The latest

I’m tracking six eagles soaring high above, wondering why they have made an appearance. I learned recently that eagles are scavengers as well as predators and so that circling, like vultures, can indicate the presence of death and decay, as in my poem My Mountain below. (Roderick does a stellar job of narrating this piece on Princes Nut.) My bird feeder is such a popular spot I am topping it up every day now. Sometimes and with a guilty conscience, I will chase off the band-tailed pigeons. They are huge and come in droves.

Just as were recovering from an attack on our mail server by a Russian spammer my hubby’s back went out, spazzming as he puts it, for the first time in a over a year. I had succumbed to a rotten cold after several long weeks of allergy afflictions. Great timing. It was our first weekend alone together in months and we were both screwed up. Continue reading

Blog entry or bust

Listening to Cornell Hurd band on Soma Fm Boot Liquor “your ex-husband sent me flowers ‘cause he feels sorry for me.” I love country music lyrics. WHAT DID I DO TODAY? Fed everybody including wild birds, have noticed red-winged blackbirds dive-bombing the cowbirds, both species recent visitors to the yard. I worked out with weights, tried to catch up on email but Junior’s computer is infected with a virus so no outgoing mail, big pain in the butt. Researched and ordered a Facebook ad for the AURAL Heather cd, Princess Nut, bought a gift basket of goodies for a friend recovering from cancer surgery, picked up the kid whose allergies, like mine, are horrendous. He didn’t want to stay in school and I can’t blame him. Made burritos for dinner, worked on a new song, melodic but abrasive and tentatively titled Big Nipples, (just in time for Mother’s Day) folded laundry while watching the Daily Show and after finally completing a book proposal for a publisher, as requested, received an email back saying they weren’t accepting manuscripts right now. Christ. It is a curse, I swear, being a poet. Adjusting to my new glasses, I hope, and recuperating from a hectic weekend/full house. Lucas had three buddies over for two nights and the niece came to visit with her new boyfriend in tow. Actually, it’s been a hectic month, swamped with tour planning, cd artwork and production. ‘Tis a critical period, rehearsing as much as possible, working on/in new material too. Went to the Burning Word festival on Whidbey last weekend, performed solo as we couldn’t get our P2 visas together in time…to be continued…I have to crash.

Birdlife enlivens my poetry

Here on Bowen Island my feeder attracts red-eyed towhees, house finches, stellar jays, dark-eyed junkos and fox sparrows. Robins are here now and don’t seem to partake. A few hummingbirds have been buzzing by lately which surprises me because I didn’t think we had enough bright blossoms on our property. The jays are right on it of course, seem to wait for me to put the food out in the morning. I’ve been taking the feeder in when it gets dark to foil the local rat population. I hate rats. Why don’t my terriers get rid of them?

Birds and birdlife manifest in my poetry all the time. Here are two poems from my forthcoming book, “Window Seat.”

Habitat

We plan like architects to bring the outdoors
in, parrot like realtors the charms of a tree
house, for up on this hill, birdsong

is tangible. We always get
what we want, camouflaged in our mossy
cabin, high above the threshold

of discovery. Open sky. 360-degree view.
Proximity to water. Reliable food sources. Plenty
of nesting material. Gravel flies

from under the foot of a rabbit
fleeing a resident eagle. Ravens and stellar jays
battle over kibble, shit bomb the deck.

They want in. Past the windowpanes
that trick them. Frenzied. Talons flashing,
they enter through a door in the firmament.

I guide them outside, stunned at the feel
of wing bones. Banging hearts. A hummingbird
goes stillborn in the cup of my hands,

then, buzzers off, leaving a tang
in my throat, a ring of ruby dust
on my finger, incriminating as pollen.

Year of the Monkey

Full house. Madhouse. Ill-fated deejay,
jester fixed to his back, grinding out tunes
in celebration of our new digs, life,
in the forest, despite the clear-cutting
a hundred years ago. There is talk

of the I-Ching. This will be
an extremely progressive time predicts
a guest with faith enough to practice.
Monkeys are shrewd. Agile.
You will find great success in 2004.

