Tag Archives: Heather Susan Haley

One Resolution

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Woody Guthrie’s NEW YEARS RULIN’S, for 1942:

1. WORK MORE AND BETTER
2. WORK BY A SCHEDULE
3. WASH TEETH IF ANY
4. SHAVE
5. TAKE BATH
6. EAT GOOD – FRUIT – VEGETABLES – MILK
7. DRINK VERY SCANT IF ANY
8. WRITE A SONG A DAY
9. WEAR CLEAN CLOTHES – LOOK GOOD
10. SHINE SHOES
11. CHANGE SOCKS
12. CHANGE BED CLOTHES OFTEN
13. READ LOTS GOOD BOOKS
14. LISTEN TO RADIO A LOT
15. LEARN PEOPLE BETTER
16. KEEP RANCHO CLEAN
17. DON’T GET LONESOME
18. STAY GLAD
19. KEEP HOPING MACHINE RUNNING
20. DREAM GOOD
21. BANK ALL EXTRA MONEY
22. SAVE DOUGH
23. HAVE COMPANY BUT DON’T WASTE TIME
24. SEND MARY AND KIDS MONEY
25. PLAY AND SING GOOD
26. DANCE BETTER
27. HELP WIN WAR – BEAT FASCISM
28. LOVE MAMA
29. LOVE PAPA
30. LOVE PETE
31. LOVE EVERYBODY
32. MAKE UP YOUR MIND
33. WAKE UP AND FIGHT

Should old acquaintance be forgot? No, but 2011 should. Happy New Year. I’m so relieved the holidays are over. Can I have my life back now?

Unlike amitious troubadour Woody Guthrie, I have one resolution. Kick ass. Write! Honour it. That ability. I have so much writing to do.

I don’t have to remind myself to bathe, brush my teeth, wear clean clothes, look good, change socks and bed clothes often, but they are sound resolutions. I do need to work more efficiently. In fact, I must overcome paralysis. Isolation. Wake up and fight! Inertia. Embrace my process, engage in process. Process!

I will quit crap; viewing, reading and eating. Read lots good books. Play guitar dammit. Cultivate some discipline. I may be at my fighting weight but still need to get tough. Get fit. Get off Facebook. Work on my website. Have company but don’t waste time. Ditch those that drag me down. Love everybody. Oh, and since it’s nearly one minute to midnight in terms of finding my biological father, I must make efforts to solve that mystery. Learn people better. Especially thyself. Also, no more sadness, anger, grief. I will forgive, freeing myself in the process, and thus unburdened, unhindered, go so much farther. Onward and upward. The only way to go. Keep hoping machine running. In all ways, kick ass.

AN ANTITHEIST CHRISTMAS

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Equinox Fitness Club-Nuns image

I’m more comfortable being pro-something, anything, but my conversion to antitheism was inevitable. For I am discerning, intelligent. Not that I was ever all that devout. I am a recovering Catholic, as they say, or Cathological, as my friend Tom Snyders puts it, though lucky enough to have escaped parochial school, unlike my mother. However, the sight of a nun still elicits an immediate and visceral reaction; my body stiffens, I cast my eyes to the ground. Thank god, such sightings are rare. There, you see, it’s practically in my DNA, though I have stopped capitalizing god. I also resort to “Christ” a lot and I’m as deeply infused with guilt and shame as my parents, taught that I was born tainted with original sin, for I didn’t escape Sunday school. Even as a child, a part of me knew it was all a crock, distrustful and dismissive of a fearsome and vengeful deity. Due to innate stubbornness, I never succumbed completely to indoctrination, attending church mainly to sing in the choir. I fled a home bereft of imagination, becoming the consummate bad girl, gleefully and with panache. Some would say I’m still at it, but I grow weary of good girl/bad girl talk and figure, who are you to judge?

