Night Owl

Journal

Well, I’m listening to a Brazilian girl singer on Soma FM, it’s going on to 1 AM and I’m starting to wake up, actually feel better than I have all day. I’m so nocturnal, which wouldn’t be an issue if I wasn’t a mother and have to operate on a schedule with the rest of *normal* society. No one said parenting was convenient however.

Snow. Ugh. Socked in today, sufferering from cabin fever and itchy feet, wish I could fly to Mexico. Now Senor Coconut is singing Show Room Dummies. Pretty funny. Like an episode of Twilight Zone. I love this station.

Lots to do! Aural Heather rehearsals start next week. Logistics are rather daunting of course, so Roderick will come over and spend Saturday nights here so we can work both days each weekend until the launch. That’s the plan anyway. The tour is starting to come together. Have some Ontario gigs, now have to work on Montreal.

Headache is returning. My neck is screwed up again. Will have to try again tomorrow.

Appleton from AURAL HEATHER cd, “Princess Nut”

poems

Roderick plays a relentlessly raw and raucous guitar on this, frappy then thumping bass, his brother Malcom equally pressing with bullet snare playing and a steady onslaught of cymbal crashes. Wicked!
Appleton

Hooka squats on carpet, Buddha-
esque. Undulating spirals of sapphire
smoke hula up her nose. That buzz.
That buzz that slows

your blood, calls you back
to bed like a lover. Soothes your inner
asshole. B.C. bud. Best bud
in the world. Worth risking jail for.

High-resolution satellite images.
Narcs’ warrant executed Tuesday.
Grow-op raided Wednesday.
Dozens of firearms. Five thousand plants.

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.

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.

Parents were shocked. We thought she was on
MSN, chatting. We thought he was on
the Internet, with her, boy’s father chiding,
it’s APPLEton, son, not Marijuanaton.

Poems from AURAL HEATHER cd, “Princess Nut”

poems

Launch tentatively set for April 19th at the Firehall Theatre. Roderick wrote music for this inspired by Nina Simone’s version of “House of the Rising Sun” which, like “Hound Dog” is actually written from a woman’s point of view. You can hear it on my home page if you like.

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 spiral
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.

Able to receive

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I don’t perform out of some pathetic need for approval anymore. I’m performing for the art of it. I am honouring the art of it, trying to let free my ego. It’s a relief, to put myself in relief against the material rather than going at it unaware. I’m so hard on myself! I have had no formal training, have learned everything through trial and error.

I suspect people underestimate me sometimes. I am not unattractive and probably appear younger than my years. Often I encounter peers, give or take ten years, who assume I’m much younger and therefore not their equal. I have to admit I take some pleasure in blowing apart their biases. Case in point; I attended a writing workshop recently and most of the attendees were peers, in the sense that the oldest was probably not much more than 10 years my senior. They wear dowager shawls, bulky sweaters and sport hair-dos from the 70s. They must assume I’m a Gen-Xer, that I am not a contemporary. They read their passages, which are earnest, heartfelt and evocative. I go last, appropriately, since I am the *youngest.* When I finish they let out a collective gasp and one of them blurts, “Now, that’s a story!”

This workshop though, is a wondrous thing, as is Continue reading →

Back in the saddle

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I know. This is bad. No entries for weeks! My only excuse and the bane of my existence this time of year, is Christmas. Ugh. It takes over my life every holiday season no matter how hard I try to avoid its demands on my time and psyche. I know I’m not alone in dreading the annual holiday tide. Christ, it’s long. I swear it begins earlier every year. Retailers start in with the Christmas music right after Halloween. People start shopping and talking about Christmas in November, by early December they’re having their obligatory office parties and by Christmas eve I’m so sick of the whole thing, I just want to fly away like a red-nosed reindeer. This quote pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter. “If I had been the Virgin Mary, I would have said No.”–Stevie Smith. Or, “Happy Fucking Holidays” and I think a lot of people must say that. By the way, don’t virgins always say “No?”

We were all quite ambivalent this year. It was *magical* for me as a child but that is tempered by memories of drunken uncles fighting or falling on the tree and my parents being more broke than usual for months afterward. So the three of us debated but couldn’t agree on whether to have a tree or not. Finally Josef decided he did–Oh Tannenbaum–and so went out and procured one. A lot of work to put up but I have to admit, it looks and smells divine and we can let it rot on our woodpile in the back acre. I think next year we should buy a live one and plant it post-Christmas. At any rate, we just moved in August and this was to be our first Christmas in the new house. We had been planning a bohemian-themed gathering, with absinthe and exquisite corpses and finally had the opportunity to host it around the weekend of the winter solstice. Think we had this party and focused on it as a way to bypass some of the holiday madness but it caught up with us a few days later as we scrambled to get gifts for the children in our lives at the very least, and then wrapping, cooking, and on and on. We did have the pleasure of celebrating New Year’s eve in Whislter with my best friend Cathy at her fantastic new house that took nearly four years to build.

