All the good blogs were taken

I Like Commas. (Moving pictures edition.)

2011-05-05T11:42:00.000-07:00

My goodness, sigur rós makes beautiful music.

These are taken from their documentary, Heima. It's gorgeous, check it out.

I Like Commas.

2011-04-24T09:11:00.001-07:00

I (heart) my Métis heritage.

2011-04-21T06:43:00.000-07:00

This is more flash fiction than poem. Enjoy!

Communal.

It’s sunny. First sun in months. Gitz joins us at a table outside the college; he’s carrying a guitar case. Laura and I are using an industrial strength stapler that she’s nicked from the print shop to assemble our poetry books.

“You’d be amazed what they hand over to me when I tell them I work at the aboriginal office,” she says. She’s half Haida. Says they’re one of the more eccentric tribes. When she tells me this, I realize that I’ve never thought of the First Nations as anything other than Noble and Proud and Dignified. On horseback. Fishing. A delicate kind of racism.

“Are you going to give it back?” I ask, pointing to the stapler. “It’s pretty sweet.”

“You could tell them you lost it at a Pow Wow,” Gitz says. “Or gave it away at a potlatch.”

We share a grin. He’s wearing black, and a shirt with a rainbow on the front. Asks if he can try on Laura’s Ray Ban’s to complete the look.

“I never buy expensive sunglasses,” I say. “I just lose them.”

“Nothing I’m wearing costs over twenty dollars,” Gitz says. “Everything in my family is communal; someone will just borrow my shirt and wreck it in a fight.”

“Tell me about it,” Laura says. “When I go home to Haida Gwaii, my family asks me to buy them stuff, but no one ever pays me back.” She laughs. “Family.”

“What’s your background?” Gitz asks me.

“Cree,” I say. “I’m applying for my Métis status, but to be honest I don’t know much about my roots.”

“Too bad.” Gitz back straightens a little. “Good people.” For the first time I can remember, he makes eye contact with me. A flash of recognition.

After he leaves with his guitar case and Laura’s Ray Bans, I ask her about Gitz’s reaction.

“Oh, his background is Mohawk,” she says, squinting into the sun. “They share a lot of history with the Cree. You two are practically family.”

Slam poem.

2011-02-22T13:49:00.000-08:00

After nearly a year of listening, I'm ready to speak up.

Science Fiction Writers.

Cataclysm.

A thought upheaval, a shift.

Let’s not use the word paradigm, it’s pretentious.

The big reveal

brought on by electrons

in another dimension!

Ground control

We have confirmed the moon is not there

when nobody's looking.

Anthropomorphism.

The city of Monza, Italy

bars pet owners from keeping

goldfish in a bowl

with curves.

This law is meant to protect the poor fish

from a distorted view,

since bent light might not afford them a true

portrayal of their surroundings.

Catechism.

Hawking reveals that the universe

created itself.

Flaunts his big brain before the faithful,

who politely remind him

that faith

doesn’t work that way.

Fanaticism.

String theory and Jesus

in an all out

balls out

no holds barred cage match at Hadron Coliseum.

Get your tickets to the end of the world,

and see the particle

that started it all.

And I’m looking for enlightenment

from science fiction writers, get busy!

It’s not what were going to own,

what were going to wear,

how we’ll cheat death in the future

that excites me,

but how we’re going to see.

And I want to know,

how does life look from your goldfish bowl?

Jana put me in her blog!

2010-11-26T09:00:00.000-08:00

I wrote the story, she did the artwork.

Poetry Thursday.

2010-10-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

I wrote this while I should have been doing a million other things.

Exorcism at the guest house.

There’s an old fish plant

on the harbour in downtown Ukee.

Your parents ran the place,

but it’s been gutted for years now

renovated by a couple from the city

who loved the ambiance, but hated the weather

They left, but six hundred seagulls remain, circling

Salmon Springs guest house.

When we arrive at Salmon Springs

you tell me about a man in Suzhou

ties fishing line around the throats of captive cormorants

then steals the quarry

right from their mouths.

You say the places you’ve been are either

the beautiful future

or the end of time.

Cashier at the co-op blows the bangs out of her eyes

asks us where were from.

She quotes the radio, says bad weather is coming.

You tell her you went to high school together,

that you could smell the storm an hour ago.

On the walk home, wind blows the rain sideways,

you tell me small talk is rare

in Taipei.

Your stepmom tells us

your dad is happy to see you

as he embraces you stiffly.

A waitress gives you the cold shoulder at the Eagle’s Nest

Another shows you pictures of her kids

And asks when you’re coming home for good.

That night, at the guest house, we watch

the ghosts of fifty million salmon

weave through the room

flicker the lights as they pass through the fuse box

shiver past a pedestrian Ansell Adams print

then move upstream one last time.

Why choose tonight for a posthumous migration, I wonder.

You say there’s always an exorcism in homecoming.

The next morning

the seagulls are gone.

Stranger than...

2010-09-24T16:59:00.000-07:00

I wrote this scene for class. Can't stop writing about the bees lately. Anyhow, enjoy!

Tough Girl

“Ya know, I’m not just some guy.”

“Of course not.” I checked my reflection in the giant stainless steel honey tank in front of me. The curve of the tank made my eyes look really far apart and my face look bloated. I sucked in my cheeks and pulled the lever on the tank. Warm, amber-coloured honey poured out the spigot into a two litre plastic bucket.

“I guess you could say I’m in a bit of a low, but I used to be big time.” Joe set down a stack of hive supers with a thud, and cracked his knuckles.

“Oh really?”

Joe was not my usual type, not at all. He had a crooked smile and just-got-laid hair, and walked with an exaggerated swagger. He claimed the swagger was due to a bad knee. Motocross accident.

On his first day, Joe had purposely walked around the honey house shirtless until Meg told him to put some clothes on. His abs were marvelous as long as he was standing upright. I looked away whenever he bent down, and they cascaded over his chrome Hell on Wheels belt buckle, and settled on his Levis. Since Meg was out in the fields with Al for the day, Joe’s shirt was on the floor again.

“Yeah. I started off selling weed for my dad, he grows for the Angels,” he said, with obvious pride.

“The Angels?” I wondered what kind of marijuana growing outfit would call themselves The Angels? Maybe for medicinal purposes? For people with MS?

Joe snorted. “Yeah, ya know, Harleys? Leather jackets?” He lifted a frame out of the top hive super. The frames were only about two feet long, and half as wide, but they were laden with honey encased in tiny beeswax cells.

“Oh,” I said, “The Hells Angels.”

“Bingo!” Joe said. He placed the frame on the de-capper. It was a ghastly device, something out of a bee horror film. Hundreds of little chains ground against the cells, de-capping them, then tiny razor sharp blades removed the excess wax. A pile of carcasses, wayward bees who refused to leave their stash even in the face of imminent death, was steadily growing under the machine.

Joe turned to face me and lit a cigarette. “In a couple of months I was their top dealer, so they moved me up the ladder.”

“Oh really?” I wondered if Meg would be able to tell he’d been smoking inside, but decided to keep quiet. “To what?”

“Lingerie,” he smiled broadly, “I sold Lingerie, to strippers mostly. Was damn good at it too. What are ya, a size seven? Eight?”

Oh my. “I guess that’s a pretty fertile market,” I choked out.

“Sure is,” he said, “They gotta have something nice to take off.”

He took a long drag and seemed lost in thought for a moment. I put another bucket under the spigot. One down, 199 to go.

Joe’s eyes re-focused. “I was living large, travelling around Vegas, drinking champagne and talkin’ about g-strings with some of the hottest ladies I’ve ever seen.” His brow furrowed. “But then the internets took over and the girls started ordering stuff from China for half the price.”

“That must have been hard to compete with.”

“There’s no competing with the Chinese.” Joe ground out his cigarette emphatically. “They’re takin’ over the world. Your kids’ll be speakin’ Chinese. You got any kids?”

“No!” I laughed.

“Married?”

“I’m only 22!”

“Huh.” He looked me over with an appraising eye. “Well anyways, I was losin’ money, and I wanted out.”

“So what happened?”

“Only two ways out of the Angels,” he said. “Death, or five the hard way.”

“Jail?”

“Damn Federales got me in Tijuana.”

“What were you doing in Mexico?”

“Nothin’ really, just picking up a prescription,” he said. “Lemme’ tell you though, Mexican prisons are every bit as bad as they say. I figured I was done for.”

“Oh my.”

“Yeah, but here I am, and in two years I’ll be back on top again, just you wait. Some guy I met on the inside is gonna’ set me up and I’ll be golden.”

“But what about the Internet?” I said.

Joe looked confused. “Not lingerie,” he said, pointing to his nose. “Grade A stuff, straight from Venezuela. Far as I know, you can’t order that on the internet yet.”

He started to laugh, and I tried to laugh along like I knew what he was taking about, but he shook his head and pointed at something next to me. I looked down and realized my bucket had long since reached its capacity. Honey was running off the bench and collecting in a gooey mass on the floor.

“Crap!” I said. “Oh frack a duck, that’s going to be hell to clean up.”

“Woah, Kiki,” Joe said, with false solemnity. “I didn’t figure you were the type to use harsh language.”

Bacon Links

2010-09-01T17:10:00.000-07:00

Move over Bacon!

