Posts by Kate Inglis
Tickle trunk

Everything came out, stuff I've been collecting for years. Not one boa but two. Not one gypsy skirt but two. A soft pink 1980s prom dress. A witch hat. A woodland fairy, a hippie, a go-go girl. A disco-dancing alien witch. A woodland-fairy flapper.

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Alberta Alberta

I come to oil country with a book about radicals who wish for the end of pipelines. But that's not what it's about. It's the friction of prosperity and concern, ability and disability, well-placed outrage and courage. It's banjo song and smoke in your eye.

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Swedish lessons

The dying bees, the Antarctic melt, the mountains of old tires, the toxic belch of factories that make Batman bobbleheads for Happy Meals. Off-gassing couches! Cancerous tinned tomatoes! Our breastmilk is poisoned. We live absurdedly, ridiculously.

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Big drop

Whenever I'm down Penelope, my editor, sends me pictures of a gulper eel and says THIS IS YOU. She's brutal and brilliant. She tells me to quit thinking I'm special by being afraid to open the box that's on its way from the printer in Quebec.

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Generally hongzhi

Mulch for the garden; the electrician for a back door light; insulation for the dining room; dad's iron fork to rip out sod and make a bed of soil along the back of the house; more trips to the greenhouse; a better axe to chop the scrap wood for kindling.

I love this list.

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ObservationsKate Inglis
By the big land

Every night there were spoons, a fiddle, a snare drum, guitars, everyone piled and sprawled and feeling fat and thrilled and rich, looking at each other bleary-eyed and spinning, all of us teetering on the edge of sickness. Keep going.

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Labradorian

I come home to here via planes that took off from Robson Street, the Distillery District, the Outer Banks. Now, Makkovik. Flight is still a miracle. That this house feels like it's got a wagging tail when I walk through the door is another. 

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Dazzled by the beauty

I start off heavy, with a cast-iron pot of the required stuff of aperture and directional light and focusing modes. I begin as a school marm, a hardass, because inspiration is rootless without the language to self-diagnose. Then we play.

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Elementary

Stealth to catch kids who evade the lens because they are unaware of it (bubbles and worms are more interesting) and to catch grown-ups who are too aware of it. Worrying about what nobody else sees, we flinch in front of unblinking glass.

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Sistering

We assign each other homework: reading and wines, gods and shoes. The phone bleeps. We are 5,043 kilometres apart. There is nothing like fresh sawdust. We are sistering.

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Education

The doctors put me to sleep and went into my belly quick-quick and lifted you out! And you were so little. The littlest! They put you in the incubator and baked you like a cookie until you were big enough to come home and eat toasted marshmallows.

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Speak easy

What if evil thinks that it's good? Doesn't it always? … Never mind. I stare at a 90 year-old empty bottle of Kentucky Tavern Straight Bourbon Whiskey and wonder about the friendship, love, stories, and clouds on the night it was tipped dry.

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