BARBED WIRE webzine Vancouver's only FREE webzine with a COMPLETE money-back guarantee also available in glorious technicolour at http://home.istar.ca/~paull/wire Comments are welcome. Email paull@istar.ca Barbed Wire is produced by a group of enthusiastic malcontents. This is a short- term project, a premeditated cultural blip, planned for 12 issues. Original illustrations are by Geoff Carter. ISSUE 8 - The Dreams Issue C O N T E N T S The Dreams Issue Message From the Editor Dreams and Reality THE (IR)REGULARS IN BOX Readers write: "Ear- loving Ottawans, Italio-racism, Freak Show, Vacuums, Tastelessness and Geriatric Shits". Lost and Found Alex Mackenzie finds a personal letter addressing a family drama behind the old Woodward's building, downtown. Thematically linked stories from the Barbed Wire stable: Satan Cuts the Cake William Harper dreams of meeting the Prince of Darkness at an east-side loft party. "I acted quickly, grabbed a heavy steel bridge chair and attacked the bastard king of all that is evil in creation," he tells us. Dream Journal #3 Ridge Rockfield was born on the same day as your sister, and the day that Carl Jung died. "I have never consciously felt guilt or responsibility for Dr. Jung's death, yet I am haunted by dreams in which he does not figure," he tells us. Hidden Voices Local photographer Alan Sirulnikoff documents the scribblings of those who express their dreams with paint on public surfaces. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream Erin Whallen used to spend her nights sucking the blood of her enemies. Now she dreams of screensavers. "My adolescent sexual frustration was alleviated when those who "sorried" me by day became mere snacks in my nightly flights of empowerment," she reminisces. Coincidence, my ASS! Adrain Mack's dreams are straighforward narratives with unambiguous endings, but his life is a mess of chaotic, random serendipity."I've moved on from linear time," he announces. Eating Dog Paul Levine spends a dreamy night in Toronto chasing down renegade cuts of meat and chatting with deformed animals. "As I exit the bus a leg of lamb rushes at me and brushes against my arm with a brassy flirtatiousness," he remembers. If Wishes Were Horses Sandy Roger's examines the roots of her equestrian dreams. "The sad, empty place that riding a horse fills, is the place my father should have filled," she tells us. And then I Died Laurie Drukier witnesses her own death in a nightmare provoked by her family history. "He fired and I felt the terrible pain exploding and ripping through me down to the ends of my fingers," she remembers. Prayers to Broken Stones Nocturnal time-traveller Kathy Paris finds hawks, horses and wolves figuring prominently in her primordial, soporific dreams. "Time slides 600 years to an earlier age in a desert already old, with reds and purples blooming in layers of rock, windswept into twisted sculpture," she recalls. Brought to Mind Meredith Low takes a series of Christmas trips to the mall, runs into three men from her past and finds herself wondering what they dream of now. West Undies Jump-up Colin Smith moves to St. Kitts and his dreams take on a disturbing degree of responsibility. "The first week I dreamt I had become the newly elected Mayor of Basseterre and my first duty was to advance the local economy," he tells us. Dreams and Reality There's a place you can go where you can screw your relatives without any nagging feeling that you're doing anything particularly obscene, kill your enemies without fear of retribution from the authorities, and experience your own death without the inconvenience of actually having to die. It's called the land of dreams and it's the theme for this, the eighth issue of Barbed Wire. New Barbed Wire contributor Erin Whallen points out in her piece To Sleep, Perchance to Dream that "no dreams are as interesting as one's own, and none more boring for others to have to sit through politely" - which is exactly what we're asking you to do in the cases of writers for this particular issue who have taken the theme entirely literally and spilled out their noctural brain activities for your amusement. While my own Eating Dog situates me in stilted conversation with an elephant, Kathy Paris takes us on a journey through time on the wings of a hawk with her Prayers to Broken Stones. Ridge Rockfield finds himself having lunch in a town called "Winter Melons" in his Dream Journal #3, and Colin Smith becomes Mayor of Basseterre and then publisher of the country's only republican gazette in his West Undies Jump-up. But it's important to remember that not all night time apparitions are pleasant, random, Daliesque landscapes and that innocuous dreams can turn easily from simmering angst to absolute terror. In this category, William Harper does his best to deal with the anxiety related to meeting the Devil in Satan Cuts the Cake, while Laurie Drukier's And then I Died, a nightmare about her own death, prompts her to examine the effects of her family's history. Other writers have taken a broader interpretation of the theme to include less literal connotations of the idea of dreams. Sandy Rogers questions her obsessive equestrainism as a function of her ambitions in If Wishes Were Horses. And Meredith Low ponders the hopes and dreams of three men from her past in Brought to Mind. Finally, Adrian Mack informs us that while his dreams are housed by bland, pedestrian, mundane and inconsequential moments, his waking life is a endless torrent of serendipitous, chaotic non-linear abstraction. "My mind regularly travels in all directions to the very end of everything and, more importantly, to the very beginning too," he tells us in Coincidence, my ASS! In the visuals department, artist Geoff Carter continues to provide his inimitable illustrations while photographer Alan Sirulnikoff gives us a sampling of his documenting of local graffiti in Hidden Voices. In other matters, Barbed Wire has been receiving a fair amount of mail lately prompted in part by a review in the magazine Sympatico Netlife that warned parents to watch their children closely and referred to this zine as both "tasteless" and as an "acquired taste". Recently, I came across a posting on the net soliciting "Short Stories wanted for Television". As as experiment I mailed them the Barbed Wire web address and got this response: "Paul, I checked some of the stories out, but things like incest and some of the raw sex in the stories I read won't work on network TV." So much for convergence. We welcome contributions for future issues to paull@istar.ca as long as you keep in mind that we have low standards and if you don't meet them your submission will not be published. Feel free to throw your story ideas in our direction if you're uncertain about their suitability. Writer's guidelines are here. We also welcome your feedback. Please address all correspondence to paull@istar.ca Paul Levine Vancouver, Canada February 1998 LOVING HER EAR Dearest Lucinda Atwood: I was extremly HURT when I read that this woman had her eardrum ruptured at the hands of her "boyfriend." I term him a cold hearted butcher who rightly deserves to have his eyes gauged out with a spoon. He is a son-of-negro-sodomized-whore !!! If I had this woman here with me in Ottawa, Canada, I would have married her and loved her precious ear with all my heart. Barry David Matin age 35 bm.over@sympatico.ca NO RACISM (AGAINST ITALIANS!) Please explain the intent when you use "Dead Italians" in your list of deadly sins. I discovered your site from the Sympatico publication. I am not Italian, but do not like RACISM. Please respond. Andre ANDRE_HEBERT@bc.sympatico.ca FREAK SHOW I like the style of what I've seen so far. The writing has such a raw edge to it; it seems that no matter what article I read, it has a serious "in your face" attitude. I'm also fascinated by how it all comes across as so biographical; what's real and what's not? Is it all just bullshit? Did it really happen that way? And if not, then how do these writers manage to convey such a strong sense of, "I was there and now so are you?" Some of it, I must admit, has that intangible freak-show quality about it; it's almost like a bloody car crash, where people slow down to get a good look even though they know it's nothing they really want to see. I also find it appealing simply because of the fact that what you print seems to be the sort of thing that would never see the light of day elsewhere. You're not going to find this sort of thing on the magazine rack at the local 7-Eleven. The bottom line, though, is that pretty well all of the articles I've read so far have been of very high quality. They're very solid, fascinating and entertaining, and finding a forum for that sort of work, at such a high level of quality, is a rare pleasure. Soundwave soundwav@oxford.net NO VACUUM I just discovered Barbed Wire on Labovitch's e-zine list and am enjoying it a lot.