Happy New Year! A toast. To the pileated
woodpeckers, heard more than seen. Cheers!
To the deer phantoms, droppings molding
in the front meadow. Where do they go
in the winter? Why don’t I know these things?

We make clumsy attempts at lighting a fire,
heating the house. Woodstove couched
and cold-shouldered as a guerilla soldier
brooding over such hatchet-challenged wimpiness.
We brave the Jacuzzi. January. Naked ape it

on the deck, body sculpting with our bare hands,
pale-faced moon playing peek-a-boo
with the ridgeline, a breeze stroking our backsides.
An owl hoots, hunting through lushness.
Red-eyed towhees flit through a labyrinth of sword

fern, mist the only smoke around here,
desires in the mirror, smudges of dread
surfacing on its beveled edges
whenever we’re not looking.

Twin cedar sentinels stand guard
against the cougar I saw mounting our pup.
When it began stalking the neighbour’s pony
I knew I would need a rifle.

I’m evolving. From a dinky urbanite on all fours,
to a big, eagle-eyed, straight-shooting, cause-
committed, river-of-life channeling, chainsaw-
hung, 4 by 4 pickup piloting Homo Erectus islander.

For more birds and bird-themed works in the blogosphere check out I and the Bird which Mike Bergin owns and publishes every two weeks. http://10000birds.com/iandthebird/

AURAL Heather coming to your town!

I hope! Booking a tour, not my forte, though through sheer grit and determination, I’m getting it done. Weird, frustrating day. Oh why do I worry so much? Worked all afternoon on the AURAL Heather tour, feel like I’m getting nowhere fast. We have the Canadian part of the back east tour booked, playing Toronto, Ottawa and Montreal but I’m running into obstacles and dead ends in the U.S. Kurt has put me in touch with some people in Chicago and I’m waiting to hear back. Sent emails to leads and clubs in New York and same thing, playing the waiting game now. I will run out of time soon as I have to apply for a P2 visa and they can take up to four months to process. This is the query I’ve been sending out.

Dear _________;

I am a poet referred to you by my good friend and associate ______. We are AURAL Heather, a duo from Vancouver, Canada performing spoken word songs and touring in support of the release of our new cd, “Princess Nut.” We are in Eastern Canada/US this summer and in your neighbourhood July 17, 18. Could you kindly take a look/listen and consider us for an event at your righteously cool venue?

Thanks for your time and consideration.

Best regards,

H
H

AURAL Heather may be heard at:

http://www.heatherhaley.com

http://www.reverbnation.com/auralheather

http://www.myspace.com/mediapoet

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
CONTACT: Pam Southwell-RPW Records
604 463-8339
rpwrecords@hotmail.com
http://www.rpwrecords.com

P U N K * P O E T * P R I N C E S S

Vancouver, BC, April 6, 2008-Old School and proud of it, Heather Haley and RPW Records are gearing up for a spring release of her groundbreaking AURAL Heather cd of spoken word songs, “Princess Nut.”

AURAL Heather is Heather Haley, Roderick Shoolbraid and “a unique, sublime fusion of song and spoken word.” Shoolbraid is a dazzling guitarist, composer, sound designer and DJ. Haley is a maverick poet, singer, author and media artist often found pushing boundaries and always on the vanguard. “A Canadian national treasure,” Haley started writing verse in high school influenced by poets like bp Nichol, ee cummings and Susan Musgrave. Her life as a bona fide artist began on the stage of the infamous Smilin’ Buddha fronting the all-girl punk band the Zellots. She was a member of The 45s with Randy Rampage and Brad Kent of DOA and the Avengers. Later she formed HHZ-Heather Haley & the Zellots-praised by music critic Craig Lee as one of “Ten Great LA Bands”. She has made a commitment to honesty, feeling, craft and a sense of the absurd. “Supple and unusual”, her work asks all the questions a nice girl’s not supposed to ask.

