat a while. Taking a can, he bailed the water that had accumulated since the last rainfall. He stepped onto the dock and carefully examined the slightly damaged bow. After his last trip a gust of wind had blown the boat into the dock before he was able to finish tying it up.
All that took only a few minutes. With a sigh, Stuart got to his feet and trudged to the house.
He was determined not to say anything to Anna. He knew he hadn't much of a chance of getting away with it. After forty years of marriage, Anna had her ways of penetrating any nonchalant behaviour Stuart might care to use.
"Have a good flight, dear?" she asked.
"Um-m, okay, I guess." He picked up a magazine and started to open the pages.
"Where did you fly?"
"Just a few miles north of here."
"See anything?"
"Um?" He pretended to be reading. "Oh, nothing—nothing at all.'
Anna sat in her chair and looked at him. "Stu, I know something's bothering you. Is there something wrong with the plane?"
He let the magazine drop to the coffee table and looked at her. He deeply loved his wife, a patient, knowing woman. "No, Anna. Nothing’s wrong with it. I…I saw something…" He sat on the sofa. A dark shadow appeared on his face. He couldn't hide the facts from her. It wouldn't work and he would feel miserable if he tried.
Anna left her chair and joined him on the sofa. He took her hand. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead burst out crying. Anna was shocked. She took him in her arms. "Oh Stu, what's wrong?"
"I..I saw fresh…fresh clearcuts…from the plane…just north of Cypre River. I don't…my god, Anna, what are we going to do? Where can we go?" He grew quiet.
Anna held on to him, but said nothing. On the porch, black and white chickadees and drab brown finches, hopping and chirping, took their fill from the several feeders they had put up. Inside, the silence roared.
*
Next morning Stuart shopped in town. Landing back at his home dock in the afternoon, he lifted the motor out of the water and locked it in place. Every time he did this generated good feelings because clean drops fell into the water. By contrast, on Lake Ontario oily slime would drip from the motor. Stuart stepped onto the dock, tied up his craft and looked around. As he had often done, he gazed again on the snow-capped mountains ringing the beautiful Sound, and smiled. A whale broke the surface a short distance from shore, its geyser caught by the wind, making a full-coloured, if brief, rainbow. Crying gulls swooped close to the water, doing their jobs as cleaners of the sea. There can't be a place as wondrous as Clayoquot, he thought, but how long can it last?
He scooped up the groceries and started up the narrow, slightly inclined path to the house. This first anniversary of their new on Vargas would be celebrated in style, no matter what.
"Hello, Anna," he called as he opened the unlocked door. "I’m home."
Anna laid down a book and greeted her husband with a smile and a kiss. "I've missed you," she said. "Here, put those on the counter."
"And I missed you. Did you finish the book?"
“Almost,” said Anna. “I can write more of my review now.” She led him into the living room. “Sit down. I’ll make coffee. That trip to Tofino is really tiring.”
He sat, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Nothing needed to be said about yesterday. Today was different, a special day.
As Anna prepared the coffee, Stuart looked at the room. Each time, he saw something new. There was a knot in a log he hadn't seen before; it looked like a bird. Below the logs, there was a space in the fieldstone that looked as if it disappeared into a dark hole, but he knew it was just the way the light from the mid-afternoon sun entered the windows and played merry tricks on his eyes.
Anna brought his coffee, then sat in her chair, sipping her own mug of tea. "You know," he mused, "I believe we've been happier here than anywhere else, up to now." As he said it, the clearcuts he had seen filled his inner vision. He rose and went to the window. Through the light green leaves of new spring growth, the sea sparkled in the sun. Below and above the surface, life abounded, wheeling, dancing, eating, being eaten. Just below the verandah, a deer nibbled at the newly-planted tomatoes in the vegetable garden. Black bear and wolves roamed the Island; they were raising their litters and care was needed when walking in the forest.
"It's taken us a long, long time. This little bit of paradise.." he trailed off. Anna joined him at the window.
"Yes," she agreed, and she slipped her hand into his. "I love this place, too. It's my home."
That meant a lot to Stuart, as Anna had always said about each place they lived that it was not home to her, only a place to stay a while. He smiled at her, finished his coffee and went to the kitchen to start their anniversary supper.
