Before they’re gone forever, and though I’m barely scratching the surface, here are a few other robust memories from my ten-day tenure at Sage Hill Writing Experience.

July 19, 2010

I can’t believe I’m here! I couldn’t sleep the last few nights, in anticipation but I made it after an uneventful flight, the best kind. I’ve been exploring, getting my bearings, settling in. Working outside rather than inside the monastery would be lovely but the hordes of mosquitoes and dreaded Lyme disease-carrying ticks in the trees and grass are prohibitive, as is the bright Saskatchewan sun reflecting on my laptop screen.

“Be fearless, be in the moment, remember why you’re there, be open to the path ahead. Open yourself up like the big Saskatchewan sky then strike like lightning.” My pal Sean Cranbury of Books On The Radio’s words on getting the most out of this retreat, good advice I shall endeavor to use.

July 21, 2010

I met my instructor, award winning author Terry Jordan. Nice guy, adorable 9-year old daughter C in tow. What is she going to do? I’d be bored here if I was a kid. Terry’s a musician. Damn! I would have brought my bundle of busking songs with me if I’d known. I should always assume there will be hootenannies and opportunities to sing at these things. I’ve been reading Terry’s novel, Beneath That Starry Place, mightily impressed with his well-drawn characters and landscapes. He possesses a powerful ability to create ambiance, often sinister. I will have to get him to sign it for me. Terry’s a playwright too. I would like to talk to him about that. I’m seriously considering writing and producing a play for the Fringe, as un-theatre as I am, which is not the same as anti-theatre. Community theatre is vital in the small towns I grew up in. And though I’m a musician, I can’t abide most musical theatre. West Side Story and Cabaret, my only exceptions and don’t ask why. I always maintain that Cabaret isn’t entirely absurd because, well, it’s set in a cabaret so when Sally Bowles breaks into song, it makes sense. She’s on a stage. But West Side Story blows my whole theory, cover. They’re on balconies and shit when the entire orchestra busts out. I don’t know, it must be the growing-up-with-TV and movies part of me that doesn’t quite get theatre. The moving image is just more authentic or primary with me, some how. Some way. I still remember my first movie experience. My mother said I sat through the entire hour and a half of Jungle Book with my mouth gaping. I still get excited going to the movies, but back to Sage Hill.

Wow. What a luxury, having one’s meals prepared! It’s heavy, prairie comfort food, lots of carb-laden casseroles and desserts. Keeping off the 25 pounds I lost last year will be no easy feat. However, I am relieved and grateful for the opportunity to devote the bulk of my time to writing rather than domestic duties. I’ll have to get to town to buy some supplies. I want some yogurt. No dearth of culture here though, not surrounded by all these fabulous writers. Students and teachers alike are quickly forming an alliance and Executive Director and playwright Philip Adams just introduced himself. What a charming, amiable and capable man. And I had the privilege of breakfast this morning with one of my most esteemed novelists Catherine Bush. Oh, and the poet Daphne Marlatt, whose work I admire greatly, both lovely people as well.

The toilet runs but hey, I’m not complaining. I’m so glad to be here and being away is helping me to quit obsessing about various pressures and anxieties. Now, to work! I must read and critique my fellow workshop participants’ manuscripts.

Michelle Greysen and I figured out pretty quickly we were in the same group. Sharing red hair and sensibilities, we got along well immediately. Smart and droll, Michelle’s a fellow bad girl, which Elizabeth Bachinsky teased me about, being Catholic. “Catholic girls are the baddest girls,” she said. “I thought I hid it better than that.” I’ve long admired her work and met Liz in February when, as a most gracious host, she introduced me at the Real Vancouver Writers Series as part of the Vancouver Cultural Olympiad. I’m grateful for the opportunity to get to know her better.

So freelancer and blogger Michelle is working on a novel set in a turn-of-the-century Hutterite community. Children’s writer Gwen Smid is developing the outline for an intriguing story aimed at a slightly older, teen audience. Sharron Arksey’s subject matter concerns family and farming life and Julianna Dunn, is working on a story inspired by her childhood growing up on a reservation.