I wasn’t rabidly anti-Christmas but if, or how to observe wasn’t an issue before I had a kid. My riot grrll self would do as many Jews do, go to a movie followed by Chinese food. But when I had my son, depriving him of the experience didn’t feel right. I had fond memories of a time of year when my folks were actually nice. They were drunk of course. I grappled with the hypocrisy of Advent calendars and tree trimming, even tried attending midnight Mass. Such rituals can be awfully moving, Catholic iconography beautiful, appealing to my sense of aesthetics. It didn’t work. We both squirmed. I did teach Junior who Christ was, his historical significance, and counseled, that as sound as Christ’s teachings are, he was a regular dude, not a god. The only Christmas perk I can see, one I am glad to partake of, is time off work, which affords friends and family a chance to get together.

I’m no pagan either but isn’t it interesting that Continue reading →

Sidetracked at the Railway & Working the Layton Centenary Railroad

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“Why are you looking at that tree?”

“To really see it.”

from the Kino Pictures film, POETRY, directed by Chang-dong Lee

So I wound up at the Railway Club on the wrong night, confused my Tuesdays, the last one with the upcoming. Flu fog, that’s my excuse. My buddy poet Pete (Trower) and I wound up having a lovely time chatting with Jenna and Stuart. A curious thing happens when I’m with Peter. Not the charming aforementioned, but *some* people appoint me his caretaker.  Though I’ve become his defacto agent and honoured to be his friend, Pete is not disabled, I point out, just old. 81 to be exact, and doing all right. Must have something to do with all that lumberjacking. Or carousing. Pete gripes sometimes, not without good reason, but I remind him it’s a privilege to grow old and that fortunately he is not afflicted with diabetes, Alzheimers or heart disease like many of his peers. If ever I’m fortunate enough to reach my golden years, I don’t want people patronizing me. Far as I can tell, there’s a fine line between respect and condescension.

In any case, Pete thoroughly enjoyed being feted and fawned over, interviewed really, about the history of the Railway, his old stomping grounds, and the city, his description a far cry from the travel brochures. I used to hang out at the Railway during our punk rock heyday but Pete had better stories. The place used to be teeming with drug dealers, pimps and hookers, who took clients across the street to what is now the St. Regis Hotel. That particular sort of vice has been driven further underground or afield but certainly, there is no dearth of action and it’s still a great live music venue.

I’m making progress on the upcoming Irving Layton Centenary, working in tandem with Rob Taylor and Diane Tucker in Vancouver to promote both our events. I will host a shindig here on the island on Saturday, March 10, and they will present a celebration the next day as part of the Dead Poets Reading Series. I hope to web cast and will definitely videotape/document the readings. Here’s Max Layton’s blurb:

“Canadians coast to coast are celebrating the 100th anniversary of the birth of one of our greatest poets, Irving Layton, who was born on March 12, 1912. Perhaps never before in history has an entire country united to remember—of all things!—one of its poets. Celebrations are scheduled in every province and this page serves as our communication HUB for such Events. If you would like to organize an Event in your own community please contact Max Layton at maxlayton@rogers.com.”

Oh, and I forgot to announce that Charles Butler of Winnipeg, Manitoba won the draw for my blog contest a few weeks back. Congratulations Charles! My books and CDs are on their way, just in time for Christmas. Woo hoo! HO HO HO

Call me CRAZY or call me BITCH, Just Don’t Call Me Late for SUPPER

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I just read an article in the Huffington Post by Yashar Ali called A Message to Women From a Man: You Are Not “Crazy” which posits, “It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice.”

I call the practice crazy making and portray it in my novel but this guy calls it gaslighting, after the film Gaslight. Remember how Ingrid Bergman’s husband tries to drive her nuts by deliberately setting the gaslights to flicker, convincing her she’s just seeing things. Ali makes an apt analogy. “You’re so sensitive. You’re so emotional. You’re defensive. You’re overreacting. Calm down. Relax. Stop freaking out! You’re crazy! I was just joking, don’t you have a sense of humor? You’re so dramatic. Just get over it already! Sound familiar? If you’re a woman, it probably does. Do you ever hear any of these comments from your spouse, partner, boss, friends, colleagues, or relatives after you have expressed frustration, sadness, or anger about something they have done or said? When someone says these things to you, it’s not an example of inconsiderate behavior. When your spouse shows up half an hour late to dinner without calling — that’s inconsiderate behavior. A remark intended to shut you down like, “Calm down, you’re overreacting,” after you just addressed someone else’s bad behavior, is emotional manipulation, pure and simple. And this is the sort of emotional manipulation that feeds an epidemic in our country, an epidemic that defines women as crazy, irrational, overly sensitive, unhinged. This epidemic helps fuel the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash their (crazy) emotions. It’s patently false and unfair.”

