THE TOWN SLUT’S DAUGHTER novel excerpt

Journal, ,

Woo hoo! There’s activity on the novel front, interest from an agent and a publisher. These are Night of the Clash Concert scenes from Chapter Three. Sorry I can’t format it better in WordPress, which sucks.

Does he do this she wondered? Conjure up last night, the things we did, feel an after-shudder? Waiting to see Emmett Hayes, was . . . agony! She couldn’t eat. Think straight. Gawd I hate this! Half an hour late. Again. Fiona diddled her guitar, scanned a book, traipsed back and forth to the fridge, swinging wildly between anger and anxiety. Why doesn’t he call? That dink! She could have gone with Rita and Shannon. She could have spent her hard earned cash on something besides a new silk bra and panties. That bastard. Then, still cursing, she heard his obnoxious Porsche engine out front and relief coursed through her limbs. She barely resisted the urge to run to the car.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mouthed, the Clash’s I Fought the Law blasting from his Blaupaunkts. “Did you hear? They came out and played soccer with us!”
“Who won?”
“They did, of course. My shins are covered in bruises.”
Emmett yarded on the gears pinball wizard style. Soon they were pelted with fat raindrops. He pulled over immediately to put the top up. They cruised the block repeatedly in search of the safest parking spot for his precious steed of steel. At last they entered the fading art-deco grandeur of the Commodore Ballroom, Emmett waving tickets at the doorman, breezing by security like a diplomat. Christ. He must have been left under a cabbage by mistake. Emmett surveyed the room, refusing Fiona’s hand.
“Fuck! Look at all the poseurs.”
Fiona spied Dennis across the room, stomach tilting at the reproach in his face. A young woman in a booth flanking the stage sat sneering.
“Emmett, who’s that girl glaring at us?”
He ignored the question, wandered off, Fiona following.
The Clash had an excellent DJ spinning a killer mix of ska, punk, reggae and dub. Fiona waved to Shannon and friends. The place was jammed with every die-hard in the city, slam dancing on its famous ballroom floor, originally designed to make any clodhopper hoof it like Fred Astaire. The Commodore had character all right and it was the perfect size. She hated arena shows. The Dishrags opene, inspiring to watch fellow females wailing on guitar. They finished with a blazing rendition of London’s Burning. Next up, Bo Diddley. Emmett said the Clash brought the old guy along as a way to pay homage to one of rock and roll’s originators. She shrugged.
“I’m too young for nostalgia.”
Unfortunately, the Powder Blues were his pickup band, old fart-guitar god wannabes and though playing with a legend, forced everyone to sit through a long, boring wank session.
“Fuck this. I wanna see the Clash!” Fiona was not alone in her sentiments.
Shannon walked over and pulled her aside. “See that girl? That’s Electra. One of Emmett’s girlfriends. He told her he was bringing her tonight.”
“Electra! Sounds like an Italian scooter.”
“She’s weird. Really mad, says she’s gonna beat the crap out of you.”
Laughing, they walked over to Emmett. He lowered his drink, deigned to look at them, insisting he hadn’t invited anyone but Fiona. Clouds of tension were gathering on the dance floor as well, burly security guards manning the barriers. Finally, the Clash emerged, a tidal wave of bodies surging forward, the band opening with I’m So Bored With the U.S.A, Emmett off the hook. For now.
Beer. You only rent it. Fiona ran to the bathroom between songs, in and out of a stall quickly. Electra appeared, strutted over and squinted up into Fiona’s face like a Pekinese.
“Hey bitch! Keep your paws off Emmett or I will kill you.”
Looking around, Fiona laughed. “Where’s the hidden camera? Hey, Eeeelectraaaa. I think you’d better stay away from Emmett.”
“Wanna fight about it?”
“Hah! I could squish you like a bug. Fuck off! This ain’t junior high, you know.”
What Electra lacked in size, she made up for in attitude, fueled by four-inch stilettos, garters, fishnets, black leather mini skirt, all of which had nothing to do with style and everything to do with Emmett.
Electra spit at her. Missing her target—Fiona’s face—the gob splatted onto her clavicle. Fiona looked down. Nearly blind with fury, she handily hoisted Electra up by the lapels of her leather jacket. Shannon barged in. Fiona slammed Electra into the wall, back of her head banging the paper towel dispenser. Electra yelped.
“You bitch. You fucking whore!”
Shannon grabbed Fiona by the arm. They walked out dogged by the undaunted Lilliputian. Fiona barreled over to Emmett.
“What were you thinking?”
“I told you! I didn’t ask her. She just assumed.”
Wee Electra was at the bar again, glowering.
“Get lost, you skanky broad!” yelled Emmett.
Snotty pose pierced like a balloon, Electra flumped away, people laughing in her wake.
“God Emmett you’re an asshole!”
“Hey, I brought you. What do you care?”
“I care because it’s the same way you treat me. Like shit!”
“Fuck this!” He walked away in a huff.
Fuck this all right! Fighting tears, determined to revel in this night to remember, Fiona formed two fists and shoved her way through the crowd, jabbing, elbowing, bashing. S Continue reading →

WHEN BABIES FLY; THE TRUTH PERCHANCE?

poems, ,

1

I had a disturbing dream, surely inspired by the Houla massacre, which some people are claiming was a hoax. Keerist. It’s not as if children don’t die in civil wars. In any case, I don’t have much to say-or spin-or would rather put it in verse.

