[{"id":"5193","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Ari Mazur in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Mazur, Ari"],"creator_names_search":["Mazur, Ari"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Mazur, Ari\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Ari Mazur is a recent graduate of Concordia University’s creative writing program. She finds joy in writing, walking around, and apartment hunting. She hopes to continue pursuing these hobbies for a long time.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, Miranda"],"Publication_Date":[2023],"material_description":["[{\"side\":\"\",\"image\":\"\",\"other\":\"\",\"extent\":\"\",\"AV_types\":\"Audio\",\"tape_brand\":\"\",\"generations\":\"\",\"Conservation\":\"\",\"equalization\":\"\",\"playback_mode\":\"Mono\",\"playing_speed\":\"\",\"sound_quality\":\"Excellent\",\"recording_type\":\"Digital\",\"storage_capacity\":\"\",\"physical_condition\":\"\",\"track_configuration\":\"\",\"material_designation\":\"\",\"physical_composition\":\"\",\"accompanying_material\":\"\",\"other_physical_description\":\"\"}]"],"recording_type":["Digital"],"AV_type":["Audio"],"playback_mode":["Mono"],"digital_description":["[{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EapEUjCgXmNElKmdxliBoRUBz7F1-N6ZHXE_3RTxiIgyaw\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Mazur.mp3\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:09:40\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"5.9 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"145-185 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"MP3\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"A&W,\\\" by Ari Mazur, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/aw/, accessed on June 15, 2023.\",\"title\":\"A&W\",\"credit\":\"Ari Mazur\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"Yes\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"},{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EdV871owpSpPi4NH3GBlWYkBFazWsHUPgRJzYhX2BqMGOA\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Mazur.wav\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:09:40\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"102.4 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"1411 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"WAV\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"A&W,\\\" by Ari Mazur, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"A&W\",\"credit\":\"Ari Mazur\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/aw/\",\"citation\":\"Mazur, Ari. A&W. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 25–33.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549179334656,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","contents":["A&W\n\nby Ari Mazur\n\nI don’t recognize my face when I look in the mirror. I’m standing in the piss-covered bathroom of the twenty-four-hour A&W. There are about half a dozen fentanyl-addled homeless people who’ve ordered one root beer between them just outside the door. I can hear them laughing about me. Gruff French-Canadian laughs, sharp reedy cackles. They are laughing at me. My heart is racing. I’ve just crushed fifty mg of Adderall. My face doesn’t look like mine because I hate this woman looking back at me, and I don’t hate myself.\n\nHave I ever been this drunk before? That bitch from the bar put something in my drink, I swear to God.\n\nThey’re laughing because the one in the top hat—the one I give cigarettes to on the regular, mind you—grabbed my ass on my way into the bathroom. He’s never getting another fucking smoke off me.\n\nI have to call Sayed back. He called me four times already. He’s worried. It’s ringing.\n\nIt’s the eyes I don’t recognize. Why are they so sullen? She looks so guilty. Guilt makes people ugly. I hate ugly people.\n\n“Hello?”\n\n“Can you come pick me up?”\n\n“Where are you?”\n\n“Bathroom. I hate ugly, guilty people. Top Hat grabbed my ass. He grabbed it and I didn’t even do or say anything about it. I just took the Adderall your brother gave me.”\n\n“What the fuck are you saying? You’re not making any sense. Cami, where are you?”\n\n“Uh—A&W. I just said.”\n\n“No you didn—which one?”\n\n“I dunno. Three blocks east of mine?”\n\n“I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? I’m calling an Uber right now.”\n\n“Hurry. They’re laughing at me.”\n\n“Um, okay. Stay put. Do you want to stay on the phone?”\n\nI hang up on Sayed. He’s so nice even though he has no personality. It’s crazy how people can go through life having no opinions on anything. Well, he has an opinion on me. He thinks he’s going to save me. I would prefer if someone else wanted to save me.\n\nI have to get out of the bathroom. I push open the door. They don’t even notice. Top Hat is showing the others something on his phone. I sit down at the table closest to the exit and put my head down. Nobody can see me now. I’m safe in a fort made of my own arms. It’s like an igloo in here.\n\n“Uh—excuse me. You can’t sleep here.”\n\nThe employee. He looks to be about seventeen. Pimply. His face doesn’t look guilty.\n\n“Oh, I’m not—I’m not sleeping. I just took a bunch of Adderall. And something else before that, I think.”\n\nHe gives me a look. Like a mix of pity and not caring whether I live or die.\n\n“Can I—”\n\nI make a motion mimicking my arm fort.\n\nHe shrugs.\n\nI collapse back onto the table.\n\nI’m being shaken out of the safety of my little cave by Sayed a few minutes later.\n\n“Did you fall asleep here, Cam? It’s not safe.”\n\nHe gestures toward the general vicinity of the homeless.\n\n“That’s presumptuous. Just because they’re homeless doesn’t mean—”\n\n“Oh, shut up Cam. You know what I mean.”\n\n“The one in the top hat grabbed my ass.”\n\n“What? Are you fucking serious?”\n\n“It’s fine. Whatever.”\n\n“It’s not fine. That’s fucked up.”\n\nHe looks like he’s about to do something about it.\n\n“Don’t do anything about it. Please.”\n\n“He can’t just do that.”\n\nSayed is walking over to the group and I’m suddenly—well, I’m not sure that it actually happened. The grabbing. Sometimes I make things like that up. I think I might have been dramatizing for the sake of making life a little more exciting. Top Hat is nice. He was just laughing with his friends about whatever it is that he’s always watching on his phone. I don’t think he’s ever even touched me. Sayed’s walking over there, though. I could say something.\n\nNo words are coming out.\n\nThere seems to be a verbal altercation. Some pointing in my direction. Then—there it is again—the laughing. It’s fucking incessant. Top Hat spits in Sayed’s direction and Sayed looks about ready to hit him. He won’t, though—he hasn’t got it in him. He does knock the phone out of Top Hat’s grasp, and it slides a few feet across the filthy linoleum. More than I ever thought him capable of. Sayed turns and starts walking back toward me. I see Top Hat get up.\n\n“Sayed.” I’m trying to warn him.\n\nBut it’s too late. Before he can turn around or react, Top Hat’s shoving him onto the floor. Sayed hits his head on a chair on his way down. Top Hat picks up his phone and walks back to the group. They’re still laughing. Sayed isn’t getting up. Why isn’t he getting up?\n\n“Is he okay?”\n\nThe employee is asking. Oh God, the employee is gonna call the cops. I’m not fit to be around cops right now.\n\n“Uh.”\n\nI suppose I should go and check on him. I get up from the comfort of my seat. He’s breathing, which I suppose is good.\n\n“Sayed? Hey. Hey. Are you alive?” I’m poking him.\n\nNo response.\n\n“Um, yeah. I think he’ll be fine,” I’m hearing myself shout to the cashier.\n\n“Doesn’t look fine to me.”\n\nThe laughter has ceased. At some point, they became aware of the severity of the situation. They’re looking over here. Top Hat stands.\n\n“Ah, fuck.”\n\nHe’s coming over.\n\n“Is he fuckin’ dead?”\n\n“No, no. Look he’s breathing. I mean—look. He’s breathing, right?”\n\nI thought I had seen Sayed breathe before but now I wasn’t too sure. Top Hat kneels by Sayed.\n\n“Yeah. He’s breathing, thank fuck. He’s knocked out pretty good, though. You should call an ambulance.”\n\n“Um. I don’t think that’s really—”\n\n“I already called one.”\n\nThe cashier called an ambulance. Since when did kids get so responsible? Fuck.\nI don’t want to be here when the paramedics come. I don’t want to go with him to the hospital and watch his face light up when he sees that I’m by his side. He’s the kindest person I’ve ever known. I stand.\n\n“Where you goin’?”\n\nTop Hat looks to me for a response.\n\n“I have to—get some air.”\n\nI stagger out into the cold night. I hardly process that I’m wearing nothing more than a thin hoodie until I start shivering. I stand outside and watch people gather around Sayed. He’s woken up, it seems. Top Hat is giving him water from a cup. The cashier looks bored. He’s watching TikToks, picking at his acne, and barely registering the situation. I hear the sirens then. It looks like Sayed might be protesting their arrival—he’s waving his arms and getting up. He’s looking around the restaurant—for me, presumably.\n\nI walk away. I’m walking home, I think. Sometimes I just walk until my legs get tired but it’s particularly cold tonight. I’m walking home. I hear the door of the A&W slam open and a shout.\n\nIt’s Sayed.\n\n“Cam? Cami?”\n\nI walk faster. Oh, God. I’m going to throw up. I can feel it. The cocktail of substances isn’t meshing well. I grab ahold of the wall nearest to me and next thing I know I’m on my knees throwing up on someone’s Christmas lawn ornaments. Little snowmen getting absolutely massacred. I hear footsteps behind me. Sayed. Fuck.\n\n“Cami, Cami, oh my God, are you okay?”\n\nI’m throwing up so I can’t answer.\n\n“God, that was so fucked up in there. I can’t believe how hard I hit my head.”\n\nI’m still throwing up.\n\n“Did you see they called the paramedics? I thought that was, like, unnecessary. Like—I’m fine. But you don’t seem fine. It’s more than just Adderall. What did you take before?”\n\nI’ve momentarily stopped throwing up.\n\n“I stole something from Ada’s purse at the bar earlier.”\n\nI throw up some more.\n\n“Okay, um, Cam? I actually think you might need to go to the hospital.”\n\n“I’m FINE.”\n\nHow can one person throw up this much? I try and swallow it back so that Sayed thinks I’m done vomiting, but it comes back up twice as strong. Putrid.\n\n“Cami. Stay right here, okay? I’ll go get the paramedics.”\n\nI need to lie down for a second, then I’ll keep walking home. I just need to settle in this little patch of snow at the corner right here and close my eyes for a second. Then I’ll run home as fast as possible.\n\nTwo strong men are lifting me up while Sayed explains the situation. It’s like he’s excited by this. If he were a dog his tail would be wagging.\n\n“Yeah, for sure Adderall, alcohol, probably some benzos, and I’m not sure what else.”\n\nThere is nothing else, I want to say. But I’m so comfortable not speaking while they carry me. It’s so lovely floating like a cloud away from the vomit-covered snowmen I’ve grown so used to. Goodbye, little snowmen.\n\n“I should probably come in the ambulance with her, no? I mean, it was called for me, wasn’t it?”\n\nHe chortles. This turn of events amuses Sayed.\n\n“And she really doesn’t have anyone else…”\n\nThe paramedics grunt back in response. Apparently, a grunt of acquiescence because in the next instant, I’m strapped into a gurney by a female paramedic while Sayed fusses over me.\n\nThis paramedic is nice. I think of her as a mother. She calls me sweetie.\n\n“Cami, is it?”\n\nI nod.\n\n“Camille.”\n\nSayed is answering for me now apparently.\n\n“Okay, Camille, honey, can you tell me what you’ve taken tonight? We’re gonna run some tests on you in a second but anything you can remember will help.”\n\nSayed starts to answer for me again but she cuts him off.\n\n“Look, I know you’re worried for your girlfriend, but I need to hear this information from her.”\n\nI like her. I have to say something.\n\n“Not his girlfriend.”\n\nI mumble.\n\n“What was that, sweetie?”\n\n“I’m not his girlfriend.”\n\nSayed scoffs.