Revolution. Nearly as abused a word as love. As the Occupy Wall Street movement migrates to Vancouver, I am skeptical, though can’t abide the status quo either, and do believe change is possible. I am hopeful democracy will continue to spread, encouraged by the Arab Spring, how technology facilitates virtual brainstorming, the overthrow of despots. I am impressed with the integrity of this oh so grass roots movement. Still, I maintain, look within. I realize it sounds Buddhist or hippie-ish, but it’s vital to self-reflect, inhabit your Self, no matter where you reside, be it Wonderland or Wall Street.
I revolted long ago. Fleeing tortured relationships and a harrowing home life, as an angry young woman, I vainly sought justice, or more accurately, vengeance. A radicalized feminist, I became disillusioned and frustrated, began to understand that being an artist is a political statement. Being me. There is no other reality, or viable accomplishment, such a hard journey it is, once penning in a lyric, “I will not become what I mean to you.” I am far more effective expressing my views through words. And deeds, (see below), changing the only thing I can; me. My transformation, dare I say, transcendence is my greatest contribution, for talk is cheap, as is life, sadly.
Clean up your own back yard. Mess. That would be a good start. Do the work. Strengthen your foundation. Fill in the cracks, make the repairs. Corrections. Engineer community. Eliminate the pain and suffering within your reach. Stamp out tragedy, reign in disaster, strife, and or, express grief. Assimilate grief. Strip away the armor. Learn humility. Share. It feels good. Respect yourself. Others. Life. Be as kind as you can be. Expect less. Reserve judgement, not affection. Love. Unconditionally.
Whether I agree or disagree with the protesters doesn’t matter. We are complicit. Reform begins at home. All the rest is politics.
Restless! Full moon? Well, here I sit, occupying my ass, my life, my Self, entitled to that much surely, with discussions of earth shattering events and the nature of heartache, having recently survived colliding with a particularly hard, cold, black heart. I honestly believe that cleaning up one’s own back yard is the first step toward redemption, and ultimately, peace. Peace of mind? My friend Kyle observed, “The only hearts that can’t get broken are hardened ones.” Told him I didn’t find much solace in that. Then my buddy Dennis (E. Bolen) suggested that, “the hardened hearts shatter. It’s the soft heart that survives.” Yeah, but sadly, “shattered” describes perfectly how I felt. At least, I’m starting to use past tense, move forward, as everyone insists I must. Sometimes I miss the intrepid young woman who never looked back. Oy. I’m just tired of losing. Loss. Loss as motif. *sigh* If only people would do what we want. Like bendable Barbies. And Kens. But though it hurts to hope, I still hope. Bend. Accept. Guess I am soft. And curious. Aroused. Unmuzzled. Voracious.
Seque! Cohort Peter Babiak is teaching my poem Voracious to his English students at Langara College. I recorded it and emailed an MP3 which he said they listened to no less than three times. He sent a picture of the class hard at work, pouring over the text, one girl head in hands. I felt sorry for them. Christ, I’m glad I don’t have to analyze it, and in no way feel inclined to do so, even if I had the time.
Survived Thanksgiving too. Since I must cook every day, I largely ignored the holiday as I do all holidays, or at least the seemingly mandatory rituals. I do enjoy seeing friends and family. At least people get a little time off and my friend Julie gave me some amazing homemade pumpkin pie before we sat down together to play music. We used to have a duo called Bent Tail. We will recover our originals soon, sang Down In The Willow Garden, House of the Rising Sun, tried King of the Road but the high parts were too high. I used to play it when I was busking but we’re both a little rusty. You wouldn’t think it had high parts, listening to Roger Miller’s version. Who knew? Well, I did but I forgot.
