You are so certain

On this particular night he did not know where he was.
Finally he noticed that he had put on his coat and woollen hat;
prepared to leave the house, he went outside. At once he felt the
warmth and wind though it was winter; the muscles moved around
his mouth and eyes. On the street he encountered immense
tangled sections of ice and earth: this was not expected, streets
like a farmer’s land gouged out by some unseen plough. This
seemed peculiar only at first, to have to climb over ice and earth
and splinters of rain forest cedar and spruce. As well, everything
had become unfrozen, making it awkward and dangerous in all
places.

On the side of the street several feet away was a wooden
walkway, built like those over muddy streets in northern gold
mining towns. It was pushed up and crushed in ruins like a fence
or barrier. He made his way over top of this, where the wind was
more fierce, thinking this would be the end of his struggle. In
front of him loomed a large hole built through old walls, a hole
like a cave entrance. This was a change, walking in a place of warm
earth, rounded earth walls and no obstructions. His first impression
was of entering the past as a live form, a transposition into a di-
mension which included him as much as the surrounding earth and
tunnel. The dimness was soft yet consistent, silent, like a home.
He walked what seemed a short distance, sensing confrontations
at first then simple curiosity about his direction.

Ahead was a brighter gtow of fine light and dust hanging in
the air. Reaching it he saw this was a sort of entrance, an im-
possible one, opening high up and looking out over an unexpected
space, a cavern with a desert landscape that was perhaps three
miles across. The life there was of cactus and sagebrush, dark
brown sand and rocks looking like erratics left by some glacier.
How could there be such a space underground, he thought. Across
the panorama was another luminous area showing an opening
through the cavern wall. There was no means of determining
whether this was a passage to anywhere else.

Around him on the labyrinthian perch the tunnel walls were
warmer, steaming and wet. Looking back to his passage he saw
that it was too dark for a return. He lay down to rest in the
strength of the heat, a strength which seemed to him like a roar
in a waterfall, obliterating all other sounds. At once he felt he was
sleeping, or perhaps dreaming. A woman came out of the darkness
without a word; her presence was like a large marble stone in a
river where the light shone through to display the river bed. He
noticed she wore a large shirt which came down to her hips,
sleeves to the elbows. She was vigilant and permanent against
the wall beside him. With her appearance the space seemed to have
become her own as if simply out of familiarity, of having been
there before. She came to him and lay over his body, quiet and
certain, her face against the side of his head. She seemed to feel a
relief there; her’ travelling ended. Across the cavern the light
became bright like a fire, lighting up the far side of the cavern for
a moment, this disappearing, as two men appeared and moved
across the landscape.

He remained enfolded with the woman; the two men he
recognized to be possessors of the cavern and desert as they were
suddenly there, hovering at the perch, looking at the woman
against him. She did not look up. Though she did not get up, she
was taken away by the two men as if the visit and return to the
other side had been made innumerable times. He felt alone now,
constricted, no passages ahead or behind. He watched the two men
return, talking and some how reassuring each other.

He felt his need now was to reach the Opening to which they
were returning; he thought he must be with the woman whose
impression had been left against his body. Through the cavern’s
atmosphere came a woman’s full and brilliant laughter, its strange-
ness, he felt, was the strength and certainty it imparted, the unity
of a voice and an imperfect aura which connected him to it.
Through the cavern space he moved, at a height where it was moist
and trees grew out of the earth ceiling. He was through the far
opening, of that he was certain.

Here the air was drier, yellower with particles of dust. The
same landscape as previous confronted him. Also he was at the
same elevation, the same perspective with equal proportions. The
two men gone, the woman not visible; he could not recall when
she had last been there. Impeded there, wanting to move, he
thought of the entrance to the tunnel as he had first witnessed it.
He thought of walking into the street of ice, earth and tree splinters,
then for a moment thought the men might return; they would be
more determined this time he sensed.

