With Special Guests:
Taiko Drum opening
President, GV Japanese Canadian Citizens Association
Satoko Oka Norimatsu
Director, Peace Philosophy Centre
Dr. Satsuki Ina
Co-organizer, Tsuru for Solidarity
BC Association for Learning and Preserving the History of WWII
Publisher with EMP
Professor Emeritus, University of Victoria, Writer of Introduction
Author's American Grandson, Writer of the Foreword
Editor of the Bulletin
Alcvin Ryuzen Ramos
Shakuhachi flute closing
And with Author Tatsuo Kage and Host Mariko Kage
(C$ 0.00 shipping)
THE ANARCHIST CARDS!
EMP is so excited to announce:
A deck to deal with!
84 cards depict choices and changes. Pull a card, or a few, and let the active, edgy, and feeling reflections throw some light on the subject.
This deck is organized into three suits. Internally, how do we make ourselves? In relationship, how do we make each other? And when we act, what kind of world do we make?
An accompanying handbook elaborates each card with stories, questions, and quotes from revolutionaries around the world. Includes nine new card reading layouts!
The Anarchist Cards have been many years in development by The Chase Collective, and now they are presented here in a complete trial version for folks to play with and have their say with.
Order your trial version ahead of the official release in 2021, and join the process, sending your feedback to email@example.com
Stay at home and join in to the launch of a book of short stories! Make your own snacks and drinks, listen to a few readings from the stories, and pick up the rest in a copy of the e-book online!
Join the author and her quarantined friends in a facebook livestream. You can send in your questions to be answered during the event. Check out some excerpts below, or get the e-book!
“There is a deep churning within identity, where the devices of humanity are polished. One of the grindstones is the place we live and call home.”
Eleven stories explore our collective human condition, using the license provided by fable and legend. Characters from imagined pasts, possible futures, and real life each spin their own story until we recognize ourselves in the blurred, familiar patterns.
"Little Blue Riding Hood" is a girl who can only find herself when she's running away, and she never really gets there. In "Ghosts of St. Mary's," the child is only saved from Indian Residential School after she's passed to the spirit world. "The General" is still fighting a war he lost a long time ago. In "Passport," seven people stranded abroad realize that picture identification is only one way to get through borders. "Coyote's Last Strategy" is a battle so long-suffered that his people seem to lose everything - and, yet, nothing at all. "Magred and the Fire Flowers" tells the story of our collective struggle in one small mountain village. "War Chief" switches sides to win. We consider what lets people live together in "Tattoo." A very intimate, overdue conversation takes place in "The Camera." We see what the world wants with women in, "The Mill." "Fish Rock Boy" reminds us what it is to be people of the land.
Kerry Coast is a journalist, dramatist, former editor of The St’át’imc Runner and The BC Treaty Negotiating Times newspapers, co-founder and writer for the Úcwalmicw Players theatre company; and author. Her first book, The Colonial Present, was published in 2013. Other titles include Speeches from the Crowd. See her bio on www.electromagneticprint.com.
Coast’s current projects include a tribute to the legendary Secwepemc leader William Ignace, "Wolverine’s Sovereignty"; and "Roadblock" – an encyclopedic documentary of Indigenous roadblocks in British Columbia; and "The Fifth World – A Non-Status Indian Reality," by Tsayskiy, Ron George, of Wet’suwet’en.
Vancouver Playwright’s Theatre Center
Úcwalmicw Spiritual Center Society
Studio 58, Langara
Lillooet Tribal Council
International Human Rights Association of American Minorities
Big Blue Riding Hood
Every night when the sun went down she would ask her mammy, “Ma, can I go out riding?”
And every night her ma was too drunk to stop her anyway. So she saddled up old Midnight and went out.
In the last light of dusk she would throw over her big blue hood and, like it was a candle snuffer, all other lights went out. The thoughts she had then! They lit up around her head; they caught in the wool of her big dark blue hood, twinkling.
And Midnight loved to gallop. The sparks flew from Little Blue’s imagined dreams, streamed from her frizzy hair, the long blue hood now snapping behind her in the wind. Those dream sparks drifted up into the night and caught on the robes of angels there. It took those angels ‘til morning to put them out.
Ghosts of St. Mary’s
She awoke in a nightmare. The dream picked up just as it had really happened the day before, she and the other children had been swung into the boat by the tall, stinking, red-faced men with the messy hair. Then the most awful noise had started up at the back end of the boat and she and all the others had screamed, clutched each other and hung on, and gave up trying to hold the tears back behind their eyelids. They moved away from the shore. She looked back, tried to focus on her grandmother standing there, but she could not see anything save the dripping blobs of colour that filtered in through her tears.