Nailing down details for Visible Verse Festival! Check it out. 36 moving treatments of literature and artists Britt Hobart and Rich Ferguson flying in from California, Alexander Jorgensen from Pennsylvania. I am excited. Several friends have bemoaned the difficulty of process, the inherent challenges of producing a videopoem. I went through a painful experience with my directorial debut, Purple Lipstick, editor absconding with the raw footage for an interminable time. Pure torture. I couldn’t even think about this episode for years, let alone write about it. But, we persist. Hope. Exorcise? Bend, surely. In any case, please find the nightmare depicted thusly:
Rough Cut
After enduring a gestation period
of eighteen months
and several bouts of incommunicado-ness
she dutifully reports to the clay eater’s
rat’s nest to defend her lump of art,
before he nibbled away all the footage.
She sings his praises, pretending
the indiscriminate cravings
and grinding teeth do not exist,
do not wear her down.
Meth-heads don’t generate, they spin
scratched vinyl, shoot blankly,
regurgitate turbulence, gnaw and brew
dandelion wine because it’s free,
free as roadside blackberries
and meadows of psilocybin.
Pirate of his own ship-
bachelor pad bouncy house,
sleeping in a pocket on the floor,
close to the cache
when he isn’t busy
snipping, sniping.
Under the red toque
a mind’s eye so muddied
it can see nothing
move.
Bloodied images, frames, shots
blur unremittingly.
Recreate. Rework. Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
With no redress, no kind release,
she seriously considers murder.
I’m paraphrasing; read an interesting book review of British sociologist Katherine Hakim’s Honey Money: The Power of Erotic Capital, which argues that “erotic capital can be as professionally useful as a university degree,” and that, “women have been conditioned not to exploit their attractiveness for economic benefit.” I didn’t agree with her entire hypothesis but certainly she makes valid points. “Hakim claims heterosexual women’s erotic capital and fertility— their greatest trump cards—have been systematically undervalued and suppressed by religious fundamentalists, the patriarchy and even radical feminists who want to restrict women’s ability to benefit from their one major advantage over men, and to humiliate women who gain money or status though such activities.” Well, growing up, I was always uncomfortable with my sexuality and certainly didn’t feel at liberty to exploit it. I covered up, equating sexy with sleazy. I was actually loath to admit that I was afraid of men, their oh so keen response to my body nothing but overwhelming. I still don’t believe that being desired makes one powerful, not in and of itself, but as a happily lapsed Catholic, I’m able to revel in my body, mainly grateful it works, and do not hesitate to flaunt.
On the novel front, I’m working hard on a proposal, completed a synopsis and now must compose a scintillating query letter in order to avoid the dreaded slush pile. Feeling very good about this book, vital because I’m acting as my own agent. Apparently there are no agents in Canada worth pursuing. With a large part of the story set in United States, I suppose I could look down there, but the head reels at the thought, so I’ll focus my efforts north of the border for now, though I did contact several American colleagues to receive some promising leads. I’m very grateful for the help and guidance of friends Dennis E. Bolen, Gretl Rassmussen, Peter Trower, Julie Vik and Jenn Farrell.
So here’s the synopsis. Please don’t ask if it’s autobiographical. I feel much the way Beauty and Pity author Kevin Chong does. “You’d have to be an intellectual dwarf from Cloverdale to make that assumption.” My protagonist Fiona is not me and I am not Fiona. And though I may be a Surrey girl, I have a high IQ and stand 6 foot in heels.
The Town Slut’s Daughter
Synopsis
The Siren of Howe Sound, AKA Canadian poet Heather Haley’s debut novel, The Town’s Slut’s Daughter, is a tale of loss and transcendence, peopled with unforgettable characters. Fiona Larochelle’s journey unfolds in three sections with a mix of fact, fiction and startling events.
In part one, Girls With Guitars, Fiona flees a tortured relationship with mother Jeanette, and a harrowing home life of terror and physical abuse only to land in Vancouver’s violently blazing punk rock underground. Music provides a catalyst however; Fiona mines a talent for singing and songwriting to form an all-girl band, the Virgin Marries.
In part two, Girl With Guitar, Fiona is stranded in the United States after her bassist ODs and the Virgin Marrries scatter. Fiona is forced to navigate a minefield of vice, drug abuse, jealous lovers and predatory record producers as she works to rebuild her dream.