*
Early next morning, Stuart walked to his short grass airstrip. At sixty-five, he had thousands of hours' experience and even taught the occasional student. Dan was waiting for him.
"How's my aeroplane, Dan?"
"Just fine,” he answered with a grin that revealed a missing front tooth. Stuart recalled the logging accident that almost broke Dan's neck. Instead, it took his tooth and left him with a severe limp and a somewhat stiffened hand. "I checked everything and made sure the tanks are full. All ready for my lesson!"
"Okay." Stuart felt a little shiver as he anticipated the flight. He didn't want to see that clearcut again; it frightened him—especially with Dan beside him. He entered the little trailer that served as an office, put his flight itinerary on the desk and scanned the booking sheet; then he approached the plane. "I guess you’re my only student this morning.' They got in, adjusted their helmets and safety belts and Stuart turned on the intercom.
"Stu," Dan said suddenly, "I'm very glad you and Anna settled here. I…I wanted to fly all my life and thought I'd never do it 'til you came along. Thanks.'
"I know, Dan. I know," Stuart said. He remembered how grateful he had felt toward his instructor twenty years ago, and Dan was roughly the age he was then. Five minutes later they winged into the air, over the trees, and across the narrow strait to the practice area.
*
"Why did you come to Vargas, Stu?" asked Dan after they landed.
Stuart stroked his chin as he studied Dan carefully. "We wanted a peaceful, beautiful place to live for the rest of our lives," he said. "We chose to build our house on Vargas because we believe the government will keep the area free of logging, because.." His head dropped as he remembered the clearcuts he had seen and that Dan paid for his lessons with money earned from logging.
"Stu?" said Dan. "You okay?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm fine." He took a deep breath. "The government's environmental principles are laid down in black and white, Dan, but I don’t know how honest those people are." His face turned stern.
As they tied down the plane, Dan searched Stuart's face. "You annoyed with me, Stu?"
"Of course not!" he snapped. "Well.." He told Dan about the clearcuts. "I guess I think it's your fault, somehow, because you used to be a logger, but I know it isn’t."
"That life was good to me 'til I got hurt. I'm pensioned off now, but if I could still work, I'd snap up the chance to log again. Wonderful life. Guess I just feel different about it than you."
"Sure, I understand." He didn't want to argue with Dan.
Dan took something from his shirt pocket and held it out for Stuart to see. "When I got pensioned off, the company gave me this golden axe for my years of work and because I once saved somebody's life. It means a lot to me, Stu, maybe as much as your plane means to you."
Stuart looked at the axe lying in the palm of Dan's hand. "May I?" he asked.
Dan nodded.
Stuart took the memento between his thumb and forefinger, studied it, turned it over. "Oh! It's fourteen carat gold. Wonderful. Thanks for showing it to me, Dan." He gave it back; and Dan put it away.
They said good-bye, and Stuart started home. He thought about his talk with Dan and became aware of a new appreciation of him. Dan had saved someone’s life. Stuart had never done that.
As he walked, the discussion with Dan faded to gossamer. He loved to touch the leaves of trees and other plants—to give himself, somehow, a sense of oneness with them, just like flying made him feel closer to the creatures of the air. Your life is my life, he whispered as he stroked the bark of a Western Red Cedar. Birds large and small flew overhead, searching for food for themselves and their brood. "Just like humans," he muttered, smiling.
His talk with Dan returned to him. "Maybe Dan is as responsible for that mess as other loggers," he thought. "In his mind, he's still a logger."
*
Later that afternoon, Stuart looked out the kitchen window and sighed. The setting sun painted the clouds in hues of red, orange and purple. He smiled, feeling good; by contrast, across the water a neighbour was burning trash, the dark grey smoke rising high in the still air. The fire had burned day and night for four full days., and Stuart shook his head.
Supper was almost ready, and he turned on the radio. The news was just starting.
"The premier of British Columbia," the announcer intoned, "has disclosed the government's decision. Clayoquot will be logged up to fifty percent; one-third will be preserved; and seventeen percent will be a mix of logging and preservation." There followed a brief interview with the premier, and Stuart caught the odd phrase."…won’t please everyone…the best solution.." The announcer ended the story: "..it is generally believed the logging companies got more than they expected."
Stuart padded down the hall to his wife’s study. "I suppose you heard about Clayoquot," he said.