And sad but true! So true. I suspect some men engage in such tactics in order to feel superior, in control. My gal pal Mahara pointed out they do it because it works. Certainly, it has shut me down on far too many occasions. We aim to please, we women, though I have always spoken the truth, damn the consequences. Been true to myself, despite the constant pressure to be a nice girl. A good girl. Behave. Here’s hoping Mr. Ali’s column can help spread awareness of the problem. Women are tired of being on the defensive. Another friend complained the message has more impact coming from a man. It isn’t the least bit fashionable to be a feminist these days, but at least we’ve got one in our corner, a useful male engine.

The long goodbye . . . I am slowly saying goodbye to this place that I love, a little bit more each day. Times are tough all over and we may be forced to Continue reading →

FOUR Years of ONE LIFE Celebration. Win my oeuvre!

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Hunkering down, wishing I was a bear, could hibernate winter away, but being only human, I am driven. Damn this search for truth. Meaning. I should never read about writing! Or put myself inside characters’ heads, though they see far more clearly our predicament. Morality, especially others’, usually in the guise of religion, is what keeps us caged. False virtue. What is the right thing to do? I no longer ask. I know, here on my crusade against hypocrisy. At the very least, I live life on my terms, according to a hard learned code. I do ask, who wants to be normal? Nice. I have my own definition of normal, and a righteous goal. To kick ass.

Few of us get to win anymore, said a friend defending the rise of the anti-hero. Though I’ve come a long way-and out into the open-I struggle to reconcile the past. “Anger is a powerful engine, and so much better than despair.” I must return to the intrepid riot grrll, the girl who didn’t give a rat’s ass, the girl intent on escaping Puritanism. Smallness. Fear. My task, my journey. Ah, we are such fragile vessels. I have no answers and cannot avenge, but I can live. Love.

Lately I find this Einstein quote resonating: “A human being is a part of the whole, called by us the “Universe,” a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”-quoted in H. Eves Mathematical Circles Adieu (Boston 1977).

Enough naval gazing, let’s play. I’m celebrating! A la vida! To my blog, One Life, four years old this month. I’m giving away books and CDs to one lucky winner. Please *follow* One Life through Networked Blogs at Facebook and you will be entered to win my books, Sideways (Anvil Press), Three Blocks West of Wonderland (Exstasis Editions) and my AURAL Heather CDS, Surfing Season and Princess Nut. My oeuvre! Or part of it. I will randomly select the winner. Woo hoo! It could be you. Yeah, I feel silly, but what the hell, you only live once.

Remembering Riflemen Whilst Bushwhacking

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Good trick, eh? 11 • 11• 11. Felt like any other, though good news arrived to brighten the short, dark, cold November days. My videopoem Bushwhack is an official selection of the International Literary Film Festival, Director Lee Bob Black, “excited to be screening it along with many other brilliant films.”

I still have not had an opportunity to write an account of our recent Visible Verse Festival, swamped with novel queries, hustling, but did take time to honour our war dead on Rememberance Day. My maternal grandfather Rifleman Reginald Haley of Matapédia, Quebec was a member of the Royal Rifles taken prisoner by the Japanese Christmas Eve 1941, dying of dysentery a few awful years later. My friend author Dennis E. Bolen said it was a damn shame how the outfit had been abandoned by Churchill, tortured for years by the Imperial Japanese. Though we both have many dear Japanese friends, agree that their government’s refusal to apologize is deplorable. He recommended a book on the subject, War Without Mercy, which “attempts to explain the racism wherein the Japs considered North American Caucasians to be effete and we considered Asians to be sub-human. Bad combination.”Indeed. I recently read Michael Crummy’s The Wreckage, which vividly depicted the brutality of a Japanese POW camp and some people, usually Americans, claim that the Kamikaze ideology is what got them nuked. And there’s my hapless big Mick grandfather Reggie caught in the crossfire. Sadly the soldiers that survived received no hero’s welcome either. I regret never having had the privilege of knowing him, sounds like we would have got on. Hell, my mother could barely remember him, only eight years old when he died, leaving her, my grandmother Genora and four brothers and sisters bereft and impoverished. I can honestly say the tremendous loss of my grandfather has impacted our family to this day.