In part three, Girl with Ratty Hair, Fiona struggles to retain her voice while indulging in an obsession with cruel, dangerous men. She discovers that peace of mind is not possible with the volume cranked to ten. Rage may have facilitated Fiona’s quest in the beginning but it cannot deliver her. Amidst the tumult of the LA Riots, Fiona bolts her cocaine-fueled marriage to a modern-day Bluebeard. Throughout it all, a fierce, indomitable spirit prevails.
Stormy weather and animal dreams. I was in a slaughterhouse, looking at a hole in the wall. A mouse hole? A hand reached out to stroke the snout of a hippo. To soothe it? Are they related to swine or do they just look like they are? Then many hands emerged from the hole, not exactly waving. Next night, with a guinea pig on my shoulder, I watched as a woman in a window frolicked with four little lap dogs, all different breeds, housed within a kind of four-plex cage. So I don’t know what’s up with that but perhaps such bizarreness was triggered by news of an incident in North Carolina, a sheriffs’ department using stray dogs for target practice, which made me think of the sled dogs that were euthanized in Whistler post-Olympics, after they lost their usefulness. Ah, human cruelty knows no bounds. We treat each other like garbage too.
Word on the Street Festival endured more weather challenges than usual, tents on Hamilton Street blown down by high winds. I was astounded, thought they’d cancelled or something. That would be a first. Then we endured a colossal downpour. An hour later, rainbows and sunshine, me cursing. I always travel with sunglasses and an umbrella but that morning couldn’t imagine the sun emerging. I should know better after all these years of Vancouver weather. Highlights, Elizabeth Bachinksy’sEvent Magazine writers/readers Wayde Compton, Charles Demers and Amber Dawn. They’re celebrating 40 years, as is Talonbooks. As usual I ran into many fellow maniacs, happy to see the majority. (Some) people will treat you like garbage, if you let them. One perk of maturity; I know life is precious. Ditto time.
And we are not dogs. Dinner with precious friends. Does wine tastes better in a restaurant or is it just me I asked? Laughter. It’s just you Heather. True enough. It’s just me.
Recovering from an intense weekend of Visible Verse Festival programming. Whew! It really has grown, this festival and I was forced to make some very tough decisions. There were more than a few submissions in the Maybe pile that I wanted to screen but ran out of time. I announced the program Monday, making quite a few artists very happy in the process. Guess it’s all worth it.
I’m posting the essay I wrote for Sheri-D’s Spoken Word Workbook earlier this year. She’ll be in town to perform at the Vancouver International Writers Festival next month and will facilitate a master class in spoken word as well. I’ve been asked how collaborating in music and video affects my practice, thought this answered the question:
S I D E W A Y S
By Any Medium Necessary
Subversive, sub rosa—sideways—like a snake in the grass is often how an artist must move and technology can help us cover more ground. I address social issues in my work but I dread dogma as much as cliché. I believe that being an artist is a political statement.
Though founder of the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre, I am not a technocrat. I felt strongly it was Continue reading →
Where’s the poem? Swamped this week screening submissions for Visible Verse Festival 2011 and up to my eyeballs in experimental film, which happens every year. Without being semantical, I have to say poetic is not the same as visible verse, or a video poem or a cine-poem, or whichever term you prefer. I think I just got semantical.
Still laughing and sharing photos from Kevin Chong’s book launch of new novel Beauty and Pity at Vancouver’s infamous Penthouse nightclub, the first and likely the last time I’ll ever set my ass down in there. I was surprised; the interior does not reflect the fading building facade. Neither did the carpet reek of stale beer, wall of framed 8×10 black and white celebrity headshots only one of its charms. Anyway, I’ve spent enough time in strip clubs. Bartending was the only job I could find in New York City when I resided, or rather survived a year there in the 80s. Man, it was a tough town, nothing like it is now, inhabitable. A friend of a friend got me a job at the Baby Doll, a topless bar on White Street, just down from the Mudd Club, where we used to convene after our shifts ended at 2 AM, or at the sushi bar imbibing hot sake, which goes down well in the company of bitterly cold Manhattanites. Club management kept trying to get me to strip too. I was quite miserable after my band broke up and told them, “No thanks, I don’t miss the stage that much.” I only had to watch the dancers—what was left of them—flaunt it, appalled by the Wall Street fat cat CEOs and bankers turned on by such pathetic junkies. No way I was going to wind up down there.
