And So, We Come to the End

Does anyone else get an odd feeling that something’s not quite right when they leave a movie theatre when it’s still light outside? Perhaps it’s because while you’re in the theatre you inhabited a different world for a while and when you get back outside in the daylight you see that it’s the same old place you left a couple of hours ago. If that’s the case then no wonder I was so disoriented upon leaving Moving Stories Films; I had just visited 13 different worlds in one afternoon.

Perhaps “different worlds” isn’t quite the right way to describe the diversity of the films. They were more like a variety of different dishes, all with different ingredients, methods of preparation and presentation. Yes, dishes is a more appropriate term. These little short films were just perfect wee morsels of delicious story. Watching the films sort of felt like being at a buffet where you nibble away at this and that and then realize later that you’ve actually had quite a lot to eat. Unlike a buffet though, where if you fill up on too many diverse substances, your stomach may rebel, the components of this buffet complemented each other very nicely. “No Bikini,” “The Perfection of the Moment,” and “Nagasaki Circus” were particularly memorable and tasty.

And this was the perfect end to a perfect festival. Such amazing and inspiring talent came through our fair city this week, and I learned so much, that I have absolutely no excuses to not write and I can’t wait find out who’s coming next year.

Thanks for reading!

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Emma Hill Kepron is a librarian at the University of Manitoba.

She is also an aspiring poet.

Her writing takes place in a small blue house near the river, which she shares with her husband and her dog.

The missing post

Jay,

Please don’t read this. Send it directly to Ariel after your Saturday post appears. It would be a big help if you could. Thanks.

Your Friend, Jay

(Ed. Note : followed by three blank pages)

Well guys, it looks like the end is near. I just spent the last hour in the very same room I saw George Elliot Clarke and all I feel is warm fuzzies. No resentment, no hatred. Just a warm fuzzy feeling towards the young writers of Juice magazine getting their starts in the very same place I got mine. The drugs are taking over.

From this point forward please don’t believe anything I write. Especially Saturday.
Saturday is the Poetry Bash. I have two weaknesses in this world; poetry and room temperature cheese. The Poetry Bash will have both. The drugs will take over between a clever line and the gouda. I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger. You need to be.

While listening to those young writers I saw the most tragic part of the festival’s tyranny. It’s the kids. You have to keep fighting for the children. Today I had to watch these poor kids believe the festivals biggest lie; that being a writer is a good thing. That this kind of life is something to strive for, but it isn’t.

The pay sucks and the hours are long. You never get to sleep. You have to try and say something that hasn’t been said before, better. Have you ever tried that? Do you know how many things have been said perfectly by this point in our history? A hell of a lot. The whole point of your job as a writer is to do the near impossible. If you don’t, you have to work in a warehouse. And don’t think warehouses are cool just because they have forklifts. They’re usually cold and crass. You wouldn’t like it if you were heading there having previously wanted to be a poet. Trust me. And you know what the worst part is, the worst part is how everybody thinks you’re lazy. I’m thinking for crying out loud. Do you think things think themselves into existence? Ha!! Overall, being a writer is pretty brutal life’s work (however, if you marry someone with a good job you can take care of the kids and write for quite a while before anyone gets really pissed off).

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can barely think straight. I think this is the end.

As my last act of defiance I’m going to hide this from myself. I want this post to appear after the Saturday night column. This way the last you hear from me will not be the festival’s propaganda, but instead, a message of solidarity and resilience against this Evil Empire. Stay fast my friends and let your unity buoy you. Together you can defeat them. And always remember, that somewhere, behind my glazed eyes, I applaud you.

J

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Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.