hey.jude

Things to do this week - September 17, 2007

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

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.

 

 

thinking about....

i'm thinking about dedicating my life to one single poem that i could start writing today and finish when i'm in my eighties.

i think  the poem might be about a bright green frog (perhaps with orange webbed paws) but i have a lot of time to figure out what it's going to be about.

And now for one of those blog posts that are so personal, it’s uncomfortable for everyone.

Hmmmmmmmmmm, I could go on and on, I guess, about what I ate yesterday and how it’s making me feel fat today.

I could tell you that I’ve been eating tons lately and I think it’s because I’m trying to stuff down all this shit these past few months of being alone has brought me.

I could tell you what it’s like to be living out of a suitcase, living in the ‘burbs, commuting 2 hours a day to work, what it’s like to be recently separated and wondering what the eff? and living in a new condo with my sister who is 9 years older than me and who wears adult braces.

I could tell you about my lost cell phone.

I could tell you that I’ve been eating Lay’s potato chips for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A couple of bowls a night. Lots of bread and muffins. I could tell you all this. But what’s the point really?

I could tell you about all the depressing shit I looked at on the web today. That it’s sunny outside but I’ve been in bed for five hours looking at strangers on a 13 inch screen. A mix of shit but mostly about a 100 pages or so on Craigslist and myspace. So many lonely people eating potato chips. Selling things and describing themselves. And most likely missing the mark.

But what I rather say is that when I was riding the train the other day to work, I looked around and saw all these people reading. 10s and 10s and 10s of people reading. Reading novels and newspapers and magazines and commuter rags and I thot, “Eff, that’s neat. All these people reading. Reading to escape, to kill some time, to be entertained, to feel comfort, to feel no comfort, to go off somewhere else for a bit before work. Some of them reading and remembering and some of them reading and forgetting so rereading parts over again. But no matta. It’s all good.”

On the train, I watched a man text on his crackberry and his thumbs shaped themselves into a heart as he typed. It was a pretty image. I thot, “That would make a great ad campaign!”

I’d also like to tell you about love and how I’ve experienced it. Not just about what I ate or what I might have lost.

I’m thinking about what I did on Friday night waiting for Cindy and Caitlin to get off the ferry. I started watching a couple saying their goodbyes. They didn’t kiss at first. They hugged – long and lovingly. And then they kissed. And then they hugged again. And I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. He helped her with her bags and they hugged again. She walked toward the ferry dock and kept looking back at him. She was standing behind my car and when he looked at her, it was tho he was looking at me inside my car with all the love and intensity that he could muster up in the world. I felt kinda creepy staring at him (but really  he didn’t even notice me) but I didn't look away cos I knew I was witnessing love and I knew that he loved her more than she loved him and did they know that? And would that ever change between them as it so often changes?

What are you up to today?

I really should be writing my novel. But I’m going to go outside, finally, instead.

c an te l o p e

CANTALOUPES WERE IN THE NEWS TODAY.

It's funny 'cos yesterday (and the day before that, for that matter) I spent a significant amount of time downloading images of cantaloupes for no apparent reason.

I think I must have psychic ability when it comes to yummy, tasty things. I knew his age, for example. It came out of nowhere. He certainly is delicious!

Think prosciutto wrapped around cantaloupe. Perfect for a party!

fruit & sex &

middle America

She concluded that the banana is, of course, the meatiest fruit and therefore, by simple deduction, that the cantaloupe was the fleshiest. And you wish you could care about food and absolutes the same way that she did. But you simply do not. You tend to pick out the melons in a fruit salad. You go for the pineapples and grapes. You avoid garnish as a rule.

Avoid melons that have green backgrounds below the netting--they were picked too early.  When ripe melons are picked, the stem falls off easily, leaving a small, clean depression. 

Who was the first being to taste cantaloupe? I bet it was a monkey.

How many melons have we thrown away in this house? We were too lazy to cut into them. He began his song in this way, “I am like a cantaloupe, long forgotten in your fridge….” Although you think this song will go nowhere, he certainly has a point.

• Is there anything juicer than a melon? MMMMmmmmmmmmmm, yeah.