Rest in peace Reginald.

Black Hearts and Rough Cuts-“Pirate of his own Ship”

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Restless! Full moon? Well, here I sit, occupying my ass, my life, my Self, entitled to that much surely, with discussions of earth shattering events and the nature of heartache, having recently survived colliding with a particularly hard, cold, black heart. I honestly believe that cleaning up one’s own back yard is the first step toward redemption, and ultimately, peace. Peace of mind? My friend Kyle observed, “The only hearts that can’t get broken are hardened ones.” Told him I didn’t find much solace in that. Then my buddy Dennis (E. Bolen) suggested that, “the hardened hearts shatter. It’s the soft heart that survives.” Yeah, but sadly, “shattered” describes perfectly how I felt. At least, I’m starting to use past tense, move forward, as everyone insists I must. Sometimes I miss the intrepid young woman who never looked back. Oy. I’m just tired of losing. Loss. Loss as motif. *sigh* If only people would do what we want. Like bendable Barbies. And Kens. But though it hurts to hope, I still hope. Bend. Accept. Guess I am soft. And curious. Aroused. Unmuzzled. Voracious.

Seque! Cohort Peter Babiak is teaching my poem Voracious to his English students at Langara College. I recorded it and emailed an MP3 which he said they listened to no less than three times. He sent  a picture of the class hard at work, pouring over the text, one girl head in hands. I felt sorry for them. Christ, I’m glad I don’t have to analyze it, and in no way feel inclined to do so, even if I had the time.

Survived Thanksgiving too. Since I must cook every day, I largely ignored the holiday as I do all holidays, or at least the seemingly mandatory rituals. I do enjoy seeing friends and family. At least people get a little time off and my friend Julie gave me some amazing homemade pumpkin pie before we sat down together to play music. We used to have a duo called Bent Tail. We will recover our originals soon, sang Down In The Willow Garden, House of the Rising Sun, tried King of the Road but the high parts were too high. I used to play it when I was busking but we’re both a little rusty. You wouldn’t think it had high parts, listening to Roger Miller’s version. Who knew? Well, I did but I forgot.

Nailing down details for Visible Verse Festival! Check it out. 36 moving treatments of literature and artists Britt Hobart and Rich Ferguson flying in from California, Alexander Jorgensen from Pennsylvania. I am excited. Several friends have bemoaned the difficulty of process, the inherent challenges of producing a videopoem. I went through a painful experience with my directorial debut, Purple Lipstick, editor absconding with the raw footage for an interminable time. Pure torture. I couldn’t even think about this episode for years, let alone write about it. But, we persist. Hope. Exorcise? Bend, surely. In any case, please find the nightmare depicted thusly:

Rough Cut

After enduring a gestation period
of eighteen months
and several bouts of incommunicado-ness
she dutifully reports to the clay eater’s

rat’s nest to defend her lump of art,
before he nibbled away all the footage.
She sings his praises, pretending
the indiscriminate cravings

and grinding teeth do not exist,
do not wear her down.
Meth-heads don’t generate, they spin
scratched vinyl, shoot blankly,

regurgitate turbulence, gnaw and brew
dandelion wine because it’s free,
free as roadside blackberries
and meadows of psilocybin.

Pirate of his own ship-
bachelor pad bouncy house,
sleeping in a pocket on the floor,
close to the cache

when he isn’t busy
snipping, sniping.
Under the red toque
a mind’s eye so muddied

it can see nothing
move.
Bloodied images, frames, shots
blur unremittingly.