Bacon or Beer Can

I Like Commas (Mission to Mission edition)

2010-08-09T16:38:00.000-07:00

Jim and I went to Mission on Sunday. Mission is my hometown, I lived there until I was 13. It's a quiet, beaten up old town, where the locals look genuinely confused when they see you taking pictures.

I Like Commas. Art Deco Motorcycle Edition.

2010-07-20T17:31:00.000-07:00

I like motorcycles, though I'll probably never feel the need to own one. I just really like how they look. Also, I like ArtDeco design. So...

Photos from Knucklebuster.

Bacon Links

2010-07-16T13:36:00.001-07:00

Ok, a LITTLE bit of extolling the virtues of Bacon...

I need a blog entry.

2010-07-16T12:21:00.000-07:00

Not because I have to, or because I should, but because I want to have a blog entry. A good ‘ol fashioned entry, where I don’t try and impress you with my writing chops or lecture you about how good meditation is for you, or extol the virtues of Bacon. (Though it is truly virtuous) I just want to talk about me. And that’s what a Blog is for really. I’d like to write something that doesn’t require proofreading.

I’m going to be 33 on Sunday. A fairly unremarkable number. I don’t really get depressed about getting older, but I’ve noticed in the last few years that I do get really introspective around birthdays. Where I am, how far I’ve come, all of that. So maybe I’ll write a little about the last few birthdays I’ve had, what I can remember at least!

Last year at this time, I was in one of the most beautiful places I know, San Josef Bay in Cape Scott Provincial Park. And I was miserable. I even blogged about it when we got back. We were there with some wonderful friends, Sean and Steff and their kids, and Jay and his son. Ryan and Christy were there for a night too. On our way in we were warned to watch the kids carefully due to a scraggly, skinny cougar nearby, and that kind of set the tone. Yes, there are always cougars nearby when you’re at Cape Scott, it’s in the middle of nowhere, but it made a few of us uneasy.

I can only blame a little of my stress on the wildlife though, I just couldn’t relax. The whole weekend. I blamed it on everything around me, the weather, my campmates, their kids (I KNOW! Blame the children! What an asshole!) Jim, the air mattress, outhouse, etc… On the actual day of my birthday, I woke up and just started to cry.

I’m not telling you this for sympathy. There’s nothing to sympathize with, nobody wronged me, the kids were just being kids, and being upset at having to take a shit outside when you are CAMPING is ludicrous! I guess I’m just saying that I really lost perspective that weekend. I really didn’t work to make myself happy; I just expected happiness to come to me. Mistake. Oh well, live and learn. We did have some spectacular fish and chips at the Ibis on the way out of Holberg though. MmmMmmm. And the McCain deep and delicious hydrogenated cake helped. Food to the rescue!

The year before that, we had a party at our place in our lovely but kind of small gazebo. I’m always amazed and deeply gratified when people show up to my parties, because I never go to anyone’s parties. Most people have figured out it’s not a personal affront, It’s just a bit of a personality glitch I have, like some people that wash their hands 100 times a day, and there’s only so many personality glitches I can work on changing at a time. Also, as I get older, I’m just starting to accept some of my weirdness, and anti-social behavior. Remember Relic, from the beachcombers? Yeah, that’ll be me in a few years. And that’ll be ok.

We were going to try and find a lake to go for a midnight paddle, but the reality of urban life caught up to us quickly. Every local park is locked up at 9 pm, and fires on the beach are a distant memory. So we just hung out at the house and had a great time. I really love and appreciate our friends, though I’m a little awkward about showing it.

The year before that, my 31^st birthday, Jim and I took the Kayaks and paddled from Gibsons to Plumper cove on Keats Island. It seems Carleigh’s birthdays and camping don’t mix. The weather was, um, brutal. It kept the place empty though! The ranger didn’t even charge us, it was so ugly. Eventually the sun did come out, much to our relief. Then my stomach began to ache, and well, my “celebration of femininity” came a little early. I get horrible cramps, and there was nary an Advil to be had, not to mention “products”. We weren’t familiar with the island at all, for all we knew, there could be a mini mall 2 km away, or we could be in the middle of nowhere. Jim had to walk around randomly until he found, glory be praised, a Girl Scout summer camp. And they were prepared! I even got painkillers, enough so we could paddle home anyway. I do remember finishing off the trip with some absolutely unbelievable fish and chips though. Mmmmm deep fried food, the silver lining once again!

I’m not sure what this year will bring yet, but I’ll tell you this, it’s kicking off right now with beer drinking, The Pixies, suntanning, and overall princessy behavior, because that’s what I want, and I’m in charge of my own happiness. Even on my birthday. ESPECIALLY on my birthday.

Are you guys high?

2010-06-09T15:08:00.000-07:00

No, but we IM like it. Heinous spelling included for your viewing pleasure/pain.

DrChaos says:
OMG.. the link you posted
SO frik'n coool... will read more on this sucker

Carleigh says:
haha, thought you'd like it
you and i need to move to Japan

DrChaos says:
I should start practicing my karatE!

Carleigh says:
I dont think you need Karate to move to Japan
they will let you in
without a Marshal art

DrChaos says:
you mean i might need a usable language instead?

Carleigh says:
perhaps...

DrChaos says:
i thought.. "i know Karete!" might be enough to be accepted.

Carleigh says:
Hmmmm. likely not

DrChaos says:
sigh...

Carleigh says:
As a matter of fact
it might be the kiss of death right there

DrChaos says:
lol

Carleigh says:
like an American job applicant telling you "And my dog sleddin' skillz are BADASS!"

DrChaos says:
he he he, totally

Carleigh says:
Also, I'm pretty sure Steele's computer is trying to take my toe

DrChaos says:
It aalready took my confidence
its a bad seed that one
we might have to sic Oolong on it

Carleigh says:
Hmmmm, might be hard on her teeth, shall I give it "the salt water treatment?"
I don't like the way it's looking at my toe...

DrChaos says:
I hear you.. you can... perswade it to move the fuck out.. it shoudl not be connected to anything atm.

Carleigh says:
I may hafe to use a bat to preform this persuasion...

DrChaos says:
use a wooden one so it does not resonate your wrist.
been there with metal bats.. bad move

Carleigh says:
ok thanks I've got a few downstairs, they shouldn't all have blood on them.

DrChaos says:
<3

DrChaos says:
he he he totally what i thought after i typed it

Ahem...

2010-06-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

This one's a little racy, at least for me, cause I'm such a goddamn prude. But seriously, I feel the need to tell you that this poem is not entirely autobiographical. Sheesh!

Young Love

Out back in the

old tree fort,

trying to steal Mark away

from that bitch, Stephanie.

I like his proud strut,

his ass in tight

Stonewashed 501 button fly

jeans. I want to mess up his

side parted hair

with my fingers,

and feel my body

against his.

I wrote him these things

in pink pen on loose leaf

drew hearts on it,

folded the note

five hundred times, delivered it

to his back pocket.

He grinned

and strutted off like he didn’t

give a damn.

And I wanted him even more.

An hour later, in math class

he whispered:

“four o’clock”.

Didn’t have to say where.

But now that I’m here,

with him,

his shirt on the floor

the clasp on my pretty pink bra

undone

I don’t know where

to start.

He does.

He’s done this before,

with that bitch, Stephanie.

I Like Commas. "Borrowed" from Facebook edition.

2010-06-09T14:39:00.000-07:00

Poetry Wednesday.

2010-05-12T14:57:00.000-07:00

Here's one I'm pretty proud of:

Sailor Jerry.

Sailor Jerry is a good rum for the price

and this guy on the bottle sure looks like my grandpa.

Broad square forehead, tight grey brillo curls, cut short.

A sharp Scandinavian jaw clenching a polished wood pipe

between yellowed teeth. The mustache is a little wispy,

but still distinguished.

I’ll have another round, toast Grandpa

and Sailor Jerry, may they both rest in peace.

When I was little, Grandpa told me the sailor

in the painting on the living room wall was him.

The sailor watched over Grandpa’s Hammond C3 organ,

a proud relic Nana’s reluctant hand kept gleaming.

She always cleaned house when he played,

vacuumed fiercely around his feet

while he bobbed his head in time to the music:

Danny Boy, and Greensleeves and Yesterday by The Beatles.

When the C3 was banished to the basement

to make room for Nana’s new loveseat,

Grandpa went with it, performed for preserved peaches

and harmonized with the hum of the deep freeze.

The sailor stayed where he was on the living room wall.

He looked good over the loveseat,

the blue of his Sou’wester matched the flecks in the fabric.

Grandpa’s love of rum corroded his liver,

but he didn’t stop playing long enough to tell anyone.

At his wake, we ate the preserved peaches

and reheated sausage rolls from the deep freeze.

The Hammond was back upstairs, and someone else played

Danny Boy, and Greensleeves and Yesterday by the Beatles.

Nana cried and said she didn’t know what she’d do

without Grandpa’s music to fill the house.

I Like Commas.

2010-05-12T12:16:00.000-07:00

I Like Commas.

2010-04-23T09:52:00.000-07:00

Bee poems.

2010-04-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

I have an idea for a collection of poems, all about my summer working as a beekeeper's helper. That's obviously what Tough Girl is about. Turns out the bees were the least of my problems.
Here's a few I wrote yesterday, very fresh!
These are the two guys I worked with, Doug and Joe. Names changed to protect the innocent.

Jug.