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DISPATCH

An infant is not a toy.
An infant cannot breathe underwater
Or fly though the air. Do not drape it
Over the prone man’s head

Or dress it up like a doll.
An alias views the grisly scene.
Posts. Shares. Tweets.
Foreign observers abort,

Prominent commentators punt
But the drunken skipper acts,
Ordering clean sheets and neat rows
Down below in the hold,

Rogue Unidentified Man
Hoisting the limp boy aloft,
Manipulating our feelings.
Let’s not quibble.

It matters not if the child
Is southern or northern,
Grew spurs or knew pride.
It is as good as dead.

Crooked passages.
Limping messengers.
Frantic, tail-chasing-dog orbits.
A million ships couldn’t transport us.

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TREEHOUSE MYOPIA

Journal, poems, , ,
ANY CHARACTER HERE

All the pain and suffering in the world and all I want to do is nothing. With all that’s happening in my life, I am only sick of my problems—myself—so here I sit at the window trying in vain to see the forest for the trees. I know one thing. I yearn. Therefore I am?

“Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.”-Shakespeare

ANY CHARACTER HERE

RETREAT

Red cedar raven roost,

Feat invisible as its roots

Heavy metal imbued

Purifying groundwater.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

These trees that breathe

When I am panting, sighing, wishing

I could tell you.

Swaying branches camouflage

ANY CHARACTER HERE

My fatal bent, freckles, green canopy

Concealing skewed moments, missed cues,

Taint, our silence lulling as a zephyr,

Blindness sweet as sheep.

ANY CHARACTER HERE
ANY CHARACTER HERE

NEATLY EXECUTED

Journal,

“Exit bag.” I can’t believe I’d never heard of an exit bag considering how often I’m accused of being a ghoul. I had heard of euthanasia devices but had to look it up.  Wikipedia states “a suicide bag, also known as an exit bag, is a device consisting of a large plastic bag with a draw cord used to commit suicide. It is usually used in conjunction with an inert gas like helium or nitrogen, which prevents the panic, sense of suffocation and struggling during unconsciousness (the hypercapnic alarm response) usually caused by the deprivation of oxygen in the presence of carbon dioxide.”

Christ, there are even instructional videos on YouTube. Apparently, these items deliver a painless death and have become quite popular. My mind’s eye keeps picturing a green garbage bag but according to Google images, they’re made of clear plastic.

“A grisly find.” A body was discovered on the island recently, on property adjacent to Harding Road where I used to live, immediately firing up the rumour mill. We heard, “body in a bag,” then “it was just a head.” Some residents expressed hope it would answer the mystery of Jodi Henrickson, the Squamish teenager who went missing three years ago. Coincidentally, she was seen at a party on Harding Road the night she disappeared. As the crime scene tape went up and the media descended, others resorted to gallows humour. Nothing is sacred after all and an island community is a small town like any other. Obviously, joking conceals our uneasiness around the subject, providing a convenient way to dodge that dark portal. There was nothing but speculation until the autopsy and the body identified as 19-year-old Mitchell Gallivan from Vancouver. Gallivan had been reported missing to the Vancouver Police Department in October 2011 after he’d completed his first year of engineering at UBC. Day trip? His last in any case. Sorry. ‘Tis only sad but at least one family is being provided answers. More speculation; did he think he was in the wilderness?

“Self deliverance.” I like that, but as with most things in life, harbour mixed feelings. If someone makes the decision to die, they have every right to check out on their own terms but what about the poor souls left behind? Loved ones and the hapless person who finds the body. Imagine how traumatic that must be.  How could anyone do that? Obviously an individual committing suicide might not be in his or her right mind. Certainly, I know depression, understand despair, been there, fucked that up, but surely suicide is more misguided than malicious. At age 10, a dear friend of mine found his father hanging from the rafters of their garage, and as wonderful as my friend is, I came to know his damage as well as his character. Is that less cruel than disappearing and saddling your family with the unknown? Heartache and sorrow either way.