Recreate. Rework. Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
With no redress, no kind release,
she seriously considers murder.

Why These Shoes Matter More than an MFA

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I’m paraphrasing; read an interesting book review of British sociologist Katherine Hakim’s Honey Money: The Power of Erotic Capital, which argues that “erotic capital can be as professionally useful as a university degree,” and that, “women have been conditioned not to exploit their attractiveness for economic benefit.” I didn’t agree with her entire hypothesis but certainly she makes valid points. “Hakim claims heterosexual women’s erotic capital and fertility— their greatest trump cards—have been systematically undervalued and suppressed by religious fundamentalists, the patriarchy and even radical feminists who want to restrict women’s ability to benefit from their one major advantage over men, and to humiliate women who gain money or status though such activities.” Well, growing up, I was always uncomfortable with my sexuality and certainly didn’t feel at liberty to exploit it. I covered up, equating sexy with sleazy. I was actually loath to admit that I was afraid of men, their oh so keen response to my body nothing but overwhelming. I still don’t believe that being desired makes one powerful, not in and of itself, but as a happily lapsed Catholic, I’m able to revel in my body, mainly grateful it works, and do not hesitate to flaunt.

On the novel front, I’m working hard on a proposal, completed a synopsis and now must compose a scintillating query letter in order to avoid the dreaded slush pile. Feeling very good about this book, vital because I’m acting as my own agent. Apparently there are no agents in Canada worth pursuing. With a large part of the story set in United States, I suppose I could look down there, but the head reels at the thought, so I’ll focus my efforts north of the border for now, though I did contact several American colleagues to receive some promising leads. I’m very grateful for the help and guidance of friends Dennis E. Bolen, Gretl Rassmussen, Peter Trower, Julie Vik and Jenn Farrell.

So here’s the synopsis. Please don’t ask if it’s autobiographical. I feel much the way Beauty and Pity author Kevin Chong does. “You’d have to be an intellectual dwarf from Cloverdale to make that assumption.” My protagonist Fiona is not me and I am not Fiona. And though I may be a Surrey girl, I have a high IQ and stand 6 foot in heels.

The Town Slut’s Daughter

Synopsis

The Siren of Howe Sound, AKA Canadian poet Heather Haley’s debut novel, The Town’s Slut’s Daughter, is a tale of loss and transcendence, peopled with unforgettable characters. Fiona Larochelle’s journey unfolds in three sections with a mix of fact, fiction and startling events.

In part one, Girls With Guitars, Fiona flees a tortured relationship with mother Jeanette, and a harrowing home life of terror and physical abuse only to land in Vancouver’s violently blazing punk rock underground. Music provides a catalyst however; Fiona mines a talent for singing and songwriting to form an all-girl band, the Virgin Marries.

In part two, Girl With Guitar, Fiona is stranded in the United States after her bassist ODs and the Virgin Marrries scatter. Fiona is forced to navigate a minefield of vice, drug abuse, jealous lovers and predatory record producers as she works to rebuild her dream.

In part three, Girl with Ratty Hair, Fiona struggles to retain her voice while indulging in an obsession with cruel, dangerous men. She discovers that peace of mind is not possible with the volume cranked to ten. Rage may have facilitated Fiona’s quest in the beginning but it cannot deliver her. Amidst the tumult of the LA Riots, Fiona bolts her cocaine-fueled marriage to a modern-day Bluebeard. Throughout it all, a fierce, indomitable spirit prevails.

This dream, this precious life

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Stormy weather and animal dreams. I was in a slaughterhouse, looking at a hole in the wall. A mouse hole? A hand reached out to stroke the snout of a hippo. To soothe it? Are they related to swine or do they just look like they are? Then many hands emerged from the hole, not exactly waving. Next night, with a guinea pig on my shoulder, I watched as a woman in a window frolicked with four little lap dogs, all different breeds, housed within a kind of four-plex cage. So I don’t know what’s up with that but perhaps such bizarreness was triggered by news of an incident in North Carolina, a sheriffs’ department using stray dogs for target practice, which made me think of the sled dogs that were euthanized in Whistler post-Olympics, after they lost their usefulness. Ah, human cruelty knows no bounds. We treat each other like garbage too.

