Loose End [Paperback]

Ivan Coyote is a born storyteller. To judge from his (or heręgender fluidity is part and parcel of Coyote's work, which is why I alternate pronouns here) latest collection, Loose End, he sees, hears, and processes nearly every interaction, from a stranger's hello to fish stories to everyday errands to a family visit during the holidays. No detail is too small to escape Coyote's discerning eye, and in this collection of short but potent pieces, he reveals the heart of the interactions he has with those he encounters. The collection opens with a young tomboy who appraises Coyote and this sets the stage for the author to explain who "her people" are. We get the sense they are a tribe of sorts, ones connected not by blood, but perhaps by something deeper. You can practically feel this hungry little girl soaking in Coyote's aura, storing it away to savor for later, and whether it really happened like that for the girl or not is irrelevant. That is Coyote's vision and version and it starts the collection off strong, a power that doesn't abate. While some pieces stand out for their inherent drama, such as a vicious public daytime gay bashing, during which nobody offers Coyote any help, it's actually the quieter moments that are the most powerful here, and where you can tell that Coyote is always thinking, observing, forming stories in his head to mull over and craft into very precise 1,000 word pieces.

If you've read Coyote's previous collections, you'll appreciate that family and chosen family, especially the young, crossdressing, very queer Francis, make repeat appearances, and Coyote addresses the possibility that he may not like what's been written about him thus far. It's moments like these, flickers of apprehension, acknowledgements that writing is a by-the-seat-of-your-pants endeavor, even when it's studied and practiced, that make Coyote's insights so powerful. Readers and listeners have formed relationships with Francis, are invested in his well-being, and Coyote repeatedly acknowledges the relationship between listener and storyteller, but also clearly considers the impact of her words on her subjects.

You don't have to know a thing about Coyote to be immediately sucked into her world, the East Vancouver neighborhood so vividly described here. Like the photos that punctuate some of the gaps between stories, Coyote uses words sparingly, giving the details we need, no more and no less, and forming connections between disparate people he meets, seeing the big picture and commonalities between neighbors, friends, family and strangers. It's not that everything is peaceful and hunky-dory here, but that conflict is usually seen as a means to figure something out about human nature. You get the sense that every day is an opportunity to create a story for Coyote, and the craft's been honed so perfectly that the ones being told transcend location, age, gender, and sexual orientation, even as they are about them. Sure, one essay might be about dykes playing hockey in the street to mourn the deaths of great male musical legends and others, but it's also about much, much more than that. Coyote can draw lessons out of single incidents without sounding preachy or omniscient; it's more a sense of awe, surprise, shock and sometimes humility at the variety of ways of being human

The last few essays are about Coyote dealing with the loss of her home due to a fire and having to move, and while they shift the entire tone of the book, they do so in a profound way that makes the reader feel as if they too have been upended. Just as we've settled into Coyote's neighborhood alongside him, ready to continue sightseeing, the rug is pulled out and we realize, like Coyote, that we only have the momentary pleasures and problems of our lives, and that even words are ephemeral. When we learn that the original introduction also burned in the fire, it's both heartbreaking and hopeful, because the book has been fashioned in the fire's wake, bringing Coyote to a new neighborhood to explore, a new mental and physical landscape. It's a darker note, but not a hopeless one, and shows Coyote's ability to pick up the pen (or keyboard) again and do what a writer does best when faced with the seemingly indescribable or insurmountable: write.

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