"No, what?" asked Anna. She did not look up from the book review she was finishing for the Tofino Weekly.
He told her. "How is it possible to have both preservation and logging at the same time?" he asked, mainly to himself.
"Greed," said Anna, and rose from her desk. They entered the living room.
"And they've given the companies more than they asked for!"
"Greed."
It seemed to add to his general feeling of alarm, discontinuity and concern. After a minute, he said, "Look, Anna. We came here because we love nature—the tall trees, the clean air." A dark shadow crossed his face. "Look what they’re doing to it!" He slumped into a chair. "Did you know the government bought shares in the company that's going to log Clayoquot?" he murmured.
"No. How did you know?"
"Heard it on the news." He put his chin in his hand. "But there are ministries that tell the companies where, when, and how they’re to log." He paused. Anna looked at him, and she frowned, giving her face a troubled look.
"It's like the pot calling the kettle black,” he added. "Why do I feel sick?"
"Because, my love, you care."
"And the government and logging companies don't?"
"No."
They talked through supper. "Our values are different," Anna said softly. "We believe in living within the means nature has provided. The logging companies only want to harvest the trees, and soon there won't be any left. That's what scares me. Then what will happen?" She frowned more deeply, lending shadows to her face; her breathing seemed to become shallow, as if she were anxious. "Why not join a political party and fight it out there?" she asked.
"I'm too old. And I hate parties." He took a breath. "For years we worked for parties." His hands waved in the air. "We were scrutineers, we walked the streets with candidates, put up signs, phoned voters. What good did it do? We educated ourselves, I suppose. Parties have their own agendas, their own petty power bases to protect, but you and I have no power." He paused. "I feel awful." He rose and stomped around the room. "You said 'harvest' a minute ago. They don't harvest. They trash!" He sat down again, very agitated, then said, his voice barely audible, "Those clearcuts to the north are immense. The animals and birds are killed, too… You know, the government are rapists."
"I feel as though I've been violated." Large bags seemed to grow under Anna's eyes, and new lines carved themselves into her skin. She covered her face, stifled a sob, then said with uncommon huskiness, "We just built this house. I don't want to have to find yet another 'ideal' place. I—forgive me, Stu—I don't want to live another ten or twenty years, just to see what my world will be like then."
He rose and put an arm around her. "Anna,” he said softly, "if everyone who feels like us decided not to live, there would be no one to fight for the forest and the air."
She turned to face him, and whispered, "Didn’t the government promise to safeguard the forests?"
"Yes. That’s how I would fight them, if I had the strength, but I'm wrung out."
"I'm tired, too. Tired of everything."
*
Next day they rose at six-thirty, as usual. Each was quiet as they began their morning rituals. Anna, her haggard look betraying an uneasy sleep, reached over and turned on the radio. Stuart trudged back from the bathroom and slowly pulled on his clothes.
"I feel I didn't sleep," he breathed, and went to the kitchen. He had put instant coffee into mugs, filled the kettle and was plugging it in when Anna called him. He started back to the bedroom and met Anna in the hall.
"Stu," she said breathlessly. "There’s going to be a mass protest!" Her eyes were wide and her face had taken on an almost wild look.
"Let's sit down, Anna," he said quietly, and led her to the living room. "Now, dear, tell me what you heard."
"It was on the radio just now. The Mountain Club, The Wild Society and even Benjamin Kernaghan, the environmental lawyer, are coming here! To Clayoquot!"
"When?"
"In a few days. They're going to block the logging roads. They'll force the government to change its mind. Isn't it wonderful, Stu?"
The kettle boiled. Stuart went to the kitchen, looking thoughtful, poured hot water into the mugs, added milk and returned to the living room, giving one to Anna.
"Um-m. Just the way I like it." A smile coursed across her face, and Stuart was pleased.
They sat together quietly on the sofa, watching the sun’s first rays illuminate the garden, sipping the hot liquid, holding their steaming mugs in opposite hands, their other hands clasped together.
"Let’s do it," Stuart said softly, and looked at her.
"You mean, join them on the blockade?"
"Absolutely."
"We've got to stand up for what we believe, don't we?" She looked at him. "Yes. Yes, we can't let them ruin our lives without even a whimper."
"Whimper. That reminds me of the book you’re reviewing; what’s its name? About the Holocaust."
