All posts by Heather Haley

Hard knocks school, poem in progress

Journal

Why do I have to learn everything the hard way? Why couldn’t a poet friend have warned me not to send my manuscript to just one publisher? Yes, I would have listened to that. I wasted an entire year, learning at the end that bad manners or not, a writer has to submit simultaneously. We need to organize more in this area but many writers are starting to protest and demand electronic submissions. Talk about going green. And do they think we live forever, have the time to wait six months or a year for a lousy acknowledgement.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have been able to help me poor mum. I have learned through experience, the hard way, what depression and anxiety are. I see now that she was suffering from both and it’s obviously genetic, why I’ve been afflicted as well. She was an undiagnosed mess. They did catch the adult-onset diabetes which she pretty much ignored. My mother was miserable, wouldn’t quit drinking and smoking, couldn’t quit I suppose. As far as she was concerned, she had nothing to live for with all her kids gone.

Out my window, chameleon clouds are tinged pink in the west, layered grey and azure to the east. I woke up to sunshine streaming through the windows. A few hours later it was snowing, heavily. Then the sun came out again. This cycle lasted all day. I heard it was hailing in the city. Wacky west coast weather! A snowing sun, snoring hounds at my feet.

Met with RPW label head Pam Southwell Tuesday to work on fund raising but found we had a long list of items to take care of, everything from cd production to promotion to tour planning. She gave me some pointers on ReverbNation and I gave her some regarding grant writing. We shared our dread of budgets, numbers and math phobia stories. Hers involved a bellowing father, mine a cruel teachers. I assured Pam, that she needn’t be intimidated by the process, that in my experience budgets are largely bullshit and that it could be fun actually, to imagine what your organization needs money for, which often winds up re-purposed.

A dear friend has been hit with pancreatic cancer. Last year started off with a friend dying of lung cancer. Our lifestyles are catching up with us. Am I next? Knock on wood and I swear not to be superstitious. Sitting in the hair salon for too long yesterday I saw the People magazine with a story about Patrick Swayze’s diagnosis and was not encouraged by what I read. She is being very brave between bouts of anguish and terror. I’m trying to be as supportive as possible but I wish there was more I could do.

I’m currently reading Shot In The Heart, Mikal Gilmore’s book about his brother Gary Gilmore, convicted murderer, executed by firing squad. I used to see Mikal in the LA Weekly offices when I worked there many moons ago. Wish I could talk to him about his book, commiserate. Apparently we were both raised by hillbillies. My family wasn’t quite as dysfunctional, my father not as violent but my mother took up the slack. Who wants to rate these things anyway? Still hard for me to go there in my mind which might explain why I can’t complete my bloody novel. Managed to work on a new poem and enjoy a bit of solitude though feeling frustrated at my efforts. Here it be, a work-in-progress and such as it is:

Green Wedding

Parser.
Professional.
Daily fixes, micro problems solved.
Weekly patents.
Annual Seuss tourist
in search of beneficence.
Identifies closely with SamIAm
though he is far more shy,
still, prepared to walk the plank
for love. He felt justified in groveling
one afternoon standing in a queue
next to a slender, flinty girl in diaphanous skirt
as she read a novel. This did not give him an In.
Though quite familiar with mythic archetypes,
the only fiction he might have time to read
was speculative. So, he offered her a chip.
She licked off the gravy and thanked him.
Mathematicians rule.

It was cute, the way they emailed each other
in the beginning of their romance, he surprised
to be receiving steamy emails,
uppercase renderings of undying devotion.
I’m not used to getting personal messages at work,
which she could only find endearing.

Planning throes for a wedding in emerald oaks
they could easily ignore water cooler talk
of Bush deployments and citizen reporters.
They spoke only of sunspots and three-tiered cakes.
Guest list growing too long he complained.
His jobless Sidney brother who shakes his head
at their astounding fidelity.
Her estranged twin sisters in their push-up bras.
Easy to pull out he thought.

True crime, guilty pleasure

Journal,

My kid is driving me crazy! Spring break is way too effing long. Felt like jumping out a window for Christ’s sake. Happy Easter. Oy. Ugh. Urf.