But back to Vancouver. I love book launches that are beyond readings. Kevin commissioned a book trailer, directed and produced by mutual friends Pam Bentley and Tara Flynn and it was hilarious. The book jacket states “Malcolm Kwan is a slacker twenty-something Asian-Canadian who is about to embark on a modeling career.” Kevin had Owen Kwong, a real male model, portray him. Later during the reading, host Charles Demers applied makeup to Kevin’s face, and not expertly, bestowing him with a magnificent unibrow. Kevin admirably kept reciting throughout the lipstick and purple wig application. What an event! And so glamorous. I’m enjoying the book immensely, can recommend it.
Swamped. Fighting a virus. Sick of editing but if the manuscript isn’t 100% print ready, it’s pretty darn close. So, so long slogging, hello hustling. As soon as I square away a swack of domestic duties and finish screening nearly 60 videopoems for Visible Verse Festival which happens on Friday, Nov. 4 this year. Forge. That’s what I’m doing. Well, aren’t we all? Born forgers we are, regular blacksmiths.
Had an interesting exchange with a friend who was reluctant to remove a photo of moi from a Facebook album, which led to a discussion about FB photo posting etiquette. She suggested that the protocol was to tag only the pics that the subject liked. I said protocol schmotocal, friends remove pics that friends aren’t comfortable with. Common courtesy, common sense. To me. But then I’m media hack from way back and make no apologies for it. Fundamental in this age of Facebook and social media. I realize absolute control is impossible but it’s my right to have input over the end result of our collaboration (mine and a photographer’s, which I always discuss ahead of a shoot) and the distribution of said images. But that’s just me. I think the real issue is integrity. Trust. Mutual respect between artist and subject. Artists are not gods, above or beyond their subjects. But it’s a slippery slope indeed because what we do is vital and the truth must come out. I think of Lincoln Clarkes and those incendiary photos he took of drug addicted women in the downtown Eastside, and Diane Arbus, both whom I believe always asked permission. It also happens to be the way to a better photograph. I’m also suspicious of a lot of *documentary* films. We all know how easy it is to skew facts with editing, etc. Which makes me think of the Strickland character in Robert Stone’s novel, Outerbridge Reach, a true opportunist/artist, some would say sociopath. But if you pose for a photo, presumably you are taking a bit of a risk, she said. I said, I try not to presume anything. Posing does not necessarily equate with permission. License.
And here’s my other 9/11 poem. Or perhaps it’s more about the fallout.
SECHELT
It’s so lovely here. Burdock wafting, whooshing.
Sleek cyclist slows for no man, woman or child.
Kamikaze starlings chase off rivals reflected in glass.
Springtime. Neo-hippie chicks and plump lesbians.
Round, orange buoys in the cove. Boatload of mental
cases on an outing covert as a DARPA project.
A prattling punk rocker can’t conquer fear
but can contain it, her sunbathing Labrador
sleeping through everything. Loudspeaker honks.
“This sale is an extravaganza! Prawns. Maple syrup.
Smoked salmon. ALL on special!”
A longwinded lute maker. Old world restaurant,
pickle juice in the potato salad,
bird lover training orphaned fledglings.
Florida flight schools, Atta and eighteen others.
Big clue, red flag, CIA too bullish to see.
Why take flying lessons only to play
hooky on Descent & Landing day?
It’s lovely here. I have nothing to complain about
except, some people complain too much.
My new friend Sophie, whining
about the pub’s crappy coasters, catching a nasty cold
from a cabbie in Reno, the jerk she moved here to marry,
a lazy fisherman, busy cutting the head off her mettle.