Jug had an innate ability for casing the joint.
We worked alone together in the honey house
I bottled honey, and he worked a machine called the DECAPPER.
The DECAPPER gig involved a lot of breaks, so Jug
had a lot of time to look over the beekeeper’s John
Deere ride-a-mower, his Craftsman tools,
even the DECAPPER itself.

How much ya think I could get fer this?
He’d ask me; his seventeen year old eyes
wide with possibility.
I told him if he fenced the goddamn ride-a-mower
before the end of the summer,
he could mow the 14 acre lawn with
the goddamn push mower.

A true entrepreneur, Jug had a home based business.
Ran a little pharmacy from his room
at the Double D motel; told me he could get me anything I wanted.
He said he moved to the interior from Surrey
to get away from the crime, but apparently,
the crime followed.

D’oh

D’oh was hot, I won’t lie. He had a crooked
smile and just-got-laid hair, and abs that looked great
as long as he was standing upright. I looked the other way
whenever be bent down, and they cascaded over
his chrome “Hell on Wheels” belt buckle, and settled on his Levis.
He purposely walked around the honey house shirtless
until Meg told him to put some clothes on.
I considered flirting with him, I know how hot a girl on a forklift is.
Fortunately he told me how had made
and lost his fortune selling lingerie to strippers for the Hell’s Angels first.
He spent most of his first day regaling me with tales of
Mexican prisons and hookers with a heart of gold…
I guess he thought this kind of banter really impresses the chicks, you know?

Poetry Wednesday.

2010-04-21T09:41:00.001-07:00

I'm being lazy and posting old stuff rather than write anything new, but hey, the term just ended and I'm back in the creative loading phase, which is all about reading, walks, and baths. You gotta fill the well sometimes. So here's a poem I wrote right at the end of the term, it didn't get as much time to age as some of my earlier poems did, because I ran out of time to tweak it, but I kinda like the raw quality of it. This poem is 100% true, no need to fictionalize that crazy summer...

Tough Girl.

The bees are humming like a substation
when Al and I get out of the pickup.
Five stacks of blue and yellow hive boxes
are home to a colony of fifty thousand.

It’s nearly 40 degrees, but I gladly put on the beekeeper suit Al gives me,
taking care to tie everything properly,
because I’ve seen the angry welts on the faces and hands
and inside the mouths
of the workers who didn’t.

My job is to pound rebar into the ground
with a hammer that is bigger then my forearm
and then string electric fence wire around the rebar
using half hitch knots like Al taught me:
over, over, under, through
over, over, under, through
I repeat this crazed mantra over and over,
under and through
try to ignore the growing swarm
angry bees dive bombing my bonnet.
This fence will protect their precious cache from bears,
but they don’t know that.
Imagine someone operating a pile driver outside your window
at eight in the morning.
You'd be mad as hell too.

Al isn’t wearing a bonnet,
he’s a tough guy, says he doesn’t feel the stings any more.
I think he wants to see me break, so I don’t.
Even when a bee gets inside my suit
and I can feel it panicking against may chest
I clench my jaw
brace my legs
and mash the bee against my skin
feel the adrenaline rush as venom pumps into my blood stream.

“You ok?” Al asks with a smirk.
“Yeah” I answer, and grab another piece of rebar.

Poetry Wednesday.

2010-04-14T13:07:00.000-07:00

This one didn't go over so well in class, partly because my fellow students didn't know what a half-breed was, had never heard the term "rez" and didn't know what a residential school was. Yikes.

Parts of this poem are fictional, and this is the re-written, spell-it-the-fuck-out version, which I actually do like better in some ways.

Saint Mary

That night I slept over at Selina’s, on the rez.
I had never seen a house without a fence around it,
me, a half-breed from the suburbs.
She showed me how to make a fringed shawl for our Barbie dolls,
like the dancers wear at the Pow Wows
held on the grounds at St. Mary’s Mission school on the hill.

In the evening Selina and I walked by the river;
she threw a ball for her dog, Sanka.
I asked if his name was a Sto:lo word, and she laughed.
The next morning I noticed Sanka was the brand of
instant coffee her mother Mary drank.
Mary isn’t a Sto:lo word either.
She added cream until the coffee was a pale version of itself,
and let me have a sip.

Before she took me home, Mary bought Selina and me
a bag of doublestuff Oreos; they were my favorite.
We drove up the hill to St. Mary’s Mission school
to enjoy our treat, and watched the rain settle in to the valley.
Mary asked me if I knew what a residential school was, but I didn’t.
I asked her if St. Mary’s had been a Sto:lo school,
and she laughed.

CRWR 1101 or: how I learned to stop worrying and love the poem.

2010-04-13T16:41:00.000-07:00

This is a short essay I had to write for poetry; mostly I just posted it because the title is so freaking awesome.

When I began CRWR 1101, I thought poetry was pretty much either stuffy, archaic Shakespearean sonnets, or snooty, vague extended metaphors in which Margaret Atwood likens herself to a deer carcass. I wasn’t sure which end of the spectrum we’d be modeling our poems after, and you can imagine my relief when I discovered the answer was neither. You see, it turns out there’s this thing called narrative poetry. In narrative poetry you draw from your personal experience (or sometimes create a persona) to tell a story in a clear, concise, and poignant way. Most of what I learned this term was focused on that, as well as learning how to effectively critique other people’s work.

First, I must choose my topic. One lesson that really stuck with me was to observe what is going on around me and then consider my reactions. This was a simple way to ensure that the poems I wrote were personal, regardless of the topic. Our own unique response to the world is what makes our writing interesting. Writing about a day working for the hatchery was fine, but unless I wrote about my reaction to the events of that day, the poem would lack depth and poignancy, and just be a factual retelling of events. Trying to write a poem based on some complicated concept or philosophy that sounds impressive but doesn’t really mean anything to me as a writer would have been frustrating and fruitless. I think a poet has to trust that her point of view is interesting to other people, and this class gave me the courage to believe that.

Then, I must tell my story clearly and succinctly, using the elements that make up a good poem. This involves keeping the reader in mind, making sure my narrative flows well and is easy to understand, and staying away from vague, obscure, or abstract words or concepts that will wash out my ideas. Mostly I learned to accomplish this through the use of imagery: creating clear pictures in a readers mind to tell my story. I also learned to write in a highly descriptive way without using adjectives or adverbs, which is a skill that I know has made all my writing better, not just my poetry. In poems like Order of Canada I adopted a somewhat crass persona and experimented with voice to characterize the narrator in a way that was appropriate to the story that was being told. In my Sonnet, I practiced using strict meter and rhyme. Although I was introduced to the concept of cadence, I have to admit that it is going to take me a while to really comprehend it, let alone apply it to my poetry.

Finally I must be able to take criticism and give it constructively. Learning to sort out the criticism I was given and take what was useful was challenging, and required a lot of practice. As far as giving criticism, I learned to give specific details rather than just general commentary, to point out strengths in the poem as well as perceived weaknesses and to be respectful of people’s feelings. Writing is so personal, especially poetry! As far as workshopping goes, the most valuable thing I learned in this class is that a safe environment where everyone feels secure to voice their opinions without fear of ridicule yields amazing results.

Bacon Links

2010-03-26T14:50:00.001-07:00

Bacon song

Been awhile since I've had a bacon post. This one's courtesy of Dawn, mistress of Bacon.

I Like Commas.

2010-03-24T05:33:00.001-07:00

The cigarette break analogy

2010-03-23T14:40:00.001-07:00

Today Glenda-our play writing teacher-arrived in class looking worried. We were supposed to have a guest reader, and apparently he was going to meet her ahead of time, but he hadn't shown. At about two minutes to ten, a pointy looking woman with pretentious glasses arrived at the door and summoned Glenda from the room, we could hear them speaking in hushed voices outside the door. After a few minutes Glenda re-entered the room with a short, grungy looking man, dressed all in black. He probably hadn't shaved in four or five days, and his hair was either wet or greasy enough to look that way. I was leaning towards the latter. It had once been cut in a fairly stylish shape, I could tell, but those days were long gone. His shirt was unbuttoned, and he had what looked like a stylized sacred heart tattoo in the center of his chest; I could just make it out behind a pair of dollar store aviators that hung on a thin chain around his neck. There were dark trenches below his bloodshot eyes. This was our guest reader, Joel Thomas Hynes.

This guy looked just as likely to shank a bitch as read to us from his latest award winning play. Glenda, who is not blind, was obviously moved to explain the physical state of the man whom she had made special arrangements to bring to our class:

"Everyone, we're lucky to have Mr. Hynes with us today, who has traveled allll the way from Newfoundland on a verrrrry late flight to read to us, and hasn't had his morning coffee yet... and being a morning coffee person myself, I can relate! So we've sent someone to get Mr. Hynes a coffee, and we're just going to take it easy until then, okaaay?"

Mr. Hynes looked us over grumpily. "Girls," he muttered, "You're all girls. There's no guys."
We shifted uncomfortably in our seats and hoped that this was ok. That we were girls, that is. I mean, what else could we be? There WERE guys in the class, but they were usually late, Glenda explained. No reaction from Mr. Hynes. We all silently prayed for the coffee to arrive soon.

I guess he was feeling ambitious, because our guest decided to get things rolling before his cuppa Joe: "I didn't realize this was a play writing class," he told us. "So I didn't bring my play, but I have this audio version. You can listen to it on your ipods or whatever."
I pictured us spending the class passing around an MP3 player and watching Joel Hynes drink coffee, but this was not to be. "I'll give this to the student that asks the most handsome questions," he said with a wink. I wondered what the student who asked the least attractive questions would receive. I was sure I didn't want to know.

