Yikes! No wonder I’m looking over my shoulder. The world is running out of redheads. We are predicted to be extinct within 100 years. And we experience pain differently. I knew it. I’m not just a sensitive artist as my friend Gretl so kindly pointed out.

Musings. Such musings are pretty much all I can muster today; struggling to shake malaise, the flu and my inner misanthrope, mood nearly as foul as the weather. Why bother? Why bother blogging? I am a barometer of the times if nothing else. A speck. A speck that can’t stop striving to be more than a speck.

“When you feel happy it somehow seems that you’ve always been happy and that you’ll always be happy. The same is often true when you feel sad, or lonely, or depressed, or broke, or sick, or scared. Something, perhaps, to remember.”-One of those silly albeit often prescient Notes from the Universe. What a relief. It’s only a matter of time. Not sure there’s much consolation in that.

Music helps. At the moment, I am listening to a favoured Internet radio station, Cluberry Chill, ‘cause I needs to chill don’t you know. Rest. Recover. They just played Laurie Anderson’s Mr. Heartbreak and are now onto some swanky 60s noir soul. Sometimes I move over to Mountain Chill where the DJ drawls song titles reminiscent of the classic, late night DJ portrayed by Clint Eastwood in Play Misty For Me, the original Fatal Attraction. “Stay tuned.” Old school. Who gets to program their own program these days? We are very adept at bringing back the tried and true way of doing things though. Rock and roll will never die and neither will DJs. My favourite rock station lately is AndHow.com out of New Zealand. I love Internet radio, its infinite selection. I cannot abide commercial radio and refuse to listen to it in the car, plugging in my iPod instead. I can’t believe they’re playing essentially the same playlists they played in the 70s.

Creating helps. Family affair. I’m writing songs with my nephew and gearing up to start production on a new videopoem, having recruited my 17 year old son to help shoot and edit.  We can play it by ear and work on days when the weather cooperates. I plan to use the audio from my AURAL Heather CD Princess Nut and the Whore In The Eddy track. I wanted to use a mannequin in some of the shots, tried to get one donated because as usual I’m working with a zero budget and did not succeed. So I’ve decided it was probably too overt, too literal an interpretation anyway. I’ll improvise.

Ridley Scott is on YouTube promoting Your Film Festival, though it obviously belongs to YouTube. Watched a bit of Blade Runner with my boy the other night, who is suddenly an aspiring writer. Will miracles never cease? He used to hate reading but is now asking for books, taking my advice, the same advice I share with every aspiring writer. Read! Read good writing if you want to be a good writer though lately I can’t focus, or read anything but biographies and verse. I can always read poetry. It bolsters me. I don’t understand how people can’t appreciate it. I mean, you can read two or three poems on your lunch break people. Little shots of literature. Heady stuff. Potent stuff that goes down easy if you ask me.

And people are asking me, more all the time. To mentor. I’ve been contracted to facilitate several workshops this spring. About time I guess, a natural progression. I’ve been here a long time, biding my time, taking it all in. I recently watched a film by Larry Kent called Hastings Street, taking delight in seeing the Cozy Corner grocery store. It had remained a landmark and stood across from the Smilin’ Buddha in my punk rock heyday. I remember Tony from the Dils was so chivalrous he escorted me across the street to buy a pack of cigarettes, hard to do when you’re swooning.

Death hovers closely. Too much. Too often. Our beloved Jim Green died! I played Vancouver city hall once, with my spoken word act Bent Tail. I think the program must have been one of his initiatives, as much an advocate for the arts as for the poor. Always kind and friendly and funny. R.I.P. Jim.

Find myself tallying the years I may or may not have left which can only be depressing. I think I must be working toward acceptance of my vulnerability, my mortality. Our mortality. Of course, it’s bittersweet but forces one to appreciate life. A friend shared news of his mother’s illness and death. A lump formed in my throat reading his raw, bare and moving account of her suffering and courage. I couldn’t talk about the way my mother had died to anyone, including myself, for many years.  Then I wound up depicting the strange and sadly sordid episode in my novel. So on the eve of my birthday, death pawing at the door, I’ve decided I must start taking myself seriously as an artist, before it’s too late. I can only write about my experiences with any authority, authenticity. My tiny spot in this vast universe. My speck of time. In time. It’s all I know for certain.

The Godfather 40th Anniversary marathon on AMC. Wow, Coppola’s daughter Sophia is so much better a director than an actress. Junior claims to like the third movie. We get semantical a lot lately and discussed the meaning of the word saga. So funny, he said, “Why don’t they call it a trilogy?” I said why can’t it be both? Because it is. A trilogy and a saga. I love the trilogy, and or, saga. I can watch them again and again, unlike most films. They’re textured. Lately I wind up observing the tabby cat the Godfather is stroking on the day of his daughter’s wedding, the streaks of grey in Michael’s hair as he sits the edge of Lake Tahoe, and marvel at Kay’s fury, her defiance as she spurns him and his son with “this Sicilian thing!” Christ, I sound like a fanatic. Must be the Catholic in me.

Speaking of death, the verdict is in. I just received the pronouncement that my hard drive is indeed toast, no data can be retrieved. I’ve effectively lost four years of work. Every poem, every picture, every document and every correspondence gone. Thank Christ for the Internet because some of it resides there. Interesting, we will be the first to leave a virtual self when we die. So that is one task ahead of me now, tracking down what I can. And I woke this morning thinking, how can I not be used to loss by now? Why can’t I roll with the punches better? Maybe I do. My friend L pointed out that I’m still able to smile and laugh. I can’t help myself. I always hope against hope that hope remains when I’d probably be better off dead, the only alternative to facing each day. So, I get up. Function. As best I can. Take care of business. Tackle my list. Organize errands, prioritize chores when all I want to do is run away. Flee. Pull a Gauguin. Find happiness.  I will try to go with the flow. I ain’t no hippie but that’s what I want to do for the rest of my precious life. Slow Down. Be deliberate, in the present.

If I can only stop censoring myself, sabotaging myself, I will preserve our story, everyone that I share this time in history with. We are a fraternity. I have something to say. As do you my friend.

And my son is reading. Writing. Reveling in his time.