She grows defensive as a row of swaying cypress trees
when I offer suggestions. I retire to the gazebo,
hear a train and some blues huffing across the water.
Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee?
I wake to news of coffin-sized cells. Torture.
An American Extraordinary Rendition Unit
nabbing suspected terrorists for one-way flights
to top-secret sites around the globe. For questioning.
I am informed there are no railroad tracks near Sechelt.
Those rhythms must have come from machinery
at the cement quarry on the other side of the inlet.
My cranium feels like a washbowl.
Mascara brush too fat,
like trying to apply a bumblebee
to my eyelashes.
Oh, I have nothing to complain about.
It’s lovely here.
And we’re still here, though it is time to kiss summer goodbye, slowly, for it lingers. Perhaps we are being granted the sunshine we were deprived of in July.
Last Thursday I featured with Al Mader at the Twisted Poets Literary Salon at the Prophouse Cafe in Vancouver, a lively Pandora’s Collective series hosted by Bonnie Nish and Warren Dean Fulton, proprietor Ross Judge a most congenial host. I felt right at home amongst a museum-like collection of artifacts, lighting, posters, memorabilia and knick-knacks, hence the name. I thought it brave to open a café across the street from the long-established Uprising Bakery on Venables, but nonplussed Ross is successfully cultivating his own clientele. I wasn’t surprised to see people come in to chat, eat, drink and hang out. So though I had time to kill, it flew by in such good company. Ross is a hockey mad historian and very knowledgeable about the history of the Vancouver as well.
Witty, kooky Al Mader took requests and played his driftwood saxophone though I think his vocal impression sounds more like a clarinet. Catherine Owen debuted her fabulous Hot Sonnet calendar featuring photographs by Patrik Jandak, poems by Fred Wah, Kate Braid, Miranda Pearson, C.R. Avery, George Bowering, Maxine Gadd and eight others. I was told my performance was stellar and new friend Wanda Kehewin gave me one of the loveliest compliments I’ve ever received. She said I delivered every word as if it were precious. Of course, every word is precious. To me. To us. Then later over a late supper, my friend Rhonda said nearly the same thing. Perhaps I am finally hitting my mark.
So back to the grind which includes Visible Verse Festival programming, homeschooling and teaching Junior to drive. I indulged myself with a lot of movies this summer so back to my reading list as well.
Good night Irene! Let’s hope hurricane season is over along with the end of end times? We always have hope. Of course the 10th anniversary of 9/11 looms on the horizon. I suppose it’s appropriate to remember where I was that fateful day, perhaps even de rigueur? I was on the street when a passerby asked, did you hear? The Pentagon was bombed! Frantic and with a deep sense of foreboding, I was soon frustrated in my attempts to find out what was happening; we had no cable, or AM radio, CBC playing greatest classical hits as usual. CBC News kicked in at last and we heard about jetliners crashing into the World Trade Center. We must have gone to a friend or relative’s place to watch the news coverage but I’ll never forget my shock at seeing the towers come down. Brutal. It hadn’t occurred to me they could topple. New York was a very different place in the 80s when I resided there but I have fond memories and love to visit. As we were listening to the radio, the announcer said, “Many Canadians live and work in New York City,” and then I heard my best friend Cathy’s boyfriend Dave Gregg’s voice as he was interviewed in the back of a cab going up 5th Avenue, which made the day all the more surreal. My son was only 7 at the time, too tender to assimilate any of it so we shielded him. Ten years later, it’s a familiar topic of discussion along with many other disturbing issues. He is very well informed and suffers no dearth of opinions.
Also de rigueur? My 9/11 poem, written in 2002, from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland.”
SOAR
Before you-know-what, you-know-when,
I flew in an airplane. I won’t say what.
Or when. People are sick from it.
NASDAQ crashed. Family plan with it.
I remained on the upswing. Going somewhere.
Chicago specifically, e-poets’ geo-conference.
I am digerati. A doyenne of new media culture.
