High Anxiety, Victoria Stanton’s night of performance at our place, ROCKsalt launch in North Vancouver

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A bit of a blowout this Tuesday, sad to say for I am not being as productive as I should be, couldn’t sleep last night. Again. Wish I could get a prescription for a sleeping aid but that doesn’t get to the core of the problem. I start hyperventilating, feel absolutely certain that I am dying and the more I worry about not sleeping, the more panic mounts in my body. I went to the emergency room once, sure that I was about to die of cardiac arrest. My mother had heart disease, so I worry. Christ, she had depression and diabetes too, drank herself to death really, a slow suicide. I start to feel like I can’t breathe and replete with chest pains Josef took me to the hospital. After a long wait they wired me up for an EKG and promptly pronounced me normal, fine. Now I’m able to recognize the signs of an anxiety attack but find little comfort in that knowledge. In fact, I am intimate with anxiety, nostalgic for the days when it was a foreign concept.

I just posted photos of our night of performance with Victoria Stanton last week. I was glad to finally meet her in person. We’ve been corresponding for years, ever since we screened one of her videos at the Vancouver Videopoem Festival. Funny how you form preconceived notions about people by seeing two-dimensional images. I was surprised when I went into the cafe to collect her and found a gamine sipping tea, dwarfed by the bulky suitcase next to her. I suppose I thought she would be physically as formidable as her work.

Poor Victoria! I had lost my cell phone and of course that was the number I gave her. So here she was trying to reach me in vain, to let me know which ferry she was on, and getting my voice mail. She looked me up in the book and everything turned out all right but I felt bad. Christ, traveling is stressful enough. We had some of my fragrant Malaysian stew of chicken and sweet potatoes, with coconut milk, garnished with cilantro. I was relieved she wasn’t’ a vegetarian and over dinner we made plans for the evening’s performance. She ironed a white sheet to use for a screen and Josef helped her set up the PA and video projector. I put out snacks and chairs, lit candles and once again transformed our home into a cozy, inviting venue. A couple of people arrived early. Gawd, I hate that. The only thing worse than people arriving late is people arriving early. I let Josef entertain them while I finished dressing though sometimes it doesn’t occur to him to offer guests a drink or something to eat, he can be a real nerd. The other arrivals were staggered over the next hour and I knew Victoria was anxious but I wanted to include as many people as possible. We had a good turnout for a Monday night, the weather cooperating in that it wasn’t pouring rain. Russel brought about five people, bless his heart. I am always so happy to see him. He makes me laugh and flatters me shamelessly the entire time he’s here. At last I was able to introduce Victoria. The crowd delighted in the Bank of Victoria cards she handed out, with Point de Rassemblement printed on them and the sentiment echoed in her spoken word performance that, “When I go away I need to find the anchor points, the gathering places, the connections that resonate within my body.” We watched her onscreen, running down a country road, video she had shot on Gabriola Island where she had been the day before to appear at Hilary Peach’s annual Poetry Gabriola festival. The piece certainly resonated with me; I was very moved. Later Victoria thanked me and said she loved the audience and performing here which was gratifying to hear. I want to be able to do this, invite people whose work I admire and provide them with a gratifying experience. It’s also a good way for me to share with my community, on my terms and to provide them with opportunities to see some remarkable artists. We were all happy I think, with how the evening went, in fact; it’s safe to say that it was enchanting. I stood on the deck after everyone was gone in awe of the stars so brilliant here on the island. Enchanted.

The next day Victoria and I visited Opa, Bowen’s towering, thousand year old tree, walked a stone labyrinth and hiked around Killarney Lake. I am busy today preparing for my writing retreat next week as I need to Continue reading →

Time to write. Yeah, right.

Journal

I can’t believe how fast and how much of life gets away from me, how long it takes before I am able to sit down and write a blog entry. It is all such a swirl it makes me sick sometimes.

One of my cousins sent me an email message the other day, a cousin I didn’t expect would ever email me. I was pleasantly surprised to hear from her, then annoyed when I received one bad, corny, unsolicited joke after another. Not one personal message, no matter how many questions I asked. Don’t you hate that?