Got to love the Internet. In the process of clearing my In box today and going through Google alerts, I came across a call for poetry submissions from a dude in LA named Rodger Jacobs. Hemingway’s Shotgun is an online magazine devoted to all manner of poetic verse but with a particular emphasis on poetry on the topic of literature, books, and reading. Googled him naturally and it turns out Jacobs is a rather interesting fellow with an intriguing past, an award-winning screenwriter, journalist, documentary producer and journalist whose work has appeared in myriad national publications. The site looked cool so I sent along some poems, several of which were set in Los Angeles, having resided there for many years. As I mentioned in my previous post, true crime is my guilty pleasure and we share a fascination with the Wonderland murders, the story of which he compares to “Raymond Chandler on crack.”

I was also interested in what he had to say about POD—publishing on demand—as he is well schooled in e-commerce. Long Time Money and Lots of Cocaine is the title of the book he’s written about the murders which contains an edited and annotated version of the court transcript for John Holmes’ preliminary hearing. As he explains it, there is so much interest in the subject he decided to self-publish and keep a larger piece of the action/residuals. Lulu Press provides a free storefront, affordable set-up costs and fair royalties. The author pays for the ISBN which gets the title into other markets, in both real and virtual worlds. I’ve been considering going that route with my novel but right now, I can’t find the time for the revisions it needs. So if you secretly read true crime as well, check it out:

http://www.lulu.com/content/130126

Attempting to be lazy on Sunday

Journal,

Ruminating, trying to anyway, and managing to relax a little after a hectic week. I had every intention of going to Whistler this weekend and staying at my friend Cathy’s place for a few nights but I am wiped out. Been very congested and thought it must be due to springtime allergies but then I developed severe muscles aches and fatigue.

Spent two days rehearsing with Roderick. Things never get too tedious or serious with Roderick around. He makes us all laugh. He related how he picked up a surly teenager on Christmas day. The kid had just left a family dinner, or been kicked out rather for refusing to remove his cap at the table. Roderick insisted on driving him to his destination though it was out of his way. “Why are you doing this?” asked the kid, Roderick explaining that it was Christmas, that’s what you do, give and do nice things for people. He thought the kid might have been smart enough to pick up on his point but wasn’t’ sure and then did an impression of the teen with his hat on sideways, going “Yo.” My son Lucas thought it was hilarious too.

I was also working on proposals for a multimedia show based on our AURAL Heather music/poetry and I just sent a proposal to the NFB asking for support for a new videopoem, “How To Remain In The Saddle” which will force me to get on a horse if I manage to raise the funds.

Of course there is no money in any of these endeavours though the Edmonton Poetry Festival treated me so well last fall I’m wondering why it can’t always be that way. They paid my travel, hotel, a handsome fee and feted and fawned over me as well. I can only hope it’s the start of a new trend.

I was just telling Dennis Bolen, author of “Toy Gun” that true crime is a guilty pleasure for me and that it creeps into my writing quite a lot. I have penned a haunting poem inspired by Vancouver’s missing women called “Whore In The Eddy.” It’s a powerful performance piece as well. I recently read a fascinating book called “Exquisite Corpse” about the surrealists in Los Angeles in the 40s. Apparently Marcel Duchamp was drawn to criminology as well. I’ve been called a ghoul but I think it’s natural to be intrigued, to want to understand. What motivates the murderer, etc.

Duty calls. I have to go feed the dogs, kid.

Finally had a chance to complete Scott Beadle’s punk rock questionaire

Journal,

Here I am bestowing Yoko Ono with a birthday gift. Only on Facebook!

I’m going to try very hard to write more, to get out of my own way. I’ve decided to put my novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter, back on the back burner for a while. I’m frazzled enough with poetry and performance and need to focus on those projects, my book of verse, Window Seat, and AURAL Heather, our first gig coming up in April. I can’t do all of it well and the pressure is too much.

There is much activity on the domestic front as well, with my son’s puberty and puberty fallout. His allergies have peaked it seems, gotten bad, manifesting in a chronic runny nose and cough. We are taking him to an allergist and now trying naturopathy.

