Sad Anniversary. In honour of Dave Gregg, the elegiac poem I wrote last year

Dave&Lucas

It’s been a year since our beloved Dave Gregg died. Too young, taken too soon. The shock lingers. Dave was a towering presence in more ways than one, a true rara avis, I had the great privilege of knowing him since our punk rock heyday, when he presided over Fort Gore and played in Private School then DOA and the Real McKenzies. He became close to me and my family through my best friend Cathy after they hooked up. Cathy is my son’s godmother and Dave was like an uncle, an exceptionally jolly uncle and a wonderful role model with his indefatigable exuberance and generousity.  I loved him for his towering wit and steadfast kindness. He was wonderful role model for my son. Cathy’s an equally extraordinary individual and she and Dave complemented one another. They reveled in a symbiotic relationship, partners in business, life and love. The pair traveled extensively and we always looked forward to meeting up with them for a vacation or whenever they landed in Vancouver. I hold close fond, precious memories; celebrating my birthday on Molokai, kids indulged with kayaking and horseback riding, sleeping in tenatlows on the beach. During a momentous holiday gathering in Whistler, much to our delight and amazement, Dave and Cathy bestowed us all with commemorative white terry robes. One year it was cabins in Waimea Canyon on Kauai, grilling tuna steaks and mahi mahi for Christmas dinner on the Na Pali coast.  We shared many good times and bad jokes over countless meals together.

And we still work to assimilate the loss. He meant so much to us all. Yes, Dave was a consummate musician, a great showman, and a wild man who was as free as a man can be in this world. As bitingly observant and wickedly funny as he was, I never heard Dave diss anyone.  Truly benevolent, I’m certain the man didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, as they say. Here is a poem that as I told Cathy, couldn’t bear to write in past tense. Dave will always loom tall in our home, hearts and minds.

ROCK STAR

Head of fur.
Unabashed depth charger
Renegade
As a cascading river
Wilderness alive inside him
Night a badge
Over savannah heart.
Heroic trickster
Dutifully howls,
Coyote-like scatters stars
Unerringly sharing his light.

“Why do you write poetry?” she asked.

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Not certain I’ll ever find enough time to pen another novel but I continue to carve hours out of each week to write verse, which to many is an utter waste of time. I am not so foolish as to waste my breath convincing anyone of its merit. I know why I write poetry. Poetry is where I take risks, indulge my quirks, alter my old order, find inspiration. It sustains me.

SALOON

Home away from home
To maul his favourite barfly,
The one who’s heard it all.
Meek dick taker. Instant co-spiralee.

No-guff companion, quickly enamored
Of her salient recycled mate.
Faithful ego extension, she waits
Patiently, fourth in line.

It’s the reckless man
That underestimates her pale grip,
Courts the highly functioning
Simpering angel face, dressed up

To impersonate a pure silk purse.
He orders a beer. “Have a cup of cyanide,”
Says the proprietor, “it goes down quicker,
Delivers a merciful fate.”

“A visceral trip through Vancouver’s punk scene.”-Vancouver Sun review of The Town Slut’s Daughter

FlamingMic

“Haley has the gift of writing to suit her subject in all its raddled variety, from wired and jarring to lyrical and tragic. The lyricism is seductive in a way which reflects her heroine’s suicidal spiral into depravity.”

Review by George Payerle in the Vancouver Sun. FYI, the story ends in LA, during the riots, not in San Francisco.

Kindle Countdown Deal-The Town Slut’s Daughter

FlamingMic

This Fiona’s on fire! Announcing my Kindle Countdown Deal from today through Mar 11. My novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter is on sale for 99¢.
“Worth the danger.”
-“This is Punk Literature at its unique and original best, with a Cinderella-like heroine running into the flames of her own making.”
-“The Town Slut’s Daughter takes you into the dark side of the music business. Why it makes punk rock seem tame in comparison.”
-“Raw, Hard Core, a Turn On. Couldn’t put the book down. A great read that takes you under the skin of Fiona.”

Happy Birthday to me & Happy (?) International Women’s Day!

ManHaters
Image: Sacha Moiseiwitsch

This is a tough one. I may not act my age but there’s no denying that I’m getting older, running out of time, moving inexorably toward the day of my departure. Human consciousness makes life bittersweet, living with our mortality. Living with death. Or despite it? For we live despite it all; every fear, challenge, setback. We exult in life. Joie de vivre. So I will celebrate having survived one more orbit round the sun. The boyfriend is hosting a party in Vancouver and I will get to see friends I don’t get to see enough. A la vida!

