hey.jude

I prolly owe him $20

I hate it when he's right.

I am jealous of Pam Beesly. . . .

White Jean Aubade

I saw somebody this morning. Walking down the alley. He was wearing white tight jeans and a black and brown hoodie. At a distance, I could see that he was carrying something white and fuzzy. When I got closer, I realized he was holding a fluffy thing. A set of feathery angel wings folded in half. My first thought was, I wish I was a painter. I would like to paint him. I guessed he was walking home from a Halloween party. His pants and his wings were in sharp contrast to the dingy alley.

The second thought I had was, I think he is sad leaving his lover’s apartment. Did he have a one night stand? Does it even matter if this is a love story?

And now, I think I get it.

You see now that I think about it, he seemed to be very happy to be carrying his costume home.

But me?

I didn't want the morning to come.

+Just in case you are wondering, this is how you do it:
HOW TO WRITE AN AUBADE

 ++What is with me and white jeans lately? I dreamt that Deemo was wearing white-n-tight jean short shorts the other night.

Things to do this week - September 17, 2007

5) Write a story called, "How to Detect Lies"

Airports

I've had another dream about an airport. My life keeps changing.

Notes toward another poem – June 19, 2007

A man is screaming outside. He is poor, addicted and insane. This is Vancouver, don’t forget. All of the sudden, I get a vision of someone, a stranger – a man, screaming in my bedroom. I suddenly get this incredible urge to write a poem. I can not find a pen anywhere. Anywhere, anywhere. I think of all the times I can not find pens. The same smart ass comment I always get, “It’s ironic that you are a writer and you are a one who can not find a pen”. Finally it dawns on me to write all this down on my computer but I remember I’ve left my laptop in the car. My thong squeezes the black sock between my toes. I can feel the poem leaving me and realize it’s hard for me to fall in love. The red ruby eyes in my skull ring glare at me. I haven’t forgotten what I was going to write entirely.

 

A S C R I P T 4Heidi Iro

I saw some pictures of Heidi Iro online today and I suddenly started writing. I mapped out a screenplay in my journal. About 18 beats or so. Pretty solid shit if I do say so myself. I have never had that experience before.

You see, I write stories and poems. Ideas spring from images or partial images: a stolen object from a dream. Nylons in a drawer. Dried pancake mix dripped on the lip of a pan. A man welcoming me into his store. Traffic jam. Not a picture of someone whom I do not know that could play a part.

I’m gonna roll with it.

 

 

Efter brylluppet

Niet een Sonne

I was lonely

You wrote me a memorandum

Slipped it under our door

Sometimes I wish we could pretend

You sent me a birdcage in a birdcage with a memorandum saying, lay it to rest

I was hungry

So you left a glass of water on the window sill and I never came back

When you finally knew I escaped, I placed an image of a cage in the thought of a zoo

Animals were their own worst enemies

Endlessly pacing behind bars

I have avoided my writing studio for some time now. I guess because I have occupied myself these past few weeks meeting new people and I really don’t want to think about anything much or really have anyone know me, even the page. It’s a phase. It’s whatever. I’m here, today, writing a story that has now grown into five pages, double-spaced. This is a considerable length for me. The main character of the story is a Filipino nanny. I might post a draft it a little later on tonight.

When I got here earlier today, I was trying to remember the plot of a movie I saw last Monday. Kev and I went to see “After the Wedding”. But I was blanking. How could you forget a movie in a week? In fact, when we left the Ridge, it was gone. I tried but I couldn’t really remember anything about it this afternoon except for the character of Jørgen crying out: “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” I watched Kev from the corner of my eye reacting to the scene. He held his shoulders up past his neck and wrapped his arms around himself just for a moment. I could hear him suck in his breath at the exact same moment as I did. His body shaped like an aftermath (is that possible?). I think he did that anyway, it was hard to tell from my sideways look and we were in the dark. It was a tough scene to get through. But it only lasted for a minute and then was over.

In general, I’m not sure why I find it so difficult to see men cry. Perhaps it’s because it hasn’t happened all that much in my life. Maybe three or four times. At this very moment, in these 10 seconds, I can’t think of anything more tortuous.

And now, I can.

I can’t help but think of the men who have cried in front of me and yet wanted to hide it from me: my grandfather, my own father, my ex. It’s the fact that they don’t want you to see them that makes it so sad. These are the moments I will not share with anyone I am quite certain – unless I am able to disguise the scene so much so that it is unrecognizable.

