Category Archives: Journal

Intrepid terriers and trembling aspen

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A frolicking pre-injury SamIAm

Poor SamIAm. Our pup Sam had to have surgery on his leg, a damaged ligament. He’s in a lot of pain and managed to rip the bandage off even with a cone on his head. We have to keep him immobilized which is requiring constant vigilance. He is a terrier through and through.

I was cleaning out our despicable crawl space yesterday—crawl spaces are truly evil, forcing you to hunch over though I invariably bump my head anyway—and was startled to hear one of the boxes I grabbed break out into “I feel good, like I knew that I would !” by James Brown. I inspected the contents and found one of those musical greeting cards. Cute.

While on Salt Spring I spotted some typical islander humour. Along one stretch of Walker’s Hook road was a place called The Meadows. It looked like some sort of retreat centre; there were stables, a dining hall and cottages. A little further down the road was a dilapidated old house on some overgrown acreage and a crude, hand-painted sign boasting The Brambles. Islanders don’t like pretentiousness, do like to knock people off their high horses whenever possible.

Working on the tree book. I didn’t know the native aspen were called trembling aspen. So poetic. I’ve incorporated it into Whore In The Eddy, which has been selected for Continue reading →

Morning musings, missing Peter

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I am probably repeating myself but, well, welcome to my world. I still dream of Peter, wake up with him in my mind and I suppose that is not surprising, as troubling as his death is. I can’t abide speaking of him in the past tense and get an eerie feeling whenever I contemplate the void created by his absence, the void he has entered, the void we are all headed to. I go to the blog his sister Gretl has set up and look at the photographs of Peter, his work, and sigh and get sad and angry and cry again and wonder why am I doing this to myself?

I am trying to understand, to comprehend how this could happen and how could I have underestimated how much I loved him, how much he meant to me. I know that I am also mourning the part of me that is gone because he is gone, a critical, transitional phase of my life that he Continue reading →

Writing groove on Salt Spring with just a little frobnicating

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My host at the B&B is a sailor who claims to be “between boats.” Over breakfast we discussed one of the books I’m reading, And The Sea Will Tell, by Vincent Bugliosi about the murder of a wealthy yachtsman and his wife on an uninhabited south seas island. That’s rare, he said, these days he said most piracy occurs around Malaysia and India and they usually prey on freighters.

I’m enjoying Salt Spring Island. A change of scene is always good. I have only been here once before, a long time ago, to visit my boyfriend Peter Draper’s father. Ganges is a much more bustling place than back then. In some ways, I feel more verve here than Bowen Island probably due to the larger population, 10,000 to our 3. One of the best things about Bowen is its proximity to Vancouver of course. I’m staying on 28 ocean view acres on the north end of Salt Spring with a view of Galliano Island across the Strait of Georgia, the North Shore Mountains visible beyond. The weather has been glorious! I was fully expecting to be socked in with fog and rained on mercilessly but the sun has been shining every day. It certainly helps buoy the spirits which is helping me to write, despite my fatigue. Feel like I’m fighting a cold. They get away from you-projects-and through this process, this retreat, I am able to retrieve these two-my novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter, and the verse I am writing for my book collaboration with Tina Schliessler.

You find yourself researching the oddest things sometimes. In the novel, I compare punk rock pogoing to the dancing in the Charlie Brown Christmas special but I couldn’t remember which character moved in that peculiar way. I thought it was Schroeder doing that dance when I remembered that he was the pianist. I was confused, wanted to verify the character. Was I going to have to go watch it? I think we have a dvd of it. If not, I would have to rent it. You Tube! Sure enough, there it was, in a clip. All I had to do was type in “dance” and “Peanuts” and I found it. I was disappointed to see that the kid in the orange shirt was dancing that dance and not one of the main characters like Linus or Pigpen. So what was I going to call him in the novel? Something I will have to figure out or simply cut. Fun, the kind of fun I have to make sure I don’t spend too much time on for I may be here for a week but I am only just getting my groove on. It’s happening though and I can’t escape the pressure, the anxiety, or the work. I am getting it done, having painted myself into a corner. On purpose.