Haley is a gutsy and compelling performer who enjoyed a stint as an official BC Transit busker and has appeared at the Vancouver International Writers Festival, Crush Champagne Lounge, the Lamplighter Pub, Rime, Thundering Word, the Art Bar in Toronto, Words & Music in Montreal, the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City, Red Sky Poetry Theatre in Seattle, Shakespeare & Sons in Prague, the Roar Lit Crawl with Edmonton’s Raving Poets band and on CBC and Book Television. In 2004, she teamed up with Roderick Shoolbraid to produce a series of live shows and their first cd, Surfing Season. As Haley returns to her roots, their sound has evolved into the spoken word songs of AURAL Heather . This is “brawny, uncompromising language from a voice that demands to be reckoned with” and there is nothing precious or flowery about the poetry on “Princess Nut.” It rocks, in more ways than one!

Praise for Surfing Season:
“Beautiful. A credit to the genre.”-Ian Ferrier, Wired on Words
“Great job! An auspicious disc. One of the best albums of its kind.” -Kurt Heintz, e-poets
“Important work.”-Poseybeat

Come celebrate at the official AURAL Heather, “Princess Nut” CD launch, Thursday, May 29 at the Media Club in Vancouver with Susan Cormier, Beth Southwell and her band, Kedrick James, AURAL Heather and emcee Kyle Hawke. Poet and publisher Warren Dean Fulton will be selling pooka press wares including one of Heather ‘s poems featured as part of the photo booth broadside series.

Further information on AURAL Heather and Heather Haley is available through her website, http://www.heatherhaley.com as well as four tracks from “Princess Nut”

# # #

Spring fever? Videopoem proposal

Spring fever? Can’t be, I’m still wearing my winter coat as much as I’d like to retire it for the season. I can’t focus, I’m running out of Kleenex and so tired and achey all I want to do is lie down. Tried to work on a poem this morning. Forget it. Will go and fine tune AURAL Heather stuff as everything is coming to a head, or fruition which sounds like the more positive take. Roderick is delivering the master later today. We have to nail down the order of the (spoken word) songs and I think we nearly have nearly reached consensus. We will probably be in this phase for a week, preparing the artwork and master before it goes to the manufacturer. I’m getting nervous as we near the date of the cd launch, May 29. A critical time, need to make sure I see the graphic layout before it gets printed. Final steps ahead, cannot go back.

I was wearing my videopoem director hat for two days preparing a proposal:

How To Remain In The Saddle
Free riding lessons for starving transients

How To Remain

How to remain
thin. Abstain. Abstain from eating
food. Calories kill
the fat rats first. If she could say No
and balance Belgian truffles
on her tongue briefly before spitting
them out, she might remain. Live
long. Enjoy fruition. By shunning urges,
she could linger—dainty as a colt’s
foot—deploying her charms raw,
dogtrotting a straddled chocolate Arabian
through mazes of lane. She could retire
to her body.

Alas, ankles thicken, braids recede,
the old mare conjured whenever she dare
to look. Fight back. She may be forced to
cover the grey, yellow, but refuses to swallow
diet pills. Amphetamines in the olden days.

Still, dinner in the garbage rouses niggles
of guilt. She snuffles it out before Buddy can,
barfing rather than blowing
calories on fusty pizza
or molding, olive oil-sopped arugula.

It is my goal to adapt this poem from my forthcoming book, Window Seat, to create a videopoem . The audience is along for a wild ride in How To Remain In The Saddle with an infatuated compulsive, an obsessed protagonist resolutely heading toward an elusive goal of perfection, perpetually struggling to stay on, to stay thin. She fails but ultimately, and in a fluky manner, finds transcendence. A maiden no more, she is a hapless Calamity Jane who persists nonetheless in getting back in the saddle, despite an unruly horse—an Arabian stallion in the beginning—until ultimately finding her destiny and achieving grace upon a winged Clydesdale.

