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.

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

REMAIN

How to remain
thin. Abstain. Abstain from eating
food. Calories kill
the fat rats first. If she could say No
and balance Belgian truffles
on her tongue briefly before spitting
them out, she might remain. Live
long. Enjoy fruition. By shunning
urges, she could linger—dainty as a colt’s
foot—deploying her charms raw,
dogtrotting a straddled chocolate Arabian
through mazes of lane. She could retire
to her body.

Alas, ankles thicken, braids recede,
the old mare conjured whenever she dare
look. Fight back. She may be forced to
cover the grey, yellow, but refuses to swallow
diet pills. Amphetamines in the olden days.

Dinner in the garbage rouses niggles of guilt.
She snuffles it out before Buddy can,
barfing rather than blowing
calories on fusty pizza
or molding, olive oil-sopped arugula.

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

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