Delighting in finding new words-new for me-in the process of writing today, words like frobnicate, which is Continue reading →

“Pretty stumps,” poets, loggers and another Peter in my life

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I’ve arrived at the cottage, which is really not a cottage at all, more like the small wing of a house and I’m disappointed that there is no view. There was an ocean view on their website, lots of views. When am I going to learn? Well, it’s dark, I’m hoping the magnificent sea view will materialize with the morning light. I was counting on it for inspiration!

Sterile. Too much white in here, feels like a clinic. Our house has colour on the walls, thank Christ. I’m cramped, hemmed in, and discombobulated, not to mention tired after missing the Crofton ferry to Salt Spring Island. There were no signs on the Island highway for Crofton or the ferry to Vesuvius Bay and so I missed the sailing by about three minutes. Then I was driving in the fog and dark trying to find the place. It’s hard to tell driveways from roads and with no idea of distances, very confusing. I had to pull over and call the innkeeper, found out I had indeed gone too far, had to turn around. That’s it. I’m asking Santa for a GPS for Christmas! This is just dumb. In any case, after a nap and a cup of tea, I am starting to ease into the solitude, anxiety abating. In fact, it’s beginning to feel quite heavenly. I was vaguely lonely earlier, restless. Ah, quiet. Wow. No barking and howling, no video games booming, no doors slamming.

Why do the drinking glasses have the mason’s symbol on them?

Earlier today, around noon:

I saw a truck on the Bowen ferry bumper sticker: Slow Down! This ain’t the mainland.

I’m free! On the Queen of Cowichan, on my way to Salt Spring Island and my week-long writing retreat, watching three Cat in the Hat-shaped clouds recede as we chug along to Nanaimo, fog horn blasting. Continue reading →

High Anxiety, Victoria Stanton’s night of performance at our place, ROCKsalt launch in North Vancouver

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A bit of a blowout this Tuesday, sad to say for I am not being as productive as I should be, couldn’t sleep last night. Again. Wish I could get a prescription for a sleeping aid but that doesn’t get to the core of the problem. I start hyperventilating, feel absolutely certain that I am dying and the more I worry about not sleeping, the more panic mounts in my body. I went to the emergency room once, sure that I was about to die of cardiac arrest. My mother had heart disease, so I worry. Christ, she had depression and diabetes too, drank herself to death really, a slow suicide. I start to feel like I can’t breathe and replete with chest pains Josef took me to the hospital. After a long wait they wired me up for an EKG and promptly pronounced me normal, fine. Now I’m able to recognize the signs of an anxiety attack but find little comfort in that knowledge. In fact, I am intimate with anxiety, nostalgic for the days when it was a foreign concept.

I just posted photos of our night of performance with Victoria Stanton last week. I was glad to finally meet her in person. We’ve been corresponding for years, ever since we screened one of her videos at the Vancouver Videopoem Festival. Funny how you form preconceived notions about people by seeing two-dimensional images. I was surprised when I went into the cafe to collect her and found a gamine sipping tea, dwarfed by the bulky suitcase next to her. I suppose I thought she would be physically as formidable as her work.

Poor Victoria! I had lost my cell phone and of course that was the number I gave her. So here she was trying to reach me in vain, to let me know which ferry she was on, and getting my voice mail. She looked me up in the book and everything turned out all right but I felt bad. Christ, traveling is stressful enough. We had some of my fragrant Malaysian stew of chicken and sweet potatoes, with coconut milk, garnished with cilantro. I was relieved she wasn’t’ a vegetarian and over dinner we made plans for the evening’s performance. She ironed a white sheet to use for a screen and Josef helped her set up the PA and video projector. I put out snacks and chairs, lit candles and once again transformed our home into a cozy, inviting venue. A couple of people arrived early. Gawd, I hate that. The only thing worse than people arriving late is people arriving early. I let Josef entertain them while I finished dressing though sometimes it doesn’t occur to him to offer guests a drink or something to eat, he can be a real nerd. The other arrivals were staggered over the next hour and I knew Victoria was anxious but I wanted to include as many people as possible. We had a good turnout for a Monday night, the weather cooperating in that it wasn’t pouring rain. Russel brought about five people, bless his heart. I am always so happy to see him. He makes me laugh and flatters me shamelessly the entire time he’s here. At last I was able to introduce Victoria. The crowd delighted in the Bank of Victoria cards she handed out, with Point de Rassemblement printed on them and the sentiment echoed in her spoken word performance that, “When I go away I need to find the anchor points, the gathering places, the connections that resonate within my body.” We watched her onscreen, running down a country road, video she had shot on Gabriola Island where she had been the day before to appear at Hilary Peach’s annual Poetry Gabriola festival. The piece certainly resonated with me; I was very moved. Later Victoria thanked me and said she loved the audience and performing here which was gratifying to hear. I want to be able to do this, invite people whose work I admire and provide them with a gratifying experience. It’s also a good way for me to share with my community, on my terms and to provide them with opportunities to see some remarkable artists. We were all happy I think, with how the evening went, in fact; it’s safe to say that it was enchanting. I stood on the deck after everyone was gone in awe of the stars so brilliant here on the island. Enchanted.