( . . some good laugh's in your rental car job piece). I also am a victim of philosphy and web publishing via istar. Mine is at http://home.istar.ca/~brooding and is a Bowen Island satirical newspaper called the High Tide. I haven't gotten our last issues up on the net so its a bit out of date but you'll get the idea. Anyways, thought I'd let you know I found it and like it. The net really isn't a vacuum after all. keep it up. cheers, Rob Wright rwright@wimsey.com ACQUIRED TASTELESSNESS "Barbed Wire wants to provide solace from "the bland smorgasbord of local writing" but readers may find some of the site's offerings to be an acquired taste... Parents beware: the sixth issue is dedicated to violence and features a tasteless illustration." - from Sympatico Netlife magazine NOT READY FOR PRIME TIME (answer received from our reply to a posting asking for "Short Stories wanted for Television" Paul, I checked some of the stories out, but things like incest and some of the raw sex in the stories I read won't work on network TV. SUBTLETY IN EXISTENTIALISM and "THE PISS CLICHE" I did take the time to read one story - the one that cleverly characterizes a man's existential angst with his name. I like your clean writing but frankly, the vomiting scene I could've done without. The whole idea of retching on a woman is kind of like pissing on one - I guess a new version of the piss cliche. For quite some time now, fiction has taken on a shock value approach. What is your take on fiction that explores nuance, subtlety in existentialism? Penni www.wiredwoman.com YEAH, NO SHIT When I was just a little kid hanging out at the corner store I heard stories that old men spent a lot of time talking about their shits. And it's true, I overheard some old guys one time and they boasted about the best shits they had. Every time I saw a pensioner I used to wonder about it because they said that when you got old it really felt good. But then the concept was remote and not very interesting and soon I had the trials of puberty to deal with. Fifty odd years later I can vouch for the myth and find shits particularly enjoyable stoned on pot brownies. A good meal a few hours earlier, I like rice and corn for body and texture, and a slight feeling of urgency which encourages a more passive attitude towards the bowels, help to heighten the thrill. At first I thought it might be some sort of trade off for declining prowess but it seems you can have both worlds for a while. I should go search the Internet to find out what we're called. There must be at least a couple of newsgroups for people like us, there's sure enough of us. I bet we've even got our own porn - I wonder what it is like? We're not copra- whatever because we don't like to smear it, smell it or eat it. Personally I would rank Thomas Crapper ahead of Marconi or Mother Teresa. We just get off on the shitting sensation because it feels great. I mean when you start pushing seventy you don't care whether you used to be hetero or homo or even which sex you are. You know where things are at. The curious thing is that hardly anybody under sixty has the slightest idea what we're talking about. I think we should keep it that way. Just think what the world would be like if people realized what growing old was about. I worry that people in their impatience to age might miss some of the real delights of being in their fifties and even their forties. It's all right for little kids to hear and believe the stories, and of course pass the myth on, but men should reject them, work hard and make the most out their relative youth. And then when they're about to lament their loss of prowess a second puberty pounces on them. And the thrills of the new sensations give us something worth talking about and we don't let the big kids listen in. - Robin Sharpe Lost and Found By Alex Mackenzie March 17/95 Dear Pat, I was so glad to receive your letter. I was worried that you were really pissed off at me and I would never hear from you again. I feel really badly about how your visit home ended. I know some things were said between you and Peter and Colleen that hurt on both sides and it is unfortunate that it had to end that way. None of us are totally at fault here and on the other side of the coin none of us are perfect either. Paul & I and the kids _did_ enjoy seeing you and having you with us. Unfortunately we live in a very small house and by the end of your stay we were all feeling the effects of 3 adults, 3 small children and a dog in too close quarters (I know you felt this too). It was just as hard (if not harder) for you living in someone else's house when you are used to being on your own. As far as your relationship with Diane goes, you know that I want only the best for you. I don't know Diane at all but I am so afraid that you will get hurt. I must admit that I found the situation rather uncomfortable and I had a hard time warming up to her over the phone when I knew that she was with her husband and two daughters. I think if the situation was reversed and I was having an affair while still living with Paul and my children, you would have a few things to say to me. No, I don't think Diane is a monster at all. She's sounds like a very loving, warm person who is a bit mixed-up and who needs to get her priorities straight and her life in order. I really do hope that something works out between you two but I don't want her to continually string you along and then drop you off and hurt you. The situation got even more uncomfortable when P.J. starting asking you questions about Diane and your relationship. He's a very perceptive little person who takes in alot from adult conversations and who wants to know why things are the way they are. I don't like to lie to him (because he usually catches me!) I hope you don't think that anyone in my family is mad at you. I am very proud of how you have turned the thing you love most in you life (your music) into a career. I am always telling people about my brother and the neat job he has. The kids continually talk about you and they are looking forward to receiving some postcards from you from faraway places. I was a little hurt while you were staying with us that you were so wrapped up in yourself and your relationship (end of page) Found in the alley behind Woodward's, downtown Vancouver. Satan Cuts the Cake By William Harper We had to leave Brevner behind at the bookstore. He'd handed the salesclerk a beer from his ever-ready six pack and then when she politely refused it, he just flipped out, started screaming at her - accused her of being a hooker. "Take the fuckin' beer, you slut! TAKE THE FUCKING BEER!!!" - jumping up and down, all 6- foot 2-inches, two hundred forty pounds of him screaming louder and louder, repeating the same insane demand over and over. "TAKE THE FUCKING BEER!!!" Shierston and I split before the cops showed up. Our good friend Brevner was clearly out of his mind and beyond any assistance either of us could offer. I guess it just goes to show that you can't ever really know a person, even if you've been of their acquaintance since grade two. So we went to the party that Shierston had been talking about - some loft thing on the east side. I guess I must have been pretty drunk by that point because I have no real recollection of how I even got there or what happened to Shierston en route. He was definitely with me when we ditched Brevner at the bookstore but by the time I stepped off the freight elevator and moved into the hip'n'cool party space, I was very much alone. The guy who was working the door instantly gave me strange attitude, not denying me entrance so much as implying I was way out of my league. He was wearing a very large sombrero and somehow I immediately knew he was hiding something beneath it. "You're wearing two hats, aren't you?" I said by way of pleasant discussion. "No," he said, but his smartass smile screamed otherwise, "Welcome to the party. We're all so glad to see you could make it." It wasn't much of a party actually: maybe a dozen drunk and half-drunk men hanging around making a lot of useless noise in a large dim space lit only by candles and the occasional bare red light bulb. The music was cool though. Temptations' "Zoom" from their psychedelic early 70s hey-day. The only real action was across the loft from me, focused around a small card table. Figuring it was a poker match, I wandered over, wondering if I might get involved. But it wasn't cards. It was just this fat guy, maybe thirty years old, white- skinned with a wide baby face and a mess of blood red lipstick scribbled around his mouth - not unlike Robert Smith of the Cure at his most ridiculous and obsessive. He was cutting up a birthday cake, giggling, full of fun and good nature. And I figured, of course, it must be this guy's birthday party, and sure enough, the snatches of conversation I was picking up were supporting this: "Good to see him looking so good - " et cetera. "How old is he?" I asked the guy next to me who I quickly realized was my sombrero-friend from the door. "Count the candles, man," he said with that same annoying smile, "Count the fuckin' candles." And I did try to, but I quickly realized that would be impossible. Hundreds of candles. Thousands, maybe millions, infinitesimal, already blown out, so at first, I hadn't recognized them as candles. I'd read them as just part of the cake's ornate design. Needless to say, I was suddenly in awe of this cake and watching with a certain apprehension as the happy fat guy kept carving expertly into it. And meanwhile, I was picking up something else: strange bits of conversation cutting through the music and the basic party ambience, hinting at who this jolly fat man actually was: "Morning star himself, baby, the