Friday January 2, 2015
from a St. Germaine song
A little bit of the kind of thing you can’t learn from a book or you could but you don’t so there.
A little bit of spicy black pepper red pepper yellow pepper green pepper gives me heartaches.
A little bit of jealousy at the way she harnesses her memories they are so close to mine so far from mine so close to what I wish I could make.
A little bit of be here now be here now.
A little bit of six year old wisdom of six year old genuine curiosity.
She’s braver than me. Holy shit. She’s braver than you. Yup.
A little bit of turning off the screen turning up the soup on the stove turning over the new year new leaf of love and relaxation and flexibility.
That’s the word for this year for me for you (?) For me for sure no question mark there.
Inner and outer the out is the in and the in is the out but inside I feel taller than I am inside I feel stronger than I am outside I feel as full as I do inside.
The balance of strength and flexibility.
A little bit of strength a little bit of open open open open opennnnnnn.
Friday October 3, 2014 at 49th Parallel
from a text message from Jess
I’m more interested in
organ keys than deep bass
brown rice than the colour orange
maps than keys
I’m more about
here than later
down than up
breaststroke than butterfly
I’m all the
leather and feathers
diamonds and dust
mountains and quartz crystals
magic and lullabies
quinoa and pencil shavings
bullets of beauty and porridge with a kiss
crow feathers and fern patterns
grammatical tongue tickles and boots like moss
cactus of ambition and dreams like the milky way
Thursday April 23, 2014
Locked In To Life
Keep pushing, keep moving, keep trying trying trying.
Don’t believe you’re stupid. Don’t believe that because nobody believes that and you don’t want to give them any new ideas about it.
Yeah, it’s hard.
And yeah there will be lots of crying.
(With you, there’s always lots of crying. Get used to it.)
And there will be lots of laughing.
(With you, there’s always more laughing than crying. See?)
But there will be no regrets.
You don’t have time for those.
You don’t even have enough time to call your mother.
Or send that postcard to your boyfriend.
Or apologize to your inner person for being so damn-self-deprecating on a daily basis.
You don’t have time for that stuff.
So you most certainly do not have time to wish you did it differently.
The universe can be cruel.
I know that. You know that. Everybody knows that.
But it can also be kind.
So be a little nicer.
Be a little less quick to place the blame.
Be a little less okay with believing you’re mediocre.
Even when you forget how to spell “Disappointment” without an electronic device correcting you.
And even when you convince yourself you can’t do simple math in your head when trying to tip the server.
Be a little more confident.
Because you’re here.
Because you’ve made it this far and because if you didn’t want to be alive, you just wouldn’t be.
Wednesday March 12, 2014 at The CSI Coffee Pub
A writing group warm-up led by Dianne
I believe that life is like a snail, dragging its own slime, dragging its own house, sometimes getting stepped on and crushed and sometimes living on a sea wall, undisturbed, for five hundred years.
I believe that life is connection to the dead and dying, the remembering, the saving, the fighting for what’s been lost and is not quite yet lost – the great plains toad, the whippoorwill, blue walleye.
I believe that life is words in black ink on a lined Hilroy notebook purchased for ten cents at Staples by my mother.
I believe that all there really is…
I believe that all there really is…
I believe that all there really is
I believe that it’s all messy, and music, all teeth and bone, all muffins baking in the oven, all indulgence, all balance, all now.
I believe that “life” is “now”. From now on, in fact, from hereon in, in fact, my “life” is my “now”.
Thursday December 26, 2013
from the cover of NOW
I’ve been thinking a lot about success. And failure. And where the two intersect, or don’t… Or what. See, when you’re creative, when you call yourself an “artist”, a name of privilege, a warrior path, I believe that doing your art
if you’re living your passion
practising your craft
honing and sanding and steaming and basting
you are doing your job.
I APPLAUD YOU.
Standing high on a snowbank
I call out in a voice reserved for my tribe
“THANK YOU FOR WORKING SO HARD!”
I can’t wait to hear what you make, to sing along to what you glazed with love and sweat, I long to feel your story in my toes. You doing what you do is ENOUGH. I don’t give a fireball what anyone else says about it. I reject the Tweet-erings too shy to cry out in their tribe-voice. I say “no thank you” to critics and naysayers and people that long to build something with their hands and don’t and then crash and bash into those of us that are brave enough to do just that.
Bravery is a bomb I will drop.
Bravery is a rhyme I will turn over in my mouth until it melts.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
From the ARTS Section of the Globe and Mail
Saturday May 25th edition
I didn’t mean to write a manifesto but when I sat down I felt a flood like the one on the news coming through my fingertips, the one where people have to hold onto trees or else they will be swept away. You called, “What the heck is going on in there?” from the garage. You could hear me pounding on the computer keyboard, the flood getting deeper and heavier and more alive. “MANIFESTO!” I called back, and my voice broke, like I probably would cry but I didn’t want to alarm you and have you come back into the house, so then I called, “I’m totally okay!” You were carving sculptures of African animals out of soapstone. You worked from four in the morning until noon, from which point you listened to records and radio shows, and canned seasonal fruits and vegetables. I had never loved you more. This manifesto, however, only concerned me. It had nothing to do with you at all. It was completely and utterly my own. When you love someone deeply and unconditionally, it’s easy to feel that every that has to do with you has to do with them, too. That is not the case. This manifesto was as private as biting your own toenails, or popping an ingrown hair/pimple on your bikini line, or eating a half pint of salted caramel gelato in the nude while watching re-runs of 90210.