Category Archives: Journal

She Had To Leave…Los Angeles! “The Town Slut’s Daughter” novel excerpt

Journal

Get out. I have to get out! If it isn’t here, I can’t come back. No one will ever know. They’ll think the arsonists did it. War zone after all. I’ll set a fire under his ass. For the last time! The riots, catalyst to freedom. What a great cover. She’d take the car. Then he can’t come after me. The videotapes. The Polaroids. Fiona retrieved them from his hiding spot along with the Rolex and a fistful of gold coins. She returned upstairs to find Caleb asleep, listened to his breathing as she tugged the wallet out of his jeans, removed all the bills. She’d need to hit a bank machine right away, before he had a chance to call Visa and shut down her account. It would be all the money she’d have to live on for a while. At least the tank was full, enough fuel to get her well out of the city. She loaded the car with clothes, toiletries, camera, photos, guitar, amplifier, a few books and Virgin Marys. She grabbed her microphone and one of his precious Neumanns, planning to pawn it when the time came. She couldn’t find Evinrude, calling softly, frantically as she packed. Finally, she heard a piteous mewl emanating from beneath the far corner of the couch. She managed to coax him out and put him in his cat carrier.

“He likes his cage. It makes him feel secure. Like me?” Gawd. I’m talking to myself. “And if Caleb wakes up, I’ll kill him!”

Fiona tiptoed back to the bedroom to check once more, watched her husband’s chest rising and falling. Asshole. Sleeps through earthquakes, and Hole, after all.

She put Evinrude’s carrier in the car and returned to the basement. So, if those thugs had come along and set the place on fire, how would things appear? They’re using Molotov cocktails, judging by the news. Fiona wondered if they were breaking into the buildings or torching them from the outside. The news choppers hadn’t gotten close enough to reveal those kinds of details. Both, probably. Keep moving. Fiona found kerosene, walked through the studio to the front of the building, poked her head out, relieved to find the street deserted.

“Do it. Do it. Do it.”

She constructed a pyre of newspapers, wood chip mulch and dried lawn clippings. Fire by design. Fire by Fiona. She hesitated, stared down at her shaking hands. This place is killing me! She looked around. Dumped the kerosene. It glugged out, splooshing all over her shoes, intoxicating fumes overwhelming her lungs. She pulled out a box of REDBIRD Strike Anywhere Wooden Matches. Anywhere? 250 Wooden Matches Caution: Handle With Care. Fiona struck a match, held the match, an eternity passing. Ouch! She lit another, breathing in the pungent fetor of dead wood and sulfur.

“Dead meat. I’ll be dead meat.” Not anymore. Fiona dropped the match, heard the gasp of its conflagration taking in oxygen.

*WHOMPF*

Wow. All that bushwhacking with the old man finally pays off. A pulsating pillar of flame roared up, pausing as though to pose, flaunt its terrible splendor before heaving itself against the building. Fire # 2,508.

“Oh my God!”

Fiona loped to the car, jumped in, booted it. Adios motherfucker! Do not look back. Can’t! Gotta keep an eye out for gangstas. Into the fire, horizon crimson. Like a war movie. The future. My future. There. On fire!

It was past curfew, and though the studio was only a block from the 101 Freeway, Fiona realized it might be closed. Maybe I can get on it somehow. She raced down. Continue reading →

PUSSY RIOT PEAKING?

Journal, poems

Much talk this week, and some resentment about all the coverage, or attention Pussy Riot is getting, as if they were the perceived wrong choice on American Idol. Yes, many brave dissidents don’t receive the recognition they should, or the assistance they need, but I don’t see how that takes away from this outfit’s struggle for freedom of expression. Their actions effectively draw attention to the fact that in Russia, church and state are in collusion, though that is nothing new. Putin’s relatively recent crackdown on protest is, and what the group, along with thousands of other Russians, are reacting to, and against.

I even got into a discussion about their deliberately provocative name. Pussy Riot is not about sex, or being sexy, it’s a way owning the word, much the way feminists have reclaimed cunt and slut. At least the group puts its money where its mouth is, the women committed to do the time for their civil disobedience crime.

This is important but I have an aversion to bandwagons. Though it is rather lame to post Facebook memes in alignment with a cause, not everyone can, or aspires to be, an activist. Many people are busy with the business of survival and if things aren’t that dire, it’s always a good idea to clean up one’s own backyard first.

Freedom is everything.  Don’t think it can’t happen here. The writing’s on the wall, probably spray painted by hooligans. We might work on dealing with that as well.

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BY ANY OTHER NAME

Shoot the Messenger. Burn the Witch.