Not sure exactly how to celebrate International Women’s Day when “feminist” has become a dirty word and women are still so oppressed. The majority of the Like generation doesn’t appear to give a fuck. But it’s unfair to single them out. They aren’t the only people that don’t care.

Women’s rights are human rights. And as I said to a young man recently, I can understand your loathing of feminists. I don’t like zealots, but not all feminists are loud mouthed, obnoxious extremists. I love being a woman and I love men, but there will always be a gender gap. Our experiences on this earth cannot compare. Women are not the enemy. Seems obvious to me that the male and female of the species are designed to complement one another, work together. Be partners, therefore equal. A team. We are not the same. Vive le difference! Like the life force, women persist and humanity will prevail.

 

WINTER HEAT

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WINTER HEAT

You and I. We
Warm the cabin
With a fiesta.
Slow dances.
Tortuous torch songs.

He who orchestrates touch
Who once handed me
My limping orders
Favours the melted
And I,
Kiosk chocolate.
Cormorants black as cinder.

You ban air quotes. Kink.
I, fake railings. Balloon releases,
Especially for no occasion.
You inform me that yes
Some gingers are cold.
I confide that meanly handsome
Hot headed micks
Only made me think of We.

Rockin’ Art Song Lab and Our friend Pete, as in Trower

ArtSongLab

I’ve long been intrigued by the Art Song Lab program so I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve been selected as one of 12 poets participating in Art Song Lab 2015! Vancouver (May 31st – June 5th). I am paired with composer Brian Topp. Our piece will premiere at the Orpheum Annex in downtown Vancouver in a culminating concert on June 5th, performed by professionals from within the Vancouver music scene. I’m grateful to Ray Hsu and Michael James Park who encouraged me to apply. Now I just have to figure out how to schedule it into my crazy schedule. First step is for Brian and I to discuss our work and mutual interests next week.

Photo: Gabor Gasztonyi
Photo: Gabor Gasztonyi

I met legendary West Coast poet Peter Trower in 2008 at a book launch party for ROCKsalt: An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry at 32 Books Company in Edgemont Village, North Vancouver which fortunately, remains standing. Owner Deb McVittie is a big booster of writers and authors, hence the launch event. We wound up at a local pub with Rob Taylor and Zach Wells and became fast friends. I had a lot more time and resources then so was able to drive Pete around, attend events  and do readings together, which sadly he doesn’t largely remember. His memory is failing badly and sometimes it puts him into a panic.  I contact him by phone and visit whenever possible. He lost his beloved companion Yvonne in 06 and can get very lonely and depressed. He needs help. Talking with friends is reassuring and conversation helps to cheer him up. If you are one of Pete’s comrades, I encourage you to call or visit, or write. I, or Jamie Reid can put you in touch.

Poetical Canuckian love letters, “Voracious”-new AURAL Heather & Vancouver’s female punk rockers

LoveLetters

Lots of action on the HS Haley front! 2015 looks promising. Last summer poetry impresario and scholar Dave Eso contacted me regarding a Goose Lane Editions anthology of love letters by Canadian poets that he and Jeanette Lynes were co-editing called Where the Nights are Twice as Long. I was intrigued and he was interested in some Peter Trower letters that he’d found through his research. Dave asked if I had anything I’d like to contribute. My instinctive reaction was a resolute “No.” But as Pete’s friend and literary executor, I assisted for several months in procuring the Trower material. A peksy idea began to seep in; I do have amorous correspondence, stored away. I would have to read it again, in the process reliving the pain and heartache of John and mine’s implosion four years previous. Which I did. Naturally. ‘Cause I’m a sucker for romance, a glutton for punishment. I showed it Dave who was keen for it and here I sit six months later admiring this lush, hefty, gorgeous book.  “Here are odes and lyric ecstasies, tirades and tantrums, pastoral comforts and abject horrors – all delivered with the vibrancy, wit, and erudition of our finest poets. Under the covers of Where the Nights Are Twice As Long, David Eso and Jeanette Lynes collect letters and epistolary poems from more than 120 Canadian poets, including Pauline Johnson, Malcolm Lowry, Louis Riel, Alden Nowlan, Anne Szumigalski, Leonard Cohen, John Barton, Di Brandt, and many others, encompassing the breadth of this country’s English literary history.”  Kudos and congratulations Dave and Jeanette! I know how hard, and how long you’ve worked on this wondrous tome. Thrilled as I am to be included, I get squeamish at the thought of such intimacy on full display. But it will appeal to the voyeur I believe resides within us all.

