In a major funk, not sure why. Probably pre-show anxiety (AURAL Heather @ the Media Club tomorrow, April1). Maybe I just need a break from reality, been feeling restless, suffering a severe case of itchy feet. At least the sun is out today, had to use the goLite yesterday for a shot of Vit D, it was so dark. I am listening to some lovely songs my peripatetic and talented friend Emaline Delapaix sent. She’s in a Montreal suburb right now, a little lovesick I fear and cooling her jets until she moves to Toronto.

All right, well I’m not going to write a review of Art’s (Bergmann’s) show, return to the stage. I’m sure others will. I was overjoyed to see him performing again. I will talk about the influence he has had on me and my art. We go way back. I used to see him driving around Cloverdale in his red Jaguar with his dog Bear in the back and be in awe, envious, jealous of Lori, his girlfriend at the time who was in the same grade as me. She used to bully me and apparently Art as well. Pete Draper my guitarist boyfriend from the Shmorgs said she used to interrupt their rehearsals with demands of money from Art. There seems to be a type of high school girl indigenous to Cloverdale because I have met more than a few with similair tendencies. I will refrain from using the term skank. Peter and Art and I were roommates, shared a house in the bowels of Surrey. I remember when he and Murphy Farrell, Shmorgs drummer, drove down to California in his beast, an old Mercedes they dubbed the Desert Fox. They brought back avocados, the first I ever tasted. I fell in love with their sublime, nut-like flavour. It was perhaps a portent because little did I know at the time that I would reside there as an expatriate for many years. Anyhoo, after Peter and I broke up and I returned to Vancouver, Art was in full swing with the K-Tels and then the Young Canadians. He was always so kind, such a good friend, and very encouraging. I finally summoned the courage to form a band and play my own music. I portray this in my novel, the Town Slut’s Daughter. I miss him.

Okay, we’re going with “Bushwhack” instead of “Bushwhacking” as a title for our art book.  It looks better. Tina and I met in Snug Cove recently to discuss the proposal, which is on the verge of completion. We have a list of publishers and I will query writer friends as well.

It’s so hard to carry on sometimes, to tune out the opinions of others, not to mention inner critics, editors. A poet friend of mine was wounded by comments made by another poet, a supposed friend, who is such a solipsist she cannot appreciate those of us who work in other styles, etc. Alexandra Oliver has a singular neo-Classicist voice, her rhyming verse funny, often excruciatingly so, knee-slapping in fact. She reminds me of Dorothy Parker which many of our contemporaries don’t get or appreciate. It’s chauvinism dear, just keeping doing your own thing. You are one in a million. Precious.

People are freaking over cuts to the CBC. I recall being in Ottawa, serving on a Canada Council jury. I was at a dinner party or something, listening to some asshole from the CBC belittling the Council, bitching about how questionable some of the recipients are, blah, blah, blah, the same tired old rant, crap. He may as well have been Stephen Harper. Anyway, I not so subtly reminded him that the CBC is heavily subsidized by the government, so fuck you and your opinions. Well I didn’t actually say “Fuck you,” I do have some hard-earned social graces, but in so many (choice) words.

“Get rid of the CBC. This would save the taxpayers a billion dollars per year. It would also free up advertising dollars for the legitimate networks, and would also de-fragment the market, and in so doing, deliver more viewers to the others.”

Don’t agree 100% but there are legitimate points made. I get nostalgic, having grown up with The Friendly Giant and Hinterland Who’s Who, but that only goes so far and indeed the times are changing. If the CBC can’t adapt to the global mileau, then oh well, too bad, that’s life, brutal often, survival of the fittest always. I don’t think their network should continue to be propped up by government subsidies and Christ, I must sound like a libertarian or something.

Roderick helped me get my cassette digitizing station set up; had to upgrade to QuickTime Pro, which wasn’t very expensive. Now in my spare time-ha-I can archive all my old tapes, including the only Zellots demo/recording in existence as far as I know, and some of the music the garage band Peter and I had in LA with Jon Huck. Might be hard to work through the tears though. Nostalgia hurts.

WINDOW SEAT

Heroic as a high school graduate,
slight part of the payload, matrimonial assets
stowed in K-ROQ knapsack, she returns, tailwind
between her legs. Mercy flight Number 1106
United Airlines, non-stop Los Angeles to Vancouver.
Like I can save anyone. Six years spent
spiraling, ten gagging on a microphone.
She feels scatty, unbound, despite buckling up
as instructed. Ah, there’s the Paramount lot, province
of America’s Sweetheart, Mary Pickford,
Toronto’s Gladys Louise Smith. Only a Canadian
would care. Spies her old apartment on Virginia Avenue,
seven blocks from the studio, two from Hollywood
Cemetery. How many maidens, young ladies and starlets
before her? She’d visit Valentino. Fay Wray. Alfalfa.
Perch on a silent granite bench beneath a black awning
of olive tree branches to read, or write
home. If only she had a stage mother, someone to push,
someone to wait in the wings, guide her away
from flaccid A&R reps, priaptic, coke-dealer
record producers. Fingers pricked, she finds a pink
guitar pick, thumbtacks, enough cash for a cocktail
and hails a tan, smiley-faced flight attendant.
I’m sorry. We’re out of champagne.
Like I have anything to celebrate.
She recalls toxic Lori Kosovich
and a Replacements’ song, Waitress in the Sky.
How she craved Lori’s rank, festered
in envy of her best friend, Glenda,
fat, single welfare mom. A real dad
for her little man—all Glenda wanted.
Lori, a career. To be a stewardess.

Delayed landing pisses her right off
as does bloody rain, lame-assed radio,
dim chilly clime. Carry-on facilitates escape
from baggage carousels, more circles
until middle sister’s curlicues. Roast beef dinner.
Take your shoes off. Please. Give us a kiss.
Here, eat. Go sit with Mom. Her right hand
comes off tomorrow. You’d better be there.