"The Holocaust Revisited. How the Nazis threw gypsies and Jews into cattle cars, shipped them across Europe and dumped them into extermination camps, with hardly a whimper from the persecuted."
"Exactly, Anna. Well, this planned slaughter of Clayoquot's trees will be more than whimpered about. With the help of the others that are coming, I think not only will the government hear us—the world will hear us. Where are you going?"
"To call the Nelbergs on the other side of the island. They’ll be interested in this." She paused. "Do they know you're teaching Dan to fly?"
"Yes."
"Good. Don't worry, Stu," she said, "They’re up early and they’re conservationists, like us."
It rained over the next few days. Heavy mist shrouded Vargas and Clayoquot Sound. No wind stirred. They walked outside and saw the new, light-green leaves of spring laden with the water that nourishes plants and animals alike. An occasional bird chirped; deer stood and watched them, then trotted off among the trees. They were careful to watch for bear and wolves.
Anna whispered, "It's like a cathedral in here."
"To me," said Stuart, "the trees are weeping."
*
The clouds had cleared, revealing a sparkling blue sky. The protest took place on the main logging road leading into the Sound. Stuart, Anna and the Nelbergs had driven there in the Nelbergs’ four-by-four van. The last few kilometers to the main parking area were slow and difficult because of the hundreds of vehicles on the narrow gravel road. They parked and managed to work their way to a temporary stage, carrying folding chairs and food.
People milled about in organized confusion. Someone stuck a piece of paper into their hands. "Oh, there’s going to be a rock concert in a few minutes," said Sheila Nelberg, studying the hastily printed document.
"And Benjamin Kernaghan will speak right after," observed Anna, looking over Sheila's shoulder.
"Good," said Allan Nelberg, his eyes lighting up. "Just the kind of music I like."
"Let's not set our chairs too close to the speakers," said Stuart, looking at Allan. "We won't be able to hear ourselves think."
They went to the rear of the crowd, but more hundreds more crowded in behind them. They looked around. "It's amazing!" said Anna. "No one’s smoking here."
"Maybe they want to show the trees respect by not smoking," suggested Stuart.
"Or maybe they simply don't want to risk a fire," said Allan.
"Oh, Al," said Sheila, a little scornfully, "you're too practical."
"Look! They’re going to start the concert," said Anna.
"And I didn’t bring my ear plugs," said Stuart.
As the players mounted the stage, a faint chant started from inside the audience, then grew louder as more and more took it up. "Save—our—trees! Save—our—trees!" The band was ready to start, but the din had grown too thunderous for them to play. Instead, they joined in the chant, waving, dancing and jumping. One of them thrust his fist into the air. Some members of the audience were standing; others began to jump and shout, waving their fists as well.
Anna became frightened. "Stu," she shouted over the clamour, "I think we should move to another spot."
"So do I," said Sheila. Stuart and Allan exchanged glances.
"But they're just exuberant.." said Allan, unconvinced.
"All right," said Stuart, and they started to collect their things.
They walked back down the road a short distance. "I wonder why the police aren't here," observed Stuart as they walked.
"Actually, they are," answered Allan. "I saw a few on the periphery of the crowd."
"This crowd isn't what we bargained for," said Anna. "It’s a lot bigger and rowdier than I thought."
"Would you like to go home?" asked Stuart.
"No, I still want to show my support. What about you?" she asked Sheila and Allan.
"I want to stay," said Allan.
"So do I," said Sheila.
They started to unfold their chairs where they stood, under the boughs of a large red cedar. They heard the sound of a heavy motor, and a logging truck appeared a few hundred metres behind them, the driver revving its engine. Its long flatbed was empty of logs, but several dozen loggers rode on it instead. The standards that hold the logs in place pierced the sky, like spears. Together with the bright headlights, it appeared as a behemoth, bearing down upon the four of them. A second truck was behind it, and a third behind that. On each rode dozens of loggers.
The four left their chairs and hurried back to the crowd. To the first few protesters he saw, Stuart said breathlessly, "Logging trucks are coming!" Each of them spread the word, and it caught like wildfire.
Strangely quiet, the huge crowd began to move as one, like ants, along the road. Only a few murmurs could be heard. The crowd had taken on an ominous character. Stuart and Anna held hands tightly, separated by only a few rows from Allan and Sheila, who also held hands. The few police could do nothing to control events.
