In memoriam Stan Dragland, 1942–2022
Life is language, I wanted to say. Only problem:
it isn’t. Not language exactly, not language
as such. Not a particular language either, though
it has a lot to say—in fact, no end of things . . .
It’s like precious china. A fresh white, virtually blue. Touch it, and it appears almost to melt, softly giving way. The spot touched turns the slightest pink, as if bashful, and surely, if bitten into, it would taste sweet, with . . .
Last night was a bad one. A bit of a standoff at one thirty in the morning with a nurse. I wanted more sleeping pills, and he insisted I had had enough already.
Of course, I have my own stash . . .
1.
All of these tribes, and all of these street signs None of them will be yours or mine But I’ll be your empire Just stay alive, stay alive, stay alive
— Mustafa the Poet, “Stay Alive”
It’s a gold . . .
A version of this conversation was broadcast on CBC Radio One’s Writers & Company on February 27, 2022, produced by Sandra Rabinovitch.
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