\n\n“Well, we’re not labelling it but it’s pretty much as confirmed as it can be. I mean, we do all the couple things together. Like, we’re in love and shit.”\n\n“Okay, well whatever you are to each other, I need Camille to answer some questions without your help.”\n\nHe sighs.\n\n“Okay, yeah. Whatever.”\n\n“Now, hun, tell me what you remember.”\n\n“Well… I remember Sayed hitting his head. On that chair. And I was really worried. I felt so sad.”\n\n“That’s natural, honey. I’m sure it was scary to see that happen. But I need you to tell me what you remember taking.”\n\n“No, I mean. I was so sad because. Because I was hoping he’d hit his head way harder, and that he wouldn’t wake up. But then he was breathing, and he’s fine now. That made me so sad.”"],"score":5.4586816},{"id":"5194","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Susi Lovell in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Lovell, Susi"],"creator_names_search":["Lovell, Susi"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Lovell, Susi\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Originally from England, Susi Lovell worked her way around the world before settling in Montreal. A movement artist-educator, choreographer and past dance critic for the Montreal Gazette, Susi’s stories have appeared in The New Quarterly, Stand Magazine, carte blanche, Grain, Fiddlehead and other journals.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, Miranda"],"Publication_Date":[2023],"material_description":["[{\"side\":\"\",\"image\":\"\",\"other\":\"\",\"extent\":\"\",\"AV_types\":\"Audio\",\"tape_brand\":\"\",\"generations\":\"\",\"Conservation\":\"\",\"equalization\":\"\",\"playback_mode\":\"Mono\",\"playing_speed\":\"\",\"sound_quality\":\"Excellent\",\"recording_type\":\"Digital\",\"storage_capacity\":\"\",\"physical_condition\":\"\",\"track_configuration\":\"\",\"material_designation\":\"\",\"physical_composition\":\"\",\"accompanying_material\":\"\",\"other_physical_description\":\"\"}]"],"recording_type":["Digital"],"AV_type":["Audio"],"playback_mode":["Mono"],"digital_description":["[{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EQ1SBmGXq8ZNrHf0QNXqgDMBE1UtjddZb6l-liIQXGKWRA\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Lovell.mp3\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:02:08\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"1.2 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"145-185 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"MP3\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Unsafe in Large Doses,\\\" by Susi Lovell, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/unsafe-in-large-doses/, accessed on June 15, 2023.\",\"title\":\"Unsafe in Large Doses\",\"credit\":\"Susi Lovell\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"Yes\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"},{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EYND7dWB6OtIjsM1DfqcapYB98M_yd_oHi-Uqt_ubNO6bQ\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Lovell.wav\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:02:08\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"22.7 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"1411 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"WAV\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Unsafe in Large Doses,\\\" by Susi Lovell, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"Unsafe in Large Doses\",\"credit\":\"Susi Lovell\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"contents":["Unsafe in Large Doses\n\nby Susi Lovell\n\nmy feet follow the path, my boots unwilling.\n                 I regret the incident on the yacht. I agree\n                                       to toggle pride. I forget—a problem of age. I regret\n                                                   my age, a grim milestone. Also the photo I couldn’t\n                                                                   forget, the one with the boa. I regret the horse.\n                                                                                  It was so huge and fierce with such long \n                                                                                                      yellow teeth, I felt tiny and timid.\n                                                            I regret the yacht, the horse, the boa. My \n                                unwilling boots groan as I set them on the path.\n                At my age, I thought. Armed with boots, boa, age, I set out on the path.\nRegret is a treat, the luxury of thinking there are\n                            other possibilities. Regret is a yacht, a luminous boat\n                                          of pride, the assumption one could have done better.\n                                                     Regret is a photo left in the bottom drawer of the tallboy \n                                                                 beneath the old duvets, moth eaten\n                                                                             and musty, next to the bow tie that made him\n                                                                                        look the cat’s whiskers. Regret is a groan\n                                                                                                       of recognition—failed\n                                                                                                                                                        again.\n                                                                                                             Regret is the uncertain terrain\n                                                                                of the fens, mosquito infested, full of the\n                                  sulphurous smell of decomposed sphagnum. Regret is toggling\n                       what was with what is and trying to weasel out\n            of what you’ve become.\nRegret is a feather boa floating around your neck (the bird, the bird…. that dawn,\n                            the emu, the bird that can’t fly, flying long-legged across the red-lit\n                                         red sands of the Nullabor Desert.) Regret is age, an unfortunate\n                                                                 fact when it’s too late to rewrite what’s been written.\n                                                                                       Regret is rue, the woody yellow-flowered\n                            ruta graveolens of evil smell and bitter taste,\n                perennial, invasive, but beneficial\n                                           for headaches, arthritis, fevers\n                                                                                   of heart. Rue—herb-of-grace.\n                                                                                                                Unsafe in large doses."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/unsafe-in-large-doses/\",\"citation\":\"Lovell, Susi. Unsafe in Large Doses. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 34–35.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549180383232,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","score":5.4586816},{"id":"5195","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Paz O’Farrell in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology. \n*Genre: nonfiction, CNF."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["O’Farrell, Paz"],"creator_names_search":["O’Farrell, Paz"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"O’Farrell, Paz\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Paz O’Farrell is a writer from Buenos Aires pursuing a Creative Writing Master’s at Concordia. Her work has been published in the Scripps Journal and In Media Res, selected as a finalist for the DISQUIET non-fiction prize and the Adroit Prose Prize. 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Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"},{\"note\":\"Genre should be updated to \\\"Reading: nonfiction\\\" or \\\"Reading: CNF\\\" when one of this options is available.\",\"type\":\"General\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/i-dont-even-know-what-to-do-about-all-this/\",\"citation\":\"O’Farrell, Paz. I don’t even know what to do about all this. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 37–47.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549180383233,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","contents":["I don’t even know what to do about all this\n\nby Paz O’Farrell\n\n*CW: eating disorders\n\nEvery fact I have learned about food, since that little pyramid diagram from primary, has been against my will. Even the useful ones, like how one should order tomato juice on airplanes for maximum hydration. Now I can’t bear to ask for any other drink when they roll down the carts through the carpeted aisles, even though the whole time I watch them approach, slowly, like a menace, I’m thinking I’d kill for a 7UP.\n\nAnother liquid example is beer. A German exchange student I met one autumn night of my life, walking down the Quebecois streets, chose to spend that time telling me about how back home they call beer “liquid bread.” The next few hours I glared at a pitcher of IPA. At my thighs. At the machine that charged me 11 CAD, because everyone is charged individually in Canada. Not at him because he was happy. Liquid bread. I think about this every time my lips kiss the neck of a bottle or I hear a can crack like ice.\n\nMy ex-roommate (freshman year in California, got sent to the hospital that first weekend on account of tequila inexperience) told me avocados are healthy fats. Never mind the “healthy”—I can’t get over the fat part. I used to love putting them in my salads.\n\nMe and my salads. The fucking salads. I am a Sisyphus of kale.\n\n*\n\nHere’s the best one: pineapples eat you back.\n\n*\n\nI know no one really wants to hear about it, but that’s never really been a deterrent in any regard of my life, has it?\n\n*\n\nThese holidays I heard a phrase I hadn’t heard in a while: hacerse la flaca. It means to act like you are skinny, either by pretence or as flaunting. Both are dangerous. Weight has weight back home.\n\n*\n\nI have fruit every now and then. I delight in sugar, but I can’t have too much of it because it’ll make me freak out, so it’s not really delight. It’s like having sex with someone you know you shouldn’t, and you are left with all the bad parts as they keep snoring in the morning. Or like the ring of grime in a bathtub.\n\nYou know, I once had a birthday party where we all sat at a long table and decorated cupcakes. I still remember the purple sprinkles. This must have been eleven years ago. The day after Valentine’s day, a sweltering summer in Buenos Aires made tolerable by the icy pool (refrigerated by a formidable araucaria), the chlorine was drying in our hair—blonde girls turning green—and we dipped our fingers in whipped egg whites and sugar, dulce de leche, melted milk chocolate. I can guarantee I licked all my fingers, and this was all before the birthday cake.\n\n*\n\nThe same girls, two years later, would have a different outlook on cupcakes. The first year of middle school, three classmates of mine had to miss the three-day trip to San Clemente del Tuyú because they had been diagnosed as anorexic. I wasn’t really sure how anorexia would prevent them from whale watching, yet I have to say I remember the sticks they had for legs under the tunics we had to wear. I’d watch them walking down the hallway and imagine them tripping and shattering. It was hard not to. I thought of it as fragility then. My views have changed too.\n\n*\n\nI think potatoes are okay. A dermatologist told me grains break you out. The ex-college roommate said the same about dairy. Everything is bad for something.\n\n*\n\nI know it’s not original to write about eating and its disorders. How it’s bourgeois, even. Hunger as a choice when the world is consuming itself. I’m not sure what defence there is, other than pain. A weak defence. I’d like a moat.