The four had spread their message too well. They wanted to get away, but were driven relentlessly forward by the momentum of the human current that surrounded them.
"Allan! Sheila!" Stuart called. "Try to move over to the trees on the right."
"Can't!" Allan called back. "It's all we can do to stay on our feet."
Suddenly the trucks were in front of them. They braked to a dusty halt, and the loggers began jumping off, some coughing up dust. The ant-like column split into halves. It surrounded and outnumbered the loggers. The crowd stopped moving, and Stuart and Anna found themselves at the front quarter of the lead truck. They tried to escape, but were hemmed in.
"Some of those men have rocks," Stuart said quietly to Anna, but not quietly enough. Those beside him heard the remark, and picked up their own stones.
"I'm frightened," said Anna. "What's going to happen here?"
"Let us through!" said a logger from the lead truck. "We have our work to do and our families to feed."
"Soon there won't be any trees left for you to cut!" a nearby male voice answered.
"What will you do then?" shouted another.
"There's millions of acres of trees!" answered another logger.
From somewhere, a rock dropped from the blue, sparkling sky, hitting a child on the head. The child fell. A woman screamed. "Damn you!" shouted a male voice. The crowd surged. The driver of the lead truck revved his engine. A whistle sounded, and the loggers jumped back onto the flatbeds. A rock crazed the windshield of the first truck, which drove forward straight into the crowd, splitting it into two parts and forcing the protesters to the sides of the road as the trucks roared by in clouds of choking dust. The band started to play as loudly as possible, hoping the music would help reestablish control.
The crowd, choking from the dust, re-filled the road. A large circle was gathered at one spot. The Nelbergs edged their way over.
"What happened?" Sheila asked.
"Someone's hurt," a voice answered.
"Can you see Anna and Stuart?" She asked Allan.
"Not yet."
The circle parted, and a paramedic entered. A few moments later, the medic slowly walked down the road to the parking area. The circle opened. Two men each carried an adult, a woman and a man, their arms hanging limply at their sides, their heads lolling back. Sheila uttered a gasp. Her hand covered her mouth. Allan stared at the sight. The two men put their burdens down under the spring-green boughs of a mature maple.
Slowly, unbelieving, Sheila and Allan approached the couple lying on the ground. They stood over them for a few seconds, and Sheila started to cry. She knelt. Allan knelt too, trying to wipe away the tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Oh Anna!" whispered Sheila through her tears. Gently, she touched Anna's lifeless face, then Stuart’s. She turned and threw herself into Allan’s arms, sobbing.
"Why did this have to happen?" said Allan, half choking. "It isn’t fair."
A man knelt beside Stuart and Anna. He looked vaguely familiar. Allan watched him put a golden axe inside Stuart’s shirt pocket. The man left.
Allan removed the axe. He felt angry; then his eyes fell upon an inscription containing one word, Dan.
*
That fall, a committee composed of the executives of the Mountain Club and the Wild Society called a joint press conference. "Ladies and gentlemen," began Timothy Broderick, president of the Mountain Club. "Last spring, two beloved members of the Vargas Island community were tragically killed when a logging truck ran them down during a protest in Clayoquot Sound. They were not members of any environmental group—simply a retired couple who had searched long and hard for a spot to build their last home. They loved the woods and all of nature. Their legacy is their love for the forest. It is very sad that their lives were sacrificed, and we feel their loss deeply."
Timothy stepped aside, and June Ziegler, president of the Wild Society, continued. "Clayoquot i
She held up a plaque. In the centre at the top, Dan's golden axe reflected the sun.
~ story by Manuel Erickson
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Rainforest Soul: Web 101
Rainforest Soul: Web 101: A poetry website, Entirely of words, A black screen, No pictures, just white letters, Words like headstones On black lawn, Or words...
Friday, March 2, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
To Be
Everything you see here
has a meaning and a purpose,
nothing is wasted, not one
thing is irrelevant.
Ask me what it means -
you are a visitor and
I am the God (not only)
of this Earth. I will
tell you, I will explain
what it means to sit in
this world and experience
my creation if only you
will look and listen,
watch and wait.
Open your mind, try
to understand this
meaning, how I see,
what I am. Here.
In some worlds, I am
a bad boy, but now,
listen to me and pay
attention to what
I'm showing you.