How to remain in control is at the heart of anorexia and bulimia. Ubiquitous images of the ideal woman provide pressure and anxiety. In How To Remain In The Saddle, instead of her body disintegrating, her beloved horse slowly withers away, imperceptibly at first. Its ribs start to protrude as it becomes increasingly emaciated until finally disappearing. *poof* She falls to the ground. (I want to do a live action piece but this part will likely require either animation or CGI.) After more shenanigans and misguided side-trips, our heroine survives to land on the back of a solid, stable mount.

Though eating disorders are serious subject matter, this story is really about facing our all-too-human mortality. They are a red herring, if you will. How to remain is our secret desire. I plan to render the story as farce for it is folly to attempt to halt the inexorable march of time. I will employ a whimsical style, adopt a comic Keystone posture to emphasize the absurdity of her futile pursuit. How To Remain In The Saddle will spoof on classic myth as in the adventurous hero Bellerophon arrogant enough to believe that he, a mortal, can reach Mount Olympus. If you will recall, an outraged Zeus causes Pegasus to rear up, throwing Bellerophon back down to Earth. Just such ambition fuels our heroine’s quest for power, eternal youth and beauty, i.e., immortality. She is in a race. A horse race. A rat race? Or a labyrinth, her body goddess-perfect and everlasting at journey’s end. Along the way she is frequently tossed off and pulled back to reality by gravity. Reel time will accelerate as it does in real life, an allusion to “amphetamines” and the way time seems to fly by with advancing years as we move toward the time of our inevitable departure. Of course how we live and how we depart are both crucial parts of the story, not just the middle and the end.

I strive to be visually inventive. I start with a shot list, then a storyboard, as in a conventional film, but like to improvise during shooting and incorporate the element of chance. Working with a talented director of photography, we will have the opportunity to experiment with the medium and in post-production as well, with a good editor. I don’t have to shoot in video but I have in the past because of its affordability. I like its history of experimentation, a fundamental aspect of the medium. Video lends itself to hybridization. I haven’t felt like I was compromising quality by using digital video.

Whether an audio or video project, my collaborator, musician/sound designer Roderick Shoolbraid and I, are meticulous about voice production, carefully weighing inflections through the lines of the poem, graphing the centre of pitch to avoid linear monotony. We strive to create terrain, a sense of place in the sound. In any case, Roderick Shoolbraid has composed original music for this piece. In addition, I am doing research, scouting locations and crew members and have started work on a shot list and storyboard.

Hard knocks school, poem in progress

Why do I have to learn everything the hard way? Why couldn’t a poet friend have warned me not to send my manuscript to just one publisher? Yes, I would have listened to that. I wasted an entire year, learning at the end that bad manners or not, a writer has to submit simultaneously. We need to organize more in this area but many writers are starting to protest and demand electronic submissions. Talk about going green. And do they think we live forever, have the time to wait six months or a year for a lousy acknowledgement.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have been able to help me poor mum. I have learned through experience, the hard way, what depression and anxiety are. I see now that she was suffering from both and it’s obviously genetic, why I’ve been afflicted as well. She was an undiagnosed mess. They did catch the adult-onset diabetes which she pretty much ignored. My mother was miserable, wouldn’t quit drinking and smoking, couldn’t quit I suppose. As far as she was concerned, she had nothing to live for with all her kids gone.

Out my window, chameleon clouds are tinged pink in the west, layered grey and azure to the east. I woke up to sunshine streaming through the windows. A few hours later it was snowing, heavily. Then the sun came out again. This cycle lasted all day. I heard it was hailing in the city. Wacky west coast weather! A snowing sun, snoring hounds at my feet.

Met with RPW label head Pam Southwell Tuesday to work on fund raising but found we had a long list of items to take care of, everything from cd production to promotion to tour planning. She gave me some pointers on ReverbNation and I gave her some regarding grant writing. We shared our dread of budgets, numbers and math phobia stories. Hers involved a bellowing father, mine a cruel teachers. I assured Pam, that she needn’t be intimidated by the process, that in my experience budgets are largely bullshit and that it could be fun actually, to imagine what your organization needs money for, which often winds up re-purposed.

