I was chatting with my buddy poet Pete Trower and we were commiserating about how hard it is to get into print these days. The subject of e-books and online publishing came up. Several authors I know have recommended Lulu com. I like the idea that a customer can choose between downloading or ordering a book, which isn’t printed until it’s purchased, going green in a big way. Then I found a message in my In box about how to sell your book online. Then, Jon Stewart had the CEO of Amazon.com on the Daily show promoting the Kindle, a device with a screen that can hold thousands of books. I have no idea whether I would want to curl up in bed with it, would have to try it out but I’m open to the idea. I’m some kind of hybrid I guess, a cross between a page baby and digerati. I am not a digital native like my 14-year old son who used to fall asleep on the keyboard as a toddler. I have been on the internet since the early 90s, published one of Canada’s first electronic literary zines, the Edgewise Cafe and have typed so much my handwriting is about as legible as a doctor’s, but neither am I texting or tweeting much. I just haven’t had time to adapt to them or explore Second Life either. Well, at least I’m finally blogging, as much as possible. In any case, I told Pete I don’t think books will disappear, that they will become rare and even more like sacred objects. They are art objects as well and people will want them around. The demise of painting was predicted when photography  came along and we all know the name of that tune.

Good news! My book of verse, “Window Seat” is finally going to be published! Richard Olafson of Ekstasis Editions has selected it for his fall list. I am so relieved, was wondering if it would ever make it into print. Some of the poems are five years old for Christ’s sakes. As I have said before, I think I would have lost my mind long ago if I weren’t working in myriad media.

In fact, I love the Internet, how did I manage before the Internet? I just made a new FB friend of Ransom Pictures, out of south Minnesota; guess Minnesota is a big state. Apparently they specialize in “edgy, dark, sexy, satirical and gory horror comedies” so I asked if they are familiar with Blood Diner? I was an extra, many moons ago. Jimmie Maslon directed it and my boyfriend Rick Burkes was in it. Actually Rick was everybody’s boyfriend and he died in a nasty car accident a few years later, still young and beautiful like James Dean. I wrote a poem about him, see below. He was an incorrigible cad but so fatally charming and swooningly handsome, he got away with it. Anyway, the Ransom Pictures dude asked me send a clip and I realized I don’t even have a copy of it, so when I get a chance I will go online see if I can find a DVD of it.

While at FB, I directed an African poet friend to John Paul O Neil who facilitates a slam called Farrago so he could look him up when he visits London and referred an unemployed gal pal to some mutual friends working in her field. Pretty cool.

So tired. Weary. I could not sleep last night, had the worst insomnia, and kept waking up every hour. Some nights are just like that no matter what I do although my insomnia has improved immensely in the past year or so. My medical herbalist has me on phosphorylated serine and Prolent which contains 5 HTTP and L-theanine so I suppose they’ve made a difference.

Rode the Bowen Queen the other day, a “real ship” according to the BC Ferries employee manning the snack bar. I could care less. Replacing our regular boat that’s being refitted, it’s quaint alright but it’s too small and I hope they bring back the Capilano Queen sooner rather than later. Funny, there was a flyer in the john for a Hip Hop Show at the Hart pub on Gabriola. “Only 5 dollars. Save Hip Hop!”

Had a productive meeting with Blair Armstrong yesterday, the new RDI therapist we are working with. We discussed how old a lot of ASD therapies are, how people are stuck in ABA land, parents, clinicians. Seems there are always at least two opposing camps regarding any sort of chronic condition or learning disability or mental illness.

We had a lovely Tuesday though, visiting with my nephew Kyle and his girlfriend Allison. I had been agonizing about where to go for a hike. Cape Roger Curtis seemed like a large undertaking but I realized it was the best choice and I’m so glad we went down there because the weather turned around and it was sunny by the time we arrived at the beach. Fantastic, in fact and we had the entire place to ourselves, the way it used to be. Beach combed for sea glass, smooth, symmetrical black stones, the ocean the best tumbler there can be. Brinda was deliriously happy to be off leash, chasing after sticks. Kyle went on a search for starfish and Josef lost his lens cap in the rocks. I’m glad Kyle has found such a lovely girl. They seem well suited and happy together. They are off on a road trip, driving down PCH to California. I’m envious, nostalgic, remembering the cross-Canada trip I took with my boyfriend Pete Draper when we were  in our early 20s. Sadly, he died of leukemia six years ago. Pete was intelligent, witty and an extremely talented guitarist. We lived together for about three years before I ran off to start a punk band. We remained friends and he always made me laugh. I miss him.

Man! It’s hard not to get overwhelmed. I often wonder how I managed when I was younger not to, but I look back and have to realize I didn’t have half as many responsibilities as I do now. I was single, and though I didn’t have a lot of money, life was simple. I had a job and paid my rent and utilities. I was very resourceful when it came to other needs like clothing. I didn’t spend much money on food, I guess. There was just skinny ole me to take care of.

Watched 32 Films About Glen Gould; was not impressed, would rather watch a documentary I think and I don’t understand why it was necessary to describe one film as being 32. Apparently Gould liked to talk, would wake himself up by calling someone, ostensibly a friend. “Hey it’s Glen Gould, and I want to talk.” He would then proceed to ramble, completely oblivious to his listener’s time pressure.

Here’s the poem about one of the the dead boyfriends, from Sideways. I haven’t stopped to count how many old boyfriends are dead now-would be rather depressing-but it’s definitely too many.

The Hollywood Sign
He could play
every pop song ever written
and sing too,
just well enough.
He played everyone
like the guitar.
He wanted the spotlight
but I only had one.
The burning bridges
in his wake
created a huge stumbling block
to intimacy.
He determined to climb
the Hollywood sign
one letter at a time.
He didn’t jump,
but fell from grace
in a car,
like James Dean,
only not as famous.
He was up to the “D”
when Hollywood did him in.
The irony was too much for me,
up all night, crying,
trying to revive him
until I finally plowed him
beneath my contempt.