The next day Victoria and I visited Opa, Bowen’s towering, thousand year old tree, walked a stone labyrinth and hiked around Killarney Lake. I am busy today preparing for my writing retreat next week as I need to Continue reading →

Time to write. Yeah, right.

Journal

I can’t believe how fast and how much of life gets away from me, how long it takes before I am able to sit down and write a blog entry. It is all such a swirl it makes me sick sometimes.

One of my cousins sent me an email message the other day, a cousin I didn’t expect would ever email me. I was pleasantly surprised to hear from her, then annoyed when I received one bad, corny, unsolicited joke after another. Not one personal message, no matter how many questions I asked. Don’t you hate that?

I’ve been thinking about forgiveness and compassion and families. I watched a fascinating documentary called My Mother’s Garden about a woman with a hoarding compulsion. Her children, who as far as I could tell were grossly neglected by their mother due to her mental illness, were so loving in spite of everything. I was forced to reassess the rationalizations I had made regarding my own mother. I had moved as far away from her as I possibly could for most of my young adulthood, though I see that that is what these *children* did too. The director Cynthia Lester was forced out of the house and into a life of prostitution at a very young age. There was no place for her to sleep! Compared to these adult children, my sisters and I were downright vindictive, though I did the best I could, going to stay with her for a month at one point while she endured surgery to amputate her right hand. Cynthia and her brothers came to their mother’s rescue. She was about to be shut down by the insurance company or the city, evicted or whatever it is they can do and her kids intervened to clean up her house and yard, renovate and rent it out-a monumental task- to pay her nursing home, all the while coping with her infuriating behaviours. Who knows what would have happened to her if they hadn’t.

I will be working at my son’s school all day tomorrow and then off to North Vancouver to read at 32 Books and a launch for Rocksalt, the anthology of BC poetry which includes my poem Whore In The Eddy. Hmm, I wonder the odds are I will get writing done? Driving me a little nuts actually, the dearth of time, but I am booking off for a week, going to go away and do nothing but write. I will lose my mind otherwise, I’m sure.

Peter, our champion, and the latest from the homefront

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Peter in the boarding house room I rented in San Francisco

Van full of drunk punks . . . It will be two months since it happened and I’ve been waking up with Peter in my thoughts, recalling our travels, adventures and misadventures together. I remember being in a van full of X’s friends and entourage. “X” was LA’s premier punk era band and I, like many others, was in awe of them, thrilled when Peter introduced me. He had been part of their inner circle while previously living in Los Angeles. This wild ride occurred while Peter and I were still living in San Francisco. X was in town to play a show and we were headed to a party after the gig, a gaggle of us crowded into the back, Peter and I crouched against one wall facing several members of the Blasters who had shared the bill with X. Things were verging on pandemonium as we were all jostled about. I won’t name names but at one point-completely unprovoked—the drummer reached over and shoved his hand between my legs and up my skirt. I was shocked, may have screamed, and Peter, outraged, lunged at him. Excene, sitting queenly up front, yelled, John Doe pulled the van over and Peter and the drummer tumbled out, fists flying. I think it was John that pulled them apart. Excene was angry and exasperated with Peter and said something like, “What could you two possibly have to fight about?” Peter told her what had happened. I don’t think she believed him or just shook her head and walked away, Peter shouting after her that she was lucky to have all the friends and supporters she did and that “Heather has no one.” Years later, after John and Excene broke up and Peter and I went our separate ways, he and Excene hooked up for a while, so I don’t know, maybe she was harboring feelings for him and was jealous. Whatever. It’s ancient history but it’s true, I was a nobody. I had no one, was just some girl from small town Canada trying to be a rock star, but I had Peter. To him I was somebody. Beyond chivalrous, he was my advocate, partner, lover, and friend. Beyond identifying with the underdog, Peter was a populist and we used to talk about our vision of Utopia, a place where everyone is an artist and the artist in everyone is embraced. Continue reading →