morning fucking star," - "Lord o' the flies, man, lord o' the fuckin' flies." And then it finally dawns on me that everyone's speaking but me, nobody entirely distinct, but everyone working pretty much the same meaning. And then I realize, he's looking right at me: HIM - the happy fat man - except I realized he wasn't really that happy. It was just that lipstick, sloppily applied, entirely absurd against his already too-white and puffy face. And he just kept staring at me as if expecting - nay, DEMANDING - that I say something. And, of course, now everyone was staring at me demanding the same, the whole party coalescing as a single expectant gallery of sinister anticipation. "I'm sorry," I finally said to HIM, "But I didn't catch your name." And then HE laughed. They all laughed. High-pitched, too hard, psycho-squeaks of pure malevolence. And then came the low rumble - the UNhappy fat man glaring at me with dark occluded eyes while his distorted mouth kept smiling - everybody else mumbling low and resonant, a chant that set the room shaking, glasses tinkling, suddenly shattering. I realized it was a word they were chanting, impossible to decipher at first, but slowly taking audible form: rhymes with 'region'. "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - "Legion." - And I've read my Steven King. I've seen the Exorcist and I've seen the OMENs (one, two and three). So I knew suddenly exactly who I was up against, all the dark hints, all the smug ugly clues fusing suddenly as one horrific truth: SATAN himself, anti-Christ, Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub, Lucifer, the Morning Star. A hand clamped down on my shoulder. My sombrero-friend, his smile cutting too wide for nature now, baring rows on rows of fangs. "Prince of fuckin' darkness, buddy. HAW! HAW! HAW!" like some donkey in human form. And he took off his sombrero and there it was: the other hat. A basic British boiler with a small NAZI-SS insignia indelibly stamped. And they're all laughing now - SATAN himself the loudest of all. Thousands of them now, a legion of shrieking b-grade TV psychopaths, high-pitched, deliriously insane. I acted quickly and efficiently, grabbed a heavy steel bridge chair and attacked the bastard king of all that is evil in creation. I slammed it down onto his head and he just kept laughing. Then again. Then again. Millions of them now - laughing at me. The smug humour of hell. "Oh yeah?" I said, "Well laugh at this mutherfuckers!" - and I just kept hitting HIM until I felt the bone crack, his skull split - the blood and brain spew pouring out, mucking up the floor with its greasy, plasmatic flow. Needless to say, he wasn't laughing anymore. I guess I must've passed out finally because the next thing I remember is being down at street level again, another rainy night in this city of terminal rain. There was a cop handcuffing me, reading me my rights. He wasn't being aggressive about it. Anything but. Just a decent and humane civil servant doing his job. Finally, as he put me in the paddywagon and prepared to shut the door, he looked me in the eye and smiled. "We all know who you killed in there and we're all proud of you for it. Satan himself. You just killed Satan himself, unarmed except for a steel chair. All of humanity is saved. All sin and iniquity is banished from the earth for eternity. But homicide is homicide, friend. You're still going to have stand trial." William Harper This is William Harper's first contribution to Barbed Wire Dream Journal #3 By Ridge Rockfield I was born on June 6, 1961, the same day as your sister, and the day that Carl Jung died. I have never consciously felt guilt or responsibility for Dr. Jung's death, yet I am haunted by dreams in which he does not figure. From time to time, I see flying machines in the air, ranked across the sky in impressive cohorts and legions. The planes fly steadily across impossibly clear blue skies, pondering the terror they will cause when they loosen their load of high-explosive and incendiary bombs on the innocent citizens below. The pilots are in their seats, calmly checking the instruments and flipping switches, talking to each other in casual, friendly voices. "We have acquired the target. Commencing delivery." The solution, as always, is to run for cover. Find a subterranean high-rise and enter it. At the end of the hall, a mudman squats building toys from sheets of tin. Some of the corridors are brightly-lit and long. The next floor plunges you into darkness and echoes. Go up to get out! Elaine is here and she wants an iced coffee. Shit, I don't have any ice. The other girl slips her hand into mine, and then I pass my hand under her summer dress and rest a hand on her cool hip. I love those polka-dot panties you're wearing! We go for a walk in the field. Still some snow. I'd better catch some sleep. I wake up in a campground near a pine thicket close to the beach. We are fogged in. My brother has found a baby mouse and slipped it into a batten-lined matchbox, and we gather around to look at the pink dead creature. Andrew calls it Dennis, his own middle name. Then he is on the escalator moving up as I float down, or in the boat with Dad and they have pushed off from shore because they couldn't wait. In a funky suit. In a big coat. My older brother and I are in a van: we stop for lunch in this town. The sign says "Winter Melons." Sisters too, but not yours. Katherine is in a wicker basket hanging from the ceiling of the loft: the basket is like a big cradle and there she swings with her man in contentment. Not a first crush, but one of many. And that episode I can remember, even if I didn't want to. Asked or not asked, they are present. Ridge Rockfield To Sleep, Perchance to Dream By Erin Whalen When I was seven years old, I had my first vampire dream. It was recess and all the kids were outside playing on the school grounds, when an entire flock of the undead suddenly filled the sky and began to swoop down and feed. Easy pickings. I awoke scared shitless, yet was also strangely exhilarated. From that point, vampires have bared their fangs with alarming frequency in my dreams. However, the tone of the dreams shifted considerably when I hit puberty and found myself more often than not to be sucker rather than sucked. My adolescent sexual frustration was alleviated when those who "sorried" me by day became mere snacks in my nightly flights of empowerment. You don't have to be Freud to figure that out. Dreams are cool, man. From even before the time that Joseph of the many-coloured coat took it upon himself to be interpreter of the king's nocturnal visions of cows, corn, and other agricultural portents of doom, we have been fascinated by our dreams, yet even now we have trouble defining them. So many different explanations are offered up: dreams are spoken of as subconscious entertainment systems, a strange re-working of the mental and sensual information received throughout the day, a kind of screen-saver for the brain for keeping it from seizing up, obscure Freudian nuggets of self-representation that can be understood through lengthy (not to mention costly) hours of analysis, and even telepathic riddles which when decoded will reveal secrets of the past, present and future. Whatever meaning or purpose is ascribed to them, dreams are highly valued commodities. Don't we feel pity for the unfortunates who say they have dull or unmemorable dreams, as if they suffer some kind of mental or spiritual handicap, and don't we get annoyed with the braggarts who claim to have incredible dreams and can spin out the telling of them for an interminably self- adulatory long time? We are a captive audience to both the beauty and the horror of our dreams. While many of us are loathe to wake up out of a realm where anything is possible, from flight to telepathic domination to transgressions of the most rigid sexual taboos (not that I've experienced any of these in my dreams... well, maybe), others are helpless victims of their own sadistic subconscious. One guy I know, for example, used to stay up watching white noise on TV until five in the morning, so terrified was he of having to endure the next installment in a vicious cycle of nightmares involving such delights as earthquakes and nukes and typhoons and psycho-killers who got off on slowly dismembering his loved ones. He's much better now that he's gainfully employed... As for me, one of the most frightening dreams I've ever had was a chase sequence - you know, the kind in which you're being pursued by a horrific assailant who's getting closer and closer while meanwhile you feel as if you're wading through rough quicksand and you're just so... very... tired. In this particular dream, I was being chased through Kits Park, past shiny happy people out for a Sunday stroll, kids playing hacky sack and couples pushing strollers laughing and smilingly oblivious to my breathless appeals for help. I finally did what I'd never done before in this kind of dream: I gave up, I stopped running, but when I turned to face my pursuer I woke up choking on a scream, because the one who I'd been trying to escape had my face, my hair, my eyes, it was - myself. Big surprise. Am I really my own worst enemy, or was it just that I had a half-finished Master's paper due the next day? Perhaps both... Because of my tendency to have such