I’ve been thinking about forgiveness and compassion and families. I watched a fascinating documentary called My Mother’s Garden about a woman with a hoarding compulsion. Her children, who as far as I could tell were grossly neglected by their mother due to her mental illness, were so loving in spite of everything. I was forced to reassess the rationalizations I had made regarding my own mother. I had moved as far away from her as I possibly could for most of my young adulthood, though I see that that is what these *children* did too. The director Cynthia Lester was forced out of the house and into a life of prostitution at a very young age. There was no place for her to sleep! Compared to these adult children, my sisters and I were downright vindictive, though I did the best I could, going to stay with her for a month at one point while she endured surgery to amputate her right hand. Cynthia and her brothers came to their mother’s rescue. She was about to be shut down by the insurance company or the city, evicted or whatever it is they can do and her kids intervened to clean up her house and yard, renovate and rent it out-a monumental task- to pay her nursing home, all the while coping with her infuriating behaviours. Who knows what would have happened to her if they hadn’t.

I will be working at my son’s school all day tomorrow and then off to North Vancouver to read at 32 Books and a launch for Rocksalt, the anthology of BC poetry which includes my poem Whore In The Eddy. Hmm, I wonder the odds are I will get writing done? Driving me a little nuts actually, the dearth of time, but I am booking off for a week, going to go away and do nothing but write. I will lose my mind otherwise, I’m sure.

Peter, our champion, and the latest from the homefront

Journal

Peter in the boarding house room I rented in San Francisco

Van full of drunk punks . . . It will be two months since it happened and I’ve been waking up with Peter in my thoughts, recalling our travels, adventures and misadventures together. I remember being in a van full of X’s friends and entourage. “X” was LA’s premier punk era band and I, like many others, was in awe of them, thrilled when Peter introduced me. He had been part of their inner circle while previously living in Los Angeles. This wild ride occurred while Peter and I were still living in San Francisco. X was in town to play a show and we were headed to a party after the gig, a gaggle of us crowded into the back, Peter and I crouched against one wall facing several members of the Blasters who had shared the bill with X. Things were verging on pandemonium as we were all jostled about. I won’t name names but at one point-completely unprovoked—the drummer reached over and shoved his hand between my legs and up my skirt. I was shocked, may have screamed, and Peter, outraged, lunged at him. Excene, sitting queenly up front, yelled, John Doe pulled the van over and Peter and the drummer tumbled out, fists flying. I think it was John that pulled them apart. Excene was angry and exasperated with Peter and said something like, “What could you two possibly have to fight about?” Peter told her what had happened. I don’t think she believed him or just shook her head and walked away, Peter shouting after her that she was lucky to have all the friends and supporters she did and that “Heather has no one.” Years later, after John and Excene broke up and Peter and I went our separate ways, he and Excene hooked up for a while, so I don’t know, maybe she was harboring feelings for him and was jealous. Whatever. It’s ancient history but it’s true, I was a nobody. I had no one, was just some girl from small town Canada trying to be a rock star, but I had Peter. To him I was somebody. Beyond chivalrous, he was my advocate, partner, lover, and friend. Beyond identifying with the underdog, Peter was a populist and we used to talk about our vision of Utopia, a place where everyone is an artist and the artist in everyone is embraced. Continue reading →

Barely blogging

poems,

I’ve been too busy to blog but I managed to write the first poem for the new book project with Tina Schliessler.

BARE

Pushing bare

singing be

scars rest

pelt loosens.

Wobbles

define apart.

Hourly swells

rustle spores.

Light

bathed columns

stand

prop

bear heat

spasms

pangs

stings

ruptures

to make sounds

bring form

to mounds,

limbs

pears

leaves

the girl

growing chaste

giddy

alone.

No more Boys Dept, true crime, renovation hell

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We are hosting six adolescent boys and celebrating Junior’s birthday today. I’m looking forward to the cake. The local chocolatier, Cocoa West, makes this incredible flourless chocolate cake that is fudge-like in texture, very rich, decadent. Josef is going to make pizza and we’re giving each kid a pumpkin to carve and take home. I found some electric carving knives, like mini chain saws that I know they will enjoy, being teenaged boys. I can’t believe he’s fourteen! I took him shopping the other day, as he has grown out of most of his clothes. He needs Xtra Large in shirts and jackets, is a 34-32 in pants and wears a size 11 shoe. No more Boys Department and he delights in calling me “Shorty.” This means we need to arrange an excursion to Stanley Park to take his picture next to Lumberman’s Arch. My photographer friend Lincoln suggested we do what he did, photograph his child at the same spot on each birthday. Junior has to whine about it every year but I know some day he will appreciate this lovely chronicle of his growth and development. We should have gone today, the sun is shining.

