Tag Archives: Heather Haley

LIFE AND DEATH ON THE SPECTRUM

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This is a difficult subject, raising a child on the autism spectrum, especially painful in the wake of Newtown. I was heartbroken by news of the tragedy and dismayed to learn the shooter had Aspergers.

I felt both great empathy and unease watching the PBS Frontline documentary, Raising Adam Lanza, about the relationship between Adam and his mother Nancy. Though experts agree individuals with Aspergers are no more prone to violence than people without the developmental disability, I worry the public will characterize kids on the spectrum as aggressive, a huge setback in hard won autism awareness.

My son is two years younger than Adam Lanza and finding a proper diagnosis was a long, arduous struggle, finally achieved at age 10, about the same age Adam was when he was diagnosed. Initially Junior was erroneously perceived as having a “moderate to severe language disorder.” I still don’t know what the heck that means but he received years of speech therapy, which as it turns out was the last thing he needed, being highly functioning and beyond verbal to the point of verbose. It’s body language he doesn’t get. More details on this and our desperate search for information are at this previous blog post and the only other time I’ve publicly addressed my son’s ASD.

Adam Lanza had initially been diagnosed with SID, Sensory Integration Dysfunction, also known as SPD, Sensory Processing Disorder. It’s not a recognized diagnosis nor included in the DSM-IV-TR Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. As reported by Susan Donaldson James, “Whether SPD is a distinct disorder or a collection of symptoms pointing to other neurological deficits, most often anxiety or attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), has been debated by the medical community for more than two decades.” Adam Lanza’s lifetime.

My son’s sensory issues were well documented, considered part of his ASD and certainly challenging. He abhorred particular fabrics, ripping out tags and discarding the socks with “stupid seams.” Refusing to wet his head, hygiene was a serious concern. It took years to overcome his anxiety and get in the shower on a daily basis but he still doesn’t know how to swim and refuses to take lessons.

Unlike a lot of kids on the spectrum, our son’s motor skills were fine. He began walking at 10 months, was a prodigious golfer with a beautiful swing everyone envied. Though shy with strangers, he had no problems with physical contact and was always affectionate with family. He’s less demonstrative as a teenager but if I ask for a hug, he delivers a hug with no qualms.

I may seem anxious to point out how my child with Aspergers is different from Adam Lanza, but because it manifests in a seemingly random but singular fashion, every child on the spectrum is different. Unique. Our choices, options have been dictated by how ASD has affected our child.

I got the impression mother and son were becoming Continue reading

FATAL INTERRUPTION-the work of forgetting

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FATAL INTERRUPTION

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Pond forsook, shed tippled,

I dodge gusto, the jolly,

Adroitly avoiding east, his

Brilliant mean declarations,

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Confabulations,

Sorry offensives,

Our fractured liaison.

The work of forgetting

Stresses, ER expedition

Lacerating Saturday night.

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Belligerent patients triaged;

Cosmo shill car crash,

Severed digit,

Cocaine addled troll.

My heart is quitting!

Erection won’t.

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Happy to see me.

Stiff you.

X rays, blood work

Revealing nothing

But our deficits.

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“SINGLE-HANDED” and other passages

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SINGLE-HANDED

Strays.

Yard rats we

Shared a railroad,

A yearning for

Burning corn,

A penchant for

Leaving one another

The dead

Of night. Tied

To the tracks.

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Creosote smeared legs

Stand in a deep cove

Now, manning my boat.

Trip charted,

Lovers never quit

Beckoning, inserting

Keys, truncating

My swagger,

Saving me

From this lonely perch,

This vast wave.

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THE VIRGIN MARRIES DO MALIBU-“Town Slut’s Daughter” forthcoming novel excerpt