I will pull out the red pen, brush up on my proofreaders’ marks and get to work but not before our first faculty reading this evening with Liz, Catherine and Ted Barris. It was a pleasure to hear Liz’s luminous verse again, Ted’s enthusiasm for his subject matter (Canadian military history) is infectious and I swear Catherine is from another planet, her ruthless but nuanced insights into the human psyche dazzling. She is intimidating and inspiring at the same time. I’m looking forward to reading her new book, Thief.

July 22, 2010

I met two lawyer-poets over breakfast! I’m spending the rest of the morning proofing Sharron and Julianna’s work. We work-shopped at 1 o’ clock. What can I say? It’s hard. Good hard work though, and why I’m here. I walked into town after, thought I would walk back but then realized it was far—especially under a hot sun—and I was getting tired. My solution was to go to the pub and ask for the taxi number, cab it back. I called Lumsden Taxi after shopping at the local grocery store and the guy was in Regina. He said he had to get a real job, that people in Lumsden were too cheap to call a taxi. “Why does your card say 24-hours then?”  I could hear him shrug over the phone. “Thanks for nothing.” Fortunately, I ran into the affable and erudite  Gerry (Hill) and several other Sage Hill participants. First we had a drink at the bar, a typical small town prairie bar, replete with VLTs and a pool table. I talked with Brenda (Shmidt) and Pearl (Pirie) and one of the afore-mentioned lawyer-poets Natalie (Simpson), all of whom are studying with Daphne. I’m rather envious, hope I can return for a poetry workshop. Let’s see, we talked about being Canadian, pondered how this country, relatively small in population produces so many great writers. I went on about how I thought the word “patriotic” had been co-opted by Americans, that despite a bout of recent Olympic pride, we are naturally reserved and cited my inability to wear a Canadian flag pin when I traveled to Europe. Gerry related how he left a Canada flag pin for a chambermaid in Portugal and when he signed the note with his initials, a fight ensued among the maids because his initials resembled a 10 euros sign. I said she probably would have preferred cash, told a favourite joke. What’s the difference between a Canadian and a canoe? Canoes tip. In the car, people commented on my big hat. WTF? It’s summer, I’m a redhead. I’m receiving comments about the size of my manuscript too. That’s okay, that’s why I’m here, to cut it down, get the monster under control.

I’m eating as many fruits and veggies as possible. I purchased some roasted peas, nuts, chocolate, wine, crackers. Tomorrow, I’ll find the trails and walk after supper which will serve to rouse me. I slept fairly well though. I was surprised. Ah, it’s so nice to be away though I do miss my boys and dogs. My cell consists of a small bed and desk, a chair and a rack with five hangers and oh, most importantly, a bathroom. The window is a bonus. It makes me realize how little I need to be happy: a few flattering outfits, books, laptop, pens, paper. I really needed this though! What a gift, a privilege to be here, living like a monk, albeit a challenged monk. And, oh man, the Franciscan friars are so kind to we writers, artists! No way it’s going to bring me back into the fold but I certainly appreciate their hospitality, the fact that they are pretty darn close to the mission of Christ, sharing their resources with the likes of us; writers, maniacs, degenerates. Here, we are, telling our tales of fornicating cattle farmers and punk rock mountain-top blow jobs, surrounded by serene religious iconography that is both familiar and foreign, I’ve been lapsed so long.

July 23, 2010

“Screaming coyotes, scurrying gophers, swooping barn swallows, thunder and lightening my prairie muses,” my Facebook update today. That was all I wrote. There is no connectivity in our cells, only out front in the great room which has made me realize how much time I spend-waste-on the Internet. More perspective and for that reason alone, I’m glad I came.

It is currently pouring rain, a real hard driving rain, which probably explains why the hills are so green. One of the writers compared them to Ireland. Discovered the thrift store downstairs. I bought some candles, a book and a Virgin Mary statue, a real score as I’ve been missing my lost, glow-in-the-dark dashboard Mary for over a year now. I took Terry’s daughter, bought some jigsaw puzzles and then she picked out a book and a candle. Sweet kid.