No more Boys Dept, true crime, renovation hell

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We are hosting six adolescent boys and celebrating Junior’s birthday today. I’m looking forward to the cake. The local chocolatier, Cocoa West, makes this incredible flourless chocolate cake that is fudge-like in texture, very rich, decadent. Josef is going to make pizza and we’re giving each kid a pumpkin to carve and take home. I found some electric carving knives, like mini chain saws that I know they will enjoy, being teenaged boys. I can’t believe he’s fourteen! I took him shopping the other day, as he has grown out of most of his clothes. He needs Xtra Large in shirts and jackets, is a 34-32 in pants and wears a size 11 shoe. No more Boys Department and he delights in calling me “Shorty.” This means we need to arrange an excursion to Stanley Park to take his picture next to Lumberman’s Arch. My photographer friend Lincoln suggested we do what he did, photograph his child at the same spot on each birthday. Junior has to whine about it every year but I know some day he will appreciate this lovely chronicle of his growth and development. We should have gone today, the sun is shining.

I don’t think I will get much else done between wrangling kids and dogs but I’m going to try to Continue reading →

Tree poems and this ain’t no Disney movie

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This place is a zoo! I swear, finally I am rewarded a few hours of solitude, had just settled onto my daybed, fired up Word, opened a new document to start writing when I hear tires on the gravel and the dogs going nuts. Fortunately, the visitor came and went pretty quickly but it happened again a few hours later. I always call first, why can’t other people do the same? I was reassured though to write a new poem today, it’s been so long, I wondered if I still had it in me.

Why are there two elections happening? I think it’s a plot by Steve Harper, a sleight of hand of sorts. The spectacle that is the U.S. election will keep our eyes off his shenanigans, as he merrily cuts arts funding and ignores environmental concerns, making us look bad to the rest of the world in the process. “Ordinary people don’t care about the arts.” What a dolt. A cynic. “A cynic is someone who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. “Gawd, I hope he doesn’t get re-elected.

Life is sweet and bizarre all at the same time. WTF? is going on? Markets melting, loved ones dying, wars proliferating. Am I lucky, smart or ruthless to be in the position Continue reading →

The saga continues. Election time

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We’re blessed with beautiful weather the last few days, the clouds on the horizon so fantastic I had to take some photographs, to add to my large collection, From My Window.

Man, got to get on the good foot, as well as the bad, and start organizing the Princess Nut CD party we’re hosting Nov. 1. Figured I would have a Day of the Dead theme and sadly it’s not ironic. I am going to erect an altar honouring my sister, Peter and Merilene. There is talk of going to the Baja between Christmas and New Year’s and then I am possibly attending the San Miguel Poetry Week Jan 4-10. I’d like to stop off in LA on the way back to see Peter’s sister and my goddaughter Ava Rose. It would be nice to visit and not have to attend another funeral, however I haven’t made any travel arrangements, things are so crazy with renovating/converting the garage to an office for Josef, and AURAL Heather business. We found out the deadline for the Violet Femmes compilation album is Oct. 15! So we spent yesterday recording though I felt like crap and it was the last thing I wanted to do. “We are Ninja” as Roderick says and certainly we got the job done. We had considered doing the work at a local studio, I made inquiries but by the time they got back to us Roderick had started recording us amidst the mess that is the living room these days. He was able to isolate the vocal and guitar tracks and left with them this morning. The song is called Sun Hee, a Latin and jazzed tinged tune about unrequited love. Never fall for a banker’s wife. He had his trusty MacBook and new Telecaster in tow. Josef and I bought it for his upcoming birthday. Seems fitting somehow that Roderick was born on Halloween. I’m not big on astrology but I seem to attract Scorpios. One of my best friends, Candye is a quintessential Scorpio along with my son and his father. Anyway, it’s astounding that a guitarist of his caliber doesn’t own a good guitar. You deserve it I told him and I am happy he now has one of the most fundamental tools.

The Peter saga continues. He had told me he was sending along a copy Continue reading →