Back to the ghoul business. I wouldn’t say I’m preoccupied with crime but do find it fascinating. ‘Tis a matter of life and death after all. It’s the human mind, human behavior that intrigues me. I want to understand, motive especially. Nature vs. nurture? What triggers some people to become psychopaths? And I always have more questions than answers.

Is death ever tidy? Perhaps that’s why more men than women commit suicide. We don’t want to burden anyone with the mess.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

OUR THIRST

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New poem. First draft. Practically a sea shanty; also brings to mind the Nick Cave song Thirsty Dog.

OUR THIRST

Towering, pensive Danny Boy.
Bloodied. Unbowed.
Lithe, simmering
Scar brandishing tomboy.

Preeminent cursers.
Junkyard dog hearts
Swapping reflections.
Damage.

Kiss us. We’re, you know,
Irish. Black Irish.
Fuck yeah. We invented melancholy,
Lap up sea squalls like puddle water,

Bite tragedy’s ass. Devour angst, roll over
Despair. Brood, pour, grapple, shove
The good fight and function Godammit,
Especially when called upon.

Big, deliberate, quixotic, plodding
Through calamity. Breathing little,
We flail against ourselves,
Rail, smack, filch one another’s bones,

Laughing in the morning.
Nothing sacred,
Catholic as we may be
Do not go down. Know Hell. Knees.

Swells. Rising again and again
Through the slag, flames,
Howling, baying,
Fumes. Bellowing waves.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

Happy Mothers Day!

poems

 

CUB

One hand follows the other

to this place where bears scuffle

over huckleberries, deer flies

rule. Well dry, climbing roses

rest, wait out freak heat.

I tend seedlings, bulbs, plots,

fume as my terrier, soft woofer, degenerates

into a baying Cerberus. I am expecting

no one. Then I hear gears,

wheels pulverizing the rutted gravel road.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

I am expecting nothing. Nothing

is what I receive until your teeny foot

in my door, your arrival triangulating two

parties. Spoony offshoot, the final score

of recreational sex into overtime. A boy. To bore

into my nape and puke and suck hard.

I must have been a girl before. I forget history.

How many years we angled in the Tetons.

Buff. Randy. Flush. How many sappy

songs he scritched onto tree bark.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

Our nativity, out here, on a bed of curling,

luminous white fungi. Or while I bob

in the pond, dozing between koi. Pains.

Suspended yellow hands will wave, cheer;

maple leaves ensnared in a web of bare boughs.

Alder trunks will lean over us,

black pencils graying, mottled, like soldiers

erasing interlopers, blending in to make peace.

The vegetable patch, with stalks of pink

rhubarb will fuel our labour. I hope it’s on a night

the mountain lion sleeps. You are born

ANY CHARACTER HERE

in October. Know what you want. Know

that I have it. Zero in on immunoglobulins. Fat.

Sugar. I smell like you. The flow may slow

though we nurse until you are two, my nipples

tall, sturdy. Prissy finger wags. Hissy grandma tongue

gags. Perverts. Just don’t call me late for supper.

Junior’s favourite corny joke. Before I forget,

she was stacked, dreaded parent-teacher nights

and ran our household like an ant farm.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

Not willing to wait, you nearly die from myth.

A believer. In Santa. Age eight. Lodged

in the chimney. Woody, sweet as a cinnamon stick

tender volunteer fireman work hours to heave-ho,

hand over. A smudge. Intrepid soot cub,

legs strapping my waist. Frightened, at last.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

SHOOTING IN THE RAINFOREST

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The challenges therein. And as I near completion, filled with doubt. Naturally. Firstly, shooting has been difficult. It’s fucken raining all the time. Started in March, figured that would be plenty of time for the May 2 deadline but at this point, my options are narrowing. I hope we have enough footage. I need to do a couple of shots over and of course, it’s pouring out. Fingers crossed. I nearly screwed up my camera shooting in the rain, trying to forge ahead. It started malfunctioning. Fortunately a friend reminded me of a trick; sealing it in a Ziploc bag with rice, which dried it nicely. I was relieved to say the least.

Secondly, no close ups! The lens is so limited, I am reduced to medium shots. Period. The damn thing goes out of focus at one foot. I wanted to isolate eyes, mouths, hands. Forget it. I tried to find found footage but matching it with ours didn’t work as my 17-year old son/editor pointed out. He’s been helping me on videopoems since age eight, but this is our first real collaboration, a challenge in and of itself but mostly highly gratifying. He kicks my butt! Will not allow shots that are too shaky or out of focus. So funny. I said, hey, I’m not trying to be Steven Spielberg. I will make choices you wouldn’t. We argue for a bit and he wins. ‘Cause he’s right. We have standards. That’s my boy. He amazes me; taught himself to edit video at age ten, began producing machinimas and has had his own YouTube channel since. He’s got a lovely podcasting set-up going too which he allows me to use sometimes. We’ve developed a system in the house so he remains undisturbed while recording. He places a funky beaded necklace—a souvenir of Hawaii—on the door handle. I’m so lucky, he’s a great kid  and he works cheap; the third major challenge, a zero budget. (I’ve spent fifty bucks on a dress and seven bucks on flowers.) We barter. I copy edit his fan fiction in return for video editing services.