I just passed out my novel excerpt so the others in the group can read it and discuss it with me tomorrow. I have not found my writing groove. Well, my manuscript needs major revisions and editing, so there’s not much composing to be done, which is why I was burning out on it and came here, for direction. I decided that this year I was either going to come up with a real final draft for the book or toss it into the ocean, give up on writing fiction. I have been writing quite a lot of poetry this year, to scratch that composing itch. It is so inspiring to be surrounded by all these inspiring writers. Liz for example is passionate about her work and Catherine astounds me with her talent. I see her working conscientiously, right across the hall. It’s rubbing off. So why am I resisting? I know, I’ll just get into the groove and it will be time to leave.

I met with Terry; the most important feedback was “You can write fiction.” I have been suffering from an inferiority complex. His reassurance helps.

In the afternoon I went to town with Michelle in her adorable, little yellow Beetle Goldie named after Goldie Hawn whom she met in Hawaii once. My Volvo doesn’t inspire me to christen it though after all the beaters I’ve owned,  I refer to it as my trusty steed. I bought some chocolate covered cherries and we had a drink. At dinner, Michelle made a slip of the tongue and called me Fiona, my protagonist’s name. Is that bad or good? After I walked around the stone labyrinth, not in it and returned with three mosquito bites and a tick. I was able to flick it off my sock drown it in the sink. The subject of ticks and Lyme disease has been coming up nearly every time Philip makes announcements. He’s set up an easel and paper so everyone can write down the inevitable puns. The list is getting long.

We enjoyed readings by our fellow students, quiet, unassuming Anna Mancini from Cape Breton blew me away. I really liked Leesa Dean’s fiction. She is funny. I always have such lovely conversations with the people here, Bernadette Wagner for instance is one of my favourite participants with her irrepressible energy and charm. I hung out my fellow group member Gwen for a while. We ventured outside to watch the stars, pick out constellations despite a nearly full moon. Val Kilmer came up, I can’t recall in what context, so naturally I had to recite Three Blocks West of Wonderland for her, which I believe she was quite delighted with.

July 24, 2010

I moved! Down the hall. Yay. Harold Macy, a guy from Ted’s group writing about Four Storey Logging left and I took his room which seems more spacious and is definitely laid out better. He prefaced his reading last night with “Living on Vancouver Island, it’s nice to come over to Canada sometimes.” Maybe the new digs will dislodge my block. I’m just overwhelmed I suppose. Now is the time to cut the novel and I have to figure out where exactly, stop wasting time editing sections I may not use.

I’m meeting some remarkable people! I admire all the people in my group, including Terry and Michelle, who makes me laugh. Julianna is a big-hearted kook, writing about her aboriginal roots, Gwen is a teacher from Ottawa, overtly sweet, quietly strong and Sharron, from Langruth, Manitoba and with a degree in journalism seems shy but is very generous with her astute insights and comments. With their encouragement, I am beginning to realize that I am the writer that I am, doing the writing I’m meant to write. That is probably the most important aspect of being here. It’s so edifying to be recognized for one’s ability, have it reinforced. I am determined to take this determination home but I will need to continue working hard, remain mindful of sustaining this precious sustenance.

Terry said I could borrow his car! Maybe I’ll take him up on that. This is so much fun. It’s like being at school, or camp or something, not that any of those experiences were exactly wonderful for me.

I just attended Ted Barris’s talk, based on his book, Breaking The Silence, about veterans from all the wars. I should tell him about my grandfather, Reginald Haley, not that the Royal Rifles veterans got any respect. Might be interesting to get his take on it. It was funny, as he was talking about pilots, a low flying plane kept buzzing by. Terry asked him how much he paid the pilot to do that. Wow, and he talked about the Halifax riots. I had never heard about them. The sailors outnumbered the city’s population in 1945 and apparently went nuts when the war ended, looting, rampaging and generally terrorizing the city. I’m glad Ted didn’t leave out the nasty bits as we polite citizenry are wont to do. Also, Philip and Sage Hill are doing some important work and talking about PEN Canada and exiled writers and journalists at each of the readings. It makes one feel fortunate for the freedoms we tend to take for granted.