The rest of the nightmare was on the boat. They were all huddled together, none of them dressed properly for this trip. They reached the end of the lake and began down the river but instead of seeing the next villages there was nothing. Unfamiliar hillsides and getting darker and darker. In the nightmare, they never, ever reached shore again.
It was the cold and damp that woke her, and in the dream it arrived as the sensation of leaving home – further and further, and never drying from the spray of the motorboat, never emerging from the narrow valley and never warming up in the sun which never appeared. But when she came to, the cold and damp were really there. It was only the moon for making salmon oil, it was not this cold at home and yet here the damp was as thick as if it had rained all night. And as if the rain had come in and soaked all their beds.
She was all by herself in the little cot, in a room full of similar little beds, and she called out to her cousin who she had seen there last night, followed her voice when she replied and jumped directly under the blanket with her, shivering and trying to warm up. This relief was interrupted immediately by an enormous cloaked and hooded figure which bent over their bed, revealing a pair of white owl ears under its hood, and bodily removed Kweeklim. She screamed in abject terror: she knew exactly what happened to children who were caught by the owl and snatched from their beds! She would have her eyes glued shut with pitch; she would be fed toads and snakes until she was fat; she would be boiled alive and eaten!
The owl began to perform its incantations, making horrible noises through its squashy beak. It raised its voice and shook her until she was paralyzed in the grip of its sharp talons. She flew through the air. The owl’s round, pale face was above her, again, its black wings flapping around them. Suddenly the owl dropped her flat on her back and stood over her, shaking a crooked white bony toe at her face and hooting. The owl stood up tall and began hooting around the room until it picked up a jangly noisy shaker and made a racket with it as it tore covers off the other beds.
Kweeklim could not move; she was frozen with fear. The movement around her, girls hurriedly getting out of cots and kneeling beside them, chanting a terrible curse all together, made her panic worse. She wet the bed. She had never wet the bed in her life. She still could not move, except to blink as hot tears streamed down her cold cheeks and into her ears. The other girls were rushing, pulling the blankets around on their beds, changing clothes, and leaving. Kweeklim did not move. She could not. She was so tiny under her thin blanket that no one noticed she was still there.
The waves of the incoming tide pushed his body up the beach one gritty, watery inch at a time. It was a strange spring storm that churned the fathom below the drop and set him loose, after all that time, to surface. His black hair streamed forward and back in the water like seaweed. Finally the weight of his head made it lodge in the sand. The black stubble on his square chin stood away from the sea water and dried in the salty breeze, and his arms came to rest beside him as the tide turned back from whence it came and abandoned him, his head and his arms, his torso and legs, his face leached of colour, there on the shore of the Portuvian National Park.
Through a pane of glass that was heavier than the others, the archivist saw a sudden spark of flame. Set in the old-fashioned square glass bricks that lined the windows facing the sea, separating the National Archive’s panoramic beach view from its pale green walls, was one glass brick thicker than all the others. It was tilted down and it refracted a magnified view of the beach rather than a straight refrain of the sea horizon, at which it was level with. She went to the window and stared at the figure laying on the beach as it stirred and turned its attention to the same fleck of orange light.
As soon as it had dried, late in these grey-gold sunset remains of the storm’s last day, the Tattoo’s ring had gasped for air and exhaled fire. A tiny flame in a tiny lamp fitted to a copper ring on the soldier’s finger had not been put out by a century under water. The ignition opened the man’s eyes at once and he turned his head toward it. Warm waves of light met the eye and sent thoughts casting back for memory, but the thoughts were cut off by a blinding flash. Rebounding from that image to an endless emptiness, the mind was sent back again, what had happened? Past the blinding flash, a deafening explosion. And then heat was recalled, and added to the puzzle. And rock walls, which burst into dusty smoke and shattered, burying all of them. And then the water rushing into the undersea cavern.
I’ve invited an old friend from acting school to shoot a very new sort of film with me. It will just be us: me behind the camera and him in front. I want to explore more intimately how we see others on screen; how we get to see others’ intimate moments. And how sometimes we forget they are others. Others who are other than the others they are portraying. So I need someone who trusts me, an old friend, and someone who can appreciate my slightly intellectual bent in this goal.
I knew him back then but I don’t know him now. I really wasn’t sure whether calling him up was appropriate, or even defensible. I haven’t told him what we’re doing, just to expect some personal questions and to be himself – as much as possible. I’m not sure why he turned up, really.
We’ve booked this space, an empty office penthouse with floor to ceiling windows and hardwood floors. No furniture except the two stools. No one else here but us. We had a bit of a crush on each other in college but nothing came of it and we’re too old to believe something might come of it now. I still dream about him from time to time. I told him that when I called him a couple weeks ago about this idea, after twenty years. Really not sure why he turned up.
