Katherine Knight, Journal excerpts, Saint-Jean-Port-Joli

July 2001
Shaggy clapboard cabin, porch, chair, waves and across in the distance I see an island. I am
perched at the shore and the tide runs tight to the rocks below the cabin.
The Saint Lawrence flows around the island.
The porch wraps around the cabin.
Porch. Boat. Island. Water. Shore
2 sweaters. Evening chill.
Listen. Listen. You cant make from something from nothing.
Flux. The Saint Lawrence is a nursery rhyme. Pipe, siphon, tube.
Can't see in the dark. The water comes up quickly.
Thursday already.
La Pocatire,
Rivire-Ouelle,
Lac Trois Saumons.
Route 132. Gte des Laurentides. La petite anse. Mustard coloured dory beached on the mud
waiting for the tide. Who is the owner? The boat flies a pirate flag.
Keep driving. Route Beaulieu. Saint-Andr. Long road winds down to beach. Open, broad. Good
site. The pier at Kamourouska.
I am back at the dory. The boat owner tells me stories. Next week he is travelling.
I go back to the dory.
Toss a rock. A shipwreck. This part of the world is full of disasters.

I see nothing outside until I turn off the porch light and the landscape reassembles in a subtle
range of blacks and grays. .
Today is my birthday. Travel by zodiac to Lighthouse Island. Choppy, short waves.
In the low light of this low tide, the great boulder is an upended dinghy and a discarded
cantaloupe.
Grosse Ille. Mercury showers in the disinfectant building. Walls and ceiling all cowblood red in
the smallpox building. Absorb the light and reduce the scarring.
The dory waits
The curtain blows.
The water comes and goes.
Natalie brings me a coffin.
Gael leans into the wind.
The fleuve turns slate brown.

EASY TO SAY
HARD TO DO