\n\nWe know it’s not really about vanity. We know it’s not even about my body! We all know that, like most people, I hated myself and so I designed a daily mechanism to exercise cruelty—figurative flagellation, femininity and catholicism being important factors to consider in light of the virtue of restriction. My American friend who did ballet and is still under its grip tried to convince me that I was alimentally fucked up like her, and I told her: “If that’s true, everyone I know back home has an eating disorder.”\n\nWhat worries me is this: Argentina is #2 in anorexia cases, internationally. Japan has us beat. I think it’s quite literally the opposite end of the world from where I’m writing this, although we are united by a fictional thread that crosses the Earth’s nucleus. #1. God help the Japanese.\n\n*\n\nLet me tell you about my collarbones. Let me tell you about feeling confident most items in the dressing room will look good on my little body. Let me tell you how people break their backs to help me out and buy me drinks. Let me tell you about getting my period about every 110 days and always worrying I’ve gotten fat when I do, and that no one else will ever get me a gin tonic or lift up my suitcase up a step or smile at me in the street or want to hold my hand, quietly, at night, just to feel me.\n\n*\n\nI know a man who got an operation where they cut off half his intestine, or they shrunk his stomach the way grapes get shrivelled. I’m not sure. Something violent and clinical and cosmetic. He did lose weight, but, apparently, every three months he has to pass a stone. My uncle just went on a fishing trip with him and they had to drive him to the hospital two nights in a row.\n\n*\n\nHave you heard about the K-pop idol diet? An apple for glucose, a protein bar for self-explanatory reasons, a potato. Why the fuck do I hold myself to the standard of a Korean pop star, you may wonder, as I do sometimes. And then sometimes I find a lot of comfort in the idea that I am a normal person, allowed to have some garlic butter. Or, obscenely, a slice of carrot cake, with icing, and the world does not swallow me whole.\n\nSince I left Argentina to go north and then even further north, I would throw in a line or two about my weight to my psychologist. Like a report, like a bone, before we moved on to my actual problems, which I had several of (not in the scope of this edible clusterfuck). We didn’t video-call, so it’s not like she saw my flesh and bones and had any grounds to be worried or suspicious. Pick a reason: I didn’t want to magnify it, it wasn’t a big deal, I didn’t want anyone to stop me.\n\nI really liked making myself skinny; it was something I could do as opposed to the aforementioned Actual Problems.\n\nUntil I didn’t and some months it felt excruciating because I had to eat and have a body every single day. I was tired. I am tired. To my bones, visible and near. When my psychologist saw me in person for the first time in years, that was that.\n\n*\n\nNot my mom, though. She didn’t congratulate me explicitly but you should hear the way she glows with pride when she says “this is my daughter” these days. She didn’t sound like that when I was fifteen and fat, I will tell you that. Seven years ago, the best way to get me to smile was an Oreo McFlurry.\n\n*\n\nSomeone explained to me what their keto cousin ate and I had a moment of recognition, except I knew what I had and it sounded like the cousin didn’t. If it isn’t a disguised disorder, what is it with keto? Moral superiority? Masochism?\n\nI used to tell people bread was my favourite food when I was younger. Any kind. I didn’t even put butter on it. Bread and circus, all I needed. I read a poem about bread being inevitable and I think about it like a prayer, as forgiveness, a caloric mantra.\n\n*\n\nDid you know that apparently my mother forbade my sisters from commenting on my weight? I think about that a lot. The sick sense of validation I predicted I’d get from her when my ribs started showing like the arches of the neighbourhood church. Being proven right. Then again, sometimes she frowns at the way a shirt hangs on me, or if I turn down ice cream.\n\nI’ve never understood the woman.\n\n*\n\nI’ve lived with someone who has a similar story. It’s hers to tell. She saw it in me.\n\nCooking for her was one of my favourite things to do. I spent an inflatable-mattress summer in San Francisco doing nothing but planning our meals, scouting recipes, going to the Safeway across the street daily. Bitching when she bitched that I got gluten free flour. Going to the treadmill most mornings.\n\nShe told me, you know, I never want to say anything about your weight (I knew where this was going), but you’re really very skinny. You could use a hamburger.\n\nI spouted some lie about endorphins.\n\nI did not feel really very skinny. I felt monstrous. Vile. I don’t think I saw my reflection that entire summer.\n\nShe said: it’s not on your body, it’s in your head. She tapped her temple twice.\n\nThat helped. But then she too will call me and tell me about gaining weight, mainly in her stomach but not her limbs, so that she feels like a spider. This is objectively funny. I just wish she could hold a mirror to the kind and wise things she tells me about the bullshit we share.\n\n*\n\nThe respect I have for people who don’t worry about any of this. For not applying these ridiculous standards to their body, for living outside of the mental chokehold. It rivals the respect I have for anyone thinner than I am. Our intimate acquaintance with the pain of restriction, like an invisible mutual friend in the room.\n\n*\n\nAt some point I looked at the kind strangers around me and I realized: These people are congratulating me on being thin.\n\nThen I realized further: It’s the discipline. My work ethic.\n\nLastly I realized that if my body is mine and not theirs, then I can look however I want. I can be ugly! I can have acne! I can have a bad haircut! I can even have meat and fat on my bones! And I’m trying to congratulate myself for knowing that, except, you know, everything you’ve read.\n\n*\n\nI haven’t read Delphine de Vigan so if she writes about any of this I’m sorry, it’s not on purpose.\n\n*\n\nLast week I wrote the worst essay of my life on Samuel Beckett and self consumption. Tomorrow I will watch the Timothée Chalamet cannibal movie. For years, one of my favourite stories to tell has been about the Chilean plane crash survivors, who report that human meat tastes like chicken.\n\nI am twenty-two and I am eating myself alive, like my loved ones before me.\n\n*\n\nThe anorexic ex-ballerina who now does pole, a bulimic former high school athlete, and I walk into a Korean barbecue joint. It’s the start of a joke and its punchline too.\n\n*\n\nAt the beach, I pulled out the saltines and offered them to said people. The bulimic said my diet was saltines and gum and I said that’s all you need to live. Are you okay, said the anorexic. A question I had gotten used to after shaving my head the week before. My hip bones were filed and I wore them like accessories. I laughed as a response.\n\n*\n\nI clock anyone skinnier than me. It’s an odd mix of fear and resentment and kinship. One April day I skimmed and scanned the entire populace at Disneyland with satisfaction, given I was the skinniest person at the rat amusement park. Until 5 PM, on the way out. A girl with toothpick legs. She was far younger than me and in a wheelchair. She looked like she was on her Make a Wish foundation trip or something. I don’t know what the fuck was wrong with me, being jealous of that unhealthiness. I wanted to apologize to her. I still do.\n\n*\n\nI remember which part of my tongue to send teriyaki sauce to, which glands thrive with ginger, the sector that blooms with the sweetness of peaches. One of these days I will have chocolate."],"score":5.4586816},{"id":"5196","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Benjamin Bush Anderson in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. 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slow moon settling.\n \nUnder retail lighting we tell ourselves\nto buy discount, or that it’s okay to indulge\n \nin premium peanut butter, pre-cut vegetables.\nCaramel pecan ice cream. \n \nThe week ordered by expiry dates.\nConsider what curdles.\n \nNerves run blue at day’s end. \nJudicial, the way you raise an eyebrow.\n \nMy intentions are good.\nIf I fail you, let’s call it poor planning.\n \nIn the checkout line we debate\namounts due, credit card balances.\n \nWhat we owe is incalculable, without origin.\nOur life, sutured with conditions.\n \nUnprepared to rid ourselves of the things\nthat affix to us, demand allegiance:\n \nour deliveries, our liabilities.\nOur Bluetooth tracker‐clad suitcases.\n \nIndulgence burrows in our jowls.\nI rack up debt and blame my childhood.\n \nHaving learned one can in fact purchase contentment.\nThat a nice shirt will sometimes suffice.\n \nOnce, I ate from your palm. Stood next to you,\nenamoured in a parking lot. Judged no one.\n \nThat’s what love is. Temperature swings, ice\nbreaking on the river. Thuds that imitate a whale call.\n\nYears falter. They’re not to be trusted\nLike weather, they sever expectations.\n \nBeg me open. I will be merciful.\nWhat bargains we have made to be here."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/this-that/\",\"citation\":\"Bush Anderson, Benjamin.  THIS THAT. 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condensation,\n\nunruly, when the body is lost,\nthe hair is still present, still growing,\n\nstill clinging wetly as I brush by it,\nuncoiling down the wall,\n\nknotted, grasping, infinitely growing,\ninfinitely hungry, uncontained\n\nanimal longing, uncontained\nanimal filth.\n\n2.\nlike leftover crepe paper streamers,\nthe moth webs trail down from the ceiling\n\nsticky, gray, multiplying,\ndust and more dust, shivering,\n\nwrithing as the moths burst out—\nin the bed, body webbed and sticky\n\nwith pain, there’s something else moving too,\na soft and ceaseless motion, the unwilling\n\nmovement of life in a dim room filled with\ninsect castings and unwashed laundry.\n\n3.\nthe flowers on the shelf are just dead things\nthat don’t know they’re dead yet meanwhile\n\nthe spider plant is dying in the corner\nand the things you acquired for nurturing\n\nare brown and dead meanwhile you pull\nyour body along behind you on a leash\n\nwhich is sometimes very long and sometimes very\nshort, your body so close you can feel\n\nits breath on your face, another\nthing to feed and water, another unbearable thing."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/triptych/\",\"citation\":\"Ergina, Malaea. triptych. 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Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Smith, Lauren"],"creator_names_search":["Smith, Lauren"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Smith, Lauren\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Lauren Smith is a Concordia student by day and an artist by night. 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Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"},{\"note\":\"Genre should be updated to \\\"Reading: nonfiction\\\" or \\\"Reading: CNF\\\" when one of this options is available.\",\"type\":\"General\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/unspoken/\",\"citation\":\"Smith, Lauren. Unspoken. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 58–62.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549184577537,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","contents":["Unspoken\n\nby Lauren Smith\n\nIt was just before Christmas when the omicron variant spread, and the city of Montréal was once again inflamed with infection. I was sitting with my friend Alison and her flatmate Rosa on the tattered couches in the living room of their apartment, as we awaited the arrival of our friend Oskar, who lived on the floor below. He entered the door with a bag from which he pulled out three parcels wrapped in patterned paper and proceeded to hand one to each of us. In exchange, he received three smiles, perhaps the most rewarding being Rosa’s. As her fingers touched the paper, her mouth stretched so wide that Alison and I couldn’t help but giggle, joining in her pure delight.