k guys.
im performing at ryerson on thursday night. and they want me to do like 10minutes of material. but, i havent written any new poetry in a while. and i like doing new & relevant stuff...
sooo i was thinking.
are there any blog posts you like that i could read as prosetry? bloggetry? ah?
ideally, since its an event called 'cripruption', it would have something to do with disability.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
you're not coming home tonight
i'm working on getting back into the poetry headspace so that i have nice bundle of new stuff to perform next week at cripruption- a disability event at ryerson i've been asked to perform at.
who was it that said
if we succeed in the day
the night will take care
of itself
was it friedman or
mcclung
or de beauvoir
or whatshername
as much as i like solid
arity
i don't know how true
a thing this is
for me
it has been my experience that the night doesn't take care of itself. and all this fighting for a cause makes for days tricking nights into knees weak from tripping.
i was supposed to love and trust the feminist women like i was supposed to love and trust the christians like i was supposed to love and trust the doctors because we're all human right?
but its the night that is more honest than the day. the nights like last, which found me in a sunroom smoking unnecessary cigarettes and sipping whiskey til the sky caved and begged for some.
you soft spoken indie hipster boy with beautiful round sides. and you called me kiddo, curled, face to face with boy to boy underwear. i leaned in to kiss you, not to fight morning but to find the extra whiskey and cigarettes. stubble and sweet i lay there and can think of the friends of mine swearing they'll never sleep beside men.
and i get it. but also, it reminds me of church. and her.
it is often the powerlessness in them hers that can sabotage the strength in me.
who was it that said
if we succeed in the day
the night will take care
of itself
was it friedman or
mcclung
or de beauvoir
or whatshername
as much as i like solid
arity
i don't know how true
a thing this is
for me
it has been my experience that the night doesn't take care of itself. and all this fighting for a cause makes for days tricking nights into knees weak from tripping.
i was supposed to love and trust the feminist women like i was supposed to love and trust the christians like i was supposed to love and trust the doctors because we're all human right?
but its the night that is more honest than the day. the nights like last, which found me in a sunroom smoking unnecessary cigarettes and sipping whiskey til the sky caved and begged for some.
you soft spoken indie hipster boy with beautiful round sides. and you called me kiddo, curled, face to face with boy to boy underwear. i leaned in to kiss you, not to fight morning but to find the extra whiskey and cigarettes. stubble and sweet i lay there and can think of the friends of mine swearing they'll never sleep beside men.
and i get it. but also, it reminds me of church. and her.
it is often the powerlessness in them hers that can sabotage the strength in me.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
back pieces
so...
all this tattoo talk and internet surfing and i've found another idea.
i've often though about the idea of getting a backpiece but my back has been my canvas in so many ways, so i've shied away from the daunting idea of 'coming up with' some sort of art to be worn there.
until now, that is.
amanda wachob is a tattoo artist based out of nyc. i found her stuff randomly on an image search, but browsing her portfolio, i stumbled across the idea of 'abstract' tattoo art.
can you imagine? strokes and pauses with a brush made all over my back. where scars are nestled. lines chosen, lines imposed, lines of stretched skin, lines of aged skin, and lines of bones beneath flesh.
i doubt i could make it to nyc before the fall... maybe end of summer... but i'd love to let this artist 'play' on my back.
all this tattoo talk and internet surfing and i've found another idea.
i've often though about the idea of getting a backpiece but my back has been my canvas in so many ways, so i've shied away from the daunting idea of 'coming up with' some sort of art to be worn there.
until now, that is.
amanda wachob is a tattoo artist based out of nyc. i found her stuff randomly on an image search, but browsing her portfolio, i stumbled across the idea of 'abstract' tattoo art.
can you imagine? strokes and pauses with a brush made all over my back. where scars are nestled. lines chosen, lines imposed, lines of stretched skin, lines of aged skin, and lines of bones beneath flesh.
i doubt i could make it to nyc before the fall... maybe end of summer... but i'd love to let this artist 'play' on my back.
"hopped a train and brother did we fly" - a postcard (and a misquoted townes van zandt)
ruby asked me if i get lonely.
it was midnight and i was still in my office, for some reason. instead of writing a paper for stephen's take home exam, i wrote a play. and that day, that day was the mandolin's last day in peterborough before the yukon. and it was that day that his postcard arrived.
i tried to explain to ruby the difference in one day, of knowing i would miss someone, and actually experiencing that absence. we played an acoustic gig that evening and it wasn't there...the magical second row. and it stung... like a million tiny stings. the transition from something you loved without abandon, into something signifying loss.
yet. another. thing.
but loss isn't lonely.
lonely is different. last night, the palpable loneliness was incredible. i picked a fight with ruby (or partially...mostly in my mind) for leaving carelessly for toronto and the pride festivities. in made me nervous. about our grand plans for the following fall - pick a queer-friendly US city and start fresh. do graduate work.
i suddenly felt ...less secure. ruby is a variable all her own. she, like everyone else, is outside of me. in fact, according to lacan, i am outside of me, in part.
when one of my favourite couple friends decided to stay in, and with ruby away, meaghan travelling, c falling in love with i and ever so far away emotionally, d literally so far away- even though i've 'gotten over it'... i just... sobbed.
