Simple Thoughts by Tricia Keith My friend has a friend who has the last name Lucky. Gee, | thought, what a Lucky guy. Heisamanwhosayshe feelsno pain. Lucky guy. He sings his days away. He _ gets so far away, he is foreign to just about everyone except my friend. She told me they have no misunderstandings. Gee, | thought, is that ever Lucky. My friend has a friend who has the last name Tidy. Whoa, | thought, is that ever neat. He was kinda loose with his business connections and ended up injail. My friend loved this man. He beat her up. That's not why he went to jail.. After she told me the whole mess | decided | didn’t like that name. Me and my friend were thinking of changing ourlastnames to the samelastname. That way we could be related like sisters and get rid of our present relations at the same time. We'd call ourselves something really good like, Goosepimple or Long Journey or HOME. Warehouse Studio by Tzaddi Gordon Recently | had a thought which will probably make me unpopular in the sharing, but what the hell; no one here knows yet who | am anyway. | was registering for Intro Sculpture, and | asked about the sign that said “Space Wars, Wednesday Noon’. ‘That doesn’t apply to you,” the instructor said. “Second years work in the parking lot.” | laughed and said | was buying a pick up, so I'll work out of that. desperate hours... | only remember parts of it- that night where everything started. Probably it was because | had too much of that Scotch, and because most of the thoughts | shared with him, | hadn’t shared with anyone else, except maybe that woman from long ago, that | had loved so effort- lessly... It wasn’t that | refused to speak of them, these thoughts that crowded my mind, it was more that | somehow lost the words to express them, somewhere deep in my throat, like a sensation that couldn't be dispelled or a yawn that stayed unsatisfied. They just lay there, unused and throbbing, concealed by my displays of strength, yet feeding my insecurities to the point that | almost yearned for those moments of semi-conscious- ness where words no longer mattered and my soul was bare, and hopelessly honest. | always found it to be a betrayal of the weaknesses that | so desperately tried to hide, and perhaps a certain selfish wallowing that | couldn’t bring myself to-condone entirely. And yet, | realised | felt a strange, and equally real need for some sort of release, and attempting to deprive myself of it would destroy whatever balance | had managed to achieve. So | had almost come to expect the spurts of excessive- ness that lead to my confessions, and, that night, | don’t even remember wondering if he would pass judgement at any time, as he finally witnessed the scars that | bore; some of them almost healed by the unre- lenting touch of time, some fresh and burning, still. But | didn’t wonder about him, and | didn’t think of stopping myself, as | sat between his knees, with my back resting on his chest, and the warmth of his arms wrapped tightly around me. He breathed steadily close by my ear and it appeased my feverishness, as did the cool wind surrounding us. He held me anxiously, like a worried lover, unsure but nurturing, and somehow, at that moment, it didn’t bother:me that he loved some- one else. | guess reality, like happiness, consisted to me of isolated moments, strung together only by our minds to create what we called life; even though we weren’t truly part of each other's lives, | knew we had shared the moment and it couldn't be taken away. Maybe it was the shelter of open space that made the closeness acceptable, and even desirable. Or maybe it was simply the violence of the need for it overwhelming me, obliterating everything else. When | turned to face him finally, | only sought understanding or simply accept- ance of the feelings | had thrown at him in the chaos of my memories and hopes. And for a second, the words seemed to hang there, between us, in the thinning darkness of early morning, like the lingering proof they hadn’t been lost in the night after all. | felt a twinge of fear at being suddenly asked to visualise the passion with which | had spoken, and The unpopular thought | had was this: | don’t think that the lack of space in this college is as much of a crime as some say it is. | have no problem with making smaller work while I’m in school (altough | may be warped from growing up on a sailboat in a family of six and knowing what cramped really means). When | graduate and become magically successful an have that skylit warehouse studio I’ve always dreamed of, | can make monolithic works too big to store except in some museum. Or |’ll graduate and go back to my pink collar job and still have to work small because | won't be able to afford a studio at all. Fact is, I’m overjoyed to simply have the experience of studying art where | am, even if Granville Island is a horrible location for a school. I’m thankful to be able to eat and make art. | count myself lucky to be trying to make art here in Canada as opposed to Guatemala or El Salvador or China... | realize I’m a 3D rookie, naive in these matters, and that sometimes one has to work on a 20 foot canvas or a telephone pole. |’m not saying that we have no cause for frustrations, especially having survived those archaic registration procedures, however, | think it could do us some good when the cramped space gets us down to just practise a bit of thanksgiving. (Or consider the parking lot as a viable option...) sustain his azure stare. He sat, though, still mute, his light eyes calmly settling into mine; and as the pale glow of morning invaded the sky, | saw in him an intensity | hadn’t noticed before. He slowly raised his hands to my face and when his lips finally parted, it was to ask me not to do this. A wave of desire washed over me as | wondered if the trembling in his voice stemmed from the same desire. He leaned closer to me, and all that | could feel was the rush in my veins and the taste of his kiss. ; ‘It reminded me of her suddenly, as | envisioned watch- ing her once, her face warm, basted in the morning sun, the sheet lightly covering the shapes of her golden skin. That day for the first time, | had understood what had triggered the yearning for her touch. | had made love to her because the closeness that we shared was so intense and flawless, that the union had to be com- pleted. There was no logic or moral to it, yet it was as simply basic as a cause yielding to its consequence and again, as with her, | didn’t fight it... Not yet. Not until the whispering of the leaves or the quietly pressing light of the sun became red again. Not until the quickening of my pulse subsided and | re- minded myself the moment had to end. Only then, after | had left him and lay motionless in my room, did | try to forget, to make it less real. Or to make it part of a