\n\n“This is my first time getting a Christmas present!” Rosa said with kilojoules of energy coursing through her veins; still, she handled the gift so delicately. She tilted it back and forth, examining it as if she wanted to remember every detail, from the creases where the paper was folded to the feel of the smooth plastic ribbon between her fingers. I could tell this would be one of those distinctive moments for her, vivid in her memory. It was certainly vivid in mine. Hidden within the festive paper of my gift was a sturdy, thread-bound journal in an olive green and a card with a few verses of poetry written in Italian.\n\nGrowing up I had an extensive collection of notebooks, each for a different purpose, my favourite being dedicated to the research and planning involved in catching Santa Claus on video. I was often gifted notebooks, such as the one I received from my childhood best friend with a note that said, “One day you will write like Hemingway” (the only famous author she’d heard of at the age of 10, but most certainly hadn’t read). Then there were the many others my dad would bring back from work, my dog’s sharp bark indicating his arrival. I’d enter the kitchen and be pleased to find a new notebook laying on the counter, each time with a different law firm’s contact information on the front. He would offer me a few candies as well, unfolding his palm to reveal Starbursts and with a grin asking, “Do you want a little burst of sunshine?” They were usually slightly warm from being kept in his pocket, but I always accepted them because the notebooks and candies were our way of communication.\n\nWith time, his offerings became increasingly rare. Weeks passed without a word shared until one quiet evening in May, I received a notebook again. Its vibrant red colour stood out against the contrasting bright blue of our laminate countertops. I was surprised to find a message on the front, handwritten in blue ink on a yellow sticky-note that read, “Lolo, for all of your deep thoughts.” Despite his efforts at communication, he wasn’t around that night for me to thank him. Just like he wasn’t around to pick me up from dance practice, or church, or watch me win the school board’s speech competition back when I wasn’t afraid to use my voice.\n\nHe could’ve been at Joe’s again, wasting the hours of daylight drinking in that dingy garage. Maybe he was at the pub. Maybe he was somewhere we wouldn’t have guessed but would later learn the address from a parking ticket mailed to our house. I never told him how I felt about his habits. It’d be a waste of breath. Not even my mom could get him to attend the 12-step program, and he persistently ran from doctors. We all wanted to help him. I’ll never understand why he didn’t want to help himself.\n\nA loud rip brought my attention to the pain in my chest. My throbbing heart tore like the gift wrap that was now scattered around the carpet in crumbled balls. With a deep breath I remembered my surroundings. A room full of cheap plastic lights in red, yellow, blue, and green, obnoxiously blinking at me as if to cheer me up. They didn’t. But it didn’t matter because the excitement had passed for us all. Rosa’s childlike bliss had faded, and we sat, without saying a word, as we listened to the sounds of distant cars passing through the crack of the opened window. It was as if a gust of melancholy had blown in. We couldn’t ignore the news reports. Another lockdown would be coming.\n\nOskar lit a cigarette and glanced across the room at Alison. She was staring at the paper balls amongst her feet, kicking them around. I picked at the frayed upholstery of the cushion beneath me, twirling the dark blue threads around my pointer finger. Rosa sat upright with rigid posture; her shoulders tensed as she looked at us with troubled eyes. She then shifted her gaze downwards and in a somber voice she murmured, “Did you hear about the suicide at the station today?”\n\nUnsettled by the break in silence, Oskar took a long drag of his cigarette. I watched Rosa sink back into the couch as she explained what she had witnessed. The metro abruptly stopping, the rush of people evacuating the train car, and her impulse to glance back at the tracks, which she regrets. She saw the body. Further description was withheld, but that didn’t do much. I could already see the deformed face, so mutilated it appeared nonhuman. Most haunting were the limp legs and droopy arms possessing a kind of motionlessness that should’ve been unsettling yet seemed almost peaceful.\n\nThe images in my mind slowly melded with my reality as I looked down at the journal in my lap and thought back to the little red book I had unexpectedly received from my dad. That was the last of all the notebooks he would give me, its final page torn out and used to write a letter. A collection of unspoken words enclosed within the thin lined paper, folded three times to fit in the palm of a hand. I can still see it sitting on the table beside the hospital bed where he laid, his yellow and sagging skin rendering him unrecognizable. I was told a nurse read it to him, but I’m not sure if he could still hear at that point.\n\nI thought he would survive long enough to answer my final questions, or at least the question I pondered most as Rosa finished her story. Is that what he always wanted? My grandma believes he gave his answer when he tried to pull the oxygen mask off his face. But what authority do we have to speak for him?\n\nMy arms shivered under my knit cardigan, but, before I could ask, Alison stood up to shut the window. Trembling, I brought my knees to my chest, hugging the notebook still in my lap. Rosa moved from across the room to sit beside me. Oskar ashed his cigarette into an empty bottle from the previous night’s party. Alison connected her phone to a speaker. The Christmas lights stopped flickering, my heart settled and the remaining smoke in the room froze in time as Françoise Hardy’s voice lulled the night. The sun rose late the next morning."],"score":5.4586816},{"id":"5199","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Tina Wayland in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology. \n*Genre: nonfiction, CNF."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Wayland, Tina"],"creator_names_search":["Wayland, Tina"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Wayland, Tina\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Tina Wayland is completing her Creative Writing MA at Concordia University, where she won the department’s 2021 McKeen Award for “Where the Light Gets In.” She’s been published in such places as carte blanche and Open Door Magazine. Tina’s story “The Tending of Small Gardens” made the 2021 CBC Non-Fiction Prize longlist and “Foxholes” was shortlisted in Room Magazine’s 2022 Short Forms Contest.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, Miranda"],"Publication_Date":[2023],"material_description":["[{\"side\":\"\",\"image\":\"\",\"other\":\"\",\"extent\":\"\",\"AV_types\":\"Audio\",\"tape_brand\":\"\",\"generations\":\"\",\"Conservation\":\"\",\"equalization\":\"\",\"playback_mode\":\"Mono\",\"playing_speed\":\"\",\"sound_quality\":\"Excellent\",\"recording_type\":\"Digital\",\"storage_capacity\":\"\",\"physical_condition\":\"\",\"track_configuration\":\"\",\"material_designation\":\"\",\"physical_composition\":\"\",\"accompanying_material\":\"\",\"other_physical_description\":\"\"}]"],"recording_type":["Digital"],"AV_type":["Audio"],"playback_mode":["Mono"],"digital_description":["[{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EZvY8IQrR8FJu999FNqk5NsBYck5NNjRu5uqajBXMqtSSA\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Wayland.wav\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:09:56\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"157.8 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"1411 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"WAV\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"The Tending of Small Gardens,\\\" by Tina Wayland, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"The Tending of Small Gardens\",\"credit\":\"Tina Wayland\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"},{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EcJp2bh8fddKmD7A3BO4nSMByRwvNwSNwT-IkJ0aJc1MoQ\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Wayland.mp3\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:09:56\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"6.7 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"145-185 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"MP3\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"The Tending of Small Gardens,\\\" by Tina Wayland, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/the-tending-of-small-gardens/, accessed on June 15, 2023.\",\"title\":\"The Tending of Small Gardens\",\"credit\":\"Tina Wayland\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"Yes\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"},{\"note\":\"Genre should be updated to \\\"Reading: nonfiction\\\" or \\\"Reading: CNF\\\" when one of this options is available.\",\"type\":\"General\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/the-tending-of-small-gardens/\",\"citation\":\"Wayland, Tina. The Tending of Small Gardens. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 84–91.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549185626112,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","contents":["The Tending of Small Gardens\n\nby Tina Wayland\n\nIn late winter we walked through a neighbourhood in lockdown, my daughter and me, her 10-year-old hand in mine. In those early days a tendril of fear ran through everything, grew wild and sudden and unexpected like weeds in the thinnest, most impossible of cracks. We walked, scarves pulled up like masks, avoiding people, pacing up and down the same streets, over and over. Caught in a loop.\n\nThis tree, that park, those stairs.\n\nIt was sometime in mid-March, snow still on the ground, when we found our way behind the rows of the neighbourhood’s three-storey homes, those red- and yellow-brick houses with their winding, black-iron staircases. The Montreal of postcards. We stepped from the quiet of the street into somewhere else entirely—an alley, hidden, running the length of the block, covered in fresh snow.\n\nSafe.\n\nAnd filled with signs of life.\n\nMy daughter stepped forward and broke the crust with her boot, then reached for me to follow. We ducked, avoiding the grey branches of leafless trees hanging low into the alley, heavy, scattering snow as we passed. There were wood planks to peek through, wire fences, the backs of old storage sheds built flush against the alley, dirty windows revealing summer storage. I pointed out snow-covered deck chairs and mounds of wintering gardens and Christmas lights left up, months later, casting colour and light into the gloom.\n\nAs we slipped past houses the occupants would look up from tables and sinks full of dishes, watch us walk past as they stood in doorways smoking cigarettes, sipping coffee, housecoats billowing in the winter air. It was like walking in on some secret, shared between alley neighbours, no one saying a thing.\n\nOnce, my daughter handed me her gloves and we walked with palms stuck together in the late-March thaw. At her insistence we began to explore more of these places, finding our way in between row houses, learning how to access the back of every block. She began to venture out ahead, showing me alley treasures that had started to peek out from the snow: an empty insect house awaiting its spring tenants, a blue plastic rain barrel, a painted sign pointing the way to Paris and London and Miami.