A dear friend has been hit with pancreatic cancer. Last year started off with a friend dying of lung cancer. Our lifestyles are catching up with us. Am I next? Knock on wood and I swear not to be superstitious. Sitting in the hair salon for too long yesterday I saw the People magazine with a story about Patrick Swayze’s diagnosis and was not encouraged by what I read. She is being very brave between bouts of anguish and terror. I’m trying to be as supportive as possible but I wish there was more I could do.

I’m currently reading Shot In The Heart, Mikal Gilmore’s book about his brother Gary Gilmore, convicted murderer, executed by firing squad. I used to see Mikal in the LA Weekly offices when I worked there many moons ago. Wish I could talk to him about his book, commiserate. Apparently we were both raised by hillbillies. My family wasn’t quite as dysfunctional, my father not as violent but my mother took up the slack. Who wants to rate these things anyway? Still hard for me to go there in my mind which might explain why I can’t complete my bloody novel. Managed to work on a new poem and enjoy a bit of solitude though feeling frustrated at my efforts. Here it be, a work-in-progress and such as it is:

Green Wedding

Parser.
Professional.
Daily fixes, micro problems solved.
Weekly patents.
Annual Seuss tourist
in search of beneficence.
Identifies closely with SamIAm
though he is far more shy,
still, prepared to walk the plank
for love. He felt justified in groveling
one afternoon standing in a queue
next to a slender, flinty girl in diaphanous skirt
as she read a novel. This did not give him an In.
Though quite familiar with mythic archetypes,
the only fiction he might have time to read
was speculative. So, he offered her a chip.
She licked off the gravy and thanked him.
Mathematicians rule.

It was cute, the way they emailed each other
in the beginning of their romance, he surprised
to be receiving steamy emails,
uppercase renderings of undying devotion.
I’m not used to getting personal messages at work,
which she could only find endearing.

Planning throes for a wedding in emerald oaks
they could easily ignore water cooler talk
of Bush deployments and citizen reporters.
They spoke only of sunspots and three-tiered cakes.
Guest list growing too long he complained.
His jobless Sidney brother who shakes his head
at their astounding fidelity.
Her estranged twin sisters in their push-up bras.
Easy to pull out he thought.

True crime, guilty pleasure

My kid is driving me crazy! Spring break is way too effing long. Felt like jumping out a window for Christ’s sake. Happy Easter. Oy. Ugh. Urf.

Got to love the Internet. In the process of clearing my In box today and going through Google alerts, I came across a call for poetry submissions from a dude in LA named Rodger Jacobs. Hemingway’s Shotgun is an online magazine devoted to all manner of poetic verse but with a particular emphasis on poetry on the topic of literature, books, and reading. Googled him naturally and it turns out Jacobs is a rather interesting fellow with an intriguing past, an award-winning screenwriter, journalist, documentary producer and journalist whose work has appeared in myriad national publications. The site looked cool so I sent along some poems, several of which were set in Los Angeles, having resided there for many years. As I mentioned in my previous post, true crime is my guilty pleasure and we share a fascination with the Wonderland murders, the story of which he compares to “Raymond Chandler on crack.”

I was also interested in what he had to say about POD—publishing on demand—as he is well schooled in e-commerce. Long Time Money and Lots of Cocaine is the title of the book he’s written about the murders which contains an edited and annotated version of the court transcript for John Holmes’ preliminary hearing. As he explains it, there is so much interest in the subject he decided to self-publish and keep a larger piece of the action/residuals. Lulu Press provides a free storefront, affordable set-up costs and fair royalties. The author pays for the ISBN which gets the title into other markets, in both real and virtual worlds. I’ve been considering going that route with my novel but right now, I can’t find the time for the revisions it needs. So if you secretly read true crime as well, check it out:

http://www.lulu.com/content/130126

Attempting to be lazy on Sunday

Ruminating, trying to anyway, and managing to relax a little after a hectic week. I had every intention of going to Whistler this weekend and staying at my friend Cathy’s place for a few nights but I am wiped out. Been very congested and thought it must be due to springtime allergies but then I developed severe muscles aches and fatigue.