Before I started writing my story today, which has no title, it’s untitled, it remains title-less, I started riffin’ on one of Chicu’s sonnets. I created an experiment: find a poem you admire and “translate” it with the use of a thesaurus. I used the thesaurus on Word so I wasn’t expecting great things. And, for a moment, I thought of a sweet and tender hooligan. It’s a pretty loose translation of Chicu's sonnet. I made up this experiment in bed last night – I was so tired – and I am thankful that I’m starting to think about writing again.

This is a work of fiction. This is work in progress.

 

Sonnet
By Srikanth Reddy

I was cold. 
You wove me a mantle of smoke. 
I was thirsty. 
You sent me a cloud in a crate.
You sent me a note.
You sent me a crate in a crate with a note saying bury this. 
So I struck off with my shovel & never came back. 
When the digging was over, I buried my shovel. 
I buried it deeper. 
I tendered my prospects to dusk. 
Some men will make a grave out of anything. 
Anything. 
It depends on how desperate they get. 
Times when a body could dig clean through the night.

Remember in Math, when you had to show your work?

Sonnet

I was frozen. 
You intertwine me a blanket of smolder. 
I was hungry. 
You launch me a blur in a birdcage.
You sent me a memorandum.
You sent me a birdcage in a birdcage with a memorandum saying lay it to rest this. 
So I struck off with my shovel & never came back. 
When the digging was over, I buried my shovel. 
I buried it deeper. 
I hand in my vistas to end of the day 
Some man will make a grave out of anything.   
Anything. 
It depends on how desperate they get. 
Times when a body could dig clean through the night.

 

ftw

i haven't thought of one good idea all day.

fuck this shit.

i'm going to bed.

L was a g i r l

Blah, blah, blah. I'm thinking of a whole bunch of stuff today. Today I thought about L-------.

L was a girl I met in grade 8. And I was thinking about the gym class we were in together.

And how mean girls can be.

And how 3 years later, her life changed and she had a baby at 16.

And 2 years after that, she was pumping gas into my car 'cos she was the manager of PetroCan. Haven't seen her or thought of her since then.

But blah, blah, blah. THEN she just popped into my mind today. After 19 years.

What is with that?

What triggers memories for you?

Was it the bouquet of dandelions that I spotted on the sidewalk tied in a bow like a shoelace?

MMMMMMmmmmmm. I'm not sure. Perhaps a  sign taped on a lamppost advertising a garage sale from 2006? Or was it musing on your horoscope, "Things will be fuzzy today but trust that everything will clear up on May 2nd"?

I wonder what the first boy I loved is doing tonight.

When's the last time he thought of L?

T r i p l e header

 

I am so excited to hear that Marita Dachsel is launching her debut collection this week.   

"all things said & done" is described by her publisher as "a visceral exploration of the moments of life that stand out in the pages of a family album and the intervals of memory."

Marita was born and raised in Williams Lake, BC, and has lived in Kamloops, Dawson City, Auckland and Montpellier, France. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from UBC and has been published widely in Canadian literary journals. She currently lives in Vancouver with her husband, playwright Kevin Kerr, and their son, Atticus.

First crushes, first times, weddings and trips across town, across water, and across continents. Sounds awesome.

Dachsel perceptively sprinkles these moments with the details photographs don’t reveal, as in "Dispatches from an Impending Marriage": "Don't talk to me about photographers./ Nothing will capture this. A printed paper/ will only mock—/ a gaudy misrepresentation/ a plastic jesus on the mantle—/ two dimensions of fabric, teeth and skin."

This is a triple book launch so Marita will also be reading with Nancy and Sean.
See below....

Nancy Pagh was born and raised on Fidalgo Island in Anacortes, Washington. She burst onto the literary scene at age twelve with the publication of her poem 'Is a Clam Clammy, or Is It Just Wet?' in a local boating magazine. Before earning Master's degrees in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of New Hampshire, and a Ph.D. in Interdisciplinary Studies at the University of British Columbia, she worked in the scientific publications unit of the National Oceanic & Atmospheric Administration in Seattle. She teaches English and Canadian Studies at Western Washington University and lives in Bellingham.

Sean Horlor was born in Edmonton and lived in Victoria for many years before making Vancouver his home. He has published his poetry widely in literary journals, including Arc, Event, The Fiddlehead, Grain, Pine Magazine, THIS Magazine, The Claremont Review, Inner Harbour Review, and The Malahat Review. His poem "In Praise of Beauty" won first place in This Magazine s 2006 Great Canadian Literary Hunt and was an Editor s Choice in Arc s International Poem of the Year contest. Made Beautiful by Use is his first collection of poetry.

Dewinetz published a broadside or a chapbook of her work. Check it out! Oh Dewinetz! How the hell are you, dude? Long time no talk?!?!?