Heading to the studio, they wound their way along the curves of Pacific Coast Highway past sunning sea lions, surfers bobbing at Point Dume, shithawks—seagulls—bombing the pier. Fiona watched Dennis ogling a busty brunette astride a Palomino stallion bareback, galloping through roiling surf.
“You can see the gray whales during migration.” He told them smugglers used to run liquor, opium and Chinese labor through the area.
The studio sat under the lee of the mountains, a veritable citadel by the sea. The massive foyer, a circle of mahogany pillars, opened teepee-like, rays of sun warming the slate floor.
“Hey Virgins, it’s your first time!” joked Dennis. “In a studio.”
Producer Dan Foley ambled in, gently gruff in a RECOVERING CATHOLIC t-shirt, black jeans, lizard skin cowboy boots. He sat, Virgins arranging their bums on a bank of white couches.
“Okay, so what kind of a production values are you going for?” he asked, voice like sandpaper.
“Don’t you know?” Jackie clung to her guitar case.
“It’s your music. You tell me.”
Fiona knew. “Raw. Gritty.”
“Right,” said Rita. “And we want it tight.”
“Monster bass!” said Jackie. “I play bass like no one, melodically, but with a lot of guts.”
“Describe your sound. As a band I mean.”
Gawd. I wish we had a manager. “We sound like the Virgin Marries. Our drummer is a walking, talking, sonic boom. Our bass player is an original. Dolores plays her Les Paul like a band saw. It rips! We write excellent songs. The singer can actually sing. I have great stage presence too. We all do. Right, girls?” They nodded. “We’re talented. Fucking brilliant in fact.”
Dan feigned ducking, as if to avoid a blow. “Alright then. We have a band in the studio. Who’s responsible for the arrangements?”
Dolores groaned. “Arranging is for wimps. We don’t arrange our stuff.”
Rita brandished her drumsticks. “Yes we do! We don’t want a ton of effects, Linn drums, or a million overdubs.”
“No cowbells!” said Fiona. “I hate fucking cowbells. Let the farmers have ‘em.”
“Or synthesizers,” said Dolores.
“I hate saxophones almost as much as I hate cowbells. And flutes! I hate the flute. It reminds me of beatniks. And hippies.”
Dan stood at the window looking out over the mist-shrouded hills. “Okay, so you know what you don’t want. I will venture to say I think you need a clean sound. Organic. Unrestrained. Untainted.”
“Organic?” bleated Jackie.
“Yeah. Organic, as in authentic. Virginal. Pure. Virgin Marries, doing what comes natural.”
“Er, yeah, okay.” Jackie feigned gagging. “But we are not hippies!”

Pink Sombreros

The cowboy led his horse to water
The horse refused to drink
The cowboy roped a steer one day
The steer was full of sawdust
The cowboy saw a sign in the sky
Revolving neon stars

Dudes in white fringes live here now
Dudes in pink sombreros are here to stay

The cows are lowing, the myth is dying
This land can break my heart
I have no place to go
Beyond my wild whisky dreams

“How about piano?”
“Gimme a break! Do you want us to sound like the Eagles?”
Rita glared at Fiona. “We couldn’t sound like the Eagles if we tried!”
“It is a ballad,” said Dan.
“Yeah, it’s a ballad,” said Fiona, “but it’s a cowboy song. I hear guitars.”
“Guitar yes, of course, but this song, a wonderful song by the way, should be played on acoustic. Just the rhythm parts.”
“Acoustic!” yelped Dolores.
“Yes. Acoustic will make it a classic. Showcase the vocals. A little piano in the bridge.” Dan leveled his eyes at Fiona. “And another thing. Hit songs do not have minor chords.”
Let’s hit you. Fiona sighed.
“I thought you were tired of Continue reading

“HOOD POINT”-and Happy New Year!

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HOOD POINT

Dec. 31, 2012

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Lost in stars

Brave as ash

Wrestling shadows,

Giddy with night,

I lure water taxis

To shore.

Light the oven,

Salt the path

So I may reach you

Cliffside,

Burnish your gleam.

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Eagle’s nest hums,

Voices fuse.

Nearly content,

Neural bridges manifest.

Last night, last supper.

Blue heron spotting,

Tossing binoculars,

Whooping,

Over.

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Lashings, lamb bones,

Bent finger

Pointing,

Steam building, hot

Boxing, fur ball

Hangovers, bellicose

Stroking, novel

Teasing, done.

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News wrapped as fish,

Jesus hair obscures horns,

Sunny fog-ferries, flight

From one another

Post twelve days

Balancing hurt percentages.

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Out with old, year

Of dreary brinkmanship, no end

To the apocalypse jokes,

Lucky 13 new affirmation.

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FLESH POT

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“O, That this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.”-Hamlet, Shakespeare

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FLESH POT

Born muscle bound

Backboned, map, matrix-

Mother intact,

Into private security firms-

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Families, in slums, manors,

Stables, institutions,

To pirates or the pious,

We flourish. Raw teeth, germs,

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Clubfeet do not impede us,

Rank and garbled speech fleeting

As tin jeeps, Barbie Doll drama.

Our struggle is tidy, tumult banal,

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Pain prosaic, strife fueling ripeness,

Gauntlets passed through swiftly

Until the day we drop. Nominated,

Cornered, required to wither

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Under the gun,

Succumb, for we remain

That tender, precious human

Flesh terminators must aim for.

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ABBREVIATED GUTS-new poem

ABBREVIATED GUTS

Sun dogs melt,

Tuna tins expire,

Honey bees purge,

Headless sea lions wash up,

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Bloat. Drowning hydrangea.

Retreating squirrels.

Vacant towering fir

Hush the songbirds

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With gusts. Ravens squawk.

Telecom tricksters call

And call. And call.

Carbon copied dread

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Routed to the periphery,

Mt Galiano a distant lump,

Inviolate taint in the mainstream.

Traveling vast distances

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My blood will recede.

Limbs tread water,

Garnering muscle,

Mustering will.

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Cranking tunes, I summon

reason, a dollop of pomp,

A glut of valor.

Geronimo!

