Ripples in air, soft and immense. Bells curl round a hillside to be cradled in an ear. Small animals worry their paws. A dazzle of piano, a glittery sheet of salt water. A cart lopes along a country road. Ghosts play ping-pong. Cascades from outer space. Some strange vessel encircles us in a scalded wood.
Like most high school students in British Columbia, I had read Katherine Mansfield’s short story “Miss Brill” in English class. I found the story so compelling that I looked up The Collected Short Stories.
I feel seen when listening to the gift that is American punk/alt band Mannequin Pussy. Their entire discography is a progression of artistic and musical truth, with each release becoming more unflinchingly personal and exquisitely composed than the last—but their 2024 album I Got Heaven is my personal favorite.
It’s a privilege to journey with David Lynch in Catching The Big Fish—Meditation, Consciousness, and Creativity. He hooked me on his first line: “Ideas are like fish.” Intrigued, I agreed to dive deeper with him. Some of his observations are deeply personal, yet his writing makes room for the reader.
Sure enough, contemporary philosophies of posthumanism and ecophenomenology, challenging human-centered frameworks and exploring the embodied reciprocity between humans and the more-than-human world, circulate—if at all— in the back eddies of popular consciousness.
There should be a word for books that show up in your life when you need them. Books which obliterate fears or seemingly by magic connect some of the disparate dots of a lifetime. Dots that you maybe didn’t even realize existed, let alone had an awareness that they could use an alignment, call for a needle and thread.
In Ghazal Games, Iranian-American poet Roger Sedarat approaches the ghazal, an ancient Arabic form with its roots in Persia and dominance in Urdu-speaking countries, not with the usual solemnity but as a site of playfulness and invention. Gone is the nostalgic melancholy of Agha Shahid Ali, or the usual moroseness of the Urdu masters, and we aren’t quite yet in the silted, sublime world of Canadian ghazal-poets like John Thompson or Phyllis Webb.