July 25, 2010

I managed to get breakfast on my new white top. The first time I wore it I spilled wine on it, red wine. Now strawberries. Argh!

Speaking of wine, I might have had a tad much last night, carousing with Gwen, Anna, Bernadette, Susan (Stenson) , Ted and Gerry, at least until Gerry got surrounded, couldn’t take anymore of our discussion of all things female and excused himself. Men are so squeamish, which is why we have the babies.  I guess it did get to be a real estrogen bomb though and if you can’t stand the heat in the kitchen, the best thing to do is get out. I felt restless, stayed up until 2:30, long after everyone which provided a lovely spot of solitude. It’s intense, being sociable every time you exit your room. I find I’ve been hanging out at the smoke pit. Though I don’t partake anymore that’s where a lot of the, shall we say, interesting people are.

Anyway, later I was able to work on my book and more than that, re-commit myself to The Town Slut’s Daughter. I skimmed through the manuscript, got reacquainted because I have been so discouraged, I shoved the thing away for over a year. I have discovered there is no way I am going to be able to cut it in half or anything so radical and still retain the narrative. I will just have to forge ahead, do the work, edit, revise, rework, and cut as much as possible, but surely I must stop agonizing over the enormity of the task. Publish the damn thing myself if I have to. At least, not worry about that during the process. Let it be what it is. The people here who have read a bit of it go on about its high quality. Doesn’t it follow that the rest of the book is just as good? Why do I have to butcher it? I am trying to reign in my tendency toward anxiety, panic, take the next step. Can I trust my instincts? That rather than pander to the market, I must remain true to my vision. So my question for Terry and the group, is am I deluding myself? Being self-indulgent?

July 26, 2010

What a tonic this Sage Hill is!  It’s really put many things into perspective. I’ve spent a fair bit of time in my room, alone, writing, emerging for meals, which always provided a good opportunity for socializing, naturally. Brenda said, “Oh, you’re working so hard,” but I don’t think so when I see the instructors working so diligently with their students. Oh, and there is no cliquishness. A few people prefer to eat at the same spot each day but most of us filled our plates and sit wherever. It doesn’t matter and I feel comfortable with everyone. It really is remarkable, the feeling of conviviality around here, everyone so kind, friendly. It is such a refuge, and therapeutic.

Out for dinner in a local restaurant this evening we had a hilarious discussion, a kind of follow up from the previous night’s shenanigans. Gerry pulled out a pen and paper and started compiling lists of Things That Men and Women Talk About. We had to come up with categories and though, really, you had to be there, this is what Gerry recorded:

Men:

-Roughriders (think baseball, think baseball, think baseball)
-initiation (you’re not the boss of me either)
-what we look like
-getting shot down the other day
-red lips that work with the blue eyes
-blah blah blah (you want me to what?)

Women:
-the uterus
-awkwardness (shy and awkward, very shy and awkward)
-sensitivity
-punk rock (or I’m in the wrong place)
-who are those women at the next table. Who do they think they are, let’s follow them to the bathroom
-How cute is when when men give their penises a nickname: (We polled as many people as we could.) Pedro, Wee Willie Wonka, Whippit Good, Otis (because of the elevator), The Chocolate Factory, Schooner, Freckle Merchant, Tiger Boy of Azerbhajain, Jimmy, Sputnik, The Hummingbird Caretaker, Russian Rocket, The Crow Tamer
-tips: don’t go to (dinner or) bed with these guys
-vive le differance
-should we name the vulva / The Promised Land
-orgasm: it can, sometimes does
-particular about my meat

Then there was the start of “Things Michelle Says”:
-yanking things out of people’s pockets
-The Gremlins Rule: (Like men) never feed them after midnight, no bright lights, never get ‘em wet.