I don’t think I will get much else done between wrangling kids and dogs but I’m going to try to Continue reading →

Tree poems and this ain’t no Disney movie

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This place is a zoo! I swear, finally I am rewarded a few hours of solitude, had just settled onto my daybed, fired up Word, opened a new document to start writing when I hear tires on the gravel and the dogs going nuts. Fortunately, the visitor came and went pretty quickly but it happened again a few hours later. I always call first, why can’t other people do the same? I was reassured though to write a new poem today, it’s been so long, I wondered if I still had it in me.

Why are there two elections happening? I think it’s a plot by Steve Harper, a sleight of hand of sorts. The spectacle that is the U.S. election will keep our eyes off his shenanigans, as he merrily cuts arts funding and ignores environmental concerns, making us look bad to the rest of the world in the process. “Ordinary people don’t care about the arts.” What a dolt. A cynic. “A cynic is someone who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. “Gawd, I hope he doesn’t get re-elected.

Life is sweet and bizarre all at the same time. WTF? is going on? Markets melting, loved ones dying, wars proliferating. Am I lucky, smart or ruthless to be in the position Continue reading →

The saga continues. Election time

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We’re blessed with beautiful weather the last few days, the clouds on the horizon so fantastic I had to take some photographs, to add to my large collection, From My Window.

Man, got to get on the good foot, as well as the bad, and start organizing the Princess Nut CD party we’re hosting Nov. 1. Figured I would have a Day of the Dead theme and sadly it’s not ironic. I am going to erect an altar honouring my sister, Peter and Merilene. There is talk of going to the Baja between Christmas and New Year’s and then I am possibly attending the San Miguel Poetry Week Jan 4-10. I’d like to stop off in LA on the way back to see Peter’s sister and my goddaughter Ava Rose. It would be nice to visit and not have to attend another funeral, however I haven’t made any travel arrangements, things are so crazy with renovating/converting the garage to an office for Josef, and AURAL Heather business. We found out the deadline for the Violet Femmes compilation album is Oct. 15! So we spent yesterday recording though I felt like crap and it was the last thing I wanted to do. “We are Ninja” as Roderick says and certainly we got the job done. We had considered doing the work at a local studio, I made inquiries but by the time they got back to us Roderick had started recording us amidst the mess that is the living room these days. He was able to isolate the vocal and guitar tracks and left with them this morning. The song is called Sun Hee, a Latin and jazzed tinged tune about unrequited love. Never fall for a banker’s wife. He had his trusty MacBook and new Telecaster in tow. Josef and I bought it for his upcoming birthday. Seems fitting somehow that Roderick was born on Halloween. I’m not big on astrology but I seem to attract Scorpios. One of my best friends, Candye is a quintessential Scorpio along with my son and his father. Anyway, it’s astounding that a guitarist of his caliber doesn’t own a good guitar. You deserve it I told him and I am happy he now has one of the most fundamental tools.

The Peter saga continues. He had told me he was sending along a copy Continue reading →

Recovering, from the big three

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Blowing, wet blustery day, autumn here big time weather wise, as I drag my butt around, feeling tired, achy and sore from the tetanus shot but starting to be able to use my foot again so that is good. Someone said, “Well the nail in the foot was the third bad thing that has happened” so I am hoping she is right and I have earned a reprieve somehow and things will level out soon. To reiterate, #1 was my sister’s death, # 2 was Peter’s murder. Guess I needed some physical pain to match the emotional pain of loss and grief and do things really happen in threes or is that a lot of hooey?

