Category: residency

Our camp is of two camps.
Some fear the bears most.
Just waking up, and hungry.
A bicyclist was mauled.
Recently, and near here.
He might lose his arm.
Everyone’s paying attention.

Fewer fear the ticks.
They’re very small.
They wait in the trees.
They fall on you.
They feed on you.
They lay eggs.
It takes a while.
You could not notice.
You could get lime disease.

Bears have little interest in humans.
There’re lots of ways to avoid them.
The bicyclist had headphones on.
He wasn’t paying attention.

Ticks are actually gunning for you.
They detect mammalian body heat.
They have strength in numbers.
I fear what’s harder to avoid.
. . . . .

I sit down to read.
On some steps in some sun.
A tall man passes, sporting sporting attire.
Stops and asks: What are you reading?
A book a friend lent me.
By friend, I mean: You don’t know me.
Who’s it by? He strikes a pose.
A racquet over his shoulder.
I hold the book up.
Let him read the cover himself.
By this I mean: Go away.
Is it good?
Yes.
Read me a line.
Now that’s a line.
No.
Just one.
A split-second staring match ensues.
He has sunglasses on and I don’t.
No fair.
I’m too tired, I say.
I mean: Of this.
He twirls his racquet at me.
I go back to reading.
It’s only the first day.
. . . . .

I’m Banff-ward bound, leaving early Sunday morning. For six weeks I’ll live on a mountainside with thirty other artists from around the world, all our work somehow relating to the theme of: Babel, Babble, Rabble: On Language and Art. Here’s the description: http://www.banffcentre.ca/programs/program.aspx?id=372

I’ll have email access while I’m there, though my spill-chick capabilities will be somewhat reduced. Please also feel free to send me snail mail. It’d make me feel ever so important. Everyone notes a trek up to the mailroom. Send me a postcard… write fiction on it. Here is the way:

J. R. Carpenter
On Language and Art
The Banff Centre
107 Tunnel Mountain Drive
Banff, Alberta
Canada
T1L 1H5
. . . . .