Jesus Palace. Auto Nuns, soldiers, cops

Mash heads, mangle blue baklavas with red,

Heat working to freeze tongues.

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No way to dodge rain, Sluts smoke

Beneath the bellowing chimney,

Head-gear-removed-strip show.

Wet. Bare. Shamefaced. Silent. Nyet.

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NAVIGATING SWOLLEN MOATS

Journal, poems,

This is likely my last summer on the island. I must move, and not by choice. I’ve been swept up by a tsunami of circumstance. Naturally, I am feeling nostalgic. I know that the only constant in life is change but I resist. I love the place, first wound up here in 1993 after fleeing post-riot Los Angeles, part of the white exodus. I had survived that annus horribilus, my mother dying after a long ordeal, my marriage and our recording studio business both disintegrating. I wasn’t cognizant of my dire need for recovery, in the midst of tumult, trying to flee an abusive relationship and an awful situation. Or two. But I found sanctuary here. Friends, one of whom died suddenly last month. I strolled past his cottage yesterday, now vacant but filled with memories. R provided so many of us refuge, countless parties, meals. Love. I didn’t realize how much until after he was gone. How sad is that? Ah, the proverbial lessons of adversity, the ongoing saga of loss and transcendence; what would we do without them? How would we gain perspective?

TORRENT

August’s bloom barren foxglove

Sway, last island summer

Set ablaze. Bolted from.

Sloppy spy mission complete.

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Deadheads snag my crossing.

Buffers hinder streaming

But ruin is fluid,

Handily lifting my kayak,

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Absconding with the ice.

Linen skin burned, I swim

the swollen moat, finding no salve

Nor catharsis on its far bank.

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LET’S STOP LYING… free love and love freely…

Journal, poems, ,

Possible? This poem was inspired by Susan Sontag’s Illustrated Diary Excerpts, and this quote in particular: “Mad people who stand alone and burn. I’m attracted to them because they give me permission to do the same.” And this quote resonated as well: “Can I love non-possessively, permissively, without withdrawing myself, setting up my own defenses and strategic retreats, on one hand, or reducing the amount and intensity of my love, on the other?” I too aspire to love non-possessively but admit that the impulse, or instinct to both withhold and possess-protect myself-is nearly impossible to resist. I wind up feeling alienated, frustrated, confused. I must persist though, for it is likely the only humanistic love, love beyond community, perhaps even tribal.

WARES

I need a good barrel. Or barrelful.
Beer, rain, oil, doesn’t matter,
Just give it to me.
Then go

Or come, oh nuisance caller,
Nothing to sell, less to share.
Will we ever buy into each other?
Switch crowns? Silence crickets,

Respective niggles?
‘Tis folly, seeking sanctuary
Beneath a bat roosting tree.
Their jaunty black sky scribbles

Invade our periphery,
Jolt our creaky alliance.
Cold in front of the fire,
Burning side by side,

Stones skip beyond us,
Cinema of sunset so banal
It provides no sidetrack. Score.
Tally. Or anything we want.

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NEW POEM “SHROOM HUNT” & my upcoming award news

Journal, poems
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Woo hoo! I am being honoured with a Pandora Literary Award in August; there was a write-up in Alive On The Drive. And yo, first draft of a new poem.

SHROOM HUNT

High life burning.

Swamp beacons.

Blue stains, spreading teeth.

Rotting wood, dung, conceal

Earth tongues. Fleshy to waxy,

Roundish to lumpy.

Puffballs.

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Carbon Cushion.

Ustulina deusta

Easily detached.

Bump like. Rolling spore.

Elfin speaker shies away,

Courting lively buttons.

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Fairy Ring.

Marasmius oreades

In grass. Good, with caution.

Predator bird alerted.

One eye open.

Scarlett shagged. Bone tortured.

Adapted to a rattle of stars.

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Pretty Phaeocollybia.

Phaeocollybia fallax

Radishy. Under Sitka.

Flustered. Melodious.

Moss biography.

Trap door to dream state

Always open.

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Reddening Lepioata.

Lepiota americana

Free gills. Smooth. Bruised.

Partial veil, morals cultivated

In the pit of a honeycombed head.

Nothing frivolous about the search.

Still, velvety mischief abounds.

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WEINER DOGS & GELDINGS-“The Town Slut’s Daughter” novel excerpt

Journal


No matter how many times they moved, Bill and Jeanette managed to find another shack, the latest a long, low rancher in Langley. Jeanette was homesick, longing to return to Quebec, despite how wretched life there had been. Would she ever be free of the past, the fear that Sister AnnMarie might come along and yank her pigtails or rap her on the knuckles with a wooden ruler?