Since he didn't actually have his play to read from, Mr. Hynes told us about it. It's called Say Nothing, Saw Wood, which kind of translates into "keep your mouth shut, and mind your own business." In 1971, in Hynes' hometown of Calvert, Newfoundland, an elderly woman was brutally murdered, and her house burned down. The boy who committed the crime was barely seventeen. Hynes told us that he had always been fascinated by the story while he was growing up, and had wondered what would have made this boy commit such a horrible crime. The play begins after the murderer has been released from prison. He is returning to his small town in an attempt to atone for his actions, only to realize that he has been basically exiled from the community.

Being a bit of a bad ass, hard drinker type (this was not a surprise to hear) Hynes had felt the sting of exile himself, and wanted to explore just what made him so different from the young man "with murder in him" as he put it. The details of how the murder was committed, which were awful, gave him his answer. I'll spare you, but Hynes said that it was at the moment that he read the corner's report that he knew he would have to maintain a safe mental distance from this troubled character to tell his story properly. What an agonizing process it must have been to find the humanity of a character who committed such a horrible act, and to tell his story.

Hynes stopped talking, and I could have sworn he was getting emotional, though his tough exterior hid it somewhat. The pointy woman with the glasses had brought his coffee at some point during his story, and his demeanor had improved considerably, but now he was intense as hell. I'm not complaining. I like intense. I also like that he kind of wore his heart on his frayed sleeve. The tattoo on his chest made a lot more sense now.

He looked at us expectantly, and we realized that it was time for questions. My hand shot up, and as he turned to me with a smile my heart fluttered a little. I knew I was expected to ask him questions about writing, whether he prefers pens to pencils... how he combats writer's block... or whatever, but I wanted to know what his hometown's reaction to the play was. He said it was received pretty well, because when you tell a story honestly and with sensitivity, as he attempted to do, people appreciate it.

Another girl had a far more "handsome" question, she told him that she had witnessed a crime when she was young, and had tried to write about it, but that she got so angry whenever she tried.
"And what do you do when you get angry?" He asked.

"Well, I stop writing," she answered.

"Exactly," he said.

And then he gave us a lesson in writing and in life.

"Sometimes, when you're writing... you get the feeling that you need to take a cigarette break... but that's me," he said, holding up his hands defensively. "I'm a smoker."

"You don't have to smoke to be a good writer, that's not what I'm sayn'. What I'm sayn' is, when you get that feeling, that you want to walk away from your writing, it's probably because there's something there that's upsetting you, something you want to walk away from, so you want to escape, and have a smoke."

"That's probably the worst time to walk away from your writing, it's the time you want to keep going, keep pushing, even if you think your writing's shit, 'cause it's gonna get better eventually, you just gotta get through that fear, that anger," he said.

"Then, you can have a smoke break."

We are more.

2010-02-15T12:11:00.000-08:00

“We Are More” by Shane Koyczan

When defining Canada
you might list some statistics
you might mention our tallest building
or biggest lake
you might shake a tree in the fall
and call a red leaf Canada
you might rattle off some celebrities
might mention Buffy Sainte-Marie
might even mention the fact that we’ve got a few
Barenaked Ladies
or that we made these crazy things
like zippers
electric cars
and washing machines
when defining Canada
it seems the world’s anthem has been
” been there done that”
and maybe that’s where we used to be at
it’s true
we’ve done and we’ve been
we’ve seen
all the great themes get swallowed up by the machine
and turned into theme parks
but when defining Canada
don’t forget to mention that we have set sparks

we are not just fishing stories
about the one that got away
we do more than sit around and say “eh?”
and yes

we are the home of the Rocket and the Great One
who inspired little number nines
and little number ninety-nines
but we’re more than just hockey and fishing lines
off of the rocky coast of the Maritimes
and some say what defines us
is something as simple as please and thank you
and as for you’re welcome
well we say that too
but we are more
than genteel or civilized
we are an idea in the process
of being realized
we are young
we are cultures strung together
then woven into a tapestry
and the design
is what makes us more
than the sum total of our history
we are an experiment going right for a change
with influences that range from a to zed
and yes we say zed instead of zee
we are the colours of Chinatown and the coffee of Little Italy
we dream so big that there are those
who would call our ambition an industry
because we are more than sticky maple syrup and clean snow
we do more than grow wheat and brew beer
we are vineyards of good year after good year
we reforest what we clear
because we believe in generations beyond our own
knowing now that so many of us
have grown past what used to be
we can stand here today

filled with all the hope people have
when they say things like “someday”

someday we’ll be great
someday we’ll be this
or that
someday we’ll be at a point
when someday was yesterday
and all of our aspirations will pay the way
for those who on that day
look towards tomorrow
and still they say someday

we will reach the goals we set
and we will get interest on our inspiration
because we are more than a nation of whale watchers and lumberjacks
more than backpacks and hiking trails
we are hammers and nails building bridges
towards those who are willing to walk across
we are the lost-and-found for all those who might find themselves at a loss
we are not the see-through gloss or glamour
of those who clamour for the failings of others
we are fathers brothers sisters and mothers
uncles and nephews aunts and nieces
we are cousins
we are found missing puzzle pieces
we are families with room at the table for newcomers
we are more than summers and winters
more than on and off seasons
we are the reasons people have for wanting to stay
because we are more than what we say or do
we live to get past what we go through

and learn who we are
we are students
students who study the studiousness of studying
so we know what as well as why
we don’t have all the answers
but we try
and the effort is what makes us more
we don’t all know what it is in life we’re looking for
so keep exploring
go far and wide
or go inside but go deep
go deep
as if James Cameron was filming a sequel to The Abyss
and suddenly there was this location scout
trying to figure some way out
to get inside you
because you’ve been through hell and high water
and you went deep
keep exploring
because we are more
than a laundry list of things to do and places to see
we are more than hills to ski
or countryside ponds to skate
we are the abandoned hesitation of all those who can’t wait
we are first-rate greasy-spoon diners and healthy-living cafes
a country that is all the ways you choose to live
a land that can give you variety
because we are choices
we are millions upon millions of voices shouting
” keep exploring… we are more”
we are the surprise the world has in store for you
it’s true

Canada is the “what” in “what’s new?”
so don’t say “been there done that”
unless you’ve sat on the sidewalk
while chalk artists draw still lifes
on the concrete of a kid in the street
beatboxing to Neil Young for fun
don’t say you’ve been there done that
unless you’ve been here doing it
let this country be your first-aid kit
for all the times you get sick of the same old same old
let us be the story told to your friends
and when that story ends
leave chapters for the next time you’ll come back
next time pack for all the things
you didn’t pack for the first time
but don’t let your luggage define your travels
each life unravels differently
and experiences are what make up
the colours of our tapestry
we are the true north
strong and free
and what’s more
is that we didn’t just say it
we made it be.

Steve Fonyo meets Poetry Friday

2010-02-05T19:33:00.000-08:00

If you haven't heard about Steve Fonyo, check this out. Then this poem will make a lot more sense.

Order of Canada

Stripped of his Order of Canada, ‘cause

he don’t fit the mold, and hey man, I mean

13 million for Cancer research ain’t

no big deal, unless you have Cancer, right?
Should’a built a newspaper empire
to put a spin on his one legged run

and his blue collar life. Should’a looked more

handsome when he dipped his prosthetic in

the Pacific, we need a photogenic hero

in these troubled times, not a mechanic

from Surrey with a habit for bouncing

cheques. Some say he was arrogant, I say

no one runs eight thousand kilometers

just for the pussy.

I Like Commas. (Greasepaint edition)

2010-01-18T15:44:00.000-08:00

Simple Life

2010-01-11T16:09:00.000-08:00

I have lots and lots of schoolwork this term, but at least its creative writing, so I can post the results here!
Here is my Monologue for Playwriting class. Some of my (three) beloved readers (hi guys!) will recognize familiar stuff in the story, but a lot of it is fiction. Some of the craziest stuff is true though. Enjoy.

Kat:

After three years in that hell hole city, I packed up my bags and moved to the Okanagan for the summer. Three years of zombie morning bus rides to a place where you sit in a box, next to a phone, and read things off a page. Three years of picking used needles out of the back seat of my Civic, because if you locked the doors, they’d just punch the lock anyways. And one day, on the way out for breakfast, you realize that someone’s saved you the trouble by just stealing the whole damn car. Oh well, material possessions are for chumps, right? Just take another fucking yoga class, or do the Grouse Grind, or meditate… close your eyes and open your mind because then it’ll be easier to convince yourself that downtown Vancouver is a nice place to live. And while you’re doing that, I’ll be tubing down the Penticton canal with a joint in my hand and a six pack in tow!

