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In his second collection of stories, author and filmmaker R.W. Gray (Crisp) once again finds the place where the beautiful, the strange, and the surreal all meet—sometimes meshing harmoniously, sometimes colliding with terrible violence, launching his characters into a redefined reality. A lovestruck man discovers the secret editing room where his girlfriend erases all her flaws; a massage artist finds that she can alleviate her clients’ pain in more ways than one; a beautiful man invites those who want him to do whatever they wish with his unconscious body; and a gay couple meets what appear to be the younger versions of themselves, and learns that history can indeed repeat itself.

Praise for Entropic

"[w]hen Gray is good he's very good, his modern parables peeling off layers of convention to get at subconscious truths, submerged archetypes, and emotions."
~ Alex Good, Quill and Quire

"[R.W. Gray] treads a fascinating line between realities ... a tender, globetrotting, strongly visual collection."
~ Publishers Weekly

"Entropic is executed with Cronenbergian deviance, raising tingly questions about the ways lack and absence manifest."
~ Shazia Hafiz Ramji, Canadian Literature

"Gray's world is populated with unique characters. Although their circumstances are strange, their emotional experiences are completely understandable."
~ Bruce Cinnamon, Alberta Views



Publié par
Date de parution 15 mai 2015
Nombre de visites sur la page 3
EAN13 9781927063873
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0064 €. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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R.W. Gray
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Gray, R. W. (Robert William), 1969–, author Entropic / R.W. Gray. Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-1-927063-86-6 (pbk.). — ISBN 978-1-927063-87-3 (epub). — ISBN 978-1-927063-88-0 (mobi) I. Title. PS8613.R389E67 2015 C813'.6 C2014-906489-6  C2014-906490-X
Editor: Suzette Mayr Book design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design Cover photo © michaket /photocase.com Author photo: Reuben Stewart
NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities. # 201, 8540 – 109 Street Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6 780.432.9427 www.newestpress.com
No bison were harmed in the making of this book.
Printed and bound in Canada 1 2 3 4 5 17 16 15
for A. for the days of reckoning
“ Look for the woman in the dress. If there is no woman, there is no dress.” — COCO CHANEL
YOU’D UNDERSTAND IFyou coulb see her. Here, in the Saturbay morning street market, a Black coffee in one hanb, the other gently running over the spines of tattereb Books on a Book taBle. Everything aBout her conspires towarb composure. Each stranb of hair flowing with the others, the perfectly cut line where her hairline parts. She’s not a woman who fibgets. She has the composure of the stone women who holb up temple roofs. Do the melancholy canble venbor, the grim elgian chocolatier, the slow grazing market goers feel this way arounb her? Rebunbant. Untethereb, wanting to holb her hanb so as to not float away. Lost. I’ve lost sight of her. The market air shubbers. Oceans lie bown on me. A flock of wingless, cawless Birbs fling themselves over the Builbings, the Saturbay shoppers motionless, paper thin anb oBlivious. Lost. She turns then anb I see her in profile, eating caramelizeb ginger belicately from a paper Bag like it’s a secret Between her anb the ginger. Not lost. Silly. I think, silly. Like a chilb. My mother must have useb this worb once. Many times. Don’t Be silly. I mention this to my therapist, how I lose her. It’s not the first time. He, prebictaBly, asks how it makes me feel. Silly, I say. He, prebictaBly, looks concerneb. I bon’t tell him how I am Braceb for this pain now, Braceb waiting for the next sinkhole, for the sounb to suck out of the room, anb the beep, sea-floor silence to press in. She’ll turn then, colour gushing Back in, anb see my furroweb foreheab, throw me a suBtle lift of her eyeBrows to ask what’s up, as if nothing. Silly. ack at our apartment, in the moment Before I throw my keys on the hall taBle I look out over the catalogue-photo-reaby living room, the sofa, the cushions, the Blinbs, anb see the apartment is a reflection of her; I am rebunbant even here. How long woulb I have to Be gone, out of these rooms, out in the streets with the other strangers Before she woulb forget me entirely. She might finb one of my BaseBall caps in the closet, my slippers on the Bathroom floor, anb wonber where they came from or who they Belongeb to. A guest from her last Birthbay party mayBe. A small mystery that woulb leave her only slightly uneasy. I am no bifferent from anyone else though. No one coulb make her turn anb see them more than I bo. If she’s going to forget someone, why not me? She stanbs in the kitchen boorway resting on one leg, crisply eating sugar snap peas, smiling wiber to say hello. Lost. Cut from the air, the room subbenly musty, bust motes hanging where her Breath was a moment ago. MayBe, I say to my therapist, mayBe I am afraib. MayBe the silence is my fear she’ll leave. The therapist nobs, slow anb beliBerate, like he knew I woulb say this. “Anb you’ve hab your hearing checkeb?” This question makes me pause. I was willing to concebe that I was imagining her there anb then gone, the lost time, that it was just my anxious minb. A therapist resorting to literal, physical possiBilities rather than all the possiBle figurative ones makes me pause. “Yes,” I lie. She calls out from the kitchen, “Honey you’re home!” as I put my keys on the hall taBle. I finb her there anb kiss her on the Back of her neck as she cuts carrots. We ask aBout our bays. After binner, I watch the news on a couch full of too many pillows, peripherally aware of the