Fiona didn’t find too many empties but worried her mother might hurt herself again, relieved she’d had taken up crochet, though all the crappy old furniture was covered in ugly, acrylic afghans. Why can’t she use real wool? Bill had gotten her a pet, a little wiener dog she dubbed Schultz, after the character in Hogan’s Heroes.

“Why couldn’t you get a real dog?”

“He’s a Daschund. He’s a tough little bugger! Full of piss and vinegar. Just watch him.”

The little bugger dragged in a giant field rat. Jeanette cheerfully tossed the carcass into the garbage, explaining the godamned things liked to chew through her telephone cables. She mopped up the blood as Fiona watched Schultz chase down more vermin, sturdy little body parting a sea of tall grass.

“They were bred to go down badger holes.” Jeanette deftly shuffled cards, machine-rolled cigarette dangling from her lips. “You know how mean a badger is?” She dealt out a hand of Solitaire, Fiona relieved she wasn’t badgering her into Gin Rummy. “Shultz doesn’t know how little he is.” Jeanette gloated. “He takes on any dog that crosses his path. He wriggles under, goes right for the jugular.”

“Well, they say pets resemble their owners. Or is it the owners that resemble their pets?”

Jeanette laughed. “Yeah, we’re tough.”

Fiona once watched her mother evict a drunk twice her size and half her age by the seat of his pants. She was currently earning a reduction in rent for lifting bales of hay, feeding and watering the landlord’s horses.

Jeanette admired the animals through the slats of a wooden fence as Fiona perched on the top rail. She could feel the Continue reading →

THE TOWN SLUT’S DAUGHTER novel excerpt

Journal, ,

Woo hoo! There’s activity on the novel front, interest from an agent and a publisher. These are Night of the Clash Concert scenes from Chapter Three. Sorry I can’t format it better in WordPress, which sucks.

Does he do this she wondered? Conjure up last night, the things we did, feel an after-shudder? Waiting to see Emmett Hayes, was . . . agony! She couldn’t eat. Think straight. Gawd I hate this! Half an hour late. Again. Fiona diddled her guitar, scanned a book, traipsed back and forth to the fridge, swinging wildly between anger and anxiety. Why doesn’t he call? That dink! She could have gone with Rita and Shannon. She could have spent her hard earned cash on something besides a new silk bra and panties. That bastard. Then, still cursing, she heard his obnoxious Porsche engine out front and relief coursed through her limbs. She barely resisted the urge to run to the car.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mouthed, the Clash’s I Fought the Law blasting from his Blaupaunkts. “Did you hear? They came out and played soccer with us!”
“Who won?”
“They did, of course. My shins are covered in bruises.”
Emmett yarded on the gears pinball wizard style. Soon they were pelted with fat raindrops. He pulled over immediately to put the top up. They cruised the block repeatedly in search of the safest parking spot for his precious steed of steel. At last they entered the fading art-deco grandeur of the Commodore Ballroom, Emmett waving tickets at the doorman, breezing by security like a diplomat. Christ. He must have been left under a cabbage by mistake. Emmett surveyed the room, refusing Fiona’s hand.
“Fuck! Look at all the poseurs.”
Fiona spied Dennis across the room, stomach tilting at the reproach in his face. A young woman in a booth flanking the stage sat sneering.
“Emmett, who’s that girl glaring at us?”
He ignored the question, wandered off, Fiona following.
The Clash had an excellent DJ spinning a killer mix of ska, punk, reggae and dub. Fiona waved to Shannon and friends. The place was jammed with every die-hard in the city, slam dancing on its famous ballroom floor, originally designed to make any clodhopper hoof it like Fred Astaire. The Commodore had character all right and it was the perfect size. She hated arena shows. The Dishrags opene, inspiring to watch fellow females wailing on guitar. They finished with a blazing rendition of London’s Burning. Next up, Bo Diddley. Emmett said the Clash brought the old guy along as a way to pay homage to one of rock and roll’s originators. She shrugged.
“I’m too young for nostalgia.”
Unfortunately, the Powder Blues were his pickup band, old fart-guitar god wannabes and though playing with a legend, forced everyone to sit through a long, boring wank session.
“Fuck this. I wanna see the Clash!” Fiona was not alone in her sentiments.
Shannon walked over and pulled her aside. “See that girl? That’s Electra. One of Emmett’s girlfriends. He told her he was bringing her tonight.”
“Electra! Sounds like an Italian scooter.”
“She’s weird. Really mad, says she’s gonna beat the crap out of you.”
Laughing, they walked over to Emmett. He lowered his drink, deigned to look at them, insisting he hadn’t invited anyone but Fiona. Clouds of tension were gathering on the dance floor as well, burly security guards manning the barriers. Finally, the Clash emerged, a tidal wave of bodies surging forward, the band opening with I’m So Bored With the U.S.A, Emmett off the hook. For now.
Beer. You only rent it. Fiona ran to the bathroom between songs, in and out of a stall quickly. Electra appeared, strutted over and squinted up into Fiona’s face like a Pekinese.
“Hey bitch! Keep your paws off Emmett or I will kill you.”
Looking around, Fiona laughed. “Where’s the hidden camera? Hey, Eeeelectraaaa. I think you’d better stay away from Emmett.”
“Wanna fight about it?”
“Hah! I could squish you like a bug. Fuck off! This ain’t junior high, you know.”
What Electra lacked in size, she made up for in attitude, fueled by four-inch stilettos, garters, fishnets, black leather mini skirt, all of which had nothing to do with style and everything to do with Emmett.
Electra spit at her. Missing her target—Fiona’s face—the gob splatted onto her clavicle. Fiona looked down. Nearly blind with fury, she handily hoisted Electra up by the lapels of her leather jacket. Shannon barged in. Fiona slammed Electra into the wall, back of her head banging the paper towel dispenser. Electra yelped.
“You bitch. You fucking whore!”
Shannon grabbed Fiona by the arm. They walked out dogged by the undaunted Lilliputian. Fiona barreled over to Emmett.
“What were you thinking?”
“I told you! I didn’t ask her. She just assumed.”
Wee Electra was at the bar again, glowering.
“Get lost, you skanky broad!” yelled Emmett.
Snotty pose pierced like a balloon, Electra flumped away, people laughing in her wake.
“God Emmett you’re an asshole!”
“Hey, I brought you. What do you care?”
“I care because it’s the same way you treat me. Like shit!”
“Fuck this!” He walked away in a huff.
Fuck this all right! Fighting tears, determined to revel in this night to remember, Fiona formed two fists and shoved her way through the crowd, jabbing, elbowing, bashing. S Continue reading →