Spent two days rehearsing with Roderick. Things never get too tedious or serious with Roderick around. He makes us all laugh. He related how he picked up a surly teenager on Christmas day. The kid had just left a family dinner, or been kicked out rather for refusing to remove his cap at the table. Roderick insisted on driving him to his destination though it was out of his way. “Why are you doing this?” asked the kid, Roderick explaining that it was Christmas, that’s what you do, give and do nice things for people. He thought the kid might have been smart enough to pick up on his point but wasn’t’ sure and then did an impression of the teen with his hat on sideways, going “Yo.” My son Lucas thought it was hilarious too.

I was also working on proposals for a multimedia show based on our AURAL Heather music/poetry and I just sent a proposal to the NFB asking for support for a new videopoem, “How To Remain In The Saddle” which will force me to get on a horse if I manage to raise the funds.

Of course there is no money in any of these endeavours though the Edmonton Poetry Festival treated me so well last fall I’m wondering why it can’t always be that way. They paid my travel, hotel, a handsome fee and feted and fawned over me as well. I can only hope it’s the start of a new trend.

I was just telling Dennis Bolen, author of “Toy Gun” that true crime is a guilty pleasure for me and that it creeps into my writing quite a lot. I have penned a haunting poem inspired by Vancouver’s missing women called “Whore In The Eddy.” It’s a powerful performance piece as well. I recently read a fascinating book called “Exquisite Corpse” about the surrealists in Los Angeles in the 40s. Apparently Marcel Duchamp was drawn to criminology as well. I’ve been called a ghoul but I think it’s natural to be intrigued, to want to understand. What motivates the murderer, etc.

Duty calls. I have to go feed the dogs, kid.

Finally had a chance to complete Scott Beadle’s punk rock questionaire

Here I am bestowing Yoko Ono with a birthday gift. Only on Facebook!

I’m going to try very hard to write more, to get out of my own way. I’ve decided to put my novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter, back on the back burner for a while. I’m frazzled enough with poetry and performance and need to focus on those projects, my book of verse, Window Seat, and AURAL Heather, our first gig coming up in April. I can’t do all of it well and the pressure is too much.

There is much activity on the domestic front as well, with my son’s puberty and puberty fallout. His allergies have peaked it seems, gotten bad, manifesting in a chronic runny nose and cough. We are taking him to an allergist and now trying naturopathy.

Enjoyed a pleasant birthday celebration last Saturday with friends and family, went out for dinner at Blue Eyed Marys. Another Piscean in the restaurant was celebrating too and a local comedian came in on stilts and a fat suit to sing Happy Birthday. Made for a memorable evening.

Had a power outage that Monday which threw me off kilter but then rehearsed with Roderick. We are arranging a new poem/song and have a lot of work to do but it’s exciting, gearing up for our first shows.

I finally managed to complete this questionnaire Vancouver punk rock chronicler Scott Beadle sent to me months ago. Scott is compiling interviews for his upcoming book.

Questionnaire for Ms Haley for Scott Beadle’s ongoing Vancouver Punk History Project: (See my Facebook page for more details.)


Where were you born?

Matapedia, Quebec

Where were you raised?

Winnipeg and environs, then Salmo in the Kootenays and Cloverdale, BC.

What were your parents’ jobs, during this period?

My dad was a jack-of-all-trades, usually employed as a welder or carpenter. He was a very skilled artisan and used to sell wood carvings while in the RCAF, stationed in the Yukon. My mother always worked, usually as a waitress or a cook.

What was the highest level of your parents’ education?