Enjoyed a pleasant birthday celebration last Saturday with friends and family, went out for dinner at Blue Eyed Marys. Another Piscean in the restaurant was celebrating too and a local comedian came in on stilts and a fat suit to sing Happy Birthday. Made for a memorable evening.

Had a power outage that Monday which threw me off kilter but then rehearsed with Roderick. We are arranging a new poem/song and have a lot of work to do but it’s exciting, gearing up for our first shows.

I finally managed to complete this questionnaire Vancouver punk rock chronicler Scott Beadle sent to me months ago. Scott is compiling interviews for his upcoming book.

Questionnaire for Ms Haley for Scott Beadle’s ongoing Vancouver Punk History Project: (See my Facebook page for more details.)


Where were you born?

Matapedia, Quebec

Where were you raised?

Winnipeg and environs, then Salmo in the Kootenays and Cloverdale, BC.

What were your parents’ jobs, during this period?

My dad was a jack-of-all-trades, usually employed as a welder or carpenter. He was a very skilled artisan and used to sell wood carvings while in the RCAF, stationed in the Yukon. My mother always worked, usually as a waitress or a cook.

What was the highest level of your parents’ education?

My father only reached Grade 11 and my mother was apparently forced to quit at age twelve. Her father had perished as a prisoner of war in Hong Kong and her mother was dying of cancer. She stayed home to take care of her four younger siblings and ailing mother.

Where did you attend high school, and did you graduate?

I graduated from Lord Tweedsmuir in Surrey.

Did you have any post-secondary education? Did you get a degree?

Two years post-secondary. I studied music at Grant McEwen in Edmonton, then moved to Victoria and attended Camosun College. I never did transfer to university. My family couldn’t afford to send me and by that point I was wrapped up in the music scene, playing and touring.

When did you leave home?

I first left at age sixteen but moved back in about a year later, then permanently after high school.

Where did you live?

I lived in Alberta for a while with my boyfriend, then we moved to Victoria, then I came to Vancouver.

What were your major pre-punk musical influences/interests?

I grew up listening to my mother’s favourite country music; Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Hank Williams. I didn’t appreciate it then but now love it as much as she ever did. I sang folk songs, in school and in church, the choir it’s only attraction. I would get very excited donning our robes and making our entrance, usually drifting of to sleep during mass.

I loved the Beatles when I was a kid. I used to hang out at my friend Nancy’s house where we often snuck into her big brother’s room to listen to his records. He always knew and always blew his stack at us. The two of us would covertly take the bus into Winnipeg whenever a new Beatles movie came out and would have been in dire need of Help if we’d ever been found out. The first album I purchased was Jimi Hendrix’s Are You Experienced? I remember running into the popular girls from school at K-Mart. They wanted to know what I had bought. I reluctantly showed them and their response was, “Jimi who?” Then they thought I was really weird.

Poetry affected me very much. In high school I started reading contemporary verse due a forward-thinking English teacher who deviated from the curriculum and had us reading bp nichol, ee cummings and Susan Musgrave. That’s when I started writing in earnest.

When and how did you first hear punk rock or new wave music?

I had moved to Vancouver after breaking up with my boyfriend. My best friend Cathy Cleghorn took me to see—and most definitely hear—DOA at the Windmill. It was a shock though I assimilated it all very quickly. I was ripe for change. Many of our Surrey cohorts were in bands; Jim Cummins, Bill Scherk, John Armstrong, Gord Nicholl and Art Bergmann, whom I had gone to school with in Cloverdale. My boyfriend, Peter Draper, had played guitar in Art’s first real band, the Shmorgs and the three of us roomed together. Continue reading →

Star Mapping poem

poems

“Obstacles cannot crush me. Every obstacle yields to stern
resolve. He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind.”

— Leonardo da Vinci

Posted this quote for I have been writing of the stars. They are close here on Bowen, on any clear night create an enchanting tableau. At breakfast this morning I spoke of my father lost in a blizzard. He had been posted in the Yukon during a stint in the RCAF. He was wandering for four days and finally able to navigate back to the base by the North star which figures largely in my poem, “Whore In The Eddy” wherein I fantasize about lying in a puddle with a prostitue. A dead prostitute.