The General sprang to his feet. Detritus of the forest floor clung to his filthy clothes as he snapped a numb hand to his forehead and bellowed, “Hup, ho! On your feet, men! Sleep like that, you’ll find yourself in the kitchen and you won’t be peeling potatoes, boys, not in this unit; you’ll be simmering in the pot next to them!” At this salute he dropped the cold, rheumatic hand to his bony side. “Good god, what’s for breakfast?”
He reached down, in pursuit of breakfast, to a tattered army-issue coat that was crumpled and oily and pressed to the ground where he had laid his head and spent the night. He rummaged painfully in the pockets. This activity produced a shriveled root vegetable that was otherwise indiscernible. He pulled the coat on with a controlled shiver. “Leftovers! That’s not a complaint, though, is it? I’ll hand in my medals before I’ll complain about what God gives me! At ease, then.”
The cold of the night’s last resistance to dawn was brittle and stubborn. The General rubbed his hands and stomped his feet, repaired his crushed cap to his head, noticed that one boot was still missing, rubbed the thinly sock-clad foot against the shin of the other leg, and began to chew on a bite of the root. Chewing suddenly required all his attention and determination, and swallowing was the first skirmish of the day’s progress. He won a few rounds and then hurried to the edge of the glade to vomit exhaustively.
“It’s one step forward and two steps back today, men.” He pulled out a handkerchief and exchanged unwanted material between his mouth and the ragged article. He pulled a map from the inside of his one shin-high boot. “But in which direction?” He spread the line drawing on the ground and dusted it off with his handkerchief. He stood over it, studying the directions and beginning to carve exes in the soft ground beyond the edges of the tattered velum. The men at the blurred edges of his vision looked over it as well.
Monday July 1 at 10am, in Lil'wat at the Ts'zil Learning Center, Istken Hall
See video of the launch at:
Speaking their truths and supporting Bruce's book and his work on exposing the bias manifest in the Canadian judicial system are: Rosalin Sam and James Louie, of Lil'wat; Ron George, of Wet'suwt'en; Dr. Roland Chrisjohn, of Oneida, connecting with us from New Brunswick, and Dr. Bruce Clark, who will video conference from his home in Ottawa.
“Bruce Clark captures the issue with the title of this book. It may shock those who do not understand the connection between the denial of Indigenous Peoples’ rights by the Canadian judiciary and the consequences of that denial, which amount to genocide, but the shock can only turn to shame as the reader follows the historical, legal, and constitutional record that prove his argument: the occupier's legal system seeks to erase indigenous national sovereignty.
This collection of essays shows how the legal system, which is supposed to provide order and justice to the people is, in fact, in the case of the indigenous nations, used to destroy peoples and their cultures, to create disorder and injustice. Although Clark relies on legal arguments and references to case law, the average lay person who is interested in the subject will be able to come to their own conclusions. Every student of law and politics, of indigenous rights and history should have a copy of this book. So should any citizen interested in Canada and its true character as an imperial power.”
- Christopher Black, international criminal lawyer
“Justice is a concept that is higher than the self, thus Clark took on the establishment to seek justice for his Indigenous clients. In the end he was punished. Here, Clark presents the legal case for Indigenous sovereignty so the layperson can readily grasp the argument."
- Kim Petersen, former editor of the Dissident Voice and Original Peoples section of the Dominion newspaper
"Bruce Clark's rigorous analysis of the genocidal unconstitutionality of Canada's treatment of the native peoples and appropriation of their land is a great service in the pursuit of truth and justice. The essays in this book document the abandonment by the legal establishment (judges and lawyers) of the principle of the rule of law, in the service of Empire. This provides needed insight about the current state of Canadian institutional integrity to all who seek a society that actually adheres to democratic and humanistic principles.
- Joseph Hickey, M.Sc., Ph.D. candidate, Executive
Director of the Ontario Civil Liberties Association
This book is available in print and in e-book formats. Click the cover above to shop the book.
Ron George, Wet'suwet'en, spoke out about the genocidal practice Canada engages in the Indian Act: making some people Non-Status Indians. He discusses this in his forthcoming EMP book, "The Fifth World."
Rosalin Sam spoke out about the genocide at the book launch. She is a Lil'wat land defender, roadblocker, speaker, and advisor to the Statimc Chiefs Council.
Pautuqlasimc, James Louie, retraced his steps through international law to arrive at a case in the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, IACHR-12-929, Edmonds v. Canada, which we hope will trigger the international duty to investigate genocide in countries where the judiciary are complicit in genocide.
EMP is proud to present Lexeywa - I Pass The Torch To You, by Beatrice Elaine Silver.
The launch of this important book about surviving Indian Residential School will take place at
The Reach Gallery in Abbotsford on April 4, at 7pm.
32388 Veterans Way, Abbotsford BC V2T 0B3