Michelle is hilarious, deserves her own list. The food, service wasn’t stellar but the conversation was. We had a great time.

July 28, 2010

Melancholy already as I prepare to leave Sage Hill Writing Experience-St. Michael’s Retreat-Monastery-the Qu’Appelle valley, Lumsden-Saskatchewan where I have been afforded a rare opportunity to hone my voice. I will miss the meals! Back to the grind. Our last supper! A lot of the food I couldn’t eat, fried chicken, brownies with whipped cream, etc. Oh my God, I fear I’ve put on some weight, will have to work to get it off when I return to my routine, but I’ve exercised no small amount of willpower. It’s helped that Julianna and I are on similar programs. She’s on Weight Watchers, also lost 25 pounds last year.

July 29, 2010

I sadly bid farewell to everyone, who congratulated me on my light packing ability. Yep, it’s all carry-on. Two bags, that’s it. I packed 5 outfits, for 10 days. I hate going to the baggage carousel. I think it was Gwen that said, “And you always look so fabulous.”  Philip drove Susan and me to the airport as I took in the potash plant, the barns, flax and canola fields for the last time, vainly attempting to assimilate the past ten days, all that’s happened. Of course there was the requisite fantastic prairie thunderstorm, sheets of lightening flashing on a horizon purple with clouds. I’m going to have to read some Cormac McCarthy, recommended by Terry. I’ve been marveling how easy it was to bond with the women in my group, Terry’s scary harem, we joked, though we have dubbed ourselves the Sage Sisters and vowed to continue work-shopping our fiction via the Internet. Julianna surprised each of us with a lovingly selected scarf and we wore them at our group reading on the last night.

So I’m not sure if I struck like lightening; feels more like I’ve been struck, but it certainly has been an incredible adventure!

He’s back. Our resident Bowen Island bear has returned to our yard to play the Seed Game. Everybody around here is mad for sunflower seeds; squirrels, deer, dogs, bears, humans. And then there’s the vermin, the rats and mice. I don’t know how the Junkos, Towhees, Chickadees and Finches will ever get theirs.

As previously mentioned, I have a thing for birds, hence the bird feeder. It’s rather an indulgence, though apparently said hobby helps songbirds to survive and it gives me immense pleasure. The deer are the worst. My Staffie SamIAm and I spent 20 minutes chasing off one very persistent doe this morning. She hides behind the trampoline between raids and when she emerges, sets the dogs off barking maniacally until I am forced to run downstairs to shush them. Well, I always say my life is a zoo. Unfortunately for the bear, he is becoming habituated to humans. There is no wilderness on this island; he has nowhere to roam without encountering people and their garbage. And bird feeders. So, I won’t put out any more bird seed until he’s been trapped and removed by the Conservation Officer. At least I hope that’s his fate, and that he doesn’t get shot.

Sex At Dawn by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá. Just read it. I’ve long maintained that monogamy isn’t natural for human beings, which is the premise of this book. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried, and never been very successful. We want to believe in monogamy, are told to believe in monogamy. It seems there is no way to escape the bonds of marriage for it’s the only option for people wanting to have a family. Over the years my partner and I have cultivated a large, extended family of friends, god children, nieces and nephews—blood relations or not—sharing our time, guidance and resources, which in and of itself creates bounty. Yeah, I know, lots of people make it work and I’m happy for them but I think we expect too much of marriage, of each other. So much pressure! How can one person be expected to make you happy, fulfill you and provide all your needs forever and ever? Beyond habouring huge appetites, Homo Sapiens are voracious. Omnivorous. Seeds or venison, it all sounds good to me.

I liked this review by Eric Michael Johnson which just happened to be published in Seed Magazine. “Ryan and Jethá argue repressing our sexuality should not be confused with reining in an “animal” nature; rather, it is denying one of the most unique aspects of what it means to be human.”