I applied for a job at Clover Valley Honey, because that sounded pretty damn pastoral, and there was absolutely, positively no customer service involved. University degree be damned! I wanted the simple life, and this was it. The beekeeper’s wife was about 5foot 4 and looked like she could chop some wood, birth a child, and paint the garage before breakfast. Meg- isn’t that a perfect name for a beekeeper’s wife? She suspected that I had no place doing manual labor or wrangling killer bees, and she was right, but they were hard up for workers, so I was in. Al, the beekeeper, just kinda grunted at me. My first day on the job, the first thing Meg says to me is “Don’t wear scented sunscreen.” A little cryptic, but ok. Then she introduces me to Francois, the beekeeper’s assistant. He’s going home early for the day. He’s covered in welts, his lips and neck are swollen, one eye is kind of bugged out… and he smells… like a Hawaiian vacation. “He got a few bees in his bonnet” Meg says, and I can see just the teeniest of smiles on her lips. Good God, I’m working for a Sadist. Now this is a few years before torture porn really made a comeback, but tell me that’s not Eli Roth’s next flick right there, Honeyfarm Hell: Don’t wear scented sunscreen! You can imagine my relief when Meg let me know that the bees are kept far, far away from the honey house, and that I wouldn’t come across them too often in my duties. Most days I wouldn’t see anyone, Meg and Al were out in the fields with the bees from dawn till dusk, six days a week. I guess that grueling schedule would make anyone a little sadistic.

So for three weeks, I bottled, boxed and shipped honey. Alone. If I reached my quota, Meg was happy. On Fridays, I mowed the scrubby fourteen acre lawn with a ride-a-mower, and got to go home early. It was hard not feel a connection to the little bees that worked tirelessly to create hundreds of kilos of Sweet Clover honey. They were my fabulously productive but unseen co-workers. Turns out they’re pretty docile as long as you aren’t poking around their hives, disguised as a Pina Colada. If I ever did find a tired little worker wandering around the apiary, I would cup her in my hands and take her outside to a flower, for re-fueling. That’s right bitches, in my hands! Everything was going pretty well until the mid-summer honey harvest. That’s when Meg hired Doug and Joe, but I’ll call them “Jug” and “D’oh!”, to protect the innocent.

D’oh was hot, I won’t lie. He had bedroom eyes and “just had sex” hair, and abs that looked great as long as he was standing up straight. He purposely walked around the honey house shirtless until Meg told him to put some clothes on. I seriously considered flirting with him. I know how hot a girl who can work a pallet jack is, I was pretty sure I had a shot. Fortunately he told me how had made and lost his fortune selling lingerie to strippers for the Hell’s Angels first. He spent most of his first day regaling me with tales of Mexican prisons and hookers with a heart of gold… I guess he thought this kind of banter really impresses the chicks, you know? After a few days Meg promoted D’oh to beekeeper’s assistant, obviously Francois had not been seen or heard from since “the sunscreen incident”. So Do’h was off to the bee fields most days, and Jug was hired to work with me at the warehouse.

Jug had an innate ability for casing the joint. He asked me what I thought he could get for Meg’s ride-a-mower, I told him if he fenced the goddamn mower before the end of the summer, then he could cut the bloody lawn on Fridays with a push mower. Fourteen acres, bitches! Poor kid, he was only seventeen. He said he moved to Penticton from Surrey to get away from the crime, but with a mind like his, crime follows you. It wasn’t long before D’oh had Jug set up dealing weed from his room at the Double D Motel, then meth, then cocaine. And of course, he was snorting everything that came his way, which made him a lot of fun to work with. On rainy days when Al couldn’t work in the fields, Jug and D’oh would do line after line of crystal, and accomplish menial tasks at breakneck speed. Meg must have suspected something, but I don’t think she cared much, as long as the work got done. She asked me what the secret to their superhuman productivity was, but I was too afraid to say anything. Yeah, I was scared, I won’t lie. Jug found Allan’s chainsaw one day and just ran around the honey house yelling “Texas Chainsaw Massacre!” How would you feel? I was kinda wishing I could be out in the fields with Meg and the bees… the poor, misunderstood bees who just wanted to make honey in little wooden boxes. At least with bees it was clear cut, you piss them off, they sting you. I had no idea what these two meatheads would do next.

D’oh called in sick quite a bit, but I still got to see a lot of him. He’d steal bikes and ride them up to the honey house to see if I wanted to buy one. He was starting to get a little pushy about it. Jug stayed on, he said having a 9 to 5 job kept the cops off his back. When Jug started bragging about the steroid injections D’oh was going to put him on, I knew it was time to leave. I’d moved to a small town to get away from the crime and the junkies, now I was working with an ex-con and a Coke dealer on ‘roids. Meg was disappointed, but she wasn’t surprised to lose her only employee that wasn’t on the lam. I packed my bags and started looking for work again, and that’s what brought back here. I mean, a grocery store in the ‘burbs isn’t exactly where I wanna be in 15 years, but anything’s got to be better than that hell hole small town, right?

I like commas. (Regulation jaded Christmas edition)

2009-12-17T08:39:00.000-08:00

Absurd. (Six degrees of Python)

2009-12-10T17:34:00.000-08:00

The absurd is born out of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.

Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

The Theatre of the Absurd has renounced arguing about the absurdity of the human condition; it merely presents it in being--that is, in terms of concrete stage images. This is the difference between the approach of the philosopher and that of the poet.

Martin Esslin, The Theatre of the Absurd

I have always loved the absurd, but I didn’t always know it. I was weaned on Monty Python sketches, back when something could be funny without being a pop culture reference or a scathing political rant. And it’s the weirdest stuff that has stuck in my memory over the years, like the killer cars, and the ministry of silly walks, and the scraggly dude with the beard and the gumboots standing in a field who’s sole purpose was to say “It’s!” before the opening credits rolled. Remember him? That one word used to have my sister and me in stitches. We didn’t care who that dude was, what he was doing in that field, or why he hadn’t washed. That was the funny part. It made no sense.

Right before I graduated high school, I wrote a play that was selected along with four others to be performed at the BC Festival of the Arts. We were on the second stage; the main stage plays were not student written. This was where I saw my first absurdist play: “The Bald Soprano”, by Eugène Ionesco. The set consisted of a few chairs, a freestanding door, and a huge paper maché ear. There are four main characters, Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who spoke with exaggerated English accents and looked a lot like Python’s “upper class twits”. They mostly drank tea and spoke in non-sequiturs. There are two secondary characters: the maid, Mary, who was styled to look like Magenta from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and the fire chief, who came off as very Hitler-esque. I assume that was intended. Both he and Mary high-stepped everywhere they went, much like Cleese in the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch. Mary was particularly impressive, as she was in stiletto heels and carried a large blue sparkly aspic on a tray for much of the first act.

So just to be clear here, this play makes no sense. The climax of the piece occurs when the fire chief mentions the bald soprano, as if she were an actual person. All the characters are visibly upset, and one of the characters replies:

“She always wears her hair in the same style.”

I think they all fainted after that, though that direction was not in the script.

Yeah. Kind of makes your high school’s production of “Grease” look like sandbox play, doesn’t it. Or maybe you think it sounds stupid, most of the kids sitting around me did, they were either annoyed or asleep. I was riveted. And don’t think I’m getting all pretentious on you, I didn’t understand what I was seeing, I just appreciated it. I didn’t know about existentialism and nihilism and Camus and Kierkegaard. I didn’t know about the post-war anxiety that drove some sensitive artist types to suicide, others to expressionism, and some, like Ionesco, to explore the utter meaninglessness of existence. There was a giant ear on stage and I was lovin’ it.

One of my fave films of all time is not of the absurdist era, but it could be. It’s a Canadian film called “The Saddest Music in the World.” I don’t really want to get into a big discussion of the film here, because this post is getting a bit verbose and I want to go pet the bunnies, so I’ll leave you with a couple of images:

Yes, that’s Isabella Rossellini, and yes, those are glass prosthetic legs filled with beer.

And yeah, that’s totally Mark McKinney from the Kids in the Hall. Canada’s answer to Monty Python.

Sicky-Tea

2009-10-28T17:06:00.001-07:00

Because I make a lot of decisions without thinking things through, I am a trained Herbalist.(Western, not Chinese) This charming but relatively useless skill does come in handy during cold and flu season though, so I'm sharing my Sicky-Tea recipe with you.
Of course, it has weird stuff in it, that you'll have to go to Finlandia or Gaia Garden to get, but you've been looking for a reason to pay those pretentious fuckers a visit anyways, right? On the cheaper but less dependable side (as far as quality) a lot of health food stores order from Westpoint Naturals, if they are nice, they will let you look through their big order book, and they will just tack it on to their next order.

OK here it is

Sage leaves (anywhere from a tablespoon to a handful- this isn't an exact science)
Peppermint (especially for flu)
Coltsfoot
Marshmallow
Honey (for god's sake get raw, unpasteurized honey, or you might as well use sugar water!)

Crush the sage leaves with your hands, (always buy whole leaves if possible and break them up yourself or with a coffee grinder... more potent)
Put all 3 herbs in a tea sock or whatever you use, add the water and steep, covered (that's important, hence the italics) for 7-10minutes.
add as much honey as you can stomach, drink in smaller doses until you notice your body temperature increase a bit. This tea might make you sweat, which is good since you're sick, so best taken before bed.

You can get Organic Sage and Marshmallow if you like, never seen Organic Coltsfoot. And yes its worth it, we're making MEDICINE here!

Poetry, uh, Wednesday.

2009-10-28T12:15:00.000-07:00

Here's the first draft of the poem I will likely hand in. We'll have to read our poems in class, which is kind of daunting. Poetry AND performance. THIS WASN'T ON THE SIGN UP SHEET! Whatevs.