Word on the Street Festival endured more weather challenges than usual, tents on Hamilton Street blown down by high winds. I was astounded, thought they’d cancelled or something. That would be a first. Then we endured a colossal downpour. An hour later, rainbows and sunshine, me cursing. I always travel with sunglasses and an umbrella but that morning couldn’t imagine the sun emerging. I should know better after all these years of Vancouver weather. Highlights, Elizabeth Bachinksy’s Event Magazine writers/readers Wayde Compton, Charles Demers and Amber Dawn. They’re celebrating 40 years, as is Talonbooks. As usual I ran into many fellow maniacs, happy to see the majority. (Some) people will treat you like garbage, if you let them. One perk of maturity; I know life is precious. Ditto time.

And we are not dogs. Dinner with precious friends. Does wine tastes better in a restaurant or is it just me I asked? Laughter. It’s just you Heather. True enough. It’s just me.

Recovering from an intense weekend of Visible Verse Festival programming. Whew! It really has grown, this festival and I was forced to make some very tough decisions. There were more than a few submissions in the Maybe pile that I wanted to screen but ran out of time. I announced the program Monday, making quite a few artists very happy in the process. Guess it’s all worth it.

I’m posting the essay I wrote for Sheri-D’s Spoken Word Workbook earlier this year. She’ll be in town to perform at the Vancouver International Writers Festival next month and will facilitate a master class in spoken word as well. I’ve been asked how collaborating in music and video affects my practice, thought this answered the question:

S I D E W A Y S

By Any Medium Necessary

Subversive, sub rosa—sideways—like a snake in the grass is often how an artist must move and technology can help us cover more ground. I address social issues in my work but I dread dogma as much as cliché. I believe that being an artist is a political statement.

Though founder of the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre, I am not a technocrat. I felt strongly it was Continue reading →

(G)literati and Fighting the Good Fight

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Author Kevin Chong

Where’s the poem? Swamped this week screening submissions for Visible Verse Festival 2011 and up to my eyeballs in experimental film, which happens every year. Without being semantical, I have to say poetic is not the same as visible verse, or a video poem or a cine-poem, or whichever term you prefer. I think I just got semantical.

Still laughing and sharing photos from Kevin Chong’s book launch of new novel Beauty and Pity at Vancouver’s infamous Penthouse nightclub, the first and likely the last time I’ll ever set my ass down in there. I was surprised; the interior does not reflect the fading building facade. Neither did the carpet reek of stale beer, wall of framed 8×10 black and white celebrity headshots only one of its charms. Anyway, I’ve spent enough time in strip clubs. Bartending was the only job I could find in New York City when I resided, or rather survived a year there in the 80s. Man, it was a tough town, nothing like it is now, inhabitable. A friend of a friend got me a job at the Baby Doll, a topless bar on White Street, just down from the Mudd Club, where we used to convene after our shifts ended at 2 AM, or at the sushi bar imbibing hot sake, which goes down well in the company of bitterly cold Manhattanites. Club management kept trying to get me to strip too. I was quite miserable after my band broke up and told them, “No thanks, I don’t miss the stage that much.” I only had to watch the dancers—what was left of them—flaunt it, appalled by the Wall Street fat cat CEOs and bankers turned on by such pathetic junkies. No way I was going to wind up down there.

But back to Vancouver. I love book launches that are beyond readings. Kevin commissioned a book trailer, directed and produced by mutual friends Pam Bentley and Tara Flynn and it was hilarious. The book jacket states “Malcolm Kwan is a slacker twenty-something Asian-Canadian who is about to embark on a modeling career.” Kevin had Owen Kwong, a real male model, portray him. Later during the reading, host Charles Demers applied makeup to Kevin’s face, and not expertly, bestowing him with a magnificent unibrow. Kevin admirably kept reciting throughout the lipstick and purple wig application. What an event! And so glamorous. I’m enjoying the book immensely, can recommend it.

Attended a Continue reading →