And I am only human. I f**k with my mind as much as my body, imagination fully engaged. I nearly abandoned my libido, relieved now that I didn’t, for doing so would have been the same as abandoning my true nature. My human nature.

. . . and not very successfully for it’s still flying by. Just walked the hounds, trying to get my energy up. I feel like I ran a marathon, muscles sore, achy. My bitch Brinda is eating dirt as I drain the hot tub, neighbourhood junkos and towhees using the run-off as a birdbath. Flighty, ring-necked pigeons fight over the sunflower seeds, their cries reminiscent of elephant calls. There was a haze over the Lower Mainland and the Fraser Valley from the forest fire smoke drifting down from the Interior, but it’s cleared up. We didn’t notice it much over here, another perk of island life.

I’m working it, working on the novel. Post Sage-Hill, feeling like I’ve been back a long time but actually still struggling to re-enter. Such a rarefied atmosphere and I didn’t realize it there and then. Slowly, I am starting to get some serious work done, some editing accomplished. I’ve felt ambiguous about the title, The Town Slut’s Daughter. I realize it makes the book a hard sell and several people have asked if I’m married to it. I keep coming to the same conclusion, that yeah, I think I am. The title is very apt because it’s so in-your-face. It’s very punk rock. It also very neatly sums up the protagonist Fiona. She is who she is largely because she was the town slut’s daughter. Intriguing, isn’t it? What would that experience have done to you?

Recently I visited a dear friend who has been ill and I just heard another punk rock comrade-in-arms, Derf Scratch of FEAR has bitten the dust. Christ, am I next? Knock on wood. I better get this book out. Looking over my shoulder a lot these days, and keep thinking carpe fucken diem. These cold, hard facts of life just keep coming at us.

I spent a lovely evening with friends, a Girls Night In with fellow scribes Miranda Pearson, Elizabeth Bachinsky and Jenn Farrell who instructed me in the fine art of book signing. Duh. I didn’t know you were supposed to cross out your author name in print, on the bookplate. Why hasn’t anyone told me this before? Nobody tells me anything. I stumble across things or learn everything the hard way.

Taking Junior to Whistler for golfing this weekend. He’s being a real slacker lately but at age 15, I figure that’s his job. We did have an interesting discussion last night though. He asked me what was more important, story or storytelling. I didn’t like having to choose but I said, if I had to, then story would be my choice, the writing fundamental to any production. It was a lovely give-and-take. And I’ll be happy when he gets his driver’s license and can chauffer me around for a change. 

I’m blushing. . . . Hope to see you there. 

The announcement-invitation from Raincoaster Media:

“Who: The Shebeen Club and the Siren of Howe Sound, Heather Haley
What: A night of multimedia delights celebrating the recent publication of Three Blocks West of Wonderland. Go here for more information on the Shebeen Club.
When: Monday, August 16, from 7pm-9pm
Where: The Shebeen, behind the Irish Heather, 212 Carrall Street

Join us as we celebrate the release of Heather Haley’s latest book of poetry, Three Blocks West of Wonderland. Heather is both the digital and actual troubadour of the West Coast, from Bowen Island to Venice Beach, and for the first time she’ll be bringing her multimedia performance experience to the Shebeen Club. There will be poetry. There will be prose. There will be beauty. There may be song. And there WILL be videopoems, a dynamic genre that seems to have sprung fully formed from the forehead of the Siren of Howe Sound herself.

We’re very proud to help celebrate a pivotal local literatus’s latest launch! And that’s my allotment of “L’s” for the week right there. As always, $20 buys you dinner and a drink and some of the finest literary company this city has to offer. Click here to RSVP on Facebook.

Please help spread the word/call for entries. Please send in your videopoem by Sept. 1, 2010.

See The Voice: VISIBLE VERSE 10th Anniversary Celebration & Festival
Call for Entries and Official Guidelines:

* Visible Verse 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.