Busy week of meetings. Drove to Continue reading →

Melancholia and drawing parallels

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Been scanning old photographs and I suppose melancholia is an archiving hazard. What would I remember if not for these photos? They are precious indeed. As a child I must have learned to disassociate as a way to cope with physical abuse. Numbness becomes second nature, so transparent that I could not see this tendency in myself, or ability, depending how you look at it, the ability to remain untouched by pain and fear. You become untouchable even in the midst of a beating. You ultimately lose touch with reality though, become passive. Loss is the key word here. You lose recall and thusly, your memories. It’s not as if I can’t remember anything as my sisters claim, but many things remain obscure. Safer that way. I wish there was a way to retrieve it, all the life experience I am seemingly not in possession of. It belongs to me and I want it back. My past. I have no idea how to achieve that or if it’s even possible.

Coincidence? A sign perhaps? While considering using “Sky Busting” as the title for my new collection of verse I often find myself leaning out a window to take photographs of clouds in motion and the ever-changing tableau. I refuse to put up a curtain in the bathroom because I want to stand in the centre of my room and see only trees and sky. We can traipse around in the nude if so inclined. We have a long driveway to clear when it snows but that’s the trade-off for the privacy we enjoy.

“Sky busters” are yahoos that take long shots at ducks or geese. It’s noisy, obnoxious plus a big waste of ammunition and game. I suppose I’m drawing parallels between ignoramuses and terrorists that bomb the sky with planes. Too big of a stretch. Another aspect I’m agonizing over. A lot of the poems in this collection are about travel and post 9/11 dread and guilt. (Nearly typed “post 9-1-1!”) I’ve been agonizing over everything: word choice, line length, structure, poem groupings/order, the title! I was becoming very ineffective, burning out but the manuscript needs narrative authority. I have sent it to my fellow poet and friend and editor, Heidi Greco who is going to provide her proofing skills and input.

I’ve experimented a fair bit with this outing, writing my first real concrete poem, “my mountain” but I have two versions! Neither is perfect because I don’t know Word well enough to manipulate the text properly. I think you need to be a graphic artist though I know poets have traditionally done it themselves. In any case, one is too small and the other looks more like a tree than a mountain but at least the type is readable. Will have to sort that out somehow.

What is this thing I have with birds? I dreamed the other night of a creature in my house that morphed from a hawk into a boy.

AURAL HEATHER label support from RPW Records

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Recently I visited the GoGirls music website and forum in an attempt to find information on label support. It’s difficult to find labels that produce and promote spoken word that is not hip-hop. I like hip-hop but it’s not what I do. I wasn’t expecting much, got a few leads that went nowhere and one very condescending reply with a lot of unsolicited advice. I ignored it and in short order was pleasantly surprised to hear from a woman named Pam Southwell of RPW Records. A Canadian! She lives in BC, near Vancouver. Must ask her what RPW stands for. She had listened to the tracks from my forthcoming AURAL HEATHER cd posted at my website and said she was impressed with their innovation and would like to meet with me to discuss working together. Continue reading →

One Life

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Mine. Woo hoo. Well, my life is as significant as anyone’s and “in extraordinary times, there are no ordinary lives. ” This has been a long time coming. I’ve shunned blogging for several years now the way I resisted sushi and the return of flared jeans, probably for the same reason I wouldn’t join the Girl Scouts though both my sisters were gungo-ho to do so. I’m suspicious of anything so popular. Blogging is beyond popular though, it’s phenomenonal.

This particular piece of the planet I occupy is extraordinary. I am gazing out my window past fir and alder treetops, past sailboats, tugboats and barges on Burrard Inlet at the city of Vancouver. I first came to Bowen Island in British Columbia’s Howe Sound in 1993 with my ex-husband. Part of the white exodus I suppose, I had returned to Canada after the Rodney King riots and twelve years in Los Angeles. I had survived an annus horribilus and was seeking sanctuary. My mother had died after a long ordeal, my marriage and our recording studio business were both disintegrating. I don’t think I was cognizant of my need for recovery. I was still in the middle of tumult. I was restless, not ready to retire as I protested, but in reality, trying to flee an abusive relationship and an awful situation. Or two.

