Tag Archives: videopoem

Don’t tread on me! 9/11 fallout poem

Swamped. Fighting a virus. Sick of editing but if the manuscript isn’t 100% print ready, it’s pretty darn close. So, so long slogging, hello hustling. As soon as I square away a swack of domestic duties and finish screening nearly 60 videopoems for Visible Verse Festival which happens on Friday, Nov. 4 this year. Forge. That’s what I’m doing. Well, aren’t we all? Born forgers we are, regular blacksmiths.

Had an interesting exchange with a friend who was reluctant to remove a photo of moi from a Facebook album, which led to a discussion about FB photo posting etiquette. She suggested that the protocol was to tag only the pics that the subject liked. I said protocol schmotocal, friends remove pics that friends aren’t comfortable with. Common courtesy, common sense. To me. But then I’m media hack from way back and make no apologies for it. Fundamental in this age of Facebook and social media. I realize absolute control is impossible but it’s my right to have input over the end result of our collaboration (mine and a photographer’s, which I always discuss ahead of a shoot) and the distribution of said images. But that’s just me. I think the real issue is integrity. Trust. Mutual respect between artist and subject. Artists are not gods, above or beyond their subjects. But it’s a slippery slope indeed because what we do is vital and the truth must come out. I think of Lincoln Clarkes and those incendiary photos he took of drug addicted women in the downtown Eastside, and Diane Arbus, both whom I believe always asked permission. It also happens to be the way to a better photograph. I’m also suspicious of a lot of *documentary* films. We all know how easy it is to skew facts with editing, etc. Which makes me think of the Strickland character in Robert Stone’s novel, Outerbridge Reach, a true opportunist/artist, some would say sociopath. But if you pose for a photo, presumably you are taking a bit of a risk, she said. I said, I try not to presume anything. Posing does not necessarily equate with permission. License.

And here’s my other 9/11 poem. Or perhaps it’s more about the fallout.

SECHELT

It’s so lovely here. Burdock wafting, whooshing.
Sleek cyclist slows for no man, woman or child.
Kamikaze starlings chase off rivals reflected in glass.
Springtime. Neo-hippie chicks and plump lesbians.
Round, orange buoys in the cove. Boatload of mental
cases on an outing covert as a DARPA project.
A prattling punk rocker can’t conquer fear
but can contain it, her sunbathing Labrador
sleeping through everything. Loudspeaker honks.
“This sale is an extravaganza! Prawns. Maple syrup.
Smoked salmon. ALL on special!”
A longwinded lute maker. Old world restaurant,
pickle juice in the potato salad,
bird lover training orphaned fledglings.
Florida flight schools, Atta and eighteen others.
Big clue, red flag, CIA too bullish to see.
Why take flying lessons only to play
hooky on Descent & Landing day?

It’s lovely here. I have nothing to complain about
except, some people complain too much.
My new friend Sophie, whining
about the pub’s crappy coasters, catching a nasty cold
from a cabbie in Reno, the jerk she moved here to marry,
a lazy fisherman, busy cutting the head off her mettle.
She grows defensive as a row of swaying cypress trees
when I offer suggestions. I retire to the gazebo,
hear a train and some blues huffing across the water.
Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee?

I wake to news of coffin-sized cells. Torture.
An American Extraordinary Rendition Unit
nabbing suspected terrorists for one-way flights
to top-secret sites around the globe. For questioning.
I am informed there are no railroad tracks near Sechelt.
Those rhythms must have come from machinery
at the cement quarry on the other side of the inlet.

My cranium feels like a washbowl.
Mascara brush too fat,
like trying to apply a bumblebee
to my eyelashes.
Oh, I have nothing to complain about.
It’s lovely here.

Announcing the SEE THE VOICE @ Vancouver International Poetry Festival program!

Mostly chronological, from 1999-2010. The order might change a bit, but probably not.