\n\nSome days we’d walk further to find new alleys, leaving the confines of our own streets for the uncertainty and distraction of something—anything—different. Other days we retraced our steps closer to home. It became our ritual, a way to break up identical days, to keep the fear away, to hold my daughter close. We didn’t need to restrict ourselves to sidewalks or step out of a stranger’s path. Instead, there was freedom of space, of movement, a way to pass by someone on either side of the alley, with plenty of room between. There were no cars to watch for, no delivery trucks to maneuver around. It was a path meant only for people, and it was mostly just the two of us.\n\nDays and weeks passed and yards began to emerge from hibernation, soil soaked in winter runoff, water puddling between the rows. When the sun was out the neighbours opened their windows a crack, filling the air with music and conversation and a trail of arguments, bits of life escaping from confinement. My daughter put her finger to her lips, listening, as some song I’d never heard escaped from an upstairs window. She walked down the path ahead of me, singing all the words.\n\nOn our walks we discovered a ruelle verte, marked with a rusty blue-and-green sign—a communal space tended by neighbours, filled with box planters and benches and walls of vines that had just begun to bud. Even in the pre-spring mud with the branches still so bare we could see these were different; we knew—in just weeks—they were going to be special. I felt a wave of anticipation and sadness for all that was about to change.\n\nAlmost overnight the weather warmed, rousing magnolia flowers that filled the bare trees with thick petals of pink and white before they fell and covered the ground like a carpet, making way for their leaves. Next came the tips of tulips growing long and green until they finally opened to reveal their colours. It became a game to guess which ones would emerge red or white or yellow, finding our way back down the alley to see who was right. Sometimes we’d be surprised with an orange tulip, or one with pointed petals, or a row of tulips so purple they were almost black, set against a wall of old bricks. Everything blooming, everything crumbling.\n\nSoon we switched our boots for shoes and balanced our way across puddles and along fences, my daughter’s spring coat suddenly too short, shoes too tight. I reached out to catch myself and she grabbed my arm with a hand that was so much bigger than I remembered. How had I missed this—this hand I’d held every day, this child whose head was now as high as my shoulders, legs sprouting out from pants two sizes too small?\n\nI placed a palm on the top of her head—hatless, hot from the spring sun—to get a feel for her height. To pause, to stop this moment. But she reached her hand up, pushed her fingers through the cracks of mine. Incapable of standing still.\n\nBack doors began to open, spilling new sounds into the alleyways—music, voices, the clanging of dishes and rattling of patio furniture pulled outdoors. The air filled with the smells of spring cleaning, lemon and pine and bleach. Now neighbours leaned against railings, lazily dangling cigarettes in the late afternoon sun, ashes falling and drifting in the warm spring wind.\n\nWe knew each back path by heart now, my daughter and me. Knew every inch of every alley. Yet everything around us was changing. The trees began to grow their leaves, in moments when we weren’t looking, turning bare branches into thick canopies that hung over our heads. The grey tentacles of wild vines that crisscrossed fences and walls were now a canvas of green with the brightest bursts of flowers, here pink, there white with flecks of blue. Dirt plots were turned and fertilized with fistfuls of compost and manure and crushed bone, a scent that clung to our noses and turned our stomachs.\n\nIn what felt like only days the gardens began to grow, and we peeked through metal fences and between slats for a glimpse at the life pushing up from the soil. These were not the ample lawns of the suburbs, with gardens neatly planted in one corner of pruned grass. These were yards in one of the city’s oldest neighbourhoods, built on land that was uneven and shifting, pierced with the roots of century-old trees that lifted and cracked everything in their path. Here gardens grew where they could—in plots pushed up against the fence where the light got in, in bright plastic buckets, old crates, clawfoot tubs that once washed families of eight or nine or ten children in a row.\n\nWe wondered how many had planted their gardens here before, generation after generation, each layer growing and maturing and dying to feed the ones that came next. Wondered who had been here before there were even gardens to tend. My daughter said these had probably been around since I was born, and I answered they’d been here much longer, our perceptions separated by an undergrowth of time.\n\nAs the days grew warm and long there was new life everywhere we looked. Box gardens were filled with neat rows of romaine and arugula. Pots on stoops and back stairs held tomato plants that threatened to drop ripe fruit against the trestles that held them in place. Squirrels gathered raspberries that climbed up thorny vines, tucking them into their cheeks, oblivious to the shiny metal plates planted on sticks to chase them away.\n\nAnd everywhere, everywhere the ivy grew and curled around everything, its green-and-white leaves fitting into even the smallest of spaces, clinging to fences knee-high, then eye level, finally reaching the top and breaking free to the other side. Once, I twisted a stray strand around my fist, tugged, trying to pull it, wield it to my will, then tucking it back into the yard it had come from. But the next day it had escaped, untameable, into the alley.\n\nThen spring became summer, and we walked the alleys in our bare legs, scraping against spiky milkweed pods and lily leaves, kicking pinecones with our feet. Sometimes my daughter would stop to lean on me and empty the rocks from her shoes, balancing on one foot as I reached out to steady her. Her fingers on my shoulder were so much bigger now, long and lean, nails no longer caked in the dirt that once seemed to never wash off, now tended to in her own private moments.\n\nNow back yards sprouted elderly men in wide-brimmed hats, lazy grey-bearded dogs, children in paddle pools. Neighbours typed on laptops in the sunshine, talked over fences. Everywhere we looked there was life, growing between cracks and around buildings, reaching up into trees and around telephone poles that had been planted here decades ago. We kicked up clouds as we walked, remnants of dirt and old brick dust that settled over everything, pieces of the past unearthed until the rain washed it all away again.\n\nOne day a familiar path we’d walked many times before had changed, overnight. A layer of green grass now covered the alley, fresh cut and even, the scent of it heavy, almost overwhelming in the air. Someone had laid stones down the middle, and we stepped from one to the next, each spaced perfectly for even the smallest of feet. There were old crates filled with newly planted flowers, herbs, and cucumbers, their yellow blossoms a promise of new growth to come. Plastic chairs in every colour had been set at each side, with tree stumps for tables covered in coffee cup rings and chipped saucers filled with ash. This was a country scene in the heart of the city, our alley oasis, grown out of the snow and the mud of the seasons into this landscape that reshaped the concrete foundations, taking up room, finding a life of its own. In our months of walking together, of escaping the confinement and weeding out the fear, exploring the spaces behind the scenes, these alleys had grown on us. Around us.\n\nI reached for my daughter’s hand, but she’d already moved away."],"score":5.4586816},{"id":"5200","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Sophia Cirignano in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Cirignano, Sophia"],"creator_names_search":["Cirignano, Sophia"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Cirignano, Sophia\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sophia Cirignano is a recent Religious Studies graduate (MA) from Concordia University, with a focus on queer studies, writing, and teaching. Her poems have appeared in Ovunque Siamo, Apeiron Review, Gasher Journal, and elsewhere.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, Miranda"],"Publication_Date":[2023],"material_description":["[{\"side\":\"\",\"image\":\"\",\"other\":\"\",\"extent\":\"\",\"AV_types\":\"Audio\",\"tape_brand\":\"\",\"generations\":\"\",\"Conservation\":\"\",\"equalization\":\"\",\"playback_mode\":\"Mono\",\"playing_speed\":\"\",\"sound_quality\":\"Excellent\",\"recording_type\":\"Digital\",\"storage_capacity\":\"\",\"physical_condition\":\"\",\"track_configuration\":\"\",\"material_designation\":\"\",\"physical_composition\":\"\",\"accompanying_material\":\"\",\"other_physical_description\":\"\"}]"],"recording_type":["Digital"],"AV_type":["Audio"],"playback_mode":["Mono"],"digital_description":["[{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/ET5tCJHk6fNBtHQNRpRxGhsBbeQudR5rq0oMI1mONcow_w\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Cirignano.mp3\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:01:03\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"0.55 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Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"Giverny\",\"credit\":\"Sophia Cirignano\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"contents":["Giverny\n\nby Sophia Cirignano\n\nAfter the hour walk in the sun \n              down the trembling \npath that appears around each \n              bend like a vision test \nthrough the pale lemon dining \n              room and bronze pans \nlined against the azure wall the \n              goops of imitation oils\nand the patterned garden with \n              its crowds of milky-haired \nwomen and their iphones poised \n              the perfect distance from \nreading glasses and past misted \n              armpits and hands gripping \ncherry coke, after all that and the \n              countless petal formations \nwe give new names to—jaundice \n              blush, luminous duster—\nwe take the time to look up in a \n              dark wide-irised moment \nto the rustle of a large oak whose \n              dull dull color and odorless \nlinen skin act as a digestive a \n              damp towel a cure to\nthe affliction of flowers."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/giverny/\",\"citation\":\"Cirignano, Sophia. Giverny. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 83.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549186674688,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","score":5.4586816},{"id":"5201","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Nadia Trudel in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Trudel, Nadia"],"creator_names_search":["Trudel, Nadia"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Trudel, Nadia\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nadia Trudel is a Tiohtià:ke/Montreal based writer, culture journalist, audio storyteller, one-time playwright, and general attention seeker.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, Miranda"],"Publication_Date":[2023],"material_description":["[{\"side\":\"\",\"image\":\"\",\"other\":\"\",\"extent\":\"\",\"AV_types\":\"Audio\",\"tape_brand\":\"\",\"generations\":\"\",\"Conservation\":\"\",\"equalization\":\"\",\"playback_mode\":\"Mono\",\"playing_speed\":\"\",\"sound_quality\":\"Excellent\",\"recording_type\":\"Digital\",\"storage_capacity\":\"\",\"physical_condition\":\"\",\"track_configuration\":\"\",\"material_designation\":\"\",\"physical_composition\":\"\",\"accompanying_material\":\"\",\"other_physical_description\":\"\"}]"],"recording_type":["Digital"],"AV_type":["Audio"],"playback_mode":["Mono"],"digital_description":["[{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EfX2tlMWKbRKnd5FCMC3RAgBcjWVFoyQJz6ivm7xu60ufA\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Trudel.mp3\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:18:28\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"10.4 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"145-185 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"MP3\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Goblin,\\\" by Nadia Trudel, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/goblin/, accessed on June 16, 2023.