Learn to receive the
gift you're given -
life and consciousness.
What you will do with
this is yours; what's
in your brain is in
the universe.
Can you see it?
Now live, and if
you are any good,
learn to live well.
This and this alone,
pleases me.
Rojan Zét
has a meaning and a purpose,
nothing is wasted, not one
thing is irrelevant.
Ask me what it means -
you are a visitor and
I am the God (not only)
of this Earth. I will
tell you, I will explain
what it means to sit in
this world and experience
my creation if only you
will look and listen,
watch and wait.
Open your mind, try
to understand this
meaning, how I see,
what I am. Here.
In some worlds, I am
a bad boy, but now,
listen to me and pay
attention to what
I'm showing you.
Learn to receive the
gift you're given -
life and consciousness.
What you will do with
this is yours; what's
in your brain is in
the universe.
Can you see it?
Now live, and if
you are any good,
learn to live well.
This and this alone,
pleases me.
Rojan Zét
Friday, February 24, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The Innocent
© Manuel Erickson
"HERE," SAID ARCHIBALD, GIVING ME A FROZEN BURRITO. "You deal with it." He stomped off into the bush somewhere, his boots breaking dry twigs.
"It" was a slug-like animal and it was beautiful. It was about six inches long with four short and slender legs, each ending in four toe-like appendages. It had a narrow slit for a mouth and the beginnings of lips. Its eyes were in the front of its face and they had no lids. Its body was plump, fleshy—a lovely mix of black, green and red spots and stripes on a matte yellow. There were no ears that I could see. Its back end tapered gracefully to a blunt point.
I sat on the ground beside it.
The animal's head moved slightly from side to side, then up and down, as if it were saying “no,” then “yes.” The movement repeated a number of times.
I knew that Archibald expected me to be done by the time he returned.
I picked up the burrito and held it in my right hand between my thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t comfortable, so I moved my hand to another corner. The fourth corner was easier to hold.
The animal started to move forward. I raised my arm and brought the sharp edge of the stiff burrito down onto the head of the animal. It looked at me as if to say, “You want my attention?” and continued forward.
I repeated the movement, harder, then harder and harder. At last I made an opening in the animal's skin that, for him (her?) was deep. Its blood was the same colour as my own: bright red.
The animal stopped and covered its face with its toes, spread out. I felt like a murderer.
Again and again I struck—again and again. Finally, the animal was dead still.
I fled before Archibald returned.
~ by Manuel Erickson
"HERE," SAID ARCHIBALD, GIVING ME A FROZEN BURRITO. "You deal with it." He stomped off into the bush somewhere, his boots breaking dry twigs.
"It" was a slug-like animal and it was beautiful. It was about six inches long with four short and slender legs, each ending in four toe-like appendages. It had a narrow slit for a mouth and the beginnings of lips. Its eyes were in the front of its face and they had no lids. Its body was plump, fleshy—a lovely mix of black, green and red spots and stripes on a matte yellow. There were no ears that I could see. Its back end tapered gracefully to a blunt point.
I sat on the ground beside it.
The animal's head moved slightly from side to side, then up and down, as if it were saying “no,” then “yes.” The movement repeated a number of times.
I knew that Archibald expected me to be done by the time he returned.
I picked up the burrito and held it in my right hand between my thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t comfortable, so I moved my hand to another corner. The fourth corner was easier to hold.
The animal started to move forward. I raised my arm and brought the sharp edge of the stiff burrito down onto the head of the animal. It looked at me as if to say, “You want my attention?” and continued forward.
I repeated the movement, harder, then harder and harder. At last I made an opening in the animal's skin that, for him (her?) was deep. Its blood was the same colour as my own: bright red.
The animal stopped and covered its face with its toes, spread out. I felt like a murderer.
Again and again I struck—again and again. Finally, the animal was dead still.
I fled before Archibald returned.
~ by Manuel Erickson
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Life Is Art In Cowichan Bay
Smooth-sanded and oiled,
this marine varnished morning,
the sea still as glass,
Cowichan Bay
reflects the encircling
enchantment of wooden boats,
hand polished and painted,
bright in the early sun.
Reflected mast and boom, cable,
hull, cabin and spar,
still upon the water,
shimmering, a retreating dream,
at once clear and remembered.