Silent Meditation

4 AM gong, an unsmiling Nun.
Grey walls, brown floors
grey curtains around my hospital cot
grey February skies through my tiny window.

Wash quickly, rush quietly.
A queue of women are already waiting
groggy, silent
willing me to hurry up through the door.

Thoughts are amplified here (so we think softly).
So are smells (we are all unscented).
So are emotions.
Some will go home with open wounds
before ten days are over.

I’m always the first in, an eager pupil
with nowhere else to go.
Under my nose
the elusive breath, perception of the subtle.

There’s no subtlety in our bodies as
we sit for hours, hands folded.
Pain, heat, and anger
below that, fear.
The mind is a child, it won’t be reasoned with.

Accept this, don’t forget to breathe
and
for a moment feel something like freedom
Then the bliss gets the better of me.
Lose focus
and
back to the breath.

Except now
I’ve seen happiness.

After ten days
twenty silent strangers are family.
Some are convinced of the path.
Some are just glad it’s over.

And now, the Nuns are all smiling.

Poetry Friday.

2009-10-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

So I'm eventually going to have to write a poem for my personal narrative class, and I'm no poet.
The ongoing inner conflict with my cheese factor prevents me from excessive or flowery imagery usage, and I'm not sure how to write a poem without that stuff.
It's all fine and good to write three liners about shitty squiddy O's, but this is the real deal, 20-30 lines.

I was up at my usual way too early time this morning, and this poem kind of burped out. I really did dream about a VO5 hot oil treatment last night, so my voice is like, totes authentic!

Split Ends

Saw a VO5 Hot Oil

Treatment

In my dreams.

Beside a red and white gingham towel

Blue plastic comb

At a campsite shower

somewhere along the coast.

Must be someone else’s

I never use that shit

And I hate red gingham

almost as much as campsite showers.

Still, at 3 AM,

I wonder if the hot oil

can make my nerves look

like they just stepped out

of a salon.

Wishful thinking.

Waxy residue.

You can’t reason with split ends

You just gotta’ cut ‘em off.

I read it to Jim and he said:

"It sounds... like a poem."

I totally dig his honesty.

More Burning Man: The Beauty.

2009-09-16T09:40:00.001-07:00

Now it's time to put away The Glib and talk about The Beauty.

Let's start with the Temple, pictured above. The Temple may be the second biggest attraction after the Man, although I would not be surprised to hear that it's many burner's #1. A half hour after this picture was taken, the Temple was open to the public, and people began to cover the structure with words, pictures, and a whole boatload of sweet sweet sorrow.

You can feel the unspoken agreement as you approach it, I think you'd have to be completely senseless not to. One of the biggest social taboos- in North America anyway, unbridled expression of emotion. Its OK here. We write about friends and family, living and dead. We write about ourselves. We write about Micheal Jackson, and Britney, and George W. We bow our heads and cry like children, and strangers comfort us.
I stepped over a girl in a fun fur vest and a tutu, crouched low, completely overcome. I noticed an older man hovering nearby, short, chubby, endearingly awkward. I thought they might be together, until he approached her. He had just a touch of a drawl:

"Excuse me, would you like some water?"
His hand was shaking.

Her water bottle sat beside her, quite visibly. I'm sure he saw it, he'd been hovering for a while. She looked up at him slowly, and at the same moment she and I both grasped exactly what was going on. She smiled weakly, took the bottle and had the tiniest of sips, and thanked him. I don't even remember if he replied. He didn't need to. These two strangers, in the depths of their own personal sorrow, took a moment to help each other.

And yeah, they burn the Temple. It was the day after the Man, and we didn't stay for it, though I sort of wish we had. Considering that I had gone to the event fairly convinced that I would be ready to walk out of there on bloodied stumps by Saturday, I'm not going to indulge too much in regret. Next year.

Talk about subtle beauty, how about the fact that 30 000 tired, thirsty, dusty people in various states of inebriation... ON BICYCLES, were less chaotic and far less aggression-packed then your average Costco shopping trip. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about... give people a gigantic shopping cart and a "savings" card and they will fuck.you.up.

The whole money-free part of the burn didn't impress me too much, because most of us spent a small fortune just to get there, just sayn'. An all-inclusive resort is also "money-free", but it is hardly a radical social event. I still do wonder about the possibility that the lack of things to buy might be tied to the lack of aggression at the BM, though I don't have any hard evidence of this. Next year Ill bring my detective hat and my giant magnifying glass, and my guide to anti-consumerist behavior, and I'll let you know.

Bacon Links: Bacon booze.

2009-09-14T07:12:00.000-07:00

Bacon Beer:

Bacon Voddy:

Bacontini, etc:

Schooled.

2009-09-09T09:27:00.000-07:00

This is the first time I've devoted two appointments with my therapist towards preparation for a vacation:

This is Burning Man.
(aka Black Rock City, aka the Playa)

My biggest concern about going? Me. I firmly believe that the only person who dictates whether I'm having a good time is... me. Attitude (or more specifically acceptance) can free up surprising energy and stamina, and makes aches and pains "magically" disappear. I BELIEVE this, I've seen it in action, but I don't seem to KNOW it yet. When stress/fatigue sets in, I still resort to blaming others for my unhappiness. It tends to spiral out of control pretty quickly, and suddenly I'm unhappy and disappointed with myself. Burning Man is a bit of an endurance marathon with the elements, so fatigue was inevitable.

I voiced some of my skepticism about the event in my last post, hoping to be proven terribly wrong. What happened was something much better: I got schooled.

Were there self-righteous douchebags, cruising around like Black Rock royalty because this was their third burn or whatever? You BET there was! And they were OBNOXIOUS! :D We had one in our camp! He told me I slept too much, I was wasting my time, I wasn't contributing enough, I changed costumes too much... I am not exaggerating.

I fought back, I turned the other cheek, I laughed it off, but I had started banking resentment. I was also kind of worried he was right.

Then I found Lis.

30 000 people. 9 square miles. Camped 50 feet away from me... my closest friend from University, and a longtime burner, Elisabeth. She found me on day three, and took me on an interpretive tour of the Playa. She listened to my bitching, and immediately identified my problem.

"You are making this hard on yourself. After all these years, you're still trying too hard to please everyone. If you stop caring what people think, this will be easier for you."

As if on cue, a big art installation appeared in front of us. A man made out of hundreds of locks, dragging a giant key behind him like a terrible burden. His head was the keyhole. Lis laughed at the cheesy serendipity of the moment, but she wasn't surprised.

"If you ask, the Playa provides."

I had rolled my eyes countless times at this little burner-ism. I had assumed it was a feeble attempt to manufacture some spirituality out of an event that was essentially an elaborate party. Now, I was willing to listen, because, why not?

We walked out into the deep Playa, which looks almost empty from a distance, but has all sorts of little art pieces sprinkled around, and the occasional bar. I admitted to Lis that I had been drawn to the deep Playa immediately, but I was worried that I was missing the true party that was rocking 24 hours a day in the densely "populated" part of the grounds. Lis felt that some of her best times were spent in the deep Playa, but more importantly she pointed out that life would be easier here if I trusted my instincts.

A mini sand storm blew up, causing brief whiteouts that seemed to coincide with the ebb and flow of our conversations. The storm would let up, and we'd be at a different opportunity for a lesson. Sometimes it was art, sometimes it was no more then an unfriendly person, giving me an opportunity to practice not caring about a complete stranger's diss. Lis didn't seem to care, and she looked happier then I had ever seen her.

Simply walking around in a whiteout is an exercise in letting go of control. You can't see a thing. Nothing. I suppose it would have been safer to crouch down and wait for it to pass, but Lis and I just walked, and eventually we hard the strains of a Dubstep track, so we walked toward that. If you've never heard Dubstep, it's like music to slo-mo dance to. So we slo-mo danced towards it, because, why not? Have I mentioned that I was wearing a giant white princess crinoline, silver bikini top, bunny ears, aviator goggles, and a silver cape? Can you imagine yourself here? Exhausted, covered in dust, in temperatures in excess of 40 degrees? Without the benefit of drugs or alcohol? Past the age of thirty? I certainly wouldn't have, but then I got schooled.

After our walk, we danced a little at the Dubstep camp. Before this I hadn't wanted to dance at all, and I found the music excessively loud and aggravating. Suddenly it didn't seem as hot, and the dust didn't choke me as much as it had. I'm not saying everything was peachy from then on. If anything, the intensity heightened with each passing day. I am saying that I was able, if only for the four days that remained, to accept what Burning Man would throw at me, the weather, the douchebags, the drunken shirtless dudes crushing cans on their heads while urinating on someone's tent, and myself.

And just in case you think I'm trying to sell myself as some kind of born-again burner guru, I'm going to share something with you. I've been a selfish, impatient bitch since I've returned, trust. But if I'm going to practice acceptance, then the bitch gets equal say. She has less to say these days anyway.

Does anyone go to Burning Man and not blog about it?

2009-08-27T11:19:00.000-07:00

Anyone with a blog that is.

Well I'm no different, of COURSE I'm going to write/ casually brag about what will likely be the second most challenging ten days of my life to date. After the meditation that is. No amount of escapism and stimuli overload could ever be as difficult as being quiet and still and facing yourself for ten days. At least, that's what I believe right now.

This brings me to the point of today's blethering: pre-conceived notions.