My father only reached Grade 11 and my mother was apparently forced to quit at age twelve. Her father had perished as a prisoner of war in Hong Kong and her mother was dying of cancer. She stayed home to take care of her four younger siblings and ailing mother.

Where did you attend high school, and did you graduate?

I graduated from Lord Tweedsmuir in Surrey.

Did you have any post-secondary education? Did you get a degree?

Two years post-secondary. I studied music at Grant McEwen in Edmonton, then moved to Victoria and attended Camosun College. I never did transfer to university. My family couldn’t afford to send me and by that point I was wrapped up in the music scene, playing and touring.

When did you leave home?

I first left at age sixteen but moved back in about a year later, then permanently after high school.

Where did you live?

I lived in Alberta for a while with my boyfriend, then we moved to Victoria, then I came to Vancouver.

What were your major pre-punk musical influences/interests?

I grew up listening to my mother’s favourite country music; Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Hank Williams. I didn’t appreciate it then but now love it as much as she ever did. I sang folk songs, in school and in church, the choir it’s only attraction. I would get very excited donning our robes and making our entrance, usually drifting of to sleep during mass.

I loved the Beatles when I was a kid. I used to hang out at my friend Nancy’s house where we often snuck into her big brother’s room to listen to his records. He always knew and always blew his stack at us. The two of us would covertly take the bus into Winnipeg whenever a new Beatles movie came out and would have been in dire need of Help if we’d ever been found out. The first album I purchased was Jimi Hendrix’s Are You Experienced? I remember running into the popular girls from school at K-Mart. They wanted to know what I had bought. I reluctantly showed them and their response was, “Jimi who?” Then they thought I was really weird.

Poetry affected me very much. In high school I started reading contemporary verse due a forward-thinking English teacher who deviated from the curriculum and had us reading bp nichol, ee cummings and Susan Musgrave. That’s when I started writing in earnest.

When and how did you first hear punk rock or new wave music?

I had moved to Vancouver after breaking up with my boyfriend. My best friend Cathy Cleghorn took me to see—and most definitely hear—DOA at the Windmill. It was a shock though I assimilated it all very quickly. I was ripe for change. Many of our Surrey cohorts were in bands; Jim Cummins, Bill Scherk, John Armstrong, Gord Nicholl and Art Bergmann, whom I had gone to school with in Cloverdale. My boyfriend, Peter Draper, had played guitar in Art’s first real band, the Shmorgs and the three of us roomed together. Continue reading

Star Mapping poem

“Obstacles cannot crush me. Every obstacle yields to stern
resolve. He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind.”

— Leonardo da Vinci

Posted this quote for I have been writing of the stars. They are close here on Bowen, on any clear night create an enchanting tableau. At breakfast this morning I spoke of my father lost in a blizzard. He had been posted in the Yukon during a stint in the RCAF. He was wandering for four days and finally able to navigate back to the base by the North star which figures largely in my poem, “Whore In The Eddy” wherein I fantasize about lying in a puddle with a prostitue. A dead prostitute.

Whore In The Eddy

Gazes up at ballooning clouds as if imagining
frogs. Giraffes. Corvettes and barns.
As if Neptune’s head has heard
her pleas. Sent me. She looks like a mannequin.
As if by law of nature, a stripped woman’s body
looks like a mannequin after it floats
to the surface in a rainforest denuded
by steam donkeys and timber sales. All matter
from the depths is netted by log jams.

She stares at me. Cannot see
the pebbles embedded in my knees.
Or my face, not so sweet.
No bubbles, just the stillness
of standing water. No trace DNA.
No hard earned cash. Only cool airstreams
of aspen leaves. My grasping hand
takes hers, skin gliding onto my fingers
like a glove. A device. We share features
any porno-masticating, regular working stiff
joe wants in his garage
between the red pickup and the Crestliner.

We watch the rim of night, a coiled
arm of stars, their slow light two million
years too late. Naked eyes decipher
Orion the hunter. Cassiopeia. Bright knots
of the Double Cluster. Mars appears.
I look the other way, to the North Star.