\",\"title\":\"Goblin\",\"credit\":\"Nadia Trudel\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"Yes\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"},{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EfeiKMcE419JhF46SNcQI_0Bxa2IjaIh0DH2mJt_amr7Uw\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Trudel.wav\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:18:28\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"293.2 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"1411 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"WAV\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Goblin,\\\" by Nadia Trudel, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"Goblin\",\"credit\":\"Nadia Trudel\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/goblin/\",\"citation\":\"Trudel, Nadia. Goblin. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 65–82.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549187723264,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","contents":["Goblin\n\nby Nadia Trudel\n\nWendy Kaufman is dead.\nIt feels so good to get that off my chest. I could just… shout it from the rooftop.\nBut I won’t.\nBecause then the people parked outside Wendy Kaufman’s house would hear.\nWendy Kaufman is dead, and it’s a secret. Only two people in the world know.\nI shouldn’t write this down. What if Beth decides to get nosey or a stalker breaks in?\n\nThe reason it’s still a secret is that we haven’t talked about it since we decided. And by we, I mean Ivy. But maybe I’m avoiding responsibility. My therapist said so.\n\nMy therapist doesn’t know Wendy Kaufman is dead. Because I am Wendy Kaufman. So I talk about a friend I lost named Maria. That’s Wendy’s real name.\n\nI tell Dr. Grant that I miss Maria. That I feel guilty. That I feel angry.\n\nI’ve never told Dr. Grant that I am also glad. Relieved. That Maria—Wendy Kaufman—is dead.\n\nDr. Grant suggested that I write a letter to Maria. Maybe I will. What could I say? Sorry you died and I agreed to be you so people could keep profiting off Wendy Kaufman? But I’m deflecting blame again; I profited the most.\n\n*\n\nI used to be able to go months without thinking about how Wendy Kaufman is dead. I grieved, but Wendy Kaufman has a busy lifestyle. Exciting. So it was easy to get caught up in things, forget that I wasn’t really Wendy Kaufman and that she had died. Things have slowed down though and I’m getting older.\n\nNowadays she’s all I can think about. She’s in my dreams. We look identical but I can just sense it’s her.\n\nI guess we won’t be identical someday. I keep getting older and she’s forever nineteen. Lucky bitch.\n\n*\n\nI thought about it more and I guess we’re already no longer identical. She must be like a skeleton by now, right?\n\n*\n\nI keep having nightmares of falling. Like Wendy. I think she fell 12 feet.\nI didn’t see her body, but I imagine it.\n\nI see our body on the floor, all twisted up as if we’ve been possessed by a demon, pooling blood creating a red halo around our delicate skull. She’s either completely alone or surrounded by flashing cameras. Subtle, right?\n\nDid she know she was dying?\nDid she think of me?\n\nThe big question is: what would she think of me being Wendy Kaufman? Of course, we’d like to think she’d be happy that I am maintaining and furthering her legacy or whatever, and that I finished her album.\n\nAnd then continued to make albums…\n\nBut I’m also Maria. Her parents don’t know Wendy Kaufman is dead, so they don’t know Maria is dead.\n\nI resent them for not being able to tell the difference between their daughter and a stranger.\n\nI guess it’s okay; we have that in common.\n\n*\n\nDr. Grant asked me today what would give me closure. And it was sort of funny because there’s nothing more closed or final than death. But maybe if I could visit a grave… leave flowers or something that would be nice. I’m not sure what happened to her body after she died; I didn’t think to ask then.\n\nIf she had a burial, did they put her real name on her gravestone? Probably not, her real name is on the internet.\n\nSo an alias then.\nAnother one.\nYou could lose track if you weren’t paying attention.\n\nOkay, so no grave visit like in the movies. There was the letter, like Dr. Grant suggested but… I don’t know, it feels silly.\n\n*\n\nI’m 27. How am I supposed to compare to a dead nineteen-year-old?\n\n*\n\nI’m listening to Wendy Kaufman’s albums. Her voice has changed.\nBecause women’s voices get a bit deeper when they get older.\nAnd Wendy Kaufman has smoked cigarettes since she was fourteen.\nAnd Wendy Kaufman is dead, and I am Wendy Kaufman now.\nI wonder which one of us is a better singer.\nWe’ve each won a Grammy.\nHers was for New Artist. Mine was for Best Impression.\nIt’s okay if Wendy Kaufman is a better singer than I am.\nDeep down I’m really an actress.\n\n*\n\nWhen you think about it, who’s really Wendy Kaufman? She was Wendy Kaufman for three years. I’ve been Wendy Kaufman for eight and I might be for eighty. Does time dictate ownership?\n\nWendy Kaufman is an African artifact, and I am the British Museum. I stole it and because it’s been so long, I refuse to give it back. Without the stolen artifacts, the British Museum has nothing.\n\n*\n\nI sort of lied earlier. Wendy Kaufman and I are not totally identical. Almost.\n\nPeople don’t know Wendy Kaufman is dead, but they do know Wendy Kaufman got in a big accident eight years ago. She was in the hospital for two months.\n\nThe accident explains for any slight changes. Besides, everyone knows fame changes you.\n\n*\n\nShe has a few tattoos. Paradise on her wrist, her parents’ birthdays on her ankles, her dead dog Mickey on her arm. But the one I hate the most is the cross on her back. I’m not a Christian.\n\nSince her death, Wendy Kaufman has gotten an angel tattooed on her arm.\n\nAfter the Black Dahlia era, Wendy Kaufman also got a tattoo of her alter ego’s floral namesake.\n\nWendy Kaufman and I went to the movies once. I think it was the only semi-normal hangout we ever had. They were playing a gory, experimental indie drama about the real Black Dahlia. The one who was murdered, you know?\n\nWe took a walk after and I just listened to Wendy talk about the Black Dahlia.\n\n“Isn’t it kinda awful that we never call her by her real name?” she asked. “The journalists just made that name up; she never gave permission.”\n\nShe thought about it more, “It is a pretty name though. Romantic. Glamorous.”\n“Wendy, she was murde—”\n“Cut in half. I mean it’s sick, totally, but, it’s also weirdly poetic, don’t you think?”\n“Uh…”\n“I don’t know… two names, two halves… kinda like us,” she smiled.\n\nThen a fan walked over and asked me, Wendy Kaufman, for a photo. Her, Wendy Kaufman, took the picture.\n\nI don’t know much but I’m pretty sure Wendy would have liked that I thought to use that name for the one album. A break from being Wendy Kaufman. She’d like the tattoo too.\n\n*\n\nToday I got an M tattooed on my hand.\nMaria.\nAnd Melissa.\nI’m Melissa.\nI was Melissa.\nMaria and Melissa.\nFunny coincidence.\nBoth dead.\nNo one remembers either.\nAt least I remember Maria.\nI forget about Melissa.\nPoor Melissa.\n\n*\n\nWhy should I feel guilty?\nIt’s not like I pushed her.\nShe died all on her own.\nThomas Paine said, “It is the living, and not the dead, that are to be accommodated.”\n\n*\n\nI had a panic attack today. Like Wendy Kaufman.\nThey were outside the dance studio waiting, then they followed me home.\n\nThey used to follow Wendy Kaufman more, but then she stopped going out. Whenever she’s not working, she’s at home. I started getting anxious being in big crowds, so no parties or clubs. Wendy Kaufman is still okay with concerts because she is above them all in her own little world and they just watch. The edge of the stage is lined with yellow tape.\n\nI only saw Wendy Kaufman have a panic attack once. She was in a limo. She was meant to go on a carpet, but it happened before she got there. I got a call and I had to clock in. We changed clothes in the limo with a small team in our company.\n\nI felt bad for her. She had no dignity, but they managed to take even more. She was naked and still crying when Wendy Kaufman got out of the limo fully dressed.\n\n“Close your eyes, I don’t want anyone to look at me.”\n\nIt’s uncanny. My body doing this thing. Her big weakness. The reason I was found, the reason I exist.\n\nUltimately the panic attack itself freaks me out more than what actually caused the panic attack.\n\n*\n\nI had good intentions at first. I wanted to protect Wendy Kaufman. She was a sweet girl. Shy. She’d started getting panic attacks because of all the attention. So they just hired me to distract or fill in occasionally. That’s all. An innocent body double. You know how it goes.\n\n*\n\nI wish I’d never met Wendy Kaufman.\nIt would’ve been so much easier if she’d been a stranger.\nBut we were friends.\nAt least I thought so.\nBut maybe she was just being nice.\nWendy Kaufman was a people pleaser.\n\n*\n\nWhen I first met Wendy Kaufman, I thought she was beautiful.\nAnd it was weird because I’d never looked at myself and thought that I was beautiful.\n\nWe were both giddy the day we met. We got ice cream, and I went to the studio with her.\n\nWe laughed when I tried imitating her singing.\nWe kept touching each other, checking to see if the other one was real.\nShe said it was a miracle. She believed in those kinds of things.\nShe also believed in things like sin and karma and hell.\n\n*\n\nIvy told me at rehearsals today that she’s worried about me. She said Wendy Kaufman looked tired and I told her I haven’t been able to sleep. When I do, I have nightmares. Ivy didn’t ask what my nightmares were about. She knows. But I wish she would ask. I wish we could share this load on our shoulders. But we were never partners in crime.\n\nSometimes I wonder if Ivy has forgotten that I’m not Wendy Kaufman, or that I wasn’t always Wendy Kaufman. Does she miss Wendy Kaufman? Did she grieve her like I did?\n\nWhat if Ivy never knew? Did I imagine that conversation? The one that happened in the hospital.\n\n*\n\nWendy Kaufman had a boyfriend when she died. River. He was a movie star.\nWe—I—was scared that it would be too obvious if I broke up with him right away.\nI cried after we had sex.\nHe didn’t notice anything, or he just didn’t care enough to say something. Tits are tits.\nRiver and his wife died a few years ago. I don’t remember why.\nTragic.\n\n*\n\nI never thought it would go on for this long.\nBut why did I say yes if I thought I’d get caught?\nMaybe I want to get caught; maybe I did from the start.\nI always ask myself why I said yes.\n\nA choice was presented but really it was an illusion. Who could say no to being Wendy Kaufman? If I wasn’t going to be Wendy Kaufman I wouldn’t exist.\n\nSomeone has to be Wendy Kaufman. Might as well be someone convincing.\n\n*\n\nWhat if they get rid of me?\n\n*\n\nWendy Kaufman is very busy nowadays. She feels better when she’s working.\n\nAnd it makes Wendy Kaufman’s fans happy when she makes music and she performs and when she’s pretty and skinny and smiling.\n\nThis is why I’m Wendy Kaufman.Wendy Kaufman wouldn’t mind. She’d be grateful really. Pat me on the back. One day she will pat me on the back. She’ll kiss me right on the mouth.\n\n*\n\nI can just sense that Wendy Kaufman’s next album will change the world.\n\nBecause I’m going to show them who I really am.\nWho I really am.\nWho Wendy Kaufman really is.\nWho… that other girl really is.\nHer name is on the tip of my tongue.