Still, airport security confiscates my apple.
My orange. Half my dinner. They take nothing
from the hinky, hacky-sacking Travis Bickle
doppelgänger who must pose more of a threat,
though that’s like comparing potheads to divas.
Pick up my e-ticket. Wait with the other sulky,
wannabe passengers, SeaTac muggy as a laundromat,
air fouled with KFC. Machines vend to the grounded.
Concrete pillars tremble in the wake of each landing.
Since this is before you-know-what, I don’t assume
a 747 will take out the Space Needle or land
right through us. I don’t equate jet with bomb.
I need only worry about the quake. The Big One
Vancouver and Seattle—sitting queenly
upon the Juan de Fuca fault line—are overdue for.
I am anticipating flight, savouring my thrills,
bumpy joyrides, like motherhood.
Junior calls. Yes dear, Mommy will be home soon.
Before the split, his father cautioned us:
Mercury in our mouths. Vaccines.
Population control. Microwaves.
A conspiracy of urologists.
Fluoride. Fallout. Wheat.
He has found a healer. Can he be cured?
We all know I’m doomed to be infected.
I’m the one who will eat tainted salmon
at the barbeque, the one with stretch marks
and eyes closed in the photographs. The one
who defected, the one who didn’t want
what he wanted, sixteen hours on a film set,
baby languishing with a sitter.
He gets on the phone. Another forecast.
I dreamed you died in a plane crash. I saw you
flailing about in the ocean with your books.
Oh stop polluting my trip with your Eeyore pooh.
I am part of a feminist plot against fathers,
and it was a controlled explosion
set off by the U.S. government.
Suddenly he is solvent, taking me to court,
re-staking his claim to our precious cargo,
crusading to save his son from the new world order.
I board. Window seat. Always, despite dire warnings.
Junior likes to compare the people to ants.
Houses are Lego, mountains, papier mâché.
We land. Kurt appears in the flesh, our virtual rapport
downloaded to O’Hara minus the time-outs and errors.
I feel at home in Chicago, loose in its Loop, towers,
Art Institute. Go to live in Chagall’s epic blue
glass dream for a day, emerge bestowed with wings,
like all his lovers and madonnas.
I have not flown since you-know-what,
you-know-when. We are saddled with dread
after witnessing steel crumple like tin.
It is safe to grieve. Cockpits secured.
Air marshals on board. We will fly again,
prepared to take down any motherfucker
who thinks he’s going to hijack anyone.
We will soar, for we are armed,
knowing where the lies land us.
High on verse. High on life and staying out of trouble (for the most part), occupied with events and performance, recently honoured to participate in a tribute to bill bissett with Daniel Zomparelli, Elizabeth Bachinsky and host Billeh Nickerson at the Vancouver Queer Film Festival. I read the powerful burning up oblivion and at th first breath of life we stir and rise from a bill collection, pass th food release the sprit book published by Talon right around the time I was beginning to get serious about writing poetry. As I said at the festival, bill may not know this but bill saved my ass, my depressed, suicidal teenaged ass. I was very fortunate to have an excellent English teacher in high school, Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter, who happened to be gay, didn’t just hand out text books and assignments but turned me on to bill bissett and Canadian poetry, an exotic thing out in Cloverdale, which describes bill well and explains why I was so immediately affected by his imagery and imagination. bill is a gem, bill is a gift and I swear by now embedded in our national psyche. To me, bill is a poetical Peter Pan and whenever I’ve had the great privilege of seeing and hearing him in performance, have always wished I was Wendy and could fly away with him. For bill is winged. bill soars! Above and beyond. And thank you Mr. Carter, wherever you are. For I too soar, whenever possible. The film, Strange Grey Day This was fascinating, depicting a long ago Vancouver, in the rain naturally and a beguiling, waifish, rather melancholy boy bill.
Hear me roar today at 2 PM on Wax Poetic on Coop Radio and tomorrow night I’m a featured reader at the Twisted Poets Literary Salon, at the Prophouse Cafe. I’ll be screening some videopoems as well, hope to see all your raging high flying selves there.