bizarre and alarmingly unsubtle dreams as this, I decided to keep a journal in which to record any interesting ones I might experience. If you want to make your dream life more entertaining, I highly recommend you do the same thing. The more details I could remember and relate about my dreams, the longer and more intricate my subsequent dreams would become - it was as if I had begun a dialogue between my sleeping and waking self that broke down the barriers between the states of consciousness in some way. Occasionally I'd approach awareness within the dream and realize I was dreaming and so try to fly or something equally impossible, but usually the time between recognizing the fact and waking up would be brief and I'd find myself in bed, disappointed. But once - and only once - I did actually have a truly lucid dream. I went to sleep one night, only to wake up some time later sitting in front of my computer in another room. I was extremely disoriented, as I distinctly remembered putting on my jammies and crawling into the comfort of my bed. Then I noticed that a variety of strange cartoon characters were cavorting across the computer screen and, knowing that this in no way resembled my own cheesy screen saver, thought, "Holy shit - I'm having a dream." I looked around me - everything seemed normal except that the room was lit by a strange blue glow and everything seemed to be, well, undulating. "Too cool!" I thought and turned back to my computer, hitting the enter key. The screen saver immediately switched to a pastoral scene a la Disney's Fantasia. In the distance, centaurs were frolicking on a gently rolling hill, pausing occasionally to look back and wave at me. I brought my hand up to the computer and, not altogether surprised, pushed it through the screen up to my elbow. I retrieved it and, gripping on to the sides of the table, poked my head through the screen, up to my shoulders. The screen offered no resistance, but once through, my upper body elongated, stretching like silly putty towards the figures far below and beyond me - the feeling was too uncanny, I was worried about losing cohesion, and I had to snap myself back out. At this point, my heart began to beat heavily, each pounding cadence throbbing loudly inside my head, and I noticed a door in the wall where none had been before. I got up and started toward it, but it was as if I was walking through taffy that became more resistant with each step, and the pressure in my head intensified as I approached the door. Nonetheless I was determined to open it, and as I made my excruciating way towards it, I thought that, since I was dreaming, I could determine the kind of reality into which I'd enter once I'd opened the door and crossed its threshold. Embarrassingly enough, I decided that I'd first have to get my boyfriend (he lived hours away at the time) and together we could fly to some kind of tropical paradise - okay, so I didn't have the time or foresight to consider the infinite possibilities. But by the time I got to the door, my head was pounding so horribly I thought I was going to have an aneurysm, and just as I grabbed the knob, twisted it, and opened the door just enough to let the sunshine - sunshine? - filter through the crack holding promise of what lay beyond, my head imploded and I found myself sitting upright back in bed, my heart racing and me gasping for breath. I've never come that close again. Perhaps I wasn't yet ready to pass though that door; perhaps, in not imagining for myself some more intellectual playground in which to romp, I'd proved myself unworthy. However, I'm not giving up just yet. Oops, sorry. No dreams are as interesting as one's own, and none more boring for others to have to sit through politely. Of course, I'm not alone in this egocentric fascination. How solipsistic are we as a species that we find the inner workings of our own minds infinitely more fascinating than that which is happening around us? (Our preference for the dreamed over the actual is reflected everywhere, in our love for the imagined realities of novels and film, not to mention the way we can blithely ignore the wanton destruction of our environment and the laughable state of living under a government dominated by weenies). In so many ways we strive in our pursuit of the ideal form of recreation to imitate and perfect the ultimate dream landscape into which we can escape, where the logic of our surroundings is determined not by the laws of physics, but rather by the impetuous whimsies of the mind. Nothing demonstrates this desire to escape the confines of space and time than the development of virtual reality - anticipated by some as the pinnacle of entertainment, feared by others as the utter abnegation of awareness and responsibility for the events that happen around us. Personally, I think those who are eagerly awaiting the arrival of virtual reality made available for the masses are copping out, exchanging their own capacity to dream for a prepared package created by another. Virtual reality is the external simulation of a lucid dream; if we rely on others to do our dreaming for us, I worry that we'll lose the ability to do it ourselves. Have you ever noticed that your tendency to have wild dreams decreases with the amount of facile TV. you happen to watch? There is nothing more intensely personal, nothing that is so much one's very own, than a dream. Dreams are the only proof we have that we ourselves exist somewhere beyond the fragile and finite physical plane. They are a mirror showing our minds to ourselves, saying, "Hey, look! Here I/you am/are!" - except that in a dream, more often than not when you turn back to the mirror to catch a last glance of yourself you find the reflection is sticking its tongue out at you. And since all the images and thoughts experienced in a dream are prompted by some impetus other than the part of the mind that receives them, they give us hope that whatever creates them is somehow independent of ourselves and not subject to the physical laws that determine the fact we'll someday cease to exist. They suggest that the "me, myself, and I" tripartite definition of self is not a complete whole, but is missing a side... T'ain't the eyes that are the windows to the soul, Virginia. Erin Whalen This is Erin Whalen's first contribution to Barbed Wire. Coincidence, my ASS! By Adrian Mack A few months back, the subject of Barbed Wire being work, I submitted a piece about a weekend I spent at the Stein Valley Festival making ghastly organic falafels for dirty hippies. Let me make it clear - I was co-opted into this project by a girl that I'd chased here all the way from Calgary and I had no idea that a pure vision of Hell would unfold around me in that dustbowl. I tend to be an Altamont Guy rather than a Woodstock Guy, if you know what I mean. Spastic celebrations of gormless goodwill and lobotomized hope all dressed up in batique-flavoured ponchos and ethnic hats, in the service of a cause that I will never lose sleep over, these things make my inner devil coat-hanger my inner child in a very dark cupboard. That weekend, Iraq invaded Kuwait and dirty hippies joined hands in prayer. A huge circle formed for half an hour, radiating mystical good energy that grooved all the way to Washington D.C., obliging the President to bomb the oily shit out of everything. Right now, I'm listening to "My Life is Right" by Big Star. Such is the quality of my waking dream-life. I found out this morning that I'm poised to benefit very nicely from an act that will impoverish somebody else. Without getting into the details, please understand that this requires from me an act of moral cowardice. I can't drag any scapegoats into this situation. My complicity is cut-and-dried and my life, then, is decidedly not right. This effect, junior film-theorists and other Germans will tell you, is called Contra Punct. The soundtrack comments ironically on the narrative. I was about fifteen when I finally put Star Wars behind me and began investigating film as art. After watching "Ivan the Terrible" and "L'Age D'Or" on Channel 4 one weekend, I had one of the few dreams in my life that I think about at least once every day. It had the same visual quality as degraded nitrate film, all poxy and bubbling, and it featured a zaftig avatar in the shape of good-time girl Mabel Normand - or, to appropriate an idea from Leonard Cohen, somebody from the same style of woman as Mabel Normand but fat with maternal cosmic wisdom. I climbed a mountain to find her and she alighted from her Throne, built into the jaws of an enormous oyster, to embrace and comfort me. I wept and repeated the phrase "thank you, Madame Big Penis," again and again, awash with relief. Junior Dream Theorists and other Germans will correctly intuit a degree of pubescent anxiety in that scenario...I was a late developer. The striking thing about this dream, however, is its bluntness. Consensus tells us that latent meaning in dreams is buried in an obscure and impenetrable symbology. Indeed, my girlfriend told me this morning that she'd dreamt of Robert DeNiro shitting three perfectly formed eggs onto the living room carpet. MEANING: Anxiety derived from performing a bad set of highlights. My dream, on the other hand, was concerned solely with the act of heating a bowl of curry in my new microwave. MEANING: