Thoroughly foul mood though I may be basking a little in a rare spot of solitude. Josef took Junior to Whistler for golfing at one of his favourite courses, Nicklaus North. I could celebrate the end of the heat wave but still I stew, grapple with recent horrifying news of the murder of friends’ 17-year old daughter. I’m reeling, had to have a drink, call a girlfriend. Why! The story has become politicized. A recently paroled drug addict tried to rob her as she was running an errand for her mother. He became enraged when she couldn’t get money out of the bank machine with her credit card and beat her death. They found her body in her car the next morning. I won’t name names, as I haven’t been able to speak with her poor parents. Despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to compose a message. I have no idea what to say, or how to say it. Certainly, an email is not going to cut it. I will have to find a way to send a letter and I don’t have their snail mail address.

Her father, my friend G, very kindly got in touch with me after hearing about Peter last year, came to the hotel on my last LA sojourn. It was lovely to see him and we had a good time reminiscing about the days when we all worked together. I don’t think there is an answer to why, at least not one that offers any comfort. The cruelty of fate. In the wrong place at the wrong time. I find I am feeling as much anger as sorrow. Why does this shit have to happen at all? Why can’t we figure this stuff out? All our godammned so called social problems. Prohibition didn’t work, why do we think criminalizing drug addiction will? These desperate motherfuckers go around wreaking mayhem in order to get their next fix. Why not just give it to them? Not necessarily out of pity—though a little compassion goes a long way—but practicality? All we do is create a black market, and crime. Heaps of heartbreaking, destructive crime. Man, there has to be a better way. Why do the godammn bible thumpers rule the world? Has organized religion solved any problems? It’s certainly created enough conflict. It’s their Puritanism and powerful lobby that prohibits a rational approach, a sensible solution.

What can I possibly do? I can’t even think of a way to help or imagine how anyone can live through this.

Love life. Before it’s too late, like it got to be for that wretch in Pennsylvania that took out a room full of women because he couldn’t figure out how to have one, or a love life.

Love your loved ones. Life. All precious.

“…she had in mind the dead as well as the living.”-In Cold Blood

A lot of dead lately, and death. Cards of condolence. The island has been rocked by the passing of four-or is it five-residents, the youngest nineteen, in a car accident, naturally. The driver is the son of a good friend, and fortunately survived. I have tried to contact him but I hear he is camped out at the hospital every day, in the intensive care unit. God. It must be awful. And now a mystery, a teenaged girl missing.

Walking the dogs this morning, I was annoyed to find SamIAm had killed a duckling. Poor thing. Out of its element. Sam can never catch them in the water, they just calmly swim away, but this little guy was on the ground; there was no way he could out run my maniac dog. I dashed over to the sound of frantic quacking, pulled Sam off, hoping the creature was okay. I tried to pick it up but it was all floppy, its neck must have been broken. I leashed Sam, took him back to the house, returned to find the thing dead and Mother duck swimming circles in the pond, waiting for his return with her lone remaining duckling. So sad! Man, life is cruel. All the while a helicopter hovered above, searching for Jodi Henrickson missing since last Saturday, a girl from Squamish who hasn’t been seen since attending a house party over here. Now I wonder as I watch turkey vultures circling, could she be dead? They didn’t realize she was missing until about three days later. I hope she will be found safe and sound somehow. I feel for her family, what a nightmare.

Wind picking up, skies are clear as I bask in a spot of solitude, recovering from hosting three days of Junior’s annual School’s Out/Summer’s In party and entertaining seven 14-year old boys. They ate a Continue reading →

Man, I am being slayed by springtime allergies or else I have a flu. Oy. Ugh. Urf. Had to lie down most of the afternoon. Seems to be the season for writing conferences too. I just attended the BC Federation of Writers AGM and conference, now preparing to go to the Pacific Festival of the Book in Victoria this weekend, driving down with my buddy, poet Pete Trower on Friday. I’m going to do a couple of readings and meet my new publisher, Richard Olafson of Ekstasis Editions. I’m also looking forward to seeing some old friends. I used to hang out with Solly Reeve in the punk rock scene. She now runs her own design business, Zola. Jenn McLennan and Nathaniel Poole worked with me at the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre in the 90s. Things got hairy at the demise of the organization but Continue reading →

I was disappointed by the low islander turnout for our Purdy Trust fundraiser but received some encouraging words from my film producer friend Fitch Cady. He wrote this on the local Bowen Island forum:

“Fabulous indeed. Many missed it, due to the sunny Sunday perhaps. The gathering was in Heather & Josef’s living room which is perfect for events like this. If we are lucky enough to have more events in this venue, do not be intimidated. It is worth the cross island drive and has a big enough space to gather and perform in and Heather works very hard at bringing these things together.

Canada’s poet laureate George Bowering, and poets Pete Trower and Jamie Reid were there from the continent. These guys who are major published Canadian poets, who all know each other and Purdy for years, standing up and reading at the mike in a living room on Bowen! Like where else in Canada would we be so lucky? Maybe Berkley..

And the island’s own published poets. Heather (poetry activist – I call her) performing her rhythmic poems set to music, and Bernice Lever describing an encounter as a poetry groupie with Purdy in a sleazy downtown hotel – fantastic, believe me, and Lisa Shatsky reciting from memory, with her usual direct candor, a homage poem to Purdy, that has been accepted by The New Yorker. This was a very hip event. I was thrilled to be there.”