Speaking of connections, I recently reconnected with a dear friend, one Mark Deutrom, musician/composer/producer extraordinaire. As Mark puts it: “I first knew Heather in what seems to be another life at this point – we were neighbors sharing some affinities in the existential miasma that was Hollywood at the dawn of Ronald Reagan’s so called “shining city on a hill”. Many years later, through the miracle of the Interweb, we are back in touch and have begun what will hopefully be the start of an adventure in the spoken word with accompanying soundtracks.” What I call AURAL Heather. Our first effort/collaboration is Voracious, written at the height of, and as a result of the mad affair depicted in the aforementioned anthology. I will select another poem in the next few weeks, record the voice-over, send it along to Mark, who happens to reside in Austin, Texas, and we will go from there. I’ll be doing a Twisted Poets reading in Vancouver Jan 29 which will help put me in the zone. I need to sing! Determined to incorporate some vocalizations into our next piece.

GeistCover

Last fall, in the midst of fervent Visible Verse Festival curating and preparations, a writer named Connie Kuhns got in touch regarding her article on Vancouver’s female punk rockers. I managed to answer her interview questions in time and it’s hot off the presses. “Geist 95 is on newsstands now! See the full Table of Contents and order this brand-new issue for only $6. Our loudest issue yet features punk, politics and feminism by Connie Kuhns; winners of the Tobacco Lit Writing Contest; David Albahari’s child-free neighbourhood; the Arctic photography of Bogdan Luca; Stephen Osborne on dog walking and story writing, and more!” The guitarist depicted on the cover in the foreground is Christine de Veber rippin’ it at one of our first Zellots shows at the Smilin’ Buddha, a couple of lifetimes ago.

ROCK AGAINST DEATH

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From Dec 10, 2014: I’ve been moping since the news of another fallen punk rock comrade. Brian Goble, AKA Wimpy Roy, or Sunny Boy, of the Subhumans,  DOA and Rude Norton, died Sunday. Heart attack. Taken too soon at the age of 57. It’s so hard to reconcile the exuberance of our youth with the cold hard facts of life, the hardest, death. It comes for us all, a fact we can’t possibly comprehend when we’re kids brimming with piss and vinegar. Nor should we. A wonderful part of youth-ignorance of our impending demise-provides a liberty which empowers us to speak, sing, write. Kick ass. Take action. Realize ourselves. When I die, I’ll die knowing that we accomplished that much. Sang our songs, rallied against injustice. Lived and loved loudly, unabashedly.

There was a time when my fellow Zellots and I ran with the uber intelligent, talented, honourable and driven Brian, Subhumans and DOA, all of who profoundly influenced and inspired me. And made me smile. Laugh. I am so privileged to have known him. We all are. Wimpy in all his guises rocked Vancouver in the most visceral way. And I know many people are in pain over the loss. I so wish I could offer more than heartfelt condolences to his family. But, fuck death. Brian Goble and his legacy will live on. Onward and upwards, and “Death to the Sickoids!”

DIY Dickens. “A Christmas Carol,” self-published masterpiece. 12th Blog of Christmas by best-selling author Martin Crosbie

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Martin Crosbie  lives on the west coast of Canada and has written five books including Amazon bestseller My Temporary Life. His popular Christmas novel Believing Again: A Tale Of Two Christmases is available in e-book format in the US and UK as a Kindle Countdown Deal from Dec. 24-27 for only 99 cents.

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

Those delicious words open the Dickens classic. Previous to the publication of A Christmas Carol, Christmas was barely recognized. Although it was a holiday it didn’t have the romantic vibe that it has today. Mr. Dickens and his novel changed all that. And, if he’d waited for his publisher to release the book it may never have happened.

Charles Dickens wrote his masterpiece in six weeks. Somehow he was able to channel the story and get the words on paper (or parchment probably) in less than two months. At that time he was suffering financially. His wife was pregnant with their fifth child and the wolves were closing in on their door. His previous novel had not sold well and when he submitted his new manuscript (after having it beta-read surely), to his publishers they were slow to warm to it. I’m not sure how rejection letters were sent out in 1853 but his publishers indicated that they were not interested in publishing the story of Ebenezer Scrooge’s epiphany. Anxious to have the book released by Christmas Dickens went the print-on-demand route and self-published. He hired his own illustrator and contracted his publisher to print the books. And, he did the legwork himself. Then, in those very, pre-Konrath days he decided to lower the price to five shillings – a price that most folks would be able to afford. He wanted his book to be read and perhaps he even thought that readers might enjoy his other works if they liked his Christmas tale.

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