Try as I might, I cannot head to this big flaming party in the desert without some skepticism. The hype, as you probably know, is big. The constant assertion made by those who have attended seems to be that if you haven't gone:

1. You have no idea what you're in for, and you're mind is going to be totally blown by the sheer awesomeness of the event.
2. This party offers something for everyone.

3. It may be the most difficult/ rewarding thing you have ever done

Obviously I'm already a non-believer of #3.
As for #2, well, I've never been to any event that involves drinking that hasn't been 99.9% about drinking, and .1% about sleeping it off. I'm not against drinking; I'm just calling it as I see it.
And #1, who can say really? I HOPE to get a good mind blowing. I HOPE this isn't another frat party disguised as an arty, out of the box thinking, conformity busting powerhouse of an event. I DOUBT it though.

Slightly more annoying then all the "awesomeness" hype is the fear hype:

1. If you're a newbie you probably have zero coping skills for dealing with the harsh reality of life in the desert, so sit down, shut up, watch the self-professed "experts", and pray heartily to your god of choice that you don't die.
2. See #1.

I was not surprised to see this theme in the reading material that the event provides. People, especially people on vacation, have little common sense. In the desert this will be deadly, or maybe just a big buzzkill for those who have to take care of you. I was a little taken aback when my attempts to share some knowledge I've gained through a fair amount of camping in "challenging" situations was rudely dismissed by some of the seasoned burners in our group. Even some info I gleaned from other burners was tossed aside. Each time I was not-so-subtly reminded of my position as a newbie, or virgin, or whatever the derogatory badge for the newcomers to wear is.

How am I supposed to perceive this attitude as anything other then fear mongering by those in the big Burning Man hierarchy, people whose whole lives currently revolve around 8 days in the desert, in order to cement their position in said hierarchy? Does that sound paranoid? Maybe. To me it just seems like a microcosm of the way the world is run.

Whew! God, that was cathartic! Thanks for listening. Hope it wasn’t too rambling, I’m out of proofreading time and I want to get this post up today.

So, those are my pre-conceived notions about Burning Man. It’s not that I don’t want to have a good time, or that I think that having a good time will be impossible under these conditions. I guess I just needed to vocalize some of my cynicism, in the hopes that it won’t get the better of me when I’m sitting on the Playa watching a group of drunken shirtless dudes crushing beer cans on their heads while urinating on somebody’s tent.

I’ll let you know how humbled I have been after the event. When my mind is re-assembled, that is.

I Like Commas

2009-08-13T17:02:00.000-07:00

This is the only writing I've done in a while, so its goin' up!

2009-08-06T15:26:00.000-07:00

Thanks Facebook, for giving me more chances to talk about me.

Carlology

Copy this, paste in a new note, replace my answers with yours & re-post this as your name followed by "ology".

***********FOODOLOGY***************

What is your salad dressing of choice?
I like really good fruity olive oil and roasted garlic infused balsamic vinegar.

What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
Paradise! It’s a Vietnamese vegetarian restaurant. It’s not fancy, but its good.
For fancy I like the Salmon House.

What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of?
Peanut butter. I do eat it every day. I had Thai ginger PB on celery this morning. YUM.

What are your pizza toppings of choice?
Either really simple- basil, tomatoes, pesto,& goat cheese OR every vegetable I can think of.

What do you like to put on your toast?
I don’t really eat toast any more, but I like croissants with a bit of butter (and sometimes raspberry jam)

***********TECHNOLOGY***************

How many televisions are in your house?
One. I don’t think it works though.

What color is your cellphone?
I don’t have one. My husband’s is black and silver.

Do you have an iPod?
I heart my ipod.

***************BIOLOGY*****************

Are you right-handed or left-handed?
I was ambidextrous as a kid, then favored the left, then switched to right when I realized that all the other kids were right handed.

What is the last heavy item you lifted?
Our terrible, ugly, scratched, cast iron pioneer kitchen sink. Just lifted it the HELL out of the counter, and had it replaced.

Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
Yep. I’m mad klutzy. Its part of my charm. The best was coming around a corner at top speed carrying several coffee cups at work. I slipped, smashed all the coffee cups, and knocked myself out for a sec. THEN I got up, cleaned the glass shards out of my arms and face, and WENT BACK TO WORK for the last hour. That’s right bitches.

***********BULLOLOGY**************

If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
Absolutely not. That would be missing the point of life. And it would be creepy.

If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
You know, I’ve never really been partial to Carleigh, but I can’t imagine changing it.

Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
Just take a moment to imagine how it would feel to pass an entire bottle of hot sauce. Yeah. That’s right. I’ll leave that to the frat boys of the world.

**************FAVORITOLOGY************

Season?
Summer fo’ sho. My personality changes a LOT when I get adequate sunshine. It’s easier to love myself in the summer. Everything is easier in the summer.

Holiday?
It used to be Christmas until certain family members began delivering the most unbelievable guilt trips every time it was my family’s “turn” to have us for Christmas. Then it began to feel like some kind of twisted political tug of war, where Jim and I had no identity of our own and absolutely no say. I started to resent having to spend time with family at all at Christmas, even though that’s what it’s supposed to be for. Then people started having kids, and the screaming and crying and massive excitement and letdowns… That kind of killed it for me. And of course I felt guilty for being annoyed, because Christmas is supposed to be for kids too.
Whew, I obviously felt stronger about that then I thought! Thanks for letting me get that off my chest, Facebook.

So now I’ll have to go with Easter, because it involves bunnies AND chocolate.

Day of the week?
Saturday I guess.

Month?
July. Its summer and it’s my birthday month. Yes, I get a month, you can have one too. If that Christmas rant didn’t clue you in to how selfish I am, I don’t know what will…

***********CURRENTOLOGY**************

Missing someone?
Hmm. I miss Jim when he’s at work. But I’m not missing him right now.

Mood?
I’m cycling between moments of peace and happiness, and moments of prickly irritability.

What are you listening to right now?
A fucking weed wacker, and I wish I wasn’t. (prickly irritability)

Current worry?
I don’t want to worry right now. (peace and happiness)

***************RANDOMOLOGY**********

First place you went this morning?
The bathroom. But if you mean like, out THERE, then the chiropractor. It was lovely.

What's the last movie you saw?
Some shitty thing, not worth remembering.

Do you smile often?
Yeah. All the time. I have to turn it off sometimes, because it makes me too approachable.

************OTHEROLOGY**************

How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
None right now.

Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
Well, we had to speak to the police after those two dudes tried to kick our door down last year, but we were the good guys in that case. Otherwise, its been a loooong time.

Last person you talked to?
My lovely chiropractor.

Last person you hugged?
My lovely chiropractor.

Do you always answer your phone?
Almost never. I don’t like the phone at all.

It's four in the morning and you get a text message, who is it?
It’s not going to happen. I don’t have a cell, for one. All my 4 am correspondence happened in high school and university. I’m just not exciting enough for a 4 am text.

If you could change your eye color what would it be?
I wouldn’t change them permanently, but I’d have grey eyes for awhile.

Do you own a digital camera?
It’s broken :( or I guess dead is more accurate.

Have you ever had a pet fish?
Yep, a fighting fish. Her name was Bitchslap. I didn’t realize I was keeping her tank too clean though, so she didn’t last long. Apparently cleanliness is not next to fishy-ness, at least for Betas. I didn’t get another one. I don’t like knowing that a living thing had died because of my incompetence.

Favorite Christmas song(s)
The entire Charlie Brown Christmas album. I even listen to it when it’s not Christmas.

What's on your wish list for your birthday?
Travel. I don’t need more stuff, but I do want to travel.

Can you do push ups?
Probably a few. Being able to do pushups is hardly a sign of being in shape. It just means you have strong shoulders.

Can you do the splits?
I doubt it. Not going to try.

Does the future make you more nervous or excited?
Both.

Do you have any saved texts?
huh?

Have you ever been in a car accident?
When I was really young my dad left me in the car for a sec, and I popped it into gear somehow. It rolled backwards into a pole, no biggie. Ahhh the seventies, when accidents happened and no one had to sue anyone. My dad felt awful though. I smashed a friend’s truck into a parked car, fortunately it was on its last legs anyway. I got hit by a BMW while riding my bike… the list goes on…

Do you have an accent?
yes, Canadian.

What is the last movie to make you cry?
Mad Max. I had never seen it! We watched it a few weeks ago. I know it’s cheesy, but when the wife and her baby went down at the end, I couldn’t help it. It was so bleak!

Plans tonight?
Were going to Pemberton for a few nights.

Have you ever felt like you hit rock bottom?
Yes. Like most of us.

Name 3 things you bought yesterday?
I didn’t buy anything yesterday. I haven’t bought anything yet today, come to think of it.

Have you ever been given roses?
Oh sure. Roses don’t really excite me though. Now handpicked daisies…

Met someone who changed your life?
My 6th grade Teacher, who was the first teacher that seemed to think I had something to offer. My directing professor, who was such a colossal dick that it helped me to decide what I didn’t want to be. Sister Jessie at the Buddhist temple where I do my meditation.

Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?
The past is gone. But I have to agree with Christine, to go back in time as a tourist would be kind of rad.

Do you have any tattoos/piercing?
5 tattoos. And counting. I had a few piercings, but I took them out as the years went by. My body was never really happy with them, except the tongue.

Does anyone love you?
Sure! I’m lucky, because I’m hard to love, but people do anyways!

Would you be a pirate?
I am a pirate. Next question.