Hangnails and chainsaws. Men and power toys. Boys and bombs and London’s burning! White riot, wanna riot of my own. Are we moving forward? Well, regardless, “this is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.” No time to look over my shoulder. Watched Fight Club with Junior. Two things; he needs to learn to fight, (defend himself) and Tyler Durden’s Project Mayhem mission was moot but prescient. The banks and corporations blew themselves up. Imploded from greed. I loved Norton’s voice-over narration and Junior relished Tyler driving golf balls into a ravaged urban wasteland. My boy’s a great kid but I can’t lure him from his lair. We on the other hand were renegades; drove ourselves out and everywhere, into the big city for rock concerts, often drunk, (no I’m not condoning drinking and driving, narrowly escaping doom via car accident unlike many unlucky teens) partied hearty every day, and night, smoking heaps of ganja, dropping acid, fucking anything that moved. We were bored. To death. Junior is not bored. Needs no riot of his own. He is the bomb, brilliant, at gaming, video, all things techno but I worry. He needs to toughen up. He got interested in boxing so we set up the gear and he uses it. Sort of. Everybody needs to pack on some muscle. Kick ass. Well, he’s definitely his own man, got the good-looking part down and rocks a golf course like no one. He’s learning to drive, got his first job and hitting the road for the Pax gaming festival in Seattle. I’m just marveling at our different lives, adolescences, experiences. I’m some weird hybrid, he’s a digital native.
“Hey, you created me. I didn’t create some loser alter-ego to make myself feel better. Take some responsibility!” Indeed. Working hard on the book. Excited, entrusted with the greatest task of all; telling the story. Without flinching. Big perk; the assholes in my life have been reduced to fodder. Entertaining fodder. Voice. Number one concern, always my main vehicle, workhorse. It’s as true to Fiona as she is to herself and I strongly believe there is more truth in fiction. Fiona is indomitable, finding her way as is this story. We never give up. Never stop seeking. Know how to fight. Another perk; dread is whittled down along with the manuscript. Oh, and there aren’t enough words in this fucking language.
Yikes! Really living my art, senses heightened, everything merging. I awaken in the novel, visiting characters. Ideas! Such a lovely escape from the pressures and banality of life, inner poor girl happy to recycle pain, angst, channel it into fiction. Not sure it works to exorcise but surely it informs, lends authenticity. This is what I wanted, to be caught up in the work of writing, free of ruts. Discussions over the dinner table cause me to jump up, make notes. Insert here. Add this. Remove that. My son was talking about a friend complaining about the yahoos next door firing guns to celebrate 4th of July, which made me recall a character’s fixation with firearms. When our hero Fiona lived in Los Angeles, she didn’t dare go out at midnight New Year’s Eve for the same reason, neighbours’ penchant for shooting up into the air, each year someone injured or killed. Only one reason why she returns to Vancouver as dismayed as she is to discover the city’s burgeoning gang activity.
Hectic times ahead; Summer Dreams Literary Festival, Saturday, July 13 in the afternoon, I’m on a panel; Music and the Muse: Exploring the Links Between Musicality and Textuality in Verse. Bridging the Gap Between the Poetic Bard and the Minstrel with Catherine Owen and Leanne Averbach.Moderator: Sean Cranbury. Poets pontificate! A talk on what I call spoken word song, the fusion of verse and music.
Sunday, Aug. 21, I’m honoured to be reading at the Queer Film Festival’s bill bissett retrospective feature, Strange Grey Day This at Emily Carr with Daniel Zomperelli, Elizabeth Bachinsky, and bill! Hosted by Billeh Nickerson. Come on down, we can celebrate at the closing gala later that day. Thursday, Sept. 1, I’m featured at Twisted Poets Salon with the inimitable Al Mader. And I’m looking forward to a reunion of sorts with my punk rock homies at Zippy Pinhead’s birthday party at the Fairview Pub Sept. 9. See you in the city!