TREEHOUSE MYOPIA

Journal, poems, , ,
ANY CHARACTER HERE

All the pain and suffering in the world and all I want to do is nothing. With all that’s happening in my life, I am only sick of my problems—myself—so here I sit at the window trying in vain to see the forest for the trees. I know one thing. I yearn. Therefore I am?

“Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.”-Shakespeare

ANY CHARACTER HERE

RETREAT

Red cedar raven roost,

Feat invisible as its roots

Heavy metal imbued

Purifying groundwater.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

These trees that breathe

When I am panting, sighing, wishing

I could tell you.

Swaying branches camouflage

ANY CHARACTER HERE

My fatal bent, freckles, green canopy

Concealing skewed moments, missed cues,

Taint, our silence lulling as a zephyr,

Blindness sweet as sheep.

ANY CHARACTER HERE
ANY CHARACTER HERE

NEATLY EXECUTED

Journal,

“Exit bag.” I can’t believe I’d never heard of an exit bag considering how often I’m accused of being a ghoul. I had heard of euthanasia devices but had to look it up.  Wikipedia states “a suicide bag, also known as an exit bag, is a device consisting of a large plastic bag with a draw cord used to commit suicide. It is usually used in conjunction with an inert gas like helium or nitrogen, which prevents the panic, sense of suffocation and struggling during unconsciousness (the hypercapnic alarm response) usually caused by the deprivation of oxygen in the presence of carbon dioxide.”

Christ, there are even instructional videos on YouTube. Apparently, these items deliver a painless death and have become quite popular. My mind’s eye keeps picturing a green garbage bag but according to Google images, they’re made of clear plastic.

“A grisly find.” A body was discovered on the island recently, on property adjacent to Harding Road where I used to live, immediately firing up the rumour mill. We heard, “body in a bag,” then “it was just a head.” Some residents expressed hope it would answer the mystery of Jodi Henrickson, the Squamish teenager who went missing three years ago. Coincidentally, she was seen at a party on Harding Road the night she disappeared. As the crime scene tape went up and the media descended, others resorted to gallows humour. Nothing is sacred after all and an island community is a small town like any other. Obviously, joking conceals our uneasiness around the subject, providing a convenient way to dodge that dark portal. There was nothing but speculation until the autopsy and the body identified as 19-year-old Mitchell Gallivan from Vancouver. Gallivan had been reported missing to the Vancouver Police Department in October 2011 after he’d completed his first year of engineering at UBC. Day trip? His last in any case. Sorry. ‘Tis only sad but at least one family is being provided answers. More speculation; did he think he was in the wilderness?