I wanted a bowl of curry. And I went and had one, after heating it in my new microwave. My dreams are curiously mundane and worryingly literal. They lack drama. Over Christmas, my mother, God bless her, woke screaming in the dead of night in a fit of histrionics that, for days, left her hoarse (and pale...haha. Pale Hoarse). I cannot imagine what kind of hellish shapes assail my mum in her sleep, given her horrifically blighted youth. By comparison, I woke up screaming last Wednesday - not because my youth was horrifically blighted, mind you, but because I inexplicably remembered how much I hated having a paper round. My dreams are exceedingly well-organized. They build into straightforward narratives and end unambiguously. I'm rarely forced to ponder my dreams or search for answers and I've come to believe that this is a kindness, performed by my unconscious mind, to comfort and protect the mind I am familiar with. The mind that I'm familiar with, the one I'm struggling to use right now, is horribly undisciplined, hapless and unkempt. This is an inversion of the categories set forth in conventional psychology, I know, since it's my unconscious that is officially predisposed to anarchy, lateral thinking and liberated perception but time and again it is my unconscious that seems to confer order on my waking experiences. Then, they overlap. While I was watching the movie version of "Crash" I realized with some terror that the location of Jim Ballard's apartment was in the same complex my family occupied when I was nine years old. It was during that time, in a very cheap highrise facing the 401 in Toronto, that two significant things happened: Firstly, I discovered David Cronenberg. I carried a wrinkled newspaper ad for "Rabid" in my pocket for weeks because it seemed such a thrilling joke at the expense of the famed Farrah Fawcett-Majors nipple poster which hung on my bedroom wall and constituted a pyrrhic revenge against the starlet who had consistently failed to answer my fan mail (filled, incidently, with the overripe sexual delerium that is quite correct for nine year old boys.) I showed it to my fifth grade teacher and he explained that he went to University with the film's director. Thus began a lifelong interest in Cronenberg. Concurrently, I had the only other dream that I think about regularly, in which I occupied a flying machine made from balsa and mylar which I navigated over an endless concrete bowl - a super Barbican-like vista drained of all water. Years later I discovered and read J.G. Ballard obsessively, only recently realizing that his recurring symbology of impossibly elegant flying machines and empty pools was resonating so personally with me. Let me compound all of this by mentioning that I watched a woman burn to death in a car wreck on the 401 from the balcony of that very apartment...I pray the rest of you are permitted insights such as these. Much like David Bowie in "The Man who Fell to Earth", I've moved on from linear time. Effect may often preceed cause, my mind regularly travels in all directions to the very end of everything and, more importantly, to the very beginning too. It takes the edge off working as a Shipper/Receiver, that's for sure...but I cannot give you answers. Quantum Deliverance is a wayward mistress. I had no way of knowing, for instance, that John Denver would die the day after I dreamt about him. Nor could I guess that my last article for "Barbed Wire", The Golden Apples of the Trinitron, would predict exactly David Frost's appearance on Larry King Live to discuss the death of Princess Di. When I moved out of my house last summer, I found a box in the basement containing some photographs. It belonged to a former tenant, someone I've never met. There were a few pictures of her nipple ring and a couple of full-frontals and then, at the bottom, a picture of me taken eight years ago flipping ghastly organic falafels for dirty hippies, at the Stein Valley Festival. I don't need dreams. Adrian Mack Eating Dog By Paul Levine Open up a can of Thai red curry paste and I'm sitting at the back of a bus that's driving through downtown Toronto. I'm trying to decide where to get off but I don't live in Toronto and have nowhere to go so I stall for time by looking out the window. It's late and the streets are empty but through a large glass-fronted store I can see the silent theatre of a small office being robbed. There's a Mexican standoff taking place between a policeman, a security guard and the robber who all have their guns drawn and pointed at each other. Someone lurches over to the desk where the robber is sitting but he slips out the back door. As the bus rounds the corner I see the robber come out of the alleyway and saunter past a cop who's arrived on the scene for backup and is oblivious to what's happening. As the robber disappears into the distance a rope unravels behind him attached to a horse that follows along. The bus draws away from the scene as it occurs to me that I'm a city engineer - and I start to fret because I know I'm late for my shift and things are particularly harried right now in the city engineering department because there's been an upswing in the incidence of large cuts of meat roaming through urban neighborhoods terrorizing the local citizens. As I exit the bus a leg of lamb rushes at me and brushes against my arm with a brassy flirtatiousness. My coworkers are chasing similar cuts of meat around the street and I'm in two minds about the legitimacy of what appears to be my chosen occupation. On one hand, as a civic worker I have to do what's good for the smooth running of the city. On the other hand, these cuts of meat aren't really doing any harm and they're actually quite affectionate. Peer pressure gets the better of me and as if to prove my allegiance to the cause, I chase down a rump roast that's hovering in a doorway, tear a strip off, eat it, and am surprised that it tastes like chicken. As I chew I become aware that I'm surrounded by my work crew. They're all looking at me with what can only be interpreted as disgust. "That was a dog!" one of them says. "You're eating a piece of a dog!" I look over at the curb and there's a radio playing a late-night talk-show. The host is raving about little-known city hotspots and he mentions an alleyway off a busy main street that's close by. I decide to abandon my job and go there. At the entrance there's a crowded bar and I squeeze by people ordering drinks and make my way down the alley. At the end, there's a beach. Huge baseball stands are filled with people watching the sea bob. As I simultaneously congratulate myself for not being so easily amused and berate myself for not being in touch with nature and its simply serenity, there's a spray of something in my eyes that makes it impossible to see. I struggle to shift my focus, change direction, squat, leap, rush, blink- nothing seems to help. Having experienced this before, I decide to wait it out and, as I anticipate, things clear up. . It's a nice sunny day and I'm standing in a meadow surrounded by happy week- enders delighting in their picnics and their games of badminton. To my left is a large stately manor house and just as I begin to wonder who lives there and what its purpose is, the front door opens and a wheelchair emerges. I figure it's an old age home until I see that nuzzled in the wheelchair with a tartan blanket tucked around its midsection is a legless Kangaroo. An elephant with two extra legs hanging lifelessly off its side saunters by. An exceedingly ugly rhinoceros, its face mangled through what I take to be an accident of genetics, rears into view. Deformed animals, I figure, are the luckiest animals of all. They get to live out cushy, coddled lives in idyllic settings while their perfectly formed counterparts are reduced to foraging in the wilds, being gawked at in zoos, or being cut up and saran-wrapped for the meat section at the supermarket. The elephants starts to look at me with a smugness I find quite irritating. "Fuck you, elephant," I say. "Cut," says the elephant. I'm playing a bit part in a movie but I have no idea how to act. All I have to do, the director tells me, is walk over to a bench and eat an orange. I figure I'll try to be myself, which I realize is a lot trickier if you try. So I try to forget that I'm tying to be myself and just concentrate on being myself. But when I start to question why I'm concentrating so hard on being myself, I realize that I'm trying to be myself and the whole thing unravels. I make a mental note to stop making mental notes, and I saunter across the set, sit down on a bench and eat an orange. "Cut," says the director. I'm sure that I've acted terribly but the director comes over and starts gushing over my performance. "The way you ate that orange was so perfect," he says. "So convincing." I try to look appreciative and then realize I'm trying - so I stop and then realize I don't look appreciative. The director continues. "What you do up there," he says eyeing the stage, "is miraculous. You perfectly reflect the prevalent themes in my work: the simple struggle of the common person as he negotiates the trivial moments of his banal, unexamined, ultimately futile existence." "Fuck you," I say. "Fuck you!" says the elephant. Paul Levine If Wishes Were Horses By Sandy Rogers My dad grew up in