reality that didn’t have to be a part of my life. Simple Thoughts by Tricia Keith My fiend has a fiend who has the last raame Lucky. Gee, I thought, whata Lucky ‘uy. Heisamanwhosayshefeelsnopain. Lucky guy. He sings his days away. He gets so faraway, he's foreign tojustabout everyone except my friend, She told me they have no misunderstandings. Gee, | thought, is that ever Lucky My rend has a fiend who has the last name Tidy. Whoa, | thought, is that ever neat. Hewasknda loose with his business connections and ended upinji. My fiend loved this man. He eather up. Thatsnot wi he went jal. After she told me the whole mess I decided | cid ke that name, Meandmy tiendwerthinkingofchanging ‘curlastnamestothe samelastname. That waywecouldbe relatedikesistersand get fd of our present relations atthe same time, We'dcallourseves something realy gpd ike, Goosepimple orLong Joumey or HOME, tf Warehouse Studio by Tzaddi Gordon Recently | had a thought which will probably make me unpopular in the sharing, but what the hell; no one here knows yet who | am anyway. 1 was registering for Intro Sculpture, and | asked about the sign that said “Space Wars, Wednesday Noon’. “That doesn't apply to you,” the instructor said. “Second years work in the parking lot” | laughed and said | was buying a pick up, so I'l work out ofthat desperate hours... only remember parts of it- that night where everything, started. Probably it was because | had too much of that Scotch, and because most of the thoughts | shared with him, I hadn’t shared with anyone else, except maybe that woman from long ago, that | had loved so effort. lessly. Itwasn’t that | refused to speak of them, these thoughts that crowded my mind, it was more that | somehow lost the words to express them, somewhere deep in my. throat, like a sensation that couldn't be dispelled or a yawn that stayed unsatisfied. They just lay there, unused and throbbing, concealed by my displays of strength, yet feeding my insecurities to the point that | almost yearned for those moments of semi-conscious- ness where words no longer mattered and my soul was bare, and hopelessly honest. | always found it to be a betrayal of the weaknesses that | so desperately tried to hide, and perhaps a certain selfish wallowing that | couldn't bring myself tocondone entirely. And yet, realised | felt a strange, and equally real need for some sort of release, and attempting to deprive myself of it ‘would destroy whatever balance | had managed to achieve. So | had almost come to expect the spurts of excessive- ness that lead to my confessions, and, that night, | don't even remember wondering if he would pass judgement at any time, as he finally witnessed the scars that | bore; some of them almost healed by the unre- lenting touch of time, some fresh and burning, stil. But didn’t wonder about him, and I didn’t think of stopping myself, as | sat between his knees, with my back resting on his chest, and the warmth of his arms wrapped tightly around me. He breathed steadily close by my ear and it appeased my feverishness, as did the ool wind surrounding us. He held me anxiously, like a worried lover, unsure but nurturing, and somehow, at that moment, it didn’t bother me that he loved some- fone else. | guess reality, ike happiness, consisted to me Of isolated moments, strung together only by our minds to create what we called life; even though we weren't truly part of each others lives, knew we had shared the moment and it couldn't be taken away. Maybe it was the shelter of open space that made the closeness acceptable, and even desirable. Or maybe it was simply the violence of the need for it overwhelming me, obliterating everything else. When | tuned to face him finally, | only sought understanding or simply accept- ance of the feelings | had thrown’at him in the chaos of my memories and hopes. And for a second, the words seemed to hang there, between us, in the thinning darkness of early morning, like the lingering proof they hhadn’t been lost in the night after al [felt a twinge of fear at being suddenly asked to visualise the passion with which | had spoken, and. ‘The unpopular thought | had was this: | don't think that the lack of space in this college is as much of a rime ‘as some say itis. | have no problem with making smaller work while 'min school (altough | may be warped from growing up on a sailboat in a family of sic ‘and knowing what cramped really means). When | graduate and become magically suocessful an have that skylt warehouse studio I've always dreamed of, | can make monoithic works too big to store except in some museum. Or graduate and go back to my pink collar job and stil have to work small because | won't be able to afford a studio at all. Factis, I'm overjoyed to simply have the experience of studying art where | am, even if Granvile sland isa horrible location for a school. fm thankful to be able to eat and make art. | count myself lucky to be trying to make art here in Canada as opposed to Guatemala or El Salvador oF China.. I realize 'm a 3D rookie, naive in these matters, and that sometimes one has to work on a 20 foot canvas or telephone pole. I'm not saying that we have no cause for frustrations, especially having survived those archaic registration procedures, however, | think it ‘could do us some good when the cramped space gets us down to just practise a bit of thanksgiving. (Or consider the parking ot as a viable option...) sustain his azure stare. He sat, though, still mute, his light eyes calmly settling into mine; and as the pale glow of morning invaded the sky, | saw in him an intensity | hadn't noticed before. He slowly raised his hands to my face and when his lips finally parted, it was to ask me not to do this. A wave of desire washed over me as | wondered if the trembling in his voice stemmed from the same desire. He leaned closer to me, and all that | could feel was the rush in my veins and the taste of his kiss. It reminded me of her suddenly, as | envisioned watch- ing her once, her face warm, basted in the morning sun, the sheet lightly covering the shapes of her golden skin. That day for the first time, | had understood what had triggered the yearning for her touch. | had made love to her because the closeness that we shared was so intense and flawiess, that the union had to be com: pleted. There was no logic or moral to it, yetit was as. simply basic as a cause yielding to its consequence and again, as with her, | didn’t fight it. Not yet. Not until the whispering of the leaves or the quietly pressing light of the sun became red again. Not until the quickening of my pulse subsided and | re- minded myself the moment had to end. ‘Only then, after | had left him and lay motionless in my oom, did | try to forget, to make it less rea. (Or to make it part of a reality that didn't have to be a part of my life.