Whore In The Eddy

Gazes up at ballooning clouds as if imagining
frogs. Giraffes. Corvettes and barns.
As if Neptune’s head has heard
her pleas. Sent me. She looks like a mannequin.
As if by law of nature, a stripped woman’s body
looks like a mannequin after it floats
to the surface in a rainforest denuded
by steam donkeys and timber sales. All matter
from the depths is netted by log jams.

She stares at me. Cannot see
the pebbles embedded in my knees.
Or my face, not so sweet.
No bubbles, just the stillness
of standing water. No trace DNA.
No hard earned cash. Only cool airstreams
of aspen leaves. My grasping hand
takes hers, skin gliding onto my fingers
like a glove. A device. We share features
any porno-masticating, regular working stiff
joe wants in his garage
between the red pickup and the Crestliner.

We watch the rim of night, a coiled
arm of stars, their slow light two million
years too late. Naked eyes decipher
Orion the hunter. Cassiopeia. Bright knots
of the Double Cluster. Mars appears.
I look the other way, to the North Star.

Just an ordinary Saturday

Journal

“Nobody wins by looking back.” -from a Nancy Greene Raine article

After nursing Junior and his virus all week, I escaped a serious bout of shack wacky wiredness by visiting my massage therapist Karolina and her healing hands. I’m a mess when I don’t see her on a regular basis. She drains the tension and mucus and God-knows-what else right out of me. Took Brinda for a pleasant walk with the sun poking through the clouds. People are starting to allude to spring. Ah, the anticipation. Went into the Cove, rented a movie, bought some popsicles for the kid. Popsicles are de rigueur when suffering with a cold. He’s been amusing himself with his new game, Rock Band. Strange for me to watch these caricatures in a video game. It provides good music appreciation I suppose but I wish he’d learn to play the guitar, or any instrument. Will he get the bug some day, in the real world? We shall see.

Been working hard revising and editing my poetry manuscript all day. Finally decided on “Sky Busting” for a title. I polled friends and though “Window Seat” received a few more votes, I’m going with “Sky Busting” because that’s my preference. I think it’s a little more intriguing than “Window Seat” which sounds so passive. Today I’ve found quite a few things to change. Not glaring boo boos, just more refined word choices and line breaks. I have to do this work in stages. I get burned out if I try to do it all at once, can’t really be SEE the poems after a while. I have to shelve them for a while before revisiting them. So I’m going to re-print and re-read a couple more times and not worry about how long it’s taking despite my anxiety about getting the manuscript off.

Got a notice about the new Spoken Word program at Banff, facilitated by friends Sheri-D Wilson and Ian Ferrier. Would be lovely to attend. I think it’s a residency, but I’m too busy doing spoken word to be studying and I’m glad for that. Christ. I’ve been *doing* spoken word since the 80s! AURAL HEATHER cd launch is coming up May 29 at the Media Club and I’m up to my eyeballs in logistics and rehearsals and the final stages of production.

Was not impressed with “The Brave One.” Terence Howard is still hot however and I will always admire Jodie Foster as an actor but the script was weak, the whole premise pretty far-fetched. There was some innovative editing near the beginning of the film with cutting between their bodies making love and being manipulated on the operating table. I noticed a scene too that was very reminiscent of Taxi Driver wherein Travis is in a convenience store and blows away the robber. Was in intentional? Foster was only 13 in that classic, playing a young prostitute.

Wish I’d learned how to ski. I lived in the Kootenays like Nancy Greene but nobody took me skiing. I was a demon on a pair or skates though.

*Poverty* can be a state of mind

Journal

I’m a newb. I was amused yesterday to see a squirrel sitting on the bird feeder tray and astonished this morning to see a doe with tongue outstretched to get at it. What’s next? Fortunately, cougars-mythical and otherwise-are carnivores.

