VANCOUVER REVIEW, SUMMER 2008 - I tried my best to shift gears from earnest journalist to raucous ski junkie, but all I felt was resistance. Another ski hill, more development: that much less chance of a happy ending for the mountain caribou. And not just the caribou—after my introduction to the Sinixt, all I could see were white people everywhere, enjoying the spoils of the Great Western Hinterland, while in remote corners of the province and on a shared reservation in the States, descendants of the Native people carved out a meagre existence from our leftovers.
VANCOUVER REVIEW, SPRING 2008 - One cold February night, Sandy and I huddled by our wood stove, staring across our dead fields and the ocean towards Vancouver’s distant glow. Theatres, bars, restaurants, galleries—our old stomping grounds —now just a glimmer on the horizon. “What the hell are we doing here?” I asked Sandy. She didn’t miss a beat. “Growing art,” she said, smiling, “Like an art farm.”
SPRING 2008 - There was a time, not so long ago, when a knife in the wrong place would send my heart racing. A mild, slightly debilitating Obsessive Compulsiveness that I spent years trying to understand. Still, I don’t understand it. I check the stove three times before leaving. I check for my wallet, for my phone at least ten times a day. Here, with an unreliable satellite connection, I check if the internet is on, over and over and over.But the knife-in-the-wrong-place complex has dissolved. Something bigger has replaced it. Behind this fog of minor distracting anxieties is a much stronger one – a large looming fear, a grotesque and bottomless worry.