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, see below, or contact Heather Haley at: hshaley@emspace.com

************************

In 1999 the Vancouver Videopoem Festival, the first of its kind in Canada, began as an effort of the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre, a non-profit literary arts organization dedicated to expanding the reach of poetry through new media with programs such as Telepoetics Vancouver and the Edgewise Café electronic magazine. The VVF became critically regarded owing to its progressive regard for spoken word in cinema, presenting poets both in performance and on the big screen. The audience could explore the merits and distinctions of poetry rendered in these two forms, stage and screen, sparking new dialogue as to the essential nature of poetry. The festival then built upon that foundation, with widened explorations into poetry cinema across national frontiers. They presented significant new works from Europe and the Americas, and continued to offer Canadian audiences a remarkably broad selection of new videopoems from their own country.

Pacific Cinémathèque has been the VVF’s partner since 2000 and throughout the dissolution of the Edgewise. Founder Heather Haley continues to provide a sustaining venue for the presentation of new and artistically significant videopoetry as host and curator of SEE THE VOICE: Visible Verse. And owing to Vancouver’s strength in the film and television production industries, Haley has been able to cultivate critical interest between filmmakers and poets, with positive consequences for both.

To celebrate entering their second decade of showcasing videopoetry, Haley and the Pacific Cinémathèque are presenting two screenings this year as well as poetry performances, a panel discussion and an awards gala, Friday Nov. 19 and Saturday Nov. 20.

Reeling after returning yesterday from the Sage Hill Writing Experience. I am now officially an experient! And honoured to be so. Man, I swear I’m a changed woman, all charged up and ready to complete the final draft of my novel. I think I must still be running on the adrenalin I felt every day while at St. Michael’s monastery-retreat. It did get quiet now and then but each time I left my room, I encountered a fabulous writer, or two, or three, all of us on the same wavelength. They get it. We get each other. We’re a bunch of maniacs. Student. Teacher. It didn’t matter. We quickly formed an alliance, a fraternity, not unlike the Franciscan monks hosting us. And there is nothing like being parted from one’s crutches! Sage Hill removed me from reality. Thank Christ. How long will it last? I am so overwhelmed, I can’t possibly depict it all. So much happened within each day. I will start by recalling some of the most robust memories, and go from there.

My Sage Hill cohorts started calling me New York after a drunken local yokel at the Lumsden bar turned around, pulled down his bright yellow aviator sunglasses from beneath the brim of a formidable black felt Stetson to holler, “Hey New York! I looovvve yer hat.” It is a stunning chapeau, reminiscent of the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast At Tiffany’s, and a bit out of place in small-town-Saskatchewan but it keeps the sun off my face so very well. “I like your hat,” I replied, which was true enough. It was one of those tense moments when you’re not sure how things will go. The dude could be benign or he could be psycho. How is one to know? And I kept thinking, I’m just as small town as you are Buster. So I was a little irritated with my pal Leesa (Dean) when she said to him, “Why don’t you trade hats?” I know she was just having fun, but I told her under my breath not to escalate the situation. If she’d been thusly hatted, she could react any way she liked but not when I’m the one in the guy’s sights. The rest of us played it cool, me and Gerry and Susan (Stenson) and Anna and the yahoo soon roared off in his pick-up. Then we all went inside to play pool, Team Doritos and Team Mosquito. I took the last two winning shots! In a dress and heels no less. I was shocked though I may have hustled them a little. “It’s been so long since I played.” It might be a bit like riding a bicycle. Then the goofy guy’s cousin came over and apologized for his antics earlier and bought us a round, a pleasant way to cap a pleasant evening.