From my window
in a cheese and soup shop
on a pier built out over the water,
I see houses on floats
every plank, shutter, and painted planter,
window and wooden latice reflected
in the mirror.
Sea gulls pose
as porcelain angels,
statues of themselves,
on pilings rising from the water,
traditional, well tended
wooden boats, old retiring fishermen,
nuzzle wooden wharves, sleeping
each with his double.
~ by Charles Van Gorkom
this marine varnished morning,
the sea still as glass,
Cowichan Bay
reflects the encircling
enchantment of wooden boats,
hand polished and painted,
bright in the early sun.
Reflected mast and boom, cable,
hull, cabin and spar,
still upon the water,
shimmering, a retreating dream,
at once clear and remembered.
From my window
in a cheese and soup shop
on a pier built out over the water,
I see houses on floats
every plank, shutter, and painted planter,
window and wooden latice reflected
in the mirror.
Sea gulls pose
as porcelain angels,
statues of themselves,
on pilings rising from the water,
traditional, well tended
wooden boats, old retiring fishermen,
nuzzle wooden wharves, sleeping
each with his double.
~ by Charles Van Gorkom
Monday, February 13, 2012
A Vancouver Island Valentine
Raven love, mixed media by Ron Greenaway
We wish a day of love & peace for all from the Cowichan Valley Arts Café
Friday, February 3, 2012
Jane Wolters, Vancouver Island Potter
Profile of an Artist
Born in England, Jane has lived on Vancouver Island most of her life. She has been a professional potter for over 30 years, working mainly in stoneware and porcelain. She finds the tactile quality of clay and the act of throwing on the wheel irresistibly seductive. The vessel form appeals to her as the ultimate in abstraction; its parts are even named after the body: lip, neck, shoulder, belly, foot.
Although technically "self-taught", never having gone to art school, she did take wheel-throwing lessons in the beginning, and since then she’s been fortunate to have attended many valuable workshops with outstanding potters from all over the world, and has taken courses in various subjects including portrait sculpture.
About 10 years ago she began learning to paint in oils in an effort to find a creative outlet that was not so physically demanding. In the process she has learned a great deal of art theory, history, and design. Oil on canvas is currently her favourite painting medium; the sensuous feel of the paint coming off the brush onto the canvas, the way the paint smells, the look of the thick oil paint building up on the surface, all feel right.
"I feel incredibly lucky to be an artist. There are always new ideas, new paths to travel along, and there are never enough hours in the day to explore them."
Learn more about Jane Wolters at www.janewolters.com
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Although technically "self-taught", never having gone to art school, she did take wheel-throwing lessons in the beginning, and since then she’s been fortunate to have attended many valuable workshops with outstanding potters from all over the world, and has taken courses in various subjects including portrait sculpture.
About 10 years ago she began learning to paint in oils in an effort to find a creative outlet that was not so physically demanding. In the process she has learned a great deal of art theory, history, and design. Oil on canvas is currently her favourite painting medium; the sensuous feel of the paint coming off the brush onto the canvas, the way the paint smells, the look of the thick oil paint building up on the surface, all feel right.
"I feel incredibly lucky to be an artist. There are always new ideas, new paths to travel along, and there are never enough hours in the day to explore them."
Learn more about Jane Wolters at www.janewolters.com
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Margot Page Vancouver Island artist
Margot Page's beautiful enamelling on steel work comes in a wide variety of sizes, shapes, and custom designs.
You can see a wide variety of her work at the Imagine That! artisans' design shop in downtown Duncan, the City of Totems, on Vancouver Island.
