The mind is such a fickle thing. It is completely certain that, only when it has already made itself up, it knows everything. Then nothing at all.
I’ve come on here more often in the past week than probably an entire month of last year. Maybe that’s an exaggeration – but I’m too forgetful and too bothered to go back and verify that statistic. You see, I’m starting to distrust numbers, or at least how they’ve been used in today’s terms, and the illusion of confidence they instill in us. Instead of accepting facts as absolutes I’m reclaiming my natural inclination towards the absurdity of life and my mistrust of authority. Never let the rebel in you die.
Numbers are only a story. As I’ve read in Trauma Farm, probably the best novel I’ve ever read – and I don’t think “novel” is the accurate word – in a long time. It’s an 18-year personal history of small farming and rural life on the Canadian West Coast told in the format of one day, reaching equally into the past and future. It starts in darkness and ends in darkness. As much as I could gush about it to you on here, I’m so enamoured with the words, stories, and absurd personal history of author Brian Brett that I’m reading it again, which will probably benefit us all the greater. I just finished it in December, but I am so drawn to the dense web of fact and fiction that make for a beautiful stone in this West Coast (Brett grew up here in Vancouver and lives on Saltspring Island) that I’ve got to finger through this jewel again.
I don’t know if I’ll walk out of here a poet or a farmer, but I can assure you I’ll walk out of here a better writer and proselytizer of this beautiful homeland.