A bit of a blowout this Tuesday, sad to say for I am not being as productive as I should be, couldn’t sleep last night. Again. Wish I could get a prescription for a sleeping aid but that doesn’t get to the core of the problem. I start hyperventilating, feel absolutely certain that I am dying and the more I worry about not sleeping, the more panic mounts in my body. I went to the emergency room once, sure that I was about to die of cardiac arrest. My mother had heart disease, so I worry. Christ, she had depression and diabetes too, drank herself to death really, a slow suicide. I start to feel like I can’t breathe and replete with chest pains Josef took me to the hospital. After a long wait they wired me up for an EKG and promptly pronounced me normal, fine. Now I’m able to recognize the signs of an anxiety attack but find little comfort in that knowledge. In fact, I am intimate with anxiety, nostalgic for the days when it was a foreign concept.

I just posted photos of our night of performance with Victoria Stanton last week. I was glad to finally meet her in person. We’ve been corresponding for years, ever since we screened one of her videos at the Vancouver Videopoem Festival. Funny how you form preconceived notions about people by seeing two-dimensional images. I was surprised when I went into the cafe to collect her and found a gamine sipping tea, dwarfed by the bulky suitcase next to her. I suppose I thought she would be physically as formidable as her work.

Poor Victoria! I had lost my cell phone and of course that was the number I gave her. So here she was trying to reach me in vain, to let me know which ferry she was on, and getting my voice mail. She looked me up in the book and everything turned out all right but I felt bad. Christ, traveling is stressful enough. We had some of my fragrant Malaysian stew of chicken and sweet potatoes, with coconut milk, garnished with cilantro. I was relieved she wasn’t’ a vegetarian and over dinner we made plans for the evening’s performance. She ironed a white sheet to use for a screen and Josef helped her set up the PA and video projector. I put out snacks and chairs, lit candles and once again transformed our home into a cozy, inviting venue. A couple of people arrived early. Gawd, I hate that. The only thing worse than people arriving late is people arriving early. I let Josef entertain them while I finished dressing though sometimes it doesn’t occur to him to offer guests a drink or something to eat, he can be a real nerd. The other arrivals were staggered over the next hour and I knew Victoria was anxious but I wanted to include as many people as possible. We had a good turnout for a Monday night, the weather cooperating in that it wasn’t pouring rain. Russel brought about five people, bless his heart. I am always so happy to see him. He makes me laugh and flatters me shamelessly the entire time he’s here. At last I was able to introduce Victoria. The crowd delighted in the Bank of Victoria cards she handed out, with Point de Rassemblement printed on them and the sentiment echoed in her spoken word performance that, “When I go away I need to find the anchor points, the gathering places, the connections that resonate within my body.” We watched her onscreen, running down a country road, video she had shot on Gabriola Island where she had been the day before to appear at Hilary Peach’s annual Poetry Gabriola festival. The piece certainly resonated with me; I was very moved. Later Victoria thanked me and said she loved the audience and performing here which was gratifying to hear. I want to be able to do this, invite people whose work I admire and provide them with a gratifying experience. It’s also a good way for me to share with my community, on my terms and to provide them with opportunities to see some remarkable artists. We were all happy I think, with how the evening went, in fact; it’s safe to say that it was enchanting. I stood on the deck after everyone was gone in awe of the stars so brilliant here on the island. Enchanted.

The next day Victoria and I visited Opa, Bowen’s towering, thousand year old tree, walked a stone labyrinth and hiked around Killarney Lake. I am busy today preparing for my writing retreat next week as I need to Continue Reading »

I can’t believe how fast and how much of life gets away from me, how long it takes before I am able to sit down and write a blog entry. It is all such a swirl it makes me sick sometimes.

One of my cousins sent me an email message the other day, a cousin I didn’t expect would ever email me. I was pleasantly surprised to hear from her, then annoyed when I received one bad, corny, unsolicited joke after another. Not one personal message, no matter how many questions I asked. Don’t you hate that?

I’ve been thinking about forgiveness and compassion and families. I watched a fascinating documentary called My Mother’s Garden about a woman with a hoarding compulsion. Her children, who as far as I could tell were grossly neglected by their mother due to her mental illness, were so loving in spite of everything. I was forced to reassess the rationalizations I had made regarding my own mother. I had moved as far away from her as I possibly could for most of my young adulthood, though I see that that is what these *children* did too. The director Cynthia Lester was forced out of the house and into a life of prostitution at a very young age. There was no place for her to sleep! Compared to these adult children, my sisters and I were downright vindictive, though I did the best I could, going to stay with her for a month at one point while she endured surgery to amputate her right hand. Cynthia and her brothers came to their mother’s rescue. She was about to be shut down by the insurance company or the city, evicted or whatever it is they can do and her kids intervened to clean up her house and yard, renovate and rent it out-a monumental task- to pay her nursing home, all the while coping with her infuriating behaviours. Who knows what would have happened to her if they hadn’t.

I will be working at my son’s school all day tomorrow and then off to North Vancouver to read at 32 Books and a launch for Rocksalt, the anthology of BC poetry which includes my poem Whore In The Eddy. Hmm, I wonder the odds are I will get writing done? Driving me a little nuts actually, the dearth of time, but I am booking off for a week, going to go away and do nothing but write. I will lose my mind otherwise, I’m sure.

Van full of drunk punks . . . It will be two months since it happened and I’ve been waking up with Peter in my thoughts, recalling our travels, adventures and misadventures together. I remember being in a van full of X’s friends and entourage. “X” was LA’s premier punk era band and I, like many others, was in awe of them, thrilled when Peter introduced me. He had been part of their inner circle while previously living in Los Angeles. This wild ride occurred while Peter and I were still living in San Francisco. X was in town to play a show and we were headed to a party after the gig, a gaggle of us crowded into the back, Peter and I crouched against one wall facing several members of the Blasters who had shared the bill with X. Things were verging on pandemonium as we were all jostled about. I won’t name names but at one point-completely unprovoked—the drummer reached over and shoved his hand between my legs and up my skirt. I was shocked, may have screamed, and Peter, outraged, lunged at him. Excene, sitting queenly up front, yelled, John Doe pulled the van over and Peter and the drummer tumbled out, fists flying. I think it was John that pulled them apart. Excene was angry and exasperated with Peter and said something like, “What could you two possibly have to fight about?” Peter told her what had happened. I don’t think she believed him or just shook her head and walked away, Peter shouting after her that she was lucky to have all the friends and supporters she did and that “Heather has no one.” Years later, after John and Excene broke up and Peter and I went our separate ways, he and Excene hooked up for a while, so I don’t know, maybe she was harboring feelings for him and was jealous. Whatever. It’s ancient history but it’s true, I was a nobody. I had no one, was just some girl from small town Canada trying to be a rock star, but I had Peter. To him I was somebody. Beyond chivalrous, he was my advocate, partner, lover, and friend. Beyond identifying with the underdog, Peter was a populist and we used to talk about our vision of Utopia, a place where everyone is an artist and the artist in everyone is embraced. Continue Reading »