Sweden. I remember faded brown pictures of him with a shock of blond hair and a pipe, leaning against a fireplace mantle with an air of continental arrogance that only the young and untrammelled dare to exhibit. He was a musician in a jazz band. He spoke Swedish, German, French and English (with an upper crust English accent of course). As the son of a shipping magnate he was expected to carry on in the family business, but his dream was to be a farmer. He loved the land, animals and the idea of a frontier and after several years in the Swedish Cavalry, riding and training horses for the officers, he moved to Canada. Here, he made his dreams come true. He bought 10 acres, built a house and a barn, bought a horse and a piano, produced a family. And then he honed his dream with a brutal northern coldness and sensibility. He virtually ignored his wife and daughter in favour of music and riding. Riding and training horses is an elitist sport in Europe. Here, he commenced with all the snobbery of the upper class to refine the cloddish local horseflesh into a shadow of the fine equestrian art he had grown up with. And, after 30 years, he achieved what he had set out to do. He has obedient horses and 10 well-drained functional farmland acres. He has become eccentric. He is a horseman without equal in Western Canada, who plays the piano and composes music and who has never shared his talent, experience or accomplishments in any meaningful way-except, to pass on his passion for horses. I own a horse. I saved my money and put my priorities in order and when the list was complete, I bought my horse. I have a coach and I spend the time equivalent of a second job at the same sport that drove my father. My friends know I'm too busy to hang out. My husband complains about the excess amount of time, energy and money consumed. He wants a baby, a family. His dream. What is my dream? To ride like a pro or to prove to some old man that I amount to more than a hill of beans? All I know is that when I ride my horse an empty, lonely part of me feels better. There are moments when the mysterious, intricate language between horse and rider becomes clear, when I assume the horse's will and he offers the strength of his body to me with stunning cooperation. In that moment I weep with an emotion that is akin to spiritual awakening. Then there are the days that I weep in frustration over the complexity of a task that seems to have little purpose except to provide ephemeral moments of epiphany, or humbling lessons in the nature of consciousness, instinct and humanity. There is the awe I feel that this animal allows me the liberty of shaping him into more than he would desire to be. Never a moment goes by that I am not aware that it is with his grace that I sit on his back. I'm no horse whisperer. I have no magic. I have only my bumbling humanity to offer and he accepts it. He objects to my methods occasionally and reminds me of my fragility. I learn. I learn what I am capable of, what I should be able to do. When I feel like I understand what I need to know, I realize there is a whole other level of learning to do and that it is more complex and rich than anything else I have ever done. The sweetness of that experience equals its difficulty, its physical brutality, its intimidating, out of control, airborne eternities. It is physical, emotional and intellectual in a way the pulls me from the ordinary into the realm of the extraordinary. It demands of me what I demand of myself: courage, sensitivity, openness, ability, tenacity. Yet, I feel pressured to define my dream. My dream is to ride. But am I a competitor, a potential Olympian, or a no-talent-hack with delusions of grandeur? If I excel on the competitive circuit, who is the beneficiary? Who will be left to congratulate me after I have alienated friends and family in the process. What is the point? If I am just for me, what will that do to my people? If I abandon my dream, what will that do to me? I am unsatisfied as a hobbyist. But, to become a professional trainer, coach or a serious competitor, I face choices that will profoundly shape my life. I have to question what really drives this dream. I want to be more than I am. Why? I want respect, self-respect, but moreover, my father's respect. If I can be what he dreamed of for himself - an athlete, an artist - will he then see me in my complexity, as opposed to the way he has seen me for most of my life - as an annoying child? Is that reason enough? I suspect that I will want him to acknowledge my depth, my unique humanity till the day he dies and probably for the rest of my life. I also believe that the sad, empty place that riding a horse fills, is the place my father should have filled, and that to connect to him, I have to learn to speak a language he didn't bother to teach me. The language of horses. The struggle to define who I am within the context of that language is the real dream. I fear that I won't fulfill this dream and wonder if I need to. Parts of me demand that I do. Maybe riding a horse for the love of it will be enough, one day. Right now, I give my motives an occasional nod and for five days a week, about two hours a day, I become what I dream I can be. Connected. Accomplished. Different. Sandy Rogers And Then I Died By Laurie Drukier I had a dream once where I died. Remember how they used to tell you that if you die in your dream you die for real? I remember hearing that in school once. You're supposed to force yourself to wake up if you think you're dying. You know, before you hit the ground, feel the blade, or crash the car. If you wake up before you die in your dream you'll be ok. In my dream I saw the gun. I felt the shot and the terrible pain and then I died. Even the pain didn't wake me up. I must've gone on to dream other things, but that was all I remembered when I woke up. I spent the entire day reliving the moments before I died. It was a pretty awful day, coloured by a black sense of gloom and desperation I couldn't shake. And even though it happened over ten years ago, I still remember every detail. Somewhere, somehow, I had lived that dream. I was one of hundreds of people in my village rounded up by men in uniforms. They all had guns and I could hear dogs barking. We were prodded, forced, herded through the dusty, uneven streets to an open field outside the village. I tried to tell them I shouldn't be there, that it was all a mistake. I had something that would prove I shouldn't be there, that I wasn't one of the people they were looking for. Somehow, I was allowed to leave the crowds of screaming women and crying children to go sit on a nearby hill. There were fences everywhere; I didn't have a clear view of anything, just the impression of crowds of people moving below me. I sat there alone for some time, feeling the cold wind and watching the others. The crowd didn't seem to be going anywhere once it reached the field. I could still hear the crying. Then two of the uniformed men came up over the rise of the hill and began questioning me, yelling. I couldn't answer them except to say it was a mistake, I wasn't supposed to be there, someone in the village had said I could go. I saw one of them raise his gun and point it at me. Then he fired and I felt the terrible pain exploding and ripping through me down to the ends of my fingers. And then there was nothing, not even the cold. It was a horrible dream. But I didn't die. I am the child of a Holocaust survivor. I've lived my whole life knowing that something more horrible than I can imagine happened to my father, my grandmother and grandfather, and countless aunts, uncles and cousins. The ones who survived and made it safely to Canada were my father, grandmother, two aunts and a few others. I never knew exactly what happened to each of them, even though I know what happened to all of them. Even though my grandmother had blue tattooed numbers on her forearm, and I knew my grandfather didn't make it to Canada, there was no one time when I was sat down and told the whole story. We just lived with the knowledge every day. There's a whole set of studies of Holocaust survivors' kids. I don't know if I like the idea of being a textbook example, so I've never read any. It might be interesting to compare dreams though. I've never questioned the origin of my dreams. I always took for granted that they were a product of my unconscious, the thoughts and emotions quietly bubbling below my everyday surface. I believe my nighttime mind takes advantage of the down time to sort through things. I may not be consciously aware that I've solved anything or decided what to do about a problem, but my actions the next day could be the result of some sleeping decision. I've never had a dream that told the future or one I felt I could take literally. And when people I know appear in my dreams I almost always tell them the next time I see them. The only other dream that changed me was the time I saw my grandmother, about six months after she died. I was 20 then, but in the dream I was about seven or eight. I was in my childhood home, playing outside with my brother and sisters. My grandmother was there, sitting on the patio, watching us as she did so many childhood Sunday afternoons. I saw myself as a child but I had all the consciousness of my current self. I knew I was watching the past