“Self deliverance.” I like that, but as with most things in life, harbour mixed feelings. If someone makes the decision to die, they have every right to check out on their own terms but what about the poor souls left behind? Loved ones and the hapless person who finds the body. Imagine how traumatic that must be.  How could anyone do that? Obviously an individual committing suicide might not be in his or her right mind. Certainly, I know depression, understand despair, been there, fucked that up, but surely suicide is more misguided than malicious. At age 10, a dear friend of mine found his father hanging from the rafters of their garage, and as wonderful as my friend is, I came to know his damage as well as his character. Is that less cruel than disappearing and saddling your family with the unknown? Heartache and sorrow either way.

Back to the ghoul business. I wouldn’t say I’m preoccupied with crime but do find it fascinating. ‘Tis a matter of life and death after all. It’s the human mind, human behavior that intrigues me. I want to understand, motive especially. Nature vs. nurture? What triggers some people to become psychopaths? And I always have more questions than answers.

Is death ever tidy? Perhaps that’s why more men than women commit suicide. We don’t want to burden anyone with the mess.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

SHOOTING IN THE RAINFOREST

Journal, , ,

The challenges therein. And as I near completion, filled with doubt. Naturally. Firstly, shooting has been difficult. It’s fucken raining all the time. Started in March, figured that would be plenty of time for the May 2 deadline but at this point, my options are narrowing. I hope we have enough footage. I need to do a couple of shots over and of course, it’s pouring out. Fingers crossed. I nearly screwed up my camera shooting in the rain, trying to forge ahead. It started malfunctioning. Fortunately a friend reminded me of a trick; sealing it in a Ziploc bag with rice, which dried it nicely. I was relieved to say the least.

Secondly, no close ups! The lens is so limited, I am reduced to medium shots. Period. The damn thing goes out of focus at one foot. I wanted to isolate eyes, mouths, hands. Forget it. I tried to find found footage but matching it with ours didn’t work as my 17-year old son/editor pointed out. He’s been helping me on videopoems since age eight, but this is our first real collaboration, a challenge in and of itself but mostly highly gratifying. He kicks my butt! Will not allow shots that are too shaky or out of focus. So funny. I said, hey, I’m not trying to be Steven Spielberg. I will make choices you wouldn’t. We argue for a bit and he wins. ‘Cause he’s right. We have standards. That’s my boy. He amazes me; taught himself to edit video at age ten, began producing machinimas and has had his own YouTube channel since. He’s got a lovely podcasting set-up going too which he allows me to use sometimes. We’ve developed a system in the house so he remains undisturbed while recording. He places a funky beaded necklace—a souvenir of Hawaii—on the door handle. I’m so lucky, he’s a great kid  and he works cheap; the third major challenge, a zero budget. (I’ve spent fifty bucks on a dress and seven bucks on flowers.) We barter. I copy edit his fan fiction in return for video editing services.

Fourth; try being subject, director, stylist, costumer, make-up and hair person simultaneously. Tough. Onward and upward. Today we finish the titles and credits. I wanted to use the font on the cover of my book Three Blocks West of Wonderland, designed by Derek von Essen who kindly sent it along. Called Block, it only works on a Mac. So Junior and I delighted in finding a something similar. I knew it was reminiscent of a 50s font, reminded me of the titles from old science fiction movies, so of course we googled “50s sci fi movies” and found a great site,  Tack-O-Rama, Retro Resources for Designers.  Junior insisted on going through them all until we came upon “Jungle Fever” which seems so apropos, after working through a jungle of obstacles and setbacks.

And as we work we are developing methods, infrastructure, process. Shoot. Render. Watch and identify clips, noting the best, most viable and figure out the right place for them in the piece. I make notes on a hard copy of the poem. Then create a rough cut. Experiment. Re shoot. Refine.

Using white Christmas lights to suggest stars, constellations. Doing Orion over but Cassiopeia came out nearly perfect. Serendipity. Yes! And as I was shooting, I had to back up into a rhododendron. Ouch. I’m getting to the point where it’s hard to figure out what to change, to be objective at all. I hope to have time to post the rough cut and get a little feedback but it may be too late for that, which means I will have to trust my instincts, go for it. Deadlines are harsh but very ultimately useful. So here it be, our new videopoem, Whore In The Eddy with audio from our AURAL Heather CD of spoken word songs, Princess Nut.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” ― Oscar Wilde

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