weaver home Canadian Anarchist Feminist Musings

This site is an exploration of the erasure of women from history, theory, and art, and the suppression of ideas and thoughts which conflict with the corporate/capitalist agenda. It is a discussion of personal autonomy, the responsibility/collusion of the artist as cultural worker, and the authority of information which is not a six o'clock news byte, but the latent power of story-telling, the same thing.

Miss Susie Dyment

Susan Dyment is an illustrator and cartoonist, with training in Multimedia Development, Construction Engineering and Welding. She has had several plays produced and has written one novel because she has no television. For commercial breaks, she surfs the net. Susan's paintings have hung in collective and one-woman shows in Ottawa, Montreal and Toronto. Her cartoons have appeared in over two dozen Canadian magazines and journals. The artist has hitchhiked from Montreal to Prince Albert, from Boston to Vancouver, from Vancouver to San Francisco, from Montreal to Mexico, and from Mexico to Toronto. She prefers the train.

Looking into a 19th century street from the future in the illegal comfort of my speedo. I hear heels on a wooden boardwalk, people bartering, a dog barking, a man shouts "Hey!" Now people are staring back at me. The bathing suit is going to be a big problem. I have a good instinct about some things. The man is waving wildly, he has a fabulous walrus moustache like a happily flamboyant gay male, only I know they don't have gay people here in the 19th century. This is going to be another problem. There is a smell of food frying, horses, leather shoes, and male cologne. My male cologne is going to be another problem.

 The birdskull is the closest dead relative to dinosaur bones. After death, bones of birds look up to heaven and their souls look down on the traffic of four thousand miles of winter migration. They never even thought about it before and now it blows their minds.






  A lost quote accelerates a train of thought.The French interrupt eachother to say, "you're on the wrong train."










 Write every day even if it sucks. Sucking, from suckling, fetus, something waiting to be born.

"We're waiting for Godot." "Ah!" "Perhaps he has another bone for you to suck."

I suck often, it's one of the things I do well.

 The old and the new.

 Late into the night, a keyboard taps eardrums, trips under eye-lids and enters the landscape of dreamers as they sleep. It is the morse-code of private thoughts.



To comment or to see more work, e-mail Susie @: suedyment@gmail.com