and I knew my grandmother was dead. She was taking such delight in watching us I didn't want to distract her but I had to say something. "But Bubbie," I said, "you're dead." "I know dear," she replied. "I just wanted to tell you everything's all right." That morning the dream was the first thing I thought of, and I was filled with joy and peace and light. Whether the spirit of my dead grandmother really visited me, or if I needed to see her for some reason, I'll never know. But I remember that dream vividly and I can still remember the happiness I felt. I am a product of my history and environment; I had no choice who I was born to and what they experienced before I arrived. Who knows how that shaped me. Who knows how much of them is in me. And who knows if some part of me really was on a cold lonely hill watching the massacre of millions of people like me. I just know I saw it in a dream. But I also saw the grandmother who lived through that horror. And when I saw her I saw happiness and not the tattoo on her arm. Laurie Drukier Prayers to Broken Stones By Kathy Paris I sleep and dream of falling. Dreamtime twists and takes back 130 years. Hawk soars high over the prairie. Cumulus clouds tower into a turquoise summer sky. Under a brilliant noon-day sun they cast racing shadows across the restless prairie. Movement rivets Hawk. Below her, Horse and man make their lonely way across an original bunch grass plain. The wind moves them, a small craft on a golden ocean. Hawk rides the current on feathertips, divining. Her gleaming eyes seek nervous shadows, her instinct hearing the heartbeat of the earthbound. She hesitates an instant, then, trusting her gifts without question, she plummets to earth. The man looks up, knowing Hawk, hearing the whistle of the wind arcing over her bird wings. Hawk's defiant scream echoes in his bones. His dark eyes drink in Hawk's beauty and envy her rawness, her simplicity. He looks back over his shoulder, to his fading trail in the nodding sea of grass and then forward to the mountains that have been visible for days. Now dark foothills loom in the distance. Change is coming. The prairie is ending. He believes the sighting of Hawk a sign and swings off Horse. He reaches into a skin bag slung over his back and searches for his talisman. He pulls out the stones, linked with a leather thong, cool to his touch. The speckled one is from the great river; the creamy pink found in the grasses of the sacred cypress hills; another is chipped into a hide scraper, broken now, useless, for the buffalo is gone and food is scarce. The stones are bits and pieces of his people-a link to home, his spiritual collection. He searches the grass and finds, because of Hawk, what he already knows to be: a circle of lichen-covered rocks, his height in diameter, with four small cairns marking the four directions on the perimeter. He licks his lips, uncertainly; asking for guidance is a journey unto itself. Some do not return. Those who do, receive clarity. He needs it. His journey requires it. He breathes deeply and looks to Hawk, for reassurance. She eats in the grass, part of a small body dangling from her beak. He knows that now is the time to seek answers to unspoken questions. The Blackfoot native kneels in the centre of the circle and prays to broken stones and dreams of falling... Time slides 600 years to an earlier age in a desert already old, with reds and purples blooming in layers of rock, windswept into twisted sculpture. An orange sun sets, casting warm light into dark fissures and soft wrinkles of sand. From the high edge of an outcropping, he can see a curving canyon with a velvety taupe river snaking through the bottom. The air moves and sand whispers in rivulets carving the landscape, endlessly razing rock. The heat is oppressive. He can hardly breathe. The air begins to burn every breath, sand filling his lungs, his heart pounding as he gasps and pulls. He realizes he is going to die here, with no answers, and in that moment of disappointment and confusion he accepts death and allows his fears their freedom. In the giving, he finds he is able breathe. He is on his knees, a river of sand cascading over his body, sloughing off clothing, then skin and he stands, raw, flayed, while the storm of sand subsides. He can see the blood pulsing through his veins, the complexity of muscle, bone and tendon. He is infused with energy. In front of him an Anasazi healer dances, flexing giant bird wings attached to her arms, the feathers brushing his face in softly sweeping sibilance. A carved wooden bird mask hides the healer's face. Turquoise, ochre and umber mark the mask. A pottery hawk's beak protrudes, human eyes look through eye holes. She turns, a thick, black braid brushing her waistline. The healer wears soft leathers, painted with the same geometric ochre and umber, studded with turquoise. Her sandaled feet beat a circular tattoo as the wings swoop rhythmically up to the sky and down to the ground, enveloping him in the centre of her silent petition. They dance on the edge of the canyon, its vastness and dusky beauty broken only by the scream of Hawk, carried on the wind, echoing. Then the healer is gone. A sharp coppery odor turns his head. A body lies on the ground, shattered, bleeding. His brother. He cries out in anger and scrambles to his side. A warrior's spear divides his brother's breastbone as another slices through the air, flashing suddenly into his consciousness. It strikes his left thigh, piercing it to the bone. More bodies lie on the ground, his father, his mother; famine has taken them, he is bereft. He opens his throat to release his grief and the howl of a wolf rips from his jaws. Then the pack leaps from within. Ten wolves, twenty are birthed from the rent in his thigh. They greet each other joyously, whining and licking, rolling and leaping in wolf ways, but one stops, and turns to look at the man. Wolf's eyes are dark, full of fury and pain. The man reaches for Wolf, but as the man nears, Wolf bares his teeth in a snapping snarl. He is violence incarnate. The man comes closer and knows it is Wolf who carries the clarity he seeks. He kneels in the red dust and waits for Wolf to allow contact. A moment or an eternity passes, he knows not. But finally, Wolf steps forward, his triangular nose quietly nudging the skinless hand. The grey fur is soft and thick. A whirling emotion fills the man, a euphoric rage, anger tinged with a glimpse of the holocaust of his future, a knowledge of the holocausts of the Ancient Ones. All the while Wolf waits, the darkness in his eyes brightening to an animal yellow, tinged gold. Then the man's back muscles arc, his face contorts. Cries of pain punctuate spasms and convulsions. Three separate trials, hands flailing, lips stretched over teeth in a screaming rictus, streams of fiery pain are followed by cool release. Later, on his knees, trembling, he receives another gift: the humbling understanding of the privilege of having this companion carry this burden of knowledge for him. He sees shame in Wolf's eyes and knows there is more, but Wolf does not yet allow it. He bares his teeth in defiance of the man's attempt to share this also. Wolf keeps his secrets. The pack begins to leave and Wolf looks over his shoulder taking note. But he stays. His eyes settle on the man, waiting. Wolf is for him, he carries the man's burden. Wolf, also, is a gift. The healer dances her slowly undulating dance, giant bird wings mimicking flight. The desert grows purpley dim as the sun sets over an inky mountain tableau. A soft silvery face with silent golden eyes, smokey, pointed ears and a sensitive nose fills the man's vision. He dreams of falling.... and wakes to Hawk soaring high over the prairie. He rests for a moment in the centre of the circle, then gathers his talisman to give thanks for clarity. Wolf, Horse and man travel across original bunch grass plains. They don't look up. Dark hills loom in the distance. Change is coming. The prairie is ending. I dream of falling and wake into morning.... Kathy Paris Brought to Mind By Meredith Low Christmas shopping this year was tough. I was feeling a little bereft of seasonal peace and joy. I was just trying to make it through the day carrying my own burdens. So the annual foraging for that special distillation of my relationships into some meaningful object or other didn't help. But at least it got me out of my apartment and into the transformed downtown streets, where I ran into three very different men from my past. First there was Greg. I was in a department store taking a break from the joys of giving to check out a heavily advertised new brand called "Happy." If you can just buy the stuff...it was tempting. A tall, blond man started back in mock alarm of being sprayed from the tester bottle. We took a moment to recognize each other, and even had to say our own names to remind each other, but then he reached out to hug me. Which he never had before. I never knew him that well. Years ago, he was the boyfriend of a hometown friend of mine. Neither of us are still in touch with his ex, but we talked about where she is - living with some guy in a cabin in the Rockies, apparently. We tried to catch up with each other in roundabout ways. He told me that in the course of a single year he had acquired a wife, two stepsons, a house in