maybe because my life is quite contented right now. i have multiple jobs (two and a half?), ambitions, school (and praises), and am no less social and flirty like i've always been.
but i guess i've always been the kind of guy that doesn't cut their world right open, hoping for a partner to complete the unit. i wish i was sometimes. not to say, having a partner is always better than not. but, i'm not convinced i know how to want that. and it seems to be such a priority in many... all?... my friends lives. and its terrifying. at least with d around, i was able to live for years inside an unrequited, unhealthy, dramatic friendship that was ever-present in my life. strange thing to say? well...i mean, it kept me occupied.
last night was indeed loneliness. and age.
i'm 25. i think i was half disheartened that i wasn't wooed like ruby by a scene and a dancefloor that has won me over so many nights before. it felt like i had not only gotten over emotional love canyons like d, but also, and perhaps more, a younger self. or, an expired self.
the horror. the horror.
every summer...for the past 4 summers, i've talked about my dream of going sky diving. i fear large bodies of water, and air-rated lawns (don't ask). but the sky...falling... i love falling. my memories of hang gliding in peru still exhilerate me.
and as i was watching 'last holiday' (terrible movie) and trying to cheer myself up, i thought 'hell. i have the money now. this year, this year i should do it'.
and actually, i think its a poignant time. i've been wanting to do it for the thrill. the feeling. and okay, maybe the metaphor. but now, i'm starting to think i need to do it for the fear.
amelia. queen of the skies. i'm going to get an amelia bust tattooed on my right deltoid. i've been saving that real estate for something important and i think this all ties in quite nicely. i think that's the sort of person i am. my fear is most definitely in the little things. its the exhileration of the things so much bigger than me that fuel my journey.
perhaps i would do well to reflect on some of her words more often. in reality, these sorts of personal adventures are never wasted. nor do they claim me as separate from companionship. they just... make me poly lovers with the sky. and that is not something to underrate.
it was midnight and i was still in my office, for some reason. instead of writing a paper for stephen's take home exam, i wrote a play. and that day, that day was the mandolin's last day in peterborough before the yukon. and it was that day that his postcard arrived.
i tried to explain to ruby the difference in one day, of knowing i would miss someone, and actually experiencing that absence. we played an acoustic gig that evening and it wasn't there...the magical second row. and it stung... like a million tiny stings. the transition from something you loved without abandon, into something signifying loss.
yet. another. thing.
but loss isn't lonely.
lonely is different. last night, the palpable loneliness was incredible. i picked a fight with ruby (or partially...mostly in my mind) for leaving carelessly for toronto and the pride festivities. in made me nervous. about our grand plans for the following fall - pick a queer-friendly US city and start fresh. do graduate work.
i suddenly felt ...less secure. ruby is a variable all her own. she, like everyone else, is outside of me. in fact, according to lacan, i am outside of me, in part.
when one of my favourite couple friends decided to stay in, and with ruby away, meaghan travelling, c falling in love with i and ever so far away emotionally, d literally so far away- even though i've 'gotten over it'... i just... sobbed.
maybe because my life is quite contented right now. i have multiple jobs (two and a half?), ambitions, school (and praises), and am no less social and flirty like i've always been.
but i guess i've always been the kind of guy that doesn't cut their world right open, hoping for a partner to complete the unit. i wish i was sometimes. not to say, having a partner is always better than not. but, i'm not convinced i know how to want that. and it seems to be such a priority in many... all?... my friends lives. and its terrifying. at least with d around, i was able to live for years inside an unrequited, unhealthy, dramatic friendship that was ever-present in my life. strange thing to say? well...i mean, it kept me occupied.
last night was indeed loneliness. and age.
i'm 25. i think i was half disheartened that i wasn't wooed like ruby by a scene and a dancefloor that has won me over so many nights before. it felt like i had not only gotten over emotional love canyons like d, but also, and perhaps more, a younger self. or, an expired self.
the horror. the horror.
every summer...for the past 4 summers, i've talked about my dream of going sky diving. i fear large bodies of water, and air-rated lawns (don't ask). but the sky...falling... i love falling. my memories of hang gliding in peru still exhilerate me.
and as i was watching 'last holiday' (terrible movie) and trying to cheer myself up, i thought 'hell. i have the money now. this year, this year i should do it'.
and actually, i think its a poignant time. i've been wanting to do it for the thrill. the feeling. and okay, maybe the metaphor. but now, i'm starting to think i need to do it for the fear.
"Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things." -AE
amelia. queen of the skies. i'm going to get an amelia bust tattooed on my right deltoid. i've been saving that real estate for something important and i think this all ties in quite nicely. i think that's the sort of person i am. my fear is most definitely in the little things. its the exhileration of the things so much bigger than me that fuel my journey.
perhaps i would do well to reflect on some of her words more often. in reality, these sorts of personal adventures are never wasted. nor do they claim me as separate from companionship. they just... make me poly lovers with the sky. and that is not something to underrate.
