I stab a needle into my thigh and push down on the plunger. What it contains I don’t know. I pop a pill into my mouth and wash it down with a liquid. I know I need to do these things because I had been severely injured. I may have even died, but I can’t quite remember. My memory is as if I’d just emerged from a cave.
There are others like me, too. And they also require needles and pills.
We are excited. We are giddy with anticipation.
Today is a special day. We each received a scarf from the hospital. And we are leaving the hospital to go to a festival. I’d made friends with another man, Freddie, and the two of us discuss what we should do. We both signed up to play hockey.
We gather inside of a Europa, and a woman, one of those from the hospital, dances to no music. She says it’s a tradition, that she does this every festival, and that others should join her. Some do. I don’t. I get on the bus instead.
Some of the scarves look to be made of fur. Mine is of a simple fabric.
The bus stops by a river and we all get out. A decked area. A lookout. Orientation. Direction from the hospital on when to return.
My attention drifts to a puffball bee that flies and lands on the roof of a small building. On its back is a smaller puffball bee; a baby bee. I know that puffball bees are rare, and I’m anxious about others disturbing it. The baby bee is the size of a baseball.
A woman walks down to the river, leans over the water, and grabs a fish that idled near the shore. She then dives in with all her clothes on.
A narrow sandy path, over and around sloping hills, leads to the festival. As I walk its course, I can feel my legs tire. I know I shouldn’t exhaust myself if I’m to play hockey later in the day.
The festival grounds are large. Like a stadium. There is a fielded area, and people sit and talk in groups. There are buildings and restaurants that surround it. There are lots of people here, and I quickly lose track of Freddie. I am content to simply walk around.
I pass by a group sitting in a circle, all on a blanket, and a woman notices me and says, ‘Hey Herman.’ This is my name and I look at her. I don’t recognize her, but she recognizes me. She says, ‘You were right, the soccer is running itself.’ I stare at her, confused. I have no idea what she was talking about. She sees this and says Katherine’s over there. And she points into one of the restaurants.
Katherine. The memory of her jolts me awake.
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To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