the suburbs, a minivan, and huge grocery bills. That was a few years ago. This weekend he and his wife were staying at a fancy downtown hotel, for a splurge. I don't know if he was living his dream, but he seemed to be pretty contented with the deal, even if he did sound just a bit sheepish. Then he told me that his wife had cancer and was expected to live just a few more months. So this was a last trip before she got too sick to enjoy it. He said that it had been so much time since the diagnosis that they were used to it. This sounded a little hollow. He hugged me again before we went on our separate ways. This time I knew why. I didn't buy myself any "Happy" perfume. I headed out on the street and ran smack into Brian. He looked like hell; puffy and pale. He fidgeted like he had to run for a train and talked as if his words were already on board. He told me what he's been doing since we last spoke a few years ago. He told me I was right about some job advice that I don't remember giving him. He showed me the pajamas he just got a good deal on. He mentioned which ferry he caught that morning, from the island where he lives with his parents. He told me about my ex-boyfriend, still a friend of his, married now. Still stuck in a frustrating job. We had the same conversation five years ago. Back then, Brian drove my boyfriend nuts, with his scatteredness and crazy-making. I'm not at all surprised my ex got married, but I wonder why they are still friends. I was hyperventilating by the end of the conversation. I had to end it by just saying goodbye and walking away, waving behind me. Brian's head bobbed in assent at my departure, as he picked up his hockey bag and wondered where he had been going. A few days later, shopping again, I ran into Dean. His claim to fame is taking me on my very first formal date. I broke up with him a few weeks later by ignoring him completely. Fifteen year olds deserve to be forgiven for their sins, I think, and we reached a detente years ago. So I called to him from the escalator as he tried to get the hell out of Eaton's. He looked more or less the same as I remember from the last time I saw him, in a movie lineup a few years ago. He's in a band which just pulled the plug on their first CD - one too many production problems made them decide to start fresh. He didn't seem devastated by this. He said he just figured it wasn't going to happen this time; they can record another one and make it better. We talked, not very convincingly, about how this kind of experience can turn out to be the best thing in the long run. Since high school he's lost part of one finger, from carpentry. I always wonder how that affects his playing, but since I'd never ask, I'll never know. I guess it can't much, if he's still playing in a band. I wonder anyhow. He asked me a couple of questions, listened to me. When I called his name at first, he hugged me. When we said goodbye, I hugged him. He has an easier smile and more grace than he did fifteen years ago. I was glad to see them all, but I didn't say much about my own life to any of these men. I just listened to them and measured how they are passing through life; how they have changed and how they haven't. I wonder what they dream of now, what they are settling for, what they push themselves to do, what they have given up on. I wished them a happy New Year and walked away, back among the strangers in the crowd. Meredith Low Wet Undies Jump-up By Colin Smith Mission improbable. Two year assignment in the West Indies. Reportedly, a high incidence of gambling, drugs, prostitution and general state of lawlessness. Welcome to the world wide whistle stop. Um, what would Peter Lawford say? "Ocean's Eleven! Count me in!" Pat Kennedy's husband helped pay off Democratic debts by co-producing an inaugural extravaganza for the King of Camelot and it was my mission to post bail for a malignant art form in Vancouver. We all have to do what is best. Maybe the break in the weather will prove to be a break for me. I'll be the fella with an umbrella, If you'll be the girl who saved her love for a rainy day. - Peter Sidney Ernest Aylen Lawford in Easter Parade (MGM 1948) Perched high above a C3000 enroute to the Lesser Antilles, I gotta wonder out loud. What now? It feels like a break but what a stretch! St. Kitts. Population 39,000. Total surface area: 68 square miles. The jewel of the Caribbean. I read that in the head 36,000 feet above NYC. There is more than six billion square feet of land in New York City available for use. And that doesn't include major bodies of water or streets. Skyrocketing above a sea of calculated indifference, I imagined myself aboard a pirate ship. A starved sketch of a third-rate career criminal, hardwired in the economy section of a budget cigar tube stamped FOR EXPORT ONLY. One hundred and thirty-five powerless souls crammed into one tiny ship, sailing halfway around the world, bound for a mite lodged in the crack of a map. Times that by ten and subtract 200 years, give or take, and you'd find yourself stranded somewhere near Botany Bay. Light-years from penal reform and satellite transceivers. The New York City Department of Correction (DOC) averages a daily inmate population of between 18,000 to 20,000. On an average day, the Department logs more than 3,500 miles transporting inmates to courts in the five boroughs and to medical and other jail or prison facilities throughout the city and state. Talk about a trip. When I finally arrived in St. Kitts, I asked the customs officer about the reputed 150,00 monkeys living "in the area". I think he thought I said "money keys" and let me waltz straight in. What do you know? The booze is cheap, the smokes are too. The grass is green and the water blue. My job's a mess but I digress. I'm just looking for a cynical girl. First week I dreamt I had become the newly elected Mayor of Basseterre and my first duty was to advance the local economy - by any means necessary, at any cost. "Shop 'Til They Drop the Tax" Week A Huge Success!" screamed the local headlines. I announced a 77% increase in sales at several of the island's major retail stores and called on every storeowner to eliminate the sales tax on clothes and shoes completely. My office was secure. My subconscious, a swollen spreadsheet. The second week, as the newly appointed de facto publisher of the country's only republican gazette, I dreamt that I had taken a stand directed towards bettering race relations in this burgeoning capital. Point-form is always the way to go. "Quality of Life" Problems in St. Kitts (According to the Average White Tourist) It's too noisy! I want to report an environmental problem! Get rid of the graffiti! I want to report drug dealing on the golf course. I have a question about recycling or other sanitation problems. I have a problem with a vendor. I would like to check whether a professional I plan to use has faced any disciplinary action. I have a question about my cable TV service. I have a question about animals. Solutions to "Quality of Life" Problems in St. Kitts (According to the Average White Ex-Patriot) I want to contact the Mayor. I want to hold a street fair or block party. I want to be a vendor at a street fair or block party. I want to donate to needy citizens. I want to volunteer my time. I need a ball field permit. I want to create a garden. I want to plant a tree. I have a question about animals. The third week, I dreamt of evil squigglies. I was sitting on the veranda with my pal, the local para-sail instructor, hauling on hiccups and lighting a torch for the damned. In I went for more beer and when I returned I noticed half-a- dozen blind white-bellied sorta snakes mashing their plasma through the backporch's wire-screened windows. Just like medium ground chuck pressed through your granny's old grinder. They oozed into a pool of Playdoh-inspired goo, reconstituted themselves and then slithered off towards the kitchen. More frightening then a simple Spike and Mike, I wailed like a banshee but my ever- calm coach assured me nothing was amiss. Happens all the time. They come and go. You won't even notice them after a while. Trust me. After a month of spectral visions, I asked a local fella at the Shell station, clad in Hilfiger's finest sackcloth, what he thought of my woolgathering. What had a sinner a right to expect in paradise? A decent night's sleep seemed a fair and equitable proposition. He said I should give him $10EC and then promised to deliver sage advice. Okay, I said. Let 'er rip, eh. "Then Judas, which had betrayed Him, saw that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests... and they took counsel, and bought with them the potters field to bury strangers in." Whoa. "James Brown was arrested on Tuesday and charged with marijuana possession and unlawful use of a firearm." No shit. "The idea is to hang out together, find fun with the broads, and have a great time. Entertainment, period." OK. All right. I placed an ad in the travel/personals section of the Rolling Good Times website yesterday. Wish me luck. I may need it. Colin Smith This is Colin Smith's first contribution to Barbed Wire BARBED WIRE webzine Vancouver's only FREE webzine with a COMPLETE money-back guarantee also available in glorious technicolour at http://home.istar.ca/~paull/wire Comments are welcome. Email paull@istar.ca