When it rains it pours and it’s pouring in my life but it’s my own fault as I keep on taking on more. So many projects but I know I have to work in more than one media because if I didn’t as I said at the Word On The Street festival during my reading, I would go nuts. If I was relying only on print, which moves at a glacial pace, I would be so frustrated! I am working with video and music and at least I have some control over those kinds of projects. Still, that means I have a lot of irons in the fire as they say, in addition to raising my son with special needs. On that front though, I am feeling encouraged because I think we may have finally found a service provider, an RDI (Relationship Development Intervention) specialist that we can work with to help Junior. We had attended the RDI symposium with Steve Gutstein last year but there were no practitioners available in the Lower Mainland. I hope it works out. I have learned through trial and error that a lot of this stuff winds up being pretty ineffectual, that many of the experts are talking through their asses when it comes to the child, your child, with his or her unique, individual profile and needs. It’s hard not to be bitter about the fact too that he was misdiagnosed as having a “moderate to severe language disorder” when in fact he was Aspergers all along. That diagnose did not come until he was ten. I knew something was not quite right with his development from the age of two but I am no expert.

Peter still enters my thoughts often as I take care of business, cronies of ours emerging to ask if I’ve heard the news. Yes, and where have you been? Up until this point most seemed determined to remain in the past but I suppose their curiosity is getting the best of them and now they want to know what I know which isn’t much. I do know that the investigation will remain closed, whether the police or the DA’s office believes Bruce’s story or not. Still, it is not over and I am interested in seeing what develops in the near future.

Swamped lately for in addition to aforementioned projects, I am embroiled in my curating work for Pacific Cinémathèque and SEE THE VOICE: Visible Verse, the annual screening event of poetry video and film that I host each year, culling 27 works from 65 submissions from around the world Continue reading →

The Peter I knew

Journal

In the past few weeks I have heard people talk about Peter, more than any time in my life. I am surprised, because often it isn’t the Peter I knew and loved. The Peter I knew was more sensitive than brutish. He could barrel over my sensibilities sometimes. Give him ten minutes and he would say he was sorry and we would discuss the issues at hand. He was rarely sentimental-that was hard for him-but neither did I doubt for a moment that he loved me. His intuitiveness was so acute, it bordered on spooky.

He visits my dreams nearly every night. I imagine scenarios, play out conversations we might have had, still rage at the stars, at the sickening tragedy of his murder.

Losing Peter

Journal

Sept. 21, 2008

Still recovering from the memorial to Peter, which was rather like a wake, a celebration of his life, which is fine and good. I had felt drained all morning, knew I had to get my ass in gear and go shopping for some items to bring. Finally, I left the hotel, picked up Jhim Pattison on the way. Jhim, Byron Baker, Peter and I go way back, all the way back to 1980 when Byron approached me at the Hong Kong Cafe to say hello because he has a thing for redheads. The three of them had been hanging out together quite a lot lately, Peter sending me news.

Well Jhim and I went to the supermarket to buy flowers, candles, wine, cake and some salmon for the grill. I said, “Hey Jhim, this is something we have never done before, isn’t it?” Trippy.

Driving the hills of Echo Park was hairy; the GPS giving us convoluted directions and sending us down steep hills nose first. I couldn’t see over the hood at one point. We unloaded and I prowled around in search of a space big enough to park the monster. It looks like a gangster mobile-low, tinted windows, fat tires. Gracious host Amanda Sherren’s place was the quintessential and lovely Echo Park house that reminded me of past gatherings, past lives. I asked for a vase for the lilies and told her I used to live in the neighbourhood, in an apartment above a shoe store at the corner of Sunset and Alvarado. I had roof access, hosted tar beach parties where we watched the fireworks from Dodger Stadium on the fourth of July each year.

There were many people in attendance including dear friends SA Griffin and Doug Knott and some I hadn’t seen in years like Byron and Michael Mollet. I embraced the new friends as well, people I have been corresponding with online about Peter, Tyler Waxman, Bob Moss and Gina Lamb, though I’m pretty sure I met Gina long ago as she is a friend of his from Baltimore. Peter and I visited that city more than once and it was always a wild time. I was pleased to meet cool peeps from different periods of his life-Zuade Kaufman for one-and there were a few other art-school-Baltimore friends there too including the charming Susan MacAdams. It’s amazing actually, thinking back, on how much traveling Peter and I did together despite a dearth of cash. We made a trip to Canada once too, to visit my parents. My mom liked him a lot, his height, bearing and humour reminded her of her brothers Doug and Reggie. Continue reading →