FREE SPEECH Breaks Out @ Canzine

Canada’s largest festival of zines and the independent arts was held recently at the Gladstone Hotel on Queen Street West. A unit of verse of the universe of the imagine nation of the Peoples Republic of Poetry trolled the gathering to implement the Papers Please program.

Canzine is organized by Broken Pencil, a zine of indie zines. "Over 150 zines from across Canada on display and for sale! The heart of the event, indie publishers both in print and online come from across the country and the continent to show their waters! Be amazed at the creativity, ingenuity, and sheer weirdness."

High Heels Lo Fi (Mandy Wells on bass, Cynthia Gould on guitar, Patricia Humphreys on drums, Paisley Rae on guitar) took a few moments out from their hectic day to display their FREE SPEECH.

One of the rooms was dedicated to the entertainment of the High Heels Lo Fi, a hot-saucy group of girls, a bunch of babes, wanton wits, plucking strings attached in the chord of F U in FUN. It reminded me of the opening stanza of The Shooting of Dan McGrew:

A bunch of babes were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a rag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.

Their music is a "cocktail of poetry and blues, with garnishs of glam, rock, cheese, booze, and hilarity - with pink accessories." The audience for their performances grew as the day lengthened, proving that pinko is not just a watered down communist.

One of the leading luminaries of High Heels Lo Fi is Cynthia Gould, a performance poet, among other cultural activities. Her poetry has raw intensity married to a brazen honesty highlighted with a sense of humour. The following poem taken from ‘some words spoken’ published by Burning Effigy Press, is a fine example of a ‘fallen’ woman redeeming herself in poetry, a boozed bruised broken heart rising from the debris of stars.

gutter stars

Don't tell me that you understand me

when you don't know all of the gory details

and the few you have an inkling about

make you nervous.

Don't tell me that you're listening to me

when every word from my mouth

is filtered through your mind's interpretation

of what I meant to say.

Don't tell me that you know where I'm coming from

when even your nightmares

could not resemble the places

I've crawled out of.

Don't tell me that you only want to see me happy

when you could never believe

that the moment I learned how to be happy

I was listening to glass shatter across the street

as the boy who had been my lover my love five minutes before

threw a bottle in rage

the contents of which were the reason why I was lying on the sidewalk

he stomped away over the icy glass

which, like my heart, was smashed beyond repair

and I lay on that cold pavement

more alone than I had ever been before

in the rich neighbourhood

between the skiddy bar and my apartment

and I cried sobbed screamed

not thinking that someone might call the cops

not thinking of how I could possibly crawl home from there

not thinking that I was a glaring target for any sort of attack

not thinking of anything but my own miserable self

when I finally looked up past the gutter,

past the buildings, dark trees

I saw the stars.

twinkle tiny dancing magic sparkles

put there a zillion years ago

just to brighten my black black night right now

in the midst of my tragic loneliness,

they made me a little bit happier

Don’t tell me that you understand me

When you haven’t seen the stars from the gutter

And realized that it is me and me alone who

Decides whether or not I will be happy.

Canzine is largely a tossed salad of a cultural manifestation in its infancy. This is the place where emerging artists, poets, and other morphs, display their talent for the first time. It’s a place where one can acquire new publishing concepts and techniques, a sort of honing of craft. It’s a place where mediocrity, and there’s plenty there, does not rise above its current level. It is the very few genuinely creative talents that make their entry level display that makes a couple hours of browsing so worthwhile.

Canzine also has a few regulars, some that return to their roots, speak the same genre, such as CAROUSEL which is a unique gallery of page poetry/art that is being displayed in art: CAROUSEL is art itself.

But there is also a grand daddy publication which continues its efforts to be relevant after thirty years of publishing, FUSE, a magazine of “a diverse community of visual and performing artists, educators, community workers, writers, activists, organizers, policy makers, social thinkers, curators and other movers and shakers. Together we produce a quarterly magazine on art, media and politics.” FUSE magazine has enjoyed state financial assistance throughout most of its lifetime. As a recipient of government arts largesse, FUSE continues to be obedient to government standards as set forth and enforced by various human rights commissions throughout the nation. FUSE can always be counted on to follow the government line in this regard.

This was a decent young man. No, I have no idea what it is about. He was flogging his literary/drawings displayed before him. I didn’t open his publications. I didn’t ask him about the outfit. I pretty much wanted a picture demonstrating that Roswellians can also have a say. I must have been nervous holding the camera. It was silly.

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I was still nervous when the minders of Steel Bananas posed with their FREE SPEECH cards. They had bought 300 bananas for the occasion, from Price Chopper. So they exercised FREE SPEECH by handing out bananas bearing their website url. She selected a banana, held it towards me, "Here's a big one for you." What a flirt.

The Toronto Comic Jam, is a ‘gathering of artists, doodlers, and creative-minded people.” The group could be 10 or 50 people, each one contributing a square drawing to a developing comic zine. There is no dominant style, although there can be varying levels of drawing skill exhibited by individuals. It is a collaborative art formula that has yet to produce a masterpiece. Largely the process is a vehicle for community where each member encourages others and perhaps inspires one member to go off on a fruitful tangent. It’s fun.

Is she a teacher-assistant at a private elementary school? a tutoring student at a branch library? an articling student doing a survey on reactions to her colouring book? a brazen sweet young thing who enjoys illustrations of explicit erotica. The table top is strewn with crayons. Kindergarten for bedtime. Brings out the inner Lolita. It’s the Jenna Colouring Book put out by Yard of Blonde Girls, Inc. FREE SPEECH gives good oral.

Stuart Ross, a Toronto fiction writer, poet, editor and creative-writing instructor, and co-founder of the Toronto Small Press Book Fair, displays his FREE SPEECH with complete aplomb – he is the only one to display without using his thumb as a support digit. As poet, Al Purdy would say at the Quinte Hotel, “That oughta be worth some beer.”

Team Macho makes art, displayed on their website, and they show up here to display the fruit of their FREE SPEECH.

A. Jeminez and R. Eddington had a room of their own. They placed photographic postcards of urban landscape images on narrow poles, then invited guests to throw a styrofoam golfball at the card. Knock it off – it’s yours. Of course. It was only natural that FREE SPEECH found its place amongst the pylons.

And finally ...