First rays of sunshine in too long and I was stuck inside. I needed to rearrange my manuscript and prepare it for the submissions process. I needed to practice too which means lots of memorization. Got to get off-book. This is performance poetry after all. Weekend Aural Heather rehearsals with Roderick went well. We don’t agree on which poems to perform live but we’ll work it out. A lot of them are wordy, which works fine on the cd but a live show has to be engaging and people get taxed pretty easily it seems. Of course it depends on which venue and audience. Coffee houses and festivals might provide more receptive audiences but I think it’s critical to present a dynamic set of works. In any case, I’ve been working on procuring the contract and the tour so it’s a good feeling to get back to the music.

I bought a Shure 58 microphone the other day. I think it might be the first time I’ve ever done that though I’ve certainly sang into enough of them over the years. I’ve come a long way from beg, borrow, steal to go and out and get what I need. I have the wherewithal and some strong support now. I desperately wanted to be independent as a young adult and I lived on my own for nearly ten years. It was very much a hand-to-mouth existence but I was resourceful and young. I bought many of my clothes at thrift stores and didn’t have many possessions. I could move in a matter of hours and often did though I found a one-bedroom apartment for $250. a month in Echo Park and consequently resided there for four or five years. It had rooftop access and my friends and I had many tar beach parties up there. On the fourth of July we would watch the fireworks from Dodger Stadium. I worked part-time so I could devote most of my time to performing in LA’s blazing post-punk scene, writing songs and poetry. I was happy—a little misguided, a little confused but living my life, my way. I was very conscious of the fact it was precious and a gift I was giving myself. I was going to have a happy childhood, dammit.

More on this later. I’m bagged. It’s been a long day but I managed to catch up on email, meet some deadlines, practice and get some work done on my manuscript.

Thought prints and dream states

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Thought prints. All these are, the incessant dialogue in my head. In a funk. Designer fruit. Sick of snow. Winter. A gun shop called the Gunatorium. Mammogram tomorrow. Ugh. Will the U.S have a black or woman president? Downing virtual shots with virtual friends on Facebook. I’m getting a sore throat and my lash conditioner fell down the toilet. Boo hoo, could not retrieve it. I’m feeding wild birds. What does that say? I derive satisfaction out of watching them feed and flit about, especially in winter.

I found myself lecturing my kid on punctuality this morning as he slept in again. Continue reading →

More snow, Shakespearan insults and day dreaming

Journal

Woke up to snow. Again. Ugh. God, I long for California. Exactly what did the groundhog indicate on Saturday? Sun emerged around 1 pm so walked the dog and got a little Vitamin D. Had to go to the Cove to run errands and it was hairy getting out of the yard still socked in with snow but my trusty old Volvo hauled us out.

Found myself trying to explain Facebook to a friend in Barcelona which made me wonder about the state of social networking in Europe. Guess I’ll see for myself in the fall when the Aural Heather tour hits the continent. Came across the first Facebook app I’ve enjoyed in a while, the Shakespearean Insult Generator. I called Scott Beadle a “fobbing, shrill-gorged waterfly” and I’m a “craven, dizzy-eyed harpy” as far as he’s concerned. Much fun.

Spend a fair bit of time gazing out my window. Funny, I used to do the same thing while living in a funky old $400. a month house in East Vancouver. It was where Conny Nowe and I rehearsed with our band, the Zellots. My room had a view of the Lions. Now here I sit a hundred years later on the other side of the North Shore mountains, still an artist in pursuit of the muse.

A weekend off the rock

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Recovering from a wild weekend, well, wild for me these days. Booked accomodations for the beasts at the Dog Ranch and a cheap hotel room for us in town so we could attend our dear friend Kyle Hawke’s Groundhog Day party. Not sure it was in honour of groundhogs though he did request food with holes in it. I suspect it was just a convenient date for a party which I am as ready for as spring. Been feeling a little shack wacky lately. It was good to get out and off this rock.
My AURAL HEATHER collaborator, Roderick Shoolbraid and I were meeting in the afternoon for a photo shoot with Lincoln Clarkes. We need pictures for the cd. It was a hectic day, Saturday, and it seems no matter how much time I give myself to prepare I’m always in a panic Continue reading →