SEE THE VOICE @ VANCOUVER INTERNATIONAL POETRY FESTIVAL

Bubblegum Alley                        Zaffi Gousopoulos

That Which Takes Flight Laurel Ann Bogen/Doug Knott

Airplane Paula Sheri-D Wilson

Chinese Cucumbers Patricia Smith/Kurt Heintz

Alphabet City Adeenda Karasick

Sturgeon Song Alice Tepexquintle

Hundred Block Rock Bud Osborn/Dave Lester

Hopscotch Tom Konyves

Sista Someone Seth Adrian Harris

Kingsway Michael Turner

Cocteau Cento Dan Boord/Luis Vadlovino

Memory Block Hari Alluri

Lost In The Library George Bowering

Almost Forgot my Bones Tanya Evanson/Katrin Bowen

Spinsters Hanging In Trees Sheri-D Wilson

Missed Aches Joanna Priestley/Taylor Mali

Enter the Chrysanthemum Fiona Lam

Car Wash Leanne Averbach

What Did You Do Boy? Janet Rogers

Vita Means Life Gabrielle Everall

Psychic Defense Training

for Ex-Lovers Doug Knott

To Erzulie Lennelle M. Moise/Mara Alper

Buffalo Roaming Kirk Miles

Candle Dance,

The Crossroads David Bengtson/Mike Hazard

Intersecting Circles Moe Clark

Financially Strapped Katrin Bowen

Purple Lipstick Heather Haley/Alexandra Oliver

Being An Artist Ellyn Maybe

Turtleheart Susan Cormier

The Bather David Bateman

Dirty Bomb Mac Dunlop

Beware Of Dog Tom Konyves

Cellophane Girl Alain Delannoy/Pamela Mansbridge

The Knotting of Rope,The Mechanics of Plastic,

The Right To Remain Francesco Levato

Deersigns Taien Ng-Chan

The Book Of Green Gerard Wozek/Mary Russell

How To Remain AURAL Heather

Retro disk chunter Stuart Pound

2011 VISIBLE VERSE FESTIVAL Call for Entries and Official Guidelines

* Visible Verse Festival seeks videopoems, with a 15 minutes maximum duration.
* Either official language of Canada is acceptable, though if the video is in French, an English-dubbed or-subtitled version is required for consideration. Videos may originate in any part of the world.
* Works will be judged by their innovation, cohesion and literary merit. The ideal videopoem is a wedding of word and image, the voice seen as well as heard.
* Please, do not send documentaries as they are outside the featured genre.
* Videopoem producers should provide a brief bio, full name, and contact information in a cover letter. There is no official application form nor entry fee.

DEADLINE: Sept. 1, 2011

Send, at your own risk, videopoems and poetry films/preview copies (which cannot be returned) in DVD NTSC format to: VISIBLE VERSE c/o Pacific Cinémathèque, 200-1131 Howe Street, Vancouver, BC, V6Z 2L7, Canada. Selected artists will be notified and receive a standard screening fee.

For more information contact host and curator Heather Haley at hshaley@emspace.com or visit my Visible Verse page. 

HOW TO REMAIN, the videopoem, or music video, as required

Frazzled! I may not look it here but I am fried! Wiped out! Crashing post-wrap, but surfacing too, to all the tasks that have piled up back at the ranch. O isn’t it fun being an artist? Okay, I’m going to refrain from bitching, whining and moaning. For now.

O my poor blog! One Life is not enough! I’ve neglected it for the past few weeks, along with several other fronts, as I scrambled to finish up production on two videopoems in order to make Monday’s Zebra Poetry Film Festival deadline. How To Remain by AURAL Heather and Bushwhack, adapted from the book with visual artist Tina Schliessler. Both projects have left the building! In the post on their way to Berlin.

My old school punk rock cohort Chris Coon and I composed music and he scored Bushwhack in the 11th hour. We made several major changes in editing and worked through a mountain of snafus, naturally. Woo hoo! Josef and I were just discussing the incredible amount of work that’s gone into the 2:32 minutes of How To Remain and 5:07 minutes of Bushwhack. Lots of hoops to jump through for the application as well including the following synopses: Continue reading

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.

One Life

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.