\n\n*\n\nI’m the Pied Piper\nFollow the sound of my song\nCome here darling, I’m your paradise\nPlease don’t reject me\nI’m here to save you, here to ruin you\nPlease forgive me because we can’t live without each other\nYou can’t ever escape this maze\n\n*\n\nI dreamed about her again last night. Both of us.\nWe were wearing matching red jester outfits. Bells and all.\n\nI was holding a white rose and she was carrying a bindle. And there was this tiny white dog following us, yapping and nipping at our heels. I kept pricking my finger on the thorns but she told me I had to keep it. We were arguing about it and didn’t notice we were falling off a cliff. But then, as we were falling, the setting changed and we weren’t alone outside. We were surrounded by people, stage diving, and we looked at each other and smiled.\n\nAt the last second, the crowd disappeared, and she hit the ground. I saw her bleeding and I got scared because I couldn’t save myself. I woke up as I hit the floor.\n\n*\n\nI saw my parents today.\nI missed them.\nThey complain that I don’t come home often enough.\n\nMy mom asks me if it’s true I’m dating Swan. She reads everything about me. So do I. I’m Wendy Kaufman’s biggest fan.\n\nMy dad gave me an old diary with song lyrics. I used to always write my own songs.\n“You’d keep us up at night playing piano,” he says.\nDid I? I guess so. The grand piano in my house is gorgeous but decorative.\nWhen they hug me goodbye my mom says, “I love you, Maria.”\nMaria’s parents. Not mine. My inheritance.\nI wonder where my parents are. Have they forgotten me too?\n\nBut, well, if it mattered, then I’d know. If Melissa mattered at all she wouldn’t be dead and forgotten either.\n\n*\n\nI should try writing lyrics again.\n\nTurning distress and negativity into art sounds like something that therapist would tell me to do.\n\nOr write that letter.\n\n*\n\nGiven or Taken?\nGiven or Taken?\nGiven or Taken?\n\nBlessed or Cursed?\nBlessed or Cursed?\nBlessed or Cursed?\n\nStar, Saint or Sinner?\nStar, Saint or Sinner?\nStar, Saint or Sinner?\n\n*\n\nVictory was inherited, a secret in plain sight, ugly, under stage lights.\nI’m dancing in the marionette’s square.\nFor her, for you.\n\n*\n\nI bought blackout curtains for all the windows.\nI wish I could burn out their eyes like some kind of biblical revenge.\n\n*\n\nCan’t you see me?\n\n*\n\nWendy…\n\nWendy of loneliness.\nWendy of jealousy.\nBeautiful Wendy.\nInsecure Wendy.\nMint-choco flavoured Wendy.\nWendy the fraud.\nWendy underground.\nWendy in stripes.\nIt’s all Wendy.\n\nWendy, Wendy, Wendy.\nWendy, Wendy, Wendy.\n\n*\n\nTell me the name lingering on my lips.\nPlease call my name.\n\n*\n\nDear Wendy,\n\nI am sorry that you are dead. But you are so lucky to have me. You came back from the dead. You’re a vampire.\n\nI’m trying to be a good Wendy. A good girl. So please be on my side.\n\nI hope you didn’t suffer too much when you died. But maybe Ivy had mercy and just smothered you in the hospital bed. I think she’s out to get me too now, so I don’t sleep. She’s probably found another Wendy Kaufman, or maybe Ivy is switching it up and she’s found another Black Dahlia.\n\nI wonder if you were a good person. Please write me back to let me know if you’re upstairs or downstairs so I know where to go. I want to see you and hear all your names.\n\nLove,\nMaria\n\n*\n\nI think Melissa is evil.\nI’m scared of her.\nI think she wants to kill me.\n\n*\n\nThe show must go on.\n \nForever\n        \tand ever\n                    \t       and ever\n \n           1. for the money.\n           2. for the show\n           3. we get ready\n           4. we go\n*\n\nI have to burn the diary."],"score":5.4586816},{"id":"5202","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Jade Palmer in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Palmer, Jade"],"creator_names_search":["Palmer, Jade"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Palmer, Jade\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Jade Palmer (she/her) is pursuing a BA Honours in English and creative writing and a minor in sexuality studies at Concordia University in Tiohtià:ke/Montreal. She served as co-editor-in-chief of Soliloquies Anthology, Concordia’s undergraduate literary journal, during the 2022-2023 academic year. Her work has previously been published in long con magazine, and is forthcoming in yolk.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, 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Jade Palmer, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"Onyx and Rose Gold\",\"credit\":\"Jade Palmer\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"contents":["Onyx and Rose Gold\n\nby Jade Palmer\n\nWhen Grandma Flo says, “here, before you go, I want you to have this,” I think, oh no, not another useless trinket that will be stacked in the ever-closed closet of my childhood bedroom, she thinks she can sluff off all her old stuff on me just because she is about to d- and then she pulls out a rose gold pocket mirror with an Art Nouveau girl embossed on the top and puts it in my hand and it’s really quite ornate so I say, “wow, Grandma, this is really beautiful, thank you so much,” and then the Art Nouveau girl says, “you are going to have to write a poem for her funeral someday,” and I say, “I know,” and Grandma Flo says, “what,” and I say, “what,” and then actually in my head this time I think, oh fuck, and that’s when I notice Grandpa Wilson’s watery dementia eyes that are onyx and unmoving from the leather armchair in the corner and then the Art Nouveau girl says, “maybe he knows the most out of all of us,” and I kind of think she’s right even though I don’t say it but then Grandma Flo says, “what a shame Wilson’s great mind has escaped him,” pursing her lips and shaking her head staring right into the stones and I think, wow that was pretty cold-hearted, and the metal bottom of the mirror heats up in my palm and I feel a slender hand slither up my throat and I say, “have a good day, Wilson,” and Grandpa Wilson’s mouth hangs open a hundred leagues deep a well with no water at the bottom just a waft of old-meat-on-the-counter smell coming from his maw then Grandma Flo says, “lovely to see you, take care,” and I say, “lovely to see you too, Grandma,” and I kind of mean it I guess and then the door is swinging close close close and Grandpa Will says, “thank you,” and Grandma Flo looks at him and I look at him and the Art Nouveau girl sighs and the knob clicks shut."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/onyx-and-rose-gold/\",\"citation\":\"Palmer, Jade. Onyx and Rose Gold. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 63–64.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549188771840,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","score":5.4586816},{"id":"5190","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Julie Triganne in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Triganne, Julie"],"creator_names_search":["Triganne, Julie"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Triganne, Julie\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Julie Triganne is from Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. She is currently completing a master’s degree in creative writing at Concordia University.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, 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MB\",\"bitrate\":\"145-185 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"MP3\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Weeknight,\\\" by Julie Triganne, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/weeknight/, accessed on June 15, 2023.\",\"title\":\"Weeknight\",\"credit\":\"Julie Triganne\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"Yes\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"},{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EUKgj4VgwK9At9mI2q4khNwBNCXHJMZ37sXvCSUJIV1lCQ\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Triganne.wav\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:02:18\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"12.2 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"1411 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"WAV\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Weeknight,\\\" by Julie Triganne, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"Weeknight\",\"credit\":\"Julie Triganne\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"contents":["Weeknight\n\nby Julie Triganne\n\nCircling the grocery store aisles.\nWe move like a slow moon settling.\n \nUnder retail lighting we tell ourselves\nto buy discount, or that it’s okay to indulge\n \nin premium peanut butter, pre-cut vegetables.\nCaramel pecan ice cream. \n \nThe week ordered by expiry dates.\nConsider what curdles.\n \nNerves run blue at day’s end. \nJudicial, the way you raise an eyebrow.\n \nMy intentions are good.\nIf I fail you, let’s call it poor planning.\n \nIn the checkout line we debate\namounts due, credit card balances.\n \nWhat we owe is incalculable, without origin.\nOur life, sutured with conditions.\n \nUnprepared to rid ourselves of the things\nthat affix to us, demand allegiance:\n \nour deliveries, our liabilities.\nOur Bluetooth tracker‐clad suitcases.\n \nIndulgence burrows in our jowls.\nI rack up debt and blame my childhood.\n \nHaving learned one can in fact purchase contentment.\nThat a nice shirt will sometimes suffice.\n \nOnce, I ate from your palm. Stood next to you,\nenamoured in a parking lot. Judged no one.\n \nThat’s what love is. Temperature swings, ice\nbreaking on the river. Thuds that imitate a whale call.\n\nYears falter. They’re not to be trusted\nLike weather, they sever expectations.\n \nBeg me open. I will be merciful.\nWhat bargains we have made to be here."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/weeknight/\",\"citation\":\"Triganne, Julie. Weeknight. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 16–17.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549192966144,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","score":5.4586816},{"id":"5191","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Misha Solomon in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Solomon, Misha"],"creator_names_search":["Solomon, Misha"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/19160208386348620534\",\"name\":\"Solomon, Misha\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Misha Solomon (he/him) is a homosexual poet in and of Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. He is the author of two chapbooks, FLORALS (above/ground press, 2020) and Full Sentences (Turret House Press, 2022), and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Best Canadian Poetry 2024, The /tƐmz/ Review, Yolk, and Vallum.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Eastwood, Miranda","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, Miranda"],"Publication_Date":[2023],"material_description":["[{\"side\":\"\",\"image\":\"\",\"other\":\"\",\"extent\":\"\",\"AV_types\":\"Audio\",\"tape_brand\":\"\",\"generations\":\"\",\"Conservation\":\"\",\"equalization\":\"\",\"playback_mode\":\"Mono\",\"playing_speed\":\"\",\"sound_quality\":\"Excellent\",\"recording_type\":\"Digital\",\"storage_capacity\":\"\",\"physical_condition\":\"\",\"track_configuration\":\"\",\"material_designation\":\"\",\"physical_composition\":\"\",\"accompanying_material\":\"\",\"other_physical_description\":\"\"}]"],"recording_type":["Digital"],"AV_type":["Audio"],"playback_mode":["Mono"],"digital_description":["[{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/ESqbAkKY2NRPsu4tuyhXI-wBV7JHhxFBIJNoKhTKvghQMw\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Solomon.mp3\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:03:20\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"2.2 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"145-185 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"MP3\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Tubes,\\\" by Misha Solomon, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/tubes/, accessed on June 15, 2023.