The woman was there again on his ledge though it was im-
possible to say where she had arisen from. For the first time her
eyes focused on him, a connection of mutual sympathy. The two
men appeared within a movement of languid air against his neck
and back; their countenance was like a tomb of violence and
determination. Safety was not assured, the landscape below was
silent .

The two men were ejected through space, boring through
layers of stone, quartz and ancient sediments. Had the woman
made this separation? Previously, she recalled the image of these
same men strung through her memory, but was incapable of
erasure or success. Her territory, the cavern, had never before been
visited by anyone other than the two men. Now there was this
strange one in whom she felt a most peculiar pride. Turning to
look for him, she encountered only the immense cavern, the
desert, that familiar landscape.

At this time there is this possibility to consider. Such occur-
rences are not a matter of indifference or extraordinary fantasy,
and one is left with no certain explanations. Perhaps there were
two different visions of order which allowed only silence. Perhaps
his presence was truly more an absence, and their relation simply
a series of unopened replies and glances. Consider also that perhaps
he had never left the ledge where she stood looking over the desert
floor, and in fact remains there thinking of the ploughed streets,
the energy dispersed through his brain and skin by the night and
warm wind. For now this must be sufficient.

Gordon Moore

typeset by MAKARA Publishing and Design Co-operative
printed by Press Gang Printers and Publishers

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ther a member of an invisible elite, a “highbrow,
> as a down-and-outer, mingling with whoever wa
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aying Aristocrat or Bohemian, he was on the margin
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is increasing alienation from the world around him—
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3 primitive stages, an incredible horror, only intensifyin
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You are so certain

(On this particular night he did not know where he was
Finally he noticed that he had put on his coat and woollen hat?
‘repared to leave the house, he want outside. At once he felt the
‘warmth and wind though i was winter the muscles moved around
his mouth. and eyes. On the street he encountered immense
‘angi sections of ice and earth: this war not expected, streets
like’ farme’s land gouged out by tome unseen plough, This
seemed pecular only a fist, to have to climb over lee and earth
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had become unfrozen, making it wkword snd dangerous in all
places.

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{wo different visions of ordor which alowed only silence, Perhaps
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lances. Consider also that perhaps

thinking of the ploughed streets,
skin by the night and

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Gordon Moore

JEN Tae city, sue

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SHE GOES TO
DETROIT 79 PiAy

For the centuries that Science climbed to new height
art decayed. Its forced inbreeding transformed
eret code. By definition escapist from) reality
amned in upon itself to such degree that it gnawed aw:
s own vitals. It became diseased—neurotically self-pit)
ag, self-conscious, focused on the past (as opposed i
futurist orientation of the technological culture) an
and academies—ortho
-garde” is only the latest—pinin
ies, the Grand Old Days When Beaut
it became pessimistic and nihilistic, io
‘easingly hostile to the society at large, the “phili
aes.” And when the cocky young Science attempted t
Art from its ivory tower—eventually garret—wit
Ise promises of the courting lover (“You can com

us frozen into convention:
oxies of which “

FOR DIANNA ROSS...
NDSA GUITAR! SPED FINDS 4 J0B DREAM! HE FLYS winDow HE |
BUT FALLS ASLEAPITO SQUAMISH... SEES A CRime!,

typeset by MAKARA Publishing and Design Co-operative
Drinted By Press Gang Printers and Publishers

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own now, we're making the world a better place ever
ay”), Art refused more vehemently than ever to dec
ith him, much less accept his corrupt gifts, retreatin
ver deeper into her daydreams—neoclassicism, romar
sism, expressionism, surrealism, existentialism.

‘The individual artist or intellectual saw himself ¢
ther a member of an invisible elite, a “highbrow,
© as a down-and-outer, mingling with whoever we
vemed the dregs of his society. In both cases, whethe
‘aying Aristocrat or Bohemian, he was on the margic
! the society as a whole. The artist had become a freal
is increasing alienation from the world around hi
world that science had created was, especially i
itive stages, an incredible horror, only intensifyin
's need to escape to the ideal world of art—his lack «