I want you to know they are yours,
Not your great grandmother’s
Not your grandfathers,
Not your mothers or your fathers
They are your hands.
That mechanically lay us to rest,
That leave our carcasses lifeless,
awaiting little more than an empty mouth.
Who told you this was yours for the taking?
There was life,
Before your rectangular steal casing littered the ocean top,
Before you cast down an empty shell,
Luring us in with the comforts of confinement.
We had life, you know,
In these waters we waded with little more than a stir,
We laid in sync,
Knowing the turmoil that arises when one takes more than their place.
One knows the cost of greed, my dear.
So know this.
That it was us that freshened your feast,
That we knew little else but to replenish that which you had forgotten.
That which you laid your head down on at night.
And know now,
that we did not die in vain.
And that we lay here before you,
And long after the waters have been cleared,
Of the shadows you cast from atop.
Your nets tattered,
And casing little more than dust,
We will remain.
Dear friend, I want you to know, that it is with heavy hands
That I bare this knife.
And that it is with thought,
And an understanding,
That without these waters,
We would be left unknown,
It is with them, we name ourselves.
And it is your flesh that keeps us afloat,
Tells us secrets about the voices that litter the sea.
The ones that sing, as the winds will us on.
It is not greed my friend,
Yet a space carved out long ago
That demands we keep our empty shells strong,
To keep at bay the nets that scatter wide across the ocean floor.
To refuse those who want more than their hands can hold.
It is not us, my friend,
That conceive we wished the ocean into being,
For little more than to feed our own.
So know this,
It is with thanks that we cast down,
And it is with a love of these waters, we empty our nets.
These same waters the eyes of my grandmother watched unravel tide after tide,
And know that this land,
The land the waters descend on,
Is one I call home.
And that it is nothing without the nourishment of the sea.
My first attempt at filmmaking! 2012
A look at the history of Ward's Island (part of Toronto Island) told through the communities oldest and longest resident- Jimmy Jones.
Made in the Doc Media program at Ryerson University
Grace and Fallon are an anomaly on a fishing boat. They aren’t just working the lines and the traps to make money. This is the beginning of their careers, a continuation of a long tradition in their families, and in Nova Scotia. 2013.