\",\"title\":\"Tubes\",\"credit\":\"Misha Solomon\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"Yes\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"},{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EeGekM3q1cRFmowTo126n-sBLQVWtIMoDJArltSS5vvu2Q\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Solomon.wav\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:03:20\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"35.4 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"1411 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"WAV\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece \\\"Tubes,\\\" by Misha Solomon, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"Tubes\",\"credit\":\"Misha Solomon\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"contents":["Tubes\n\nby Misha Solomon\n\nI.\nThe Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter is a tube that contains another tube.\n\nPhoto of tube of Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter.\nRather, the Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter is a tube contained inside another tube, but this latter outer tube carries the inner tube’s name.\n\nPhoto of open tube of Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter.\n\nThe outer tube can be manipulated (opened, twisted) to reveal the inner tube, but the inner tube’s identity is always plainly identified upon the outer tube. The outer tube can lie, in that at any point in time the inner tube could be depleted and yet the outer tube would still advertise its contents. The inner tube, again, is the Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter and yet the inner tube can also not be the Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter, in that it can be used up entirely. The outer tube, again, carries only the name of the Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter, and therefore is not truly the Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter, and yet the outer tube can never not be the Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter, in that it always carries its name. It should also be noted that the Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter is applied to lips, which are essentially two tubes embedded in the flesh between the nose and the chin, two tubes that, when separated, allow access to a long inner tube that in turn connects to a near-endless system of inner tubes.\n\nII.\nThe Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Balm is a tube in name only. Before use, the Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Balm more closely resembles a conventional tube, but the object continues to be called a tube even as it is flattened and warped.\n\nPhoto of tube of Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Balm.\n\nThe Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Balm, rather, is a viscous liquid contained in a tube that bears its name. This outer tube, upon application of pressure, extrudes the liquid in the shape of tube.\n\nPhoto of open tube of Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Balm.\n\nThe Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Balm, however, quickly loses its tubal shape as it is extruded and applied to the hand. This would not be an apt time to mention that the hand is home to five tubes, known as fingers, and contains a number of tubes in the form of bones, veins, and tendons. Even less apt would be the mention of pores. The inner/outer dilemma, heretofore known as the Inner/Outer Dilemma, as explained in the discussion of Om Argan + Tucuma Lip Butter, applies here as well.\n\nIII.\nThe India Mahdavi Caran d’Ache Swiss-Made Pen is a tube contained in a tube.\n\nPhoto of tube of India Mahdavi Caran d’Ache Swiss-Made Pen.\n\nBoth the inner tube, the India Mahdavi Caran d’Ache Swiss-Made Pen, and its outer tube, the pen’s protective and decorative case, carry the name of said inner tube.\n\nPhoto of open tube of India Mahdavi Caran d’Ache Swiss-Made Pen.\n\nComplicating matters is the fact that the India Mahdavi Caran d’Ache Swiss-Made Pen almost definitely contains another tube, which in turn contains ink. Further complicating matters is the fact that the India Mahdavi Caran d’Ache Swiss-Made Pen has a golden tube, which, when pressed, reveals another pointed tube used to spread the ink, which is contained in the tube inside the tube. The doubly inner tube almost definitely does not carry the name of the tube, whereas the outer tube does carry the name of the tube. Is it relevant to add that the tube and its tube were given to me on the topmost storey of a large building, a rectangular tube, if you will, by a woman (remember the lips and hands, the tubes) who collects such tubes and who handed this tube over to me, her tubes grazing my tubes, after I remarked on the beauty of the tube, and that she did this likely because of her guilt over the dismal state of my grandfather’s finances? Guilt is in itself a tube, but I don’t know how or why."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/tubes/\",\"citation\":\"Solomon, Misha. Weeknight. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 18–21.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549192966145,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","score":5.4586816},{"id":"5192","cataloger_name":["Carlos A.,Pittella"],"partnerInstitution":["Concordia University"],"collection_source_collection":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"source_collection_label":["Headlight Anthology Collection"],"collection_contributing_unit":[""],"source_collection_uri":[""],"collection_image_url":[""],"collection_source_collection_id":[""],"persistent_url":[""],"item_title":["Kim Poirier in Headlight 24, 2023"],"item_title_source":["Asset"],"item_title_note":["As published in Headlight Anthology."],"item_language":["English"],"item_production_context":["Studio recording"],"item_series_title":["Headlight 24"],"item_subseries_title":["Headlight 24 Pieces"],"item_identifiers":["[]"],"rights":["In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)"],"rights_notes":["Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor."],"creator_names":["Poirier, Kim"],"creator_names_search":["Poirier, Kim"],"creators":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Poirier, Kim\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Kim Poirier is a Montreal-based writer, poor person and globally-recognized eater of spaghetti. She was the 2021 recipient of the Dawson College SPACE Award for Short Fiction, and her work has appeared in OFIC Magazine, Soliloquies Anthology, Oranges Journal, Beaver Magazine and others.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Author\",\"Performer\"]}]"],"contributors_names":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella","Eastwood, Miranda"],"contributors_names_search":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella","Eastwood, Miranda"],"contributors":["[{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Elbanhawy, Sherine\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\\n\\n\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"https://viaf.org/viaf/97149659658506830525\",\"name\":\"Pittella, Carlos A.\",\"dates\":\"1983-\",\"notes\":\"Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Andrews, Olive\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Poetry editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Affonso, Alexandre\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Ruby, Ariella\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Fiction editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Publisher\",\"Producer\"]},{\"url\":\"\",\"name\":\"Eastwood, Miranda\",\"dates\":\"\",\"notes\":\"Sound editor of Headlight 24.\",\"nation\":[],\"role\":[\"Producer\",\"Recordist\"]}]"],"Producer_name":["Elbanhawy, Sherine","Pittella, Carlos A.","Andrews, Olive","Affonso, Alexandre","Ruby, Ariella","Eastwood, Miranda"],"Recordist_name":["Eastwood, Miranda"],"Publication_Date":[2023],"material_description":["[{\"side\":\"\",\"image\":\"\",\"other\":\"\",\"extent\":\"\",\"AV_types\":\"Audio\",\"tape_brand\":\"\",\"generations\":\"\",\"Conservation\":\"\",\"equalization\":\"\",\"playback_mode\":\"Mono\",\"playing_speed\":\"\",\"sound_quality\":\"Excellent\",\"recording_type\":\"Digital\",\"storage_capacity\":\"\",\"physical_condition\":\"\",\"track_configuration\":\"\",\"material_designation\":\"\",\"physical_composition\":\"\",\"accompanying_material\":\"\",\"other_physical_description\":\"\"}]"],"recording_type":["Digital"],"AV_type":["Audio"],"playback_mode":["Mono"],"digital_description":["[{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/Ea_d9sY1fpZDkqHIe6ISEBMBhPxmGtp6VhneCPF4rhj75g\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Poirier.mp3\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:01:09\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"0.61 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"145-185 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"MP3\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the poems \\\"montreality\\\" and \\\"greening,\\\" by Kim Poirier, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/two-poems/, accessed on June 15, 2023.\",\"title\":\"montreality and greening\",\"credit\":\"Kim Poirier\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"Yes\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"},{\"file_url\":\"https://liveconcordia-my.sharepoint.com/:u:/g/personal/carlosa_pittella_concordia_ca/EaK6DPkriKZPrh7m2aVRfIkBr3tED53OVByHHep21UdyuQ\",\"file_path\":\"\",\"filename\":\"Headlight24-Poirier.wav\",\"channel_field\":\"\",\"sample_rate\":\"44.1 kHz\",\"duration\":\"00:01:09\",\"precision\":\"\",\"size\":\"12.3 MB\",\"bitrate\":\"1411 kbps\",\"encoding\":\"WAV\",\"contents\":\"This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the poems \\\"montreality\\\" and \\\"greening,\\\" by Kim Poirier, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.\",\"notes\":\"\",\"title\":\"montreality and greening\",\"credit\":\"Kim Poirier\",\"caption\":\"\",\"content_type\":\"Sound Recording\",\"featured\":\"\",\"public_access_url\":\"\"}]"],"Dates":["[{\"date\":\"2023-06-02\",\"type\":\"Publication Date\",\"notes\":\"\",\"source\":\"Headlight website\"}]"],"Location":["[{\"url\":\"https://www.openstreetmap.org/node/1192154219\",\"venue\":\"Concordia University, Department of English\",\"notes\":\"Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.\",\"address\":\"1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8\",\"latitude\":\"45.4969331\",\"longitude\":\"-73.5783742\"}]"],"Address":["1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8"],"Venue":["Concordia University, Department of English"],"City":["Montreal, Quebec"],"contents":["two poems\n\nby Kim Poirier\n\nI. montreality\n\nA light blue metro car travels down a cannibal’s throat\nThe Place Ville Marie searchlight swivels\nLeonard Cohen’s look of faint play adjudicates\nthe cold and hookery street.\nI am so vanishingly small beneath the hot, perfervid red shadow\nof the Mt Royal crucifix;\nMy cry in the concrete,\nMy cry in the bottleglass,\nMy cry in the frost:\nNot the gestalt of the thing,\nbut some slice.\n\nII. greening\n\nThere is a green wildfire of mint in a terracotta pot\nand there is a sheath of summer-smelling parsley woven against the ground\n\nThere is a you—on the yellow seat with wine.\nYou, who gathered african violets in her arms and stole them,\nwith rushing, nervy steps from their greening-golding continent,\nand there is a toothpick tilted against your lips, inert levantine wood, droll and unassuming.\n\nYour body screams yes god and your the-irish-were-oppressed-you-know green eyes are zambian-mined and dollar-minted and your Fashion Nova clothes come from nowhere all."],"Note":["[{\"note\":\"Carlos A. Pittella\",\"type\":\"Cataloguer\"}]"],"Related_works":["[{\"url\":\"https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/two-poems/\",\"citation\":\"Poirier, Kim. montreality and greening. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 22–23.\"}]"],"_version_":1853670549194014720,"timestamp":"2026-01-07T14:59:53.772Z","score":5.4586816}]