I missed it though and came back to Bowen to live with my son and mein leiber, Josef, in 2003. Junior is thriving here and we just bought a house, so we’re not going anywhere for a while. Based on a recent national study of communities with a population of less than 50,000 people, Bowen Island was identified as having the fourth largest number of professional artists in Canada. In that sense, I fit right in. At times I find myself irritated though with a kind of chauvinism particular to the island, or perhaps to all islands. I was going to say xenophobia but that might be too strong a word. However there are some island folk who constantly whine about how everything is changing. They seem to think Howe Sound is a moat. Or wish it was. The word “paradise” gets bandied about a lot too. My reaction is to remind people that every place has an underbelly, even the “Happy Isle.” I’m a poop disturber, what can I say. Another thing that bugs me from time to time are the Pollyannas, self-righteous do-gooders and neo hippies that are always pressuring people to volunteer or donate. Hey, I’m barely keeping it together over here, doing the best I can and they forget that islanders are often independent, even isolationist, non-conformist and strong individuals, thinkers. Strong-willed and stubborn too so it’s not surprising islanders often don’t agree. There will be a wide range of views and opinions on any issue, which may explain why it seems to take so long for things to get done around here. I do love it though. I walk around trying to devour the air because it smells so good it has a distinct taste . Bracing. The place is fantastic really, populated with a lot of unique and brilliant individuals. I have a veritable suite of island poems in my forthcoming book, Window Seat.

The other reason I’ve resisted is a lack of confidence. I couldn’t imagine writing an entry each day, a good entry. 2007 has been a tough year too, though not as horrendous as 1992. Loved ones dying suddenly, career frustrations and set backs and I’ve been worn out, just now coming out of a serious bout of depression. So getting this far is a good sign. My gumption is returning, along with some faith in my abilities.

I want to share my poetry and some memories. My life. One life. I’ve started the arduous process of archiving all my old photos and other media, including cassette tapes and video. There is a conference coming up in the spring that has been spurring me on though I’ve got to get more scanning done! I always joke that I need an elf. Or two. Or three. I think Santa should share his labour pool or take a look at my list. I’ve been a good girl. Really!

PUNK

North America’s first international scholarly conference on punk to be held at Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada, on April 24-26, 2008.

http://www.sfu.ca/punkconference

Should be interesting. The first time I went to Experience Music Project in Seattle I was taken aback, seeing flyers, some of which I had collected, on display under glass. Hard not to feel like a dinosaur sometimes but I defiantly align myself with the “I-am-Old-School-and-proud-of -it” crowd.

The main challenges are a dearth of time and the myriad distractions around here. I have my office, my lair, fortunately. In front of my face, there is email, Facebook and now Second Life. I could get sucked into SL too–it’s fascinating–but I won’t. I can’t! In the real world, there are my canine companions, my kid, my spouse and all their needs that are so much simpler to address than my own.

So onward and upward. I will post a poem next, then an archival photograph accompanied by a blurb. It feels like a good start.

Remain from “Sky Busting” (working title)

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I might call the book “Snow Bird.” Cannot make up my mind!

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
look. Fight back. She may be forced to
cover the grey, yellow, but refuses to swallow
diet pills. Amphetamines in the olden days.

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.

White Leather Heather in New Jersey

Journal

Just happened to come across this picture. I actually lived in New Jersey! I moved from San Francisco to New York city with my boyfriend Peter Haskell in 1980 and we sublet places for a whole year, could not find permanent digs in Manhattan. In desperation, we crossed the Hudson into the Garden state and lived in Frank Sinatra’s hometown Hoboken, which was becoming hip, and Newark, which I’m betting never was and never will be. I think this was taken in Weehawken. We stayed there for a week or so too. I loved the view of the city from the park there, which of course included the twin towers. I should post that next. I have a beautiful photo of me taken at the top of one of the towers. It’s grainy, misty, and atmospheric. Pete took pictures of everything, including me. Perhaps I will start with that period and go from there, the element of chance so much more exciting than linearity.

Nice coat, eh? It was not expensive. I bought nearly everything I wore in thrift stores. This was before they had been discovered and dubbed “vintage.” There was even a shop on Powell Street in Vancouver where you were given a bag and encouraged to stuff in as much clothing as you could to then pay $1. a pound. I remember wading into six-foot piles, tossing aside unwanted items with both hands until hitting the jackpot with a trench coat or a beaded, cashmere sweater. Clothes were so much better constructed that they were invariably still in good shape. Of course I would have to shower as soon as I got home. Hard not to get nostalgic.