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VORACIOUS to be included in FORCE FIELD-75 Women Poets of British Columbia anthology

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I am stoked to be one of the 75! Three of my poems, including Voracious, will be featured in the FORCE FIELD-75 Women Poets of British Columbia anthology, edited by Susan Musgrave, published by Mother Tongue and coming in April, 2013. From their press release: “Not since Dorothy Livesay’s ‘Women’s Eye, 12 B.C. Women Poets’- AIR Press, in 1974, and ‘D’Sonoqua, An Anthology of Women Poets of British Columbia’, edited by Ingrid Klassen-Intermedia Press in 1979, has there been an anthology of contemporary B.C. women poets.

Gathering is an art that women do well, and as Jean Mallinson stated in her introduction to D’Sonoqua, “Anthologies are a sign of vitality.” In FORCE FIELD we gather together seventy-five women poets who currently live and write in British Columbia so readers can more easily share, study and take pleasure in the range and vitality of women’s poetry today. It is an extensive and flourishing community that owes a debt to many early women poets, such as P.K. Page, Dorothy Livesay, Anne Marriot, Phyllis Webb, Rona Murray, Skyros Bruce, Gwladys V. Downes, Pat Lowther, Helene Rosenthal, Nellie McClung, and Elizabeth Gourlay. Women who forged the way for poetry in mid-century B.C., between working and mothering, struggling, transforming and creating. FORCE FIELD is a strong celebration of women’s voices, from emerging to established. FORCE FIELD is not a definitive, but a wellspring.

POETS included are; Maleea Acker, Joanne Arnott, Elizabeth Bachinsky, Jacqueline Baldwin, Michelle Barker, Rhonda Batchelor, Yvonne Blomer, Leanne Boschman, Fran Bourassa, Marilyn Bowering, Kate Braid, Connie Braun, Margo Button, Anne Cameron, Marlene Cookshaw, Judith Copithorne, Susan Cormier, Lorna Crozier, Jen Currin, Daniela Elza, Cathy Ford, Carla Funk, Maxine Gadd, Rhonda Ganz, Elee Kraljii Gardiner, Heidi Garnett, Lakshmi Gill, Kim Goldberg, Alisa Gordaneer, Heidi Greco, Karen Hofmann, Leah Horlick, Diana Hartog, Heather Haley, Joelene Heathcote, Diana Hayes, Aislinn Hunter, Elena E. Johnson, Eve Joseph, Donna Kane, Fiona Tinwei Lam, Zoe Landale, Larissa Lai, Evelyn Lau, Julia Leggett, Angela Long, Christine Lowther, Sandra Lynxleg, Rhona McAdam, Susan McCaslin, Hannah Main-van der Kamp, Daphne Marlatt, Jessica Michalofsky, Jane Munro, Catherine Owen, Shauna Paull, Miranda Pearson, Meredith Quartermain, Rebekah Rempel, Linda Rogers, Rachel Rose, Laisha Rosnau, Renée Sarojini Saklikar, Sandy Shreve, Melanie Siebert, Susan Stenson, Cathy Stonehouse, Sharon Thesen, Betsy Warland, Gillian Wigmore, Ursula Vaira, Rita Wong, Onjana Yawnghwe, Patricia Young, Jan Zwicky. Due: April 2013, 400 pages, ISBN 978-1-896949-25-3, $32.95 aprox, Mother Tongue Publishing, 290 Fulford-Ganges Rd, Salt Spring Island BC, V8K 2K6

VORACIOUS

A kiss.

Coral. Incandescent.

We wanted a kiss.

We wanted a moment

of, no one knows us.

In a hovel or the firs

we wanted a moment

of, no one watching.

We wanted a ride,

the roiling innards.

We wanted a night.

One night, to escape

the ether, the library,

all that shushing.

We wanted more

than one season

of abundance.

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He has entered text

red as a target,

invited a stoning,

but, we are very bear.

Mewling accomplice

pawing at the door,

I track charred meat

from bower to suite.

From a fly coastal trip

drenched in dark highway,

through a fuming winter

of snarling heat,

to blasted spring robins

and lilacs blaring perfume,

we have muzzled nothing,

growling in the gut wicked

as songs loud as our heads,

deafening aches

silent as screen voices

deep at night.

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Smoked out,

files burned,

anointed with ash,

we are fallout.

Ruthless particulars

roaming summer,

lapping up

bare mounds and berries,

moving and moved

by shattered outcrops,

words of praise,

generous mouths.

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When you can’t get enough-LOVE HORMONE-new poem

Image by Rinrarity
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LOVE HORMONE

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Oxytocin starved astronomer

Mimics Orion, hunting lions,

Chasing skirt

Up the wrong leg.

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The inability to secrete,

Let down, feel empathy;

Hence the psycho prevails,

Clashes resound.

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Squelched desires jangle,

Jilted car commanding astronaut

Double parking

To pepper spray a rival,

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While back on earth

Nothing blows up well

For the demolitionist,

Neither concrete monstrosity

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Nor the ugliest obstacle.

Assaulted with meat,

Sun wooden, anger builds

Resolutely as prison tatts claiming flesh.

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