Cantaloupes are considered the most nutritious of all fruit. The Centre for Science in Public Interest compiled a list of fruits by their nutritional value, and cantaloupes came in first place, followed closely by watermelon, which were just in front of oranges. Next came strawberries, grapefruit, pineapples, tangerines and peaches. Sauntering in last place was the lowly plum.

Although this has nothing to do with cantaloupes, has Carolyn told you about the bananas on the beach story? I think you should ask her the next time you see her.

My Favorite Cantaloupe Links on Sunday, November 19, 2006:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cantaloupe

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-24783289087164911&pr=goog-sl

A SENTENCE FROM A S T O R Y

“A SENTENCE FROM A STORY THAT I’M GETTING SICK OF:

The Last Time I Saw Him, Though I Did Not Know It Would Be The Last….”

How do you really know this will be the last time, Lydia Davis? I, on the otherhand, will not really know until my deathbed.

I will always have a little hope.

Alternatively, put in another way – How is it? That you know? This will be the last time you see him?

You, like me, will not know until you arrive at your deathbed.

This could also be described as "Writer's Block". This, for you, is at least forty years from now. Well into the future. We will be flying space crafts then! The world is expanding and accelerating! There is progress.

(How is it that the church bells begin to ring? It's only 10:31 am!)

At first, when I first thought about it, I was thinking: sixty years from now, I will be on my deathbed. But I am much too old when I think about it. I will always hold out a little hope.

Do you think you will see him in the corner of your eye? In the Apple Gate Mall or at the auditorium?

His grin is big. He is happy to see both of us.

Inspired by a teeny tiny story that Lydia Davis wrote that began with the line:

"The Last Time I Saw Him, Though I Did Not Know It Would Be The Last….”

w h a t i s the title of this story?

That would be a doozy of a story with a title like that.

Sometimes she just needs a title and then she’s off to the races!

Inspired by numerous conversations with my first literary friend, Suzanne Buffam.

W H E N I S A Y NO

“THE HIGHLY SENSITIVE PERSON coupled with WHEN I SAY NO, I FEEL GUILTY”

When my therapist says that I am self-centered, I almost believe her.

She seems to criticize everything I say. She examines my life more than I do and I think that is saying a lot. Sometimes, she gets bored with me and speaks about herself. She tells me about her daughter who has just graduated from high school and wants to get into broadcast journalism. There is a framed picture of her daughter on her desk. Her daughter is homely so I suggest she pursue a career in radio. I am glad my parents pay for these appointments. My parents send a cheque to my therapist every second session and every time our time comes to an end, my therapist forgets our agreed upon terms of payment. I usually go beet red (as my mother would describe it) and I wobble a bit, back and forth, at the receptionist’s desk. The desk looks like a space ship console with light pink stickies clinging to it. “My parents will send you a cheque.” “Oh, right, yes. I forgot. Right then. I’ll give you your receipt next time.” “That is fine by me,” I say and I think. Sometimes in our sessions, I tell my therapist how she forgets that my parents send a cheque to her every second week and how I go beet red from embarrassment when I have to remind her. I tell her I want to work on that and she recommends two different readings.

MY GUILTY BLOG PLEASURE IS: SLUSHPILE! SHE'S DA BOMB!

E W A N C O L L E C T S TOY INSTRUMENTS

Ewan collects toy instruments because he is a musician.

I wish I bought him that toy accordion in Mexico City in 2003. It was green and white and was made of paper and plastic. The sound that came from it was terrible. Heeeeeeeeeee. Haaaaaaaaaaaw. But it made me laugh and then think of my friend the musician. It made me think of a flashcard of a horse. And then a donkey. The accordion was expensive and the vendor wouldn’t budge. The market was teeming. The things we wish we had bought are memorable to us. As for the seller, she has forgotten me. If I had added the phrase “I hope”, it would change the story completely. I hope she has forgotten me would change the story completely. And if I added the detail about the egg and how it spoke to me under the blue tarpaulin, you would be lost. Yoke dribbling from your lips, like in a dream.

inspired by reading: AASE BERG