Man, am I ever a case of champagne taste on a beer budget. I adore modern design, came across an ultra cool chair, a Tom Dixon Wingback, a real Jetsons take on the traditional. I tracked down a store in Vancouver, thinking we could go take a test drive until I found out they cost 12,000. Wow! It’s hard to imagine the strata I would reside in to be spending $24,000. on a pair of arm chairs. I doubt that I could do it even if, by some miracle, I found myself in that bracket. White trash roots showing, I’d probably feel guilty, or foolish, or both.
Seems like everything is coming to a head. Roderick and I are picking up the AURAL Heather pace, rehearsing and working on new material. I’m not sure First Comes Mary will be ready for our show at the Media Club on April 1 but we are forging ahead. We are trying very hard as well to get a video of How To Remain off the ground. Some friends have volunteered to help with art direction and procuring equipment, as we will be working with a shoestring budget. Our 30-page book proposal for Bushwhacking (working title) is nearly completed. I have a meeting with collaborator Tina Schliessler tomorrow. We have leads from agent and writer friends; will strategize, decide which publishers to send it to. I must get the final draft for my novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter finished, nail down dates for a writing retreat next month in order to meet the Mother Tongue BC Novel deadline and prepare for the Al Purdy A-Frame Trust fundraiser we’re hosting. We have several other AURAL Heather shows coming up as well, not to mention back-to-school, RDI intervention and therapy, spring cleaning. Whew. I am going to go take the rest of the (Sun)day off and try not to think about any of this.
Our AURAL Heather spoken word song is adapted from this poem from Window Seat:
First Comes Mary
Enchanted morning swim, matrix of turquoise
lagoon. Silver palometas, yellow damselfish
caress my legs. Casa Ocio walls whitewashed
in cactus milk. Coconuts on the lawn.
Palm fronds bowing, rippling like sea anemones.
Heavy mahogany Hemingway digs.
Gecko chirps from behind a gilt frame.
Cool terrazzo marble pulls sand from toes.
Double rain showerhead. Full throttle bottle bar
under a palapa. I ponder the power
of local masonry to withstand hurricanes,
why it seems odd to name them after men.
Who are you going to meet at a resort?
Mail carriers from St. Catharines. Chiropractors
from Winnipeg. Programmed amusements for fraught
tourists wary of beggars. Cockatiels. Street vendors.
They recoil at pulque, mescal, even tequila,
unless it’s frozen, goes down like a Slurpee.
They tap into barrels of Corona or deposit derrières
under cabanas to read the latest Grisham.
Beneath an arbor of pink bougainvillea
sit my dubious nephew, delicate girlfriend,
doubts sinking slowly into the deep
purple cushions. We are going to town. To Playa.
Soft brown doves adorn neon.
Turtles bask on green tile mosaic. Red house
hosts a party tableau of orange Fanta, blue corn
flowers, flags of paper lace, chocolate pan de huevos.
We smell agave, chili, vanilla, coriander and anise,
hear mariachis blaze a mighty La Bamba. Gobble
pumpkin tamales, snow-white beach cooling our heels.
Mongrels expire at the feet of professional urchins
soliciting pesos. I will not cry, pick a white handkerchief
festooned with poinsettias embroidered by his mother.
No, I can’t buy them all. Though downcast he will not cry.
Our Lady of Guadalupe provides. Protects.
Christmastime but it’s Mary I see. Everywhere. To the faithful
the forever virgin manifests in reefs, rays and schools
of gobies and fairy basslet. In the crystalline water
of a cenote near Merida. In the mynah’s cry.
They live in Mother Mary’s shadow, warm as her embrace.
Queen of the Americas imperial as the iguana
gnawing hibiscus, sunning atop Tulum’s serpentine stairways.
She is wing carved into rock, three pelicans soaring above.
Even Mary, standing on the moon, presiding over the jungle
in a cloak of stars, could not stop the calendar,
marauding anthropologists or games to the death.
On every altar she towers over the crucifix, candles,
iron crosses, golden grapes. She is under their skin,
her miraculous portrait inked onto their muscles.
Hammered in copper, in tin. On murals.
Santa Maria assures and comforts all
her Mexican children. Heals. Entirely and ever
Virgin Mary is the horizon, sea and sky colliding
in azure, cobalt blues. Sacred to all. Taxi drivers.
Marimba players. Deejays and charros. She waves
from the cruise ships, watches over fire dancing,
blesses the portrait of two young lovers lost
in a car crash. Her people feel the harbour of her arms
around them. Her mercy. Infinite. Close.
First comes Mary. Holy Mary. Mother of God.