Fourth; try being subject, director, stylist, costumer, make-up and hair person simultaneously. Tough. Onward and upward. Today we finish the titles and credits. I wanted to use the font on the cover of my book Three Blocks West of Wonderland, designed by Derek von Essen who kindly sent it along. Called Block, it only works on a Mac. So Junior and I delighted in finding a something similar. I knew it was reminiscent of a 50s font, reminded me of the titles from old science fiction movies, so of course we googled “50s sci fi movies” and found a great site,  Tack-O-Rama, Retro Resources for Designers.  Junior insisted on going through them all until we came upon “Jungle Fever” which seems so apropos, after working through a jungle of obstacles and setbacks.

And as we work we are developing methods, infrastructure, process. Shoot. Render. Watch and identify clips, noting the best, most viable and figure out the right place for them in the piece. I make notes on a hard copy of the poem. Then create a rough cut. Experiment. Re shoot. Refine.

Using white Christmas lights to suggest stars, constellations. Doing Orion over but Cassiopeia came out nearly perfect. Serendipity. Yes! And as I was shooting, I had to back up into a rhododendron. Ouch. I’m getting to the point where it’s hard to figure out what to change, to be objective at all. I hope to have time to post the rough cut and get a little feedback but it may be too late for that, which means I will have to trust my instincts, go for it. Deadlines are harsh but very ultimately useful. So here it be, our new videopoem, Whore In The Eddy with audio from our AURAL Heather CD of spoken word songs, Princess Nut.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” ― Oscar Wilde

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POTHEAD GENERATION(S)

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Still completely immersed in videopoem production, verging on burn out so I’m a little slow on the uptake. I should have posted this 4/20. For the record, I oppose prohibition. Any American-style War On Drugs is a farce. Christ, smoking pot is a tradition in this country. And Stephen Harper is an asshole, on the issue, along with most others. But, hey, we keep voting for him. In any case, I’m happy to report this poem has been selected for Ooligan Press‘s Pacific Poetry Project: An Anthology of Three Cities. (Seattle, Vancouver, Portland.) It’s from my collection, Three Blocks West of Wonderland.

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APPLETON

Hookah squats on carpet, Buddha

-esque. Undulating spirals of sapphire

smoke hula up her nose. That buzz.

That buzz that slows your blood,

1

calls you back to bed like a lover.

Soothes your inner asshole.

B.C. bud. Best bud

in the world. Worth risking jail for.

1

High-resolution satellite images.

Narcs’ warrant executed Tuesday.

Grow-op raided Wednesday.

Dozens of firearms. Five thousand plants.

1

Big bust for a small town, says Constable Cook.

For export, for sure.

Cultivation facilities dismantled.

Straight people relieved. Green party over,

but Zoe cried. It was the best job ever!

1

Dope dealers pay well. Her boyfriend

sold product at school. Their responsibilities

included digging a tunnel under the border,

blaming black fingernails and muddy jeans

on dirt biking at the gravel pit.

1

Parents were shocked. We thought she

was 
on Facebook, chatting. We thought he was

on the Internet, with her, boy’s father chiding,

it’s APPLEton, son, not Marijuanaton.

1

ROUGH CUT…

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Fortunately my current videopoem project is going much more smoothly than the one depicted in this poem. Don’t hire crazy people, the moral of the story I guess. It can be hard to tell though; sociopaths are often charming and erudite.

ROUGH CUT

After enduring a gestation period
of eighteen months
and several bouts of incommunicado-ness
she dutifully reports to the clay eater’s

rat’s nest to defend her lump of art
before he nibbled away all the footage.
She sings his praises, pretending
the indiscriminate cravings

and grinding teeth do not exist,
do not wear her down.
Meth-heads don’t generate, they spin
scratched vinyl, shoot blankly,

regurgitate turbulence, gnaw and brew
dandelion wine because it’s free,
free as roadside blackberries
and meadows of psilocybin.

Pirate of his own ship-
bachelor pad bouncy house-
sleeping in a pocket on the floor,
close to the cache

when he isn’t busy
snipping, sniping.
Under the red toque
a mind’s eye so muddied

it can see nothing
move.
Bloodied images, frames, shots
blur unremittingly.

Recreate. Rework. Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
With no redress, no kind release,
she seriously considers murder.