You can see a wide variety of her work at the Imagine That! artisans' design shop in downtown Duncan, the City of Totems, on Vancouver Island.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
SEO AN T’AITE MU DHEIREADH The ultimate place (Gaelic)
you were the soft sad music tangled in the branches
quivering in the deep shade of alder and birch
beneath Ben Nevis
you were the sun slanting through clouds
spinning mist on the hills
steaming from the nets coiled by Loch Coruisk
you were the sharp scent of bog-myrtle
the silver shimmer of reeds in the marsh
the jewels of primrose and tormentil scattered through the meadow
the ridge is dark and desolate now
the burn a jagged scar slashed into granite
its cold life seeping into the peat
now you are gone
cattle are lowing in the glen
restive for the uncropped sweetness of the highlands
the herring fleet is hostage in the harbour
the savage ransom of the sea refused
now you are gone
there will be no respite of grain
there will be no satisfaction of salmon
the hearth is dank and grey
like thrift to the cliff face
I cling to the vision of your homecoming
grief foaming 'round fingers of rock
my spirit reckless as the gannets
plunging through sea spume
soaring over the headlands
~ by Yvonne MacKenzie
quivering in the deep shade of alder and birch
beneath Ben Nevis
you were the sun slanting through clouds
spinning mist on the hills
steaming from the nets coiled by Loch Coruisk
you were the sharp scent of bog-myrtle
the silver shimmer of reeds in the marsh
the jewels of primrose and tormentil scattered through the meadow
the ridge is dark and desolate now
the burn a jagged scar slashed into granite
its cold life seeping into the peat
now you are gone
cattle are lowing in the glen
restive for the uncropped sweetness of the highlands
the herring fleet is hostage in the harbour
the savage ransom of the sea refused
now you are gone
there will be no respite of grain
there will be no satisfaction of salmon
the hearth is dank and grey
like thrift to the cliff face
I cling to the vision of your homecoming
grief foaming 'round fingers of rock
my spirit reckless as the gannets
plunging through sea spume
soaring over the headlands
~ by Yvonne MacKenzie
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Westray Lament, by Manuel Erickson
© 1992 Manuel Erickson
To my parents, Nellie and Harry Erickson, and to coal miners everywhere
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do-
And twenty-six miners died.
Inside the Westray mine lies disaster,
Coal dust an'methane wait there t'blow;
Friends, brothers, husbands go down t'gether,
Fear grips their hearts when they're b'low.
One Friday night the miners descended
Into the coal mine two miles down:
They'd felt the last of sunshine's caresses,
They'd heard the last of love's sweet sounds.
Deep in the mine the coal gas is workin',
Hissin' an' sizzlin' inside the veins;
Men are destroyed where they stand a-workin'
Others are killed where they had lain.*
Twenty-six friends, brothers an' husbands
Lie in the Westray shattered an' torn;
Fifteen the draegermen haul to the surface,
Ten an' another stay unfound.
Inside the Westray mine lie eleven,
Quiet an' still like the darkness within;
Flood all the tunnels to make it safe! but
Eleven men ask: "What? Again?"
Now that the Westray mine is a-flooded,
No one can see the bad errors made;
Evidence gone an' no answers given-
Buried where eleven laid.
Twenty-six ghosts from inside the Westray
Say to the bosses who decide:
"You didn't listen to our warnin's,
Loved ones're alone now that we've died."
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do—
And twenty-six miners died.
* When working in a small space, it is sometimes necessary to lie down.
~ by Manuel Erickson
PS. Manuel has composed music for his ballad. To receive a copyrighted copy, please email him with your request at pilot80@shaw.ca
To my parents, Nellie and Harry Erickson, and to coal miners everywhere
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do-
And twenty-six miners died.
Inside the Westray mine lies disaster,
Coal dust an'methane wait there t'blow;
Friends, brothers, husbands go down t'gether,
Fear grips their hearts when they're b'low.
One Friday night the miners descended
Into the coal mine two miles down:
They'd felt the last of sunshine's caresses,
They'd heard the last of love's sweet sounds.
Deep in the mine the coal gas is workin',
Hissin' an' sizzlin' inside the veins;
Men are destroyed where they stand a-workin'
Others are killed where they had lain.*
Twenty-six friends, brothers an' husbands
Lie in the Westray shattered an' torn;
Fifteen the draegermen haul to the surface,
Ten an' another stay unfound.
Inside the Westray mine lie eleven,
Quiet an' still like the darkness within;
Flood all the tunnels to make it safe! but
Eleven men ask: "What? Again?"
Now that the Westray mine is a-flooded,
No one can see the bad errors made;
Evidence gone an' no answers given-
Buried where eleven laid.
Twenty-six ghosts from inside the Westray
Say to the bosses who decide:
"You didn't listen to our warnin's,
Loved ones're alone now that we've died."
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do—
And twenty-six miners died.
* When working in a small space, it is sometimes necessary to lie down.
~ by Manuel Erickson
PS. Manuel has composed music for his ballad. To receive a copyrighted copy, please email him with your request at pilot80@shaw.ca
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