On a plane, heading to Sage Hill for 10 days of writing, editing and working on my fiction, book launch behind me.  Everything came together to form a fabulous, momentous occasion. Good crowd. I sold a swack of books!  At W2 Storyeum we were provided with a lovely, spacious room replete with giant, fantastic mural on one wall. “Word wizard” Kedrick James is decidedly the host with the most, providing much mirth and mischief throughout. Shannon Rayne in her adorable pixie cut kicked things off. Shannon makes a distinction between poems for performance and poems for the page. I think she said her closing piece about cunnilingus was written for the page. I must write them for voice. Hey, whatever it takes. Then we darkened the room for the world premiere of Bushwhack. I was a little concerned because it was being projected onto a big drop cloth, seams and all. I would have brought a screen had I known. I had a meeting with Will the techie the day before, didn’t think to ask. Oh well, the piece is enchanting and people got caught up in it anyway. I like to worry. Then the glammed up Jenn Farrell in her gorgeous, black sequined dress–we’d been goading each other about wardrobe, she bought her A game—read from her new collection of short stories, hot off the presses, The Devil You Know which brought to mind more than one friend. Jenn is one of my favourite Vancouver writers and humans, charming, witty, droll, her piece about waiting for a pregnancy test result poignant and funny.  Then we took an intermission while the musicians set up. My buddy Chris Coon performed tracks from his new CD, License to Depart, which he forgot to bring! He was joined on electric cello by Shanto Bhattacharya  of Fond of Tigers. Turns out Shanto had been in a band with our oh-so-capable and helpful tech director, Will. Kedrick gave Chris a hard time about being in a band called Impatient Youth while Chris got his digs in a little later by dedicating Odysseus Gates to him.  Chris’s music is pretty out-there and just as compelling. He has a good voice and he and Shanto played to the pre-recorded tracks well. I know how hairy that is. Then we screened How To Remain. I had to run to the bathroom for a nervous, pre-show pee but I heard people laughing and Josef said it went over well. A wonderful feeling of goodwill pervaded the entire event! Of course, Josef helped out enormously, as usual though he abandoned the merch table more than once to go smoke, our friend Carol Ann covering for him. Sean Cranbury manned the bar which meant he didn’t get to see much of the show. Warren Dean Fulton kindly manned the cameras. He just moved in across the street, showed us his balcony. Now that’s urban living which I have to admit I miss at times. No wonder he uses the Woodwards sign W as his FB profile pic. It’s doubly appropriate.

Here now, at the Sage Hill Writing Experience just outside Lumsden, discombobulated after settling in without chores, routine. Surrounded by religious iconography that is strange and familiar at the same time. Listening to the Thermal’s apocalyptic Here’s Your Future while ruminating in a Franciscan monk’s room is more than a little surreal. As one of the program directors pointed out though, it’s appropriate in a way, because the Franciscan’s traditionally welcome travelers.

I hope! Here I sit, looking past my screen out my window at the Strait of Georgia to the islands beyond, Mayne, Pender, Galiano, wishing I could appoint the trees and sky as muses but there is simply to much to attend to, book launch party-wise to get much writing done. I will persist though, have at least a few more hours to compose. Check out Daniel Zomparelli’s article about it at Geist. Thanks Daniel! I’m getting excited, found a lovely dress to wear at blushingboutique on Richards downtown and will start rehearsing tonight. See you Saturday!

This from my recent conversation with Sean at a Thai restaurant on Commerical Drive. And I didn’t say I’m an anarchist, I said I had anarchist tendencies. I do hold the conceit however that I am a “creative technofile.”

I can’t rhyme to save my life! Actually, I can of course, but it’s just not in me. I don’t rhyme when I write songs either. Below be a sonnet, Heather Haley style, that I wrote for Geist’s Jack Pine Sonnet contest:

Dirty Work

I am your golden jackal, shining, grinning.
I wield the flashlight, forge trails through night
blooming jasmine, metropolis serfdom.
I machete weed, ale induced panic.

In the morning you put on the jacket,
admit the thrills, hips, heat up our cunning.
Get to chopping. Onions, peppers, kindling.
Start the fire. Sweep. Brew the java. Rouse.

We share bacon, scrambled eggs and signal
amidst tender yanks. Shrieks! Gentle scuffles.
You entice me with mango juice. Pay day.
Poker. New jeans. A rumpus in the hay.

Ack! Your alarm! Restores smallness, inner priest
rising, freeing the calves we toiled to corral.