"The more one does and sees and feels, the more one is able to do, and the more genuine may be one's appreciation of fundamental things like home, and love, and understanding companionship." -AE
Monday, June 28, 2010
"the truth, george. always tell the truth. its the easiest thing to remember."
drama drama drama.
so, i woke up sunday wearing a hangover, accomplishment, and hives.
in no particular order... hangover. why can't red wine and a flask of whiskey work for once without making me sleepy and pruning my brainbuds? whatever. the music was yummy and the crowd not-so-young and not-so-crowded.
edith happened to be there and asked me what i was up to this weekend... or perhaps if i was done school? to either question i replied that i still had work to submit to her dad. ha. never said that at a party before.
accomplishment? even if the response you get is 'i thought you were a lesbian', telling someone you have a crush on them is rewarding and laudable.
hives. all over my body. itchy and painful. ruby suggested rust paint as the culprit. which could be likely... had i been around any recently. so far, no sleep times 2.
my brain is trying to sort out what i need to say for stephen's assignments. his classes always leave me with so many welcome and unwelcome questions. and observations. none of which are ever simple. or direct.
story telling. salesmen. masculinity. american drama. the family. redemption. death. naivity. money. impotency. baronness. pipedream. cadiallac. shame. silence. public. private. pleasant.
the way we acknowledge and don't acknowledge harvey, gabriel, simon.
is the story authentic?
one day after class stephen went on about lyric poetry and plays- how, as reader or audience, it doesn't matter if the story is true, it's how it affects us. if the feeling it elicits is authentic, we take it home with us.
if it moves you, you're stuck.
like a sermon. like a sales pitch.
like the self-sustaining story, 'the family' is not designed to reveal truth but keep it concealed - it would shatter otherwise.
the stories in this class are representations of families. or vice versa. the families in these plays are stories. will the story destroy itself by the end? with truth? or will it sustain/reinvent, because we don't want it to not be there?
the american hero. dignity, and salesmanship. dignity and salesmanship?
how far do you have to move life to transform it into theatre?
so, i woke up sunday wearing a hangover, accomplishment, and hives.
in no particular order... hangover. why can't red wine and a flask of whiskey work for once without making me sleepy and pruning my brainbuds? whatever. the music was yummy and the crowd not-so-young and not-so-crowded.
edith happened to be there and asked me what i was up to this weekend... or perhaps if i was done school? to either question i replied that i still had work to submit to her dad. ha. never said that at a party before.
accomplishment? even if the response you get is 'i thought you were a lesbian', telling someone you have a crush on them is rewarding and laudable.
hives. all over my body. itchy and painful. ruby suggested rust paint as the culprit. which could be likely... had i been around any recently. so far, no sleep times 2.
my brain is trying to sort out what i need to say for stephen's assignments. his classes always leave me with so many welcome and unwelcome questions. and observations. none of which are ever simple. or direct.
story telling. salesmen. masculinity. american drama. the family. redemption. death. naivity. money. impotency. baronness. pipedream. cadiallac. shame. silence. public. private. pleasant.
the way we acknowledge and don't acknowledge harvey, gabriel, simon.
is the story authentic?
one day after class stephen went on about lyric poetry and plays- how, as reader or audience, it doesn't matter if the story is true, it's how it affects us. if the feeling it elicits is authentic, we take it home with us.
if it moves you, you're stuck.
like a sermon. like a sales pitch.
this snippet from act 1, scene 2 of glengarry glen ross (mamet) puts dialogue to stephen's sentiment.
Moss: I lied. Alright? My end is my business. Your end's twenty-five. In or out. You tell me, you're out you take the consequences.
Aaronrow: And why is that?
Moss: Because you listened.
like the self-sustaining story, 'the family' is not designed to reveal truth but keep it concealed - it would shatter otherwise.
the stories in this class are representations of families. or vice versa. the families in these plays are stories. will the story destroy itself by the end? with truth? or will it sustain/reinvent, because we don't want it to not be there?
the american hero. dignity, and salesmanship. dignity and salesmanship?
how far do you have to move life to transform it into theatre?
Saturday, June 19, 2010
why you look so sad?
playing cowbell in a 8 person band is less of a novelty than it may seem.
i stretch it too far, i think. i make 1 & 3 or 2 & 4 feel like rest after paradiddles with one stick and one hollow chunk of metal. it feels like tap dancing. but my favourite part of those lights and this band and that stage is standing beside you.
curled over your mandolin with fingers and fretless fortune, my percussive metal clang cutting through the guitar riffs with a metronomic whisk and stir, we laugh a lot because the frontman and his fiddler keep the magic of our you and me row concealed enough to feel like backstage.
i pretend to duel your underrated string stroking with jovial tambourine-to-foot action, but the laughing between us keeps me farther from the pull of the twelve bars that we'll both go home to.
slap stick percussion is the kind of pun i save for you, with eyes and earnest grin that begs your study. i don't know if last night was the last show, because you're leaving on canada day. but you gave me a lozenge like a parting gift. i shouldn't have had that beer because my throat was already swollen.
i guess i'm afraid of mornings like today, cooing at monarchs over breakfast with you. because once you say it, it can fly away. and i won't get to write the magic anymore. and i miss the magic when it flies away.
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