What songs do you sing in the shower?
Too inhibited.

Ever had someone sing to you?
My Dad and my sister wrote a song for my wedding. And my sister gave us a song as a wedding gift. I always cry when my sister sings. I dated a few musicians, but I don’t think they ever sang to me specifically. Jerks. Jim and I sing to each other all the time. Just silly things.

Have you held hands with anyone today?
No. Sniff.

Who was the last person you took a picture of?
Myself. Don’t judge! I don’t like having pictures taken, so I take them of myself.

Do you like pulpy orange juice?
Fo’ sho! I like a good chew with my juice!

What is something your friends make fun of you for?
There are many many things for people to make fun of, but my reputation for being ultra-sensitive and my unwillingness to mock others (most of the time) normally means that my lovely, sensitive friends don’t really do that much. If I do bust out the sarcasm, people usually get such a kick out of it that they don’t respond with sarcasm. More like: “OH, you’re so cute!” That’s kind of like making fun I guess.

How the Buddha ruined my birthday.

2009-07-22T12:57:00.000-07:00

So I tried to go WAY Buddhist for my birthday this year, and in my zeal to create a celebration that was “truly truly truly enlightened!” I missed the point completely.

First off, I spent months ordering friends and family to not buy me gifts. This is obviously because I am the chosen one, who has achieved true happiness by casting off the shackles of the sensory world, right? Yeah, that’s right bitches.

This wasn’t enough however. As we prepared for my birthday camping trip, (because being in the city and using a fancy-pants flush toilet on your birthday = Buddhist FAIL, right?) I avoided opportunities to make the trip more festive. A friend gave me a bake in camp “Brownies in a Bag” to use as a birthday cake, but I didn’t bring it because we had to buy a special camp oven to bake it. Buying things you don’t really need = Buddhist FAIL right?

Come to think of it, indulging in Brownies probably = … well, you see where I’m going with this.

Somewhere along the way, the “middle path” of Buddhism exited onto my superhighway of self-denial. This need to push to extremes is a quality I readily criticize in others, but um, yeah… Glass houses…

Also, some people love to give gifts! It makes people happy to give. Who the hell am I to tell someone what to do? Trying to control other people’s behavior is like, sooo not enlightened. It’s also a really hard habit to break. Meditation helps.

“So how’d it all work out for you?” My 3 beloved readers are thinking. (Hi guys!!)

Yeah. Wind + rain + air mattress – birthday cake x outhouse = Not. My. Kind. Of. Birthday. Jim had brought some fancy apple cider along for the “festivities”. Obviously drinking is also a no-no, but although I was misguided in this situation, I was not stupid. I drank the damn cider and loved it. And I made a mental note to meditate more, think less.

And I ate 2/3 of a McCain “Deep and Delicious” cake the night we returned to civilization. No candles required.

load "*" ,8,1:

2009-06-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

This morning I was listening to 'Boombox' by The Lonely Island, and it made me remember my first Boombox and the first music I ever played on it.

When I was around 7 or 8, my parents bought a Commodore 64 for my sister and I. It was pre-floppy disk, we used data cassettes instead. Loading time for the lone game we owned was about 5-7 minutes.

When my dad finally folded and bought a disk drive, the 64 assumed its position in my heart as the best computer of all time. At first, just changing the text colour in the word processing program (SpeedScript) was entrancing. Then came the games.

OMG the games.

Pole Position. Break Dance. Lode Runner. Pac-Mania. Spy vs Spy. Skate or Die. When I got a little older, there was Maniac Mansion, The Summer and Winter Olympics, Dream House, Rags to Riches (shout out to Christine), and lest we forget: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

In 1985, Activision released The Music Studio. This program allowed you to compose music by placing large colorful musical notes on a staff. I think there was a more technical way to use the program, but I was 8 years old, and therefore preferred the colourful musical notes. The software also included a number of prewritten tunes which illustrated its features. By selecting a tune from the song library, a transcribed version of the song appeared onscreen as the tune was played. So what I'm telling you is that I was making and listening to electronic music way back when most of you chumps were still playing tag.

In 1987, my parents bought me a Boombox. I don't remember any specifics, just that it was the coolest fucking thing I had ever seen. I filled it with double D batteries and carried that bitch around on my shoulder with all the attitude you'd expect from a white, ten year old girl in the suburbs.

I don't remember how, but I managed to record some tracks off The Music Studio. There may have been some kind of archaic sound output, or I may have just held the Boombox up to the monitor and pressed the record button.

So what I'm telling you is that I was making and listening to electronic music AND blasting it on my Boombox, back when you were still in the sandbox, bitches.

Poetry Sunday

2009-06-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Sunday, and I decided that it would be poetry Sunday & I'd post the poems here. We only got two done, so the results will be mercifully short.

Poem number one:

untitled

Shitty Squiddy-O's
Even the Tartar
couldn't help.

This was written after Jim decided to make Calamari for breakfast. He was already aware that the quality of the Calamari was terrible, because he had made half the box weeks ago. Rather then throw the rest away, he was going to cook the other half of the box, and he was going to do so for breakfast.

Fortunately for Jim, he burned the shitty Calamari. Unfortunately for Jim, his seeming "we're in an economic depression let's eat like it" attitude led him to eat one or two of the shitty Calamari before abandoning his mission, and fleeing to Starbucks.

Which is where we came up with this little poem.

Poem number two:

because I am a judgemental bitch

Guy with a "sacrifice everything" T-shirt.
Why do you carry
that Starbucks cup?

I guess this one pretty much speaks for itself.

Jeff Hyslop is my wingman.

2009-06-17T11:10:00.000-07:00

omg!

omg!

omg!

omg!

omg!

omg!

Look up, waaaaaaay up! And I'll call Rusty.

Stranger than fiction.

2009-06-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

Years and years ago I wrote a screenplay about a (straight) dude who falls in love on teh internetz, only to realize that the object of his affection is another dude. I wanted Don McKellar to play the lead, and I wanted it to be a typical moody, navel-gazing Canadian style flick.
My writing prof, who actually wrote and directed a film about topless female boxing that included an semi-incestuous father daughter relationship AND CAST HIS REAL-LIFE DAUGHTER IN THE LEAD ROLE, thought it would make a better romantic comedy. Somehow, I just couldn't trust his instincts. Sure, he got funded, but dude. TOPLESS FEMALE BOXING.

Obviously my screenplay didn't go anywhere, but reality has produced an even better version of this story. This just screams "Movie of the Week". Enjoy.

Wired

And, because I know you're dying to know more about topless female boxing:

Grrrr.
This blog is getting smuttier every week. I may have to change the tagline.

Goodbye Peter.

2009-06-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

May I

May I be free

May I be free from anger, hatred, ill will, and animosity

May I develop love, compassion, peace, and kindness

May all beings benefit from my practice

May all beings benefit from my merits

May all beings be happy

May all beings be happy

May all beings be peaceful

May all beings be peaceful

May all beings be liberated

May all beings be liberated

May all beings feel love

May all beings feel love

I like commas.

2009-05-19T11:03:00.000-07:00

I ain't yo' cyber ho, beeatch.

2009-05-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

Wow, this guy I fooled around with like, 15 years ago (srsly), finds me on Facebook chat last night and wants to just jump right into cyber sex without any cyber foreplay even!

No really, the conversation went pretty much like this:

him
Hey trouble

me
Hey, what’s up?

him
That’s a loaded question, lol.

Ok. We’re going to just stop there for a minute. Not only do I take offence to the use of that old chestnut, I really can’t condone the use of “lol” when you are not actually laughing out loud. It’s annoying. The skeeve factor was multiplied by the fact that every time that little chat window popped up with whatever inappropriate advance he was making, his profile pic would pop up too, a picture of him and his kids.

So after I pulled my jaw off the desk and composed myself, I considered my options…

As a happily married woman, I have an unlimited supply of REAL sex available to me pretty much whenever I want it. Not to mention that whole sanctity of marriage thing. Some people argue that cyber cheating doesn’t count, but I’m not really concerned with other people’s opinions on the subject.

Also, WTF? We haven’t seen each other in 15 years! I vaguely remember him calling me out of the blue about 13 years ago, I was in 12th grade. He’s all like “What are you wearing?” and being the sheltered little 12th grader I was (don’t judge), I wasn’t even aware that phone sex existed! I was not too sheltered to know when I was getting a skeevy vibe from someone however, so I was relieved when I didn’t hear from him again.

Until last night.

So obviously I’m not going to take this guy up on his kind offer, but what to do? Sure, I could have ignored him, clicked the “go offline” button, turned the computer off, & had a scalding hot shower with bleach, but why run away? On the other hand, I’ve never been very good at just straightforwardly telling people to fuck off, even when they are being a tad disrespectful to me. I pondered what the Buddha would do/say in this situation, but I’m pretty sure this is one dilemma he never found himself in.

So I did the best I could. I called hubby into the room, to help alleviate the feeling of guilt I was experiencing (Why did I feel guilty? So frustrating!). He thought it was hilarious of course. I politely tried to change the subject, naively assuming that he would get the hint. I tried to navigate to topics that would encourage him to see me as a human, and not some kind of blow up doll that he could just pull out of his closet after 15 years and go to work on, without so much as a “So how’s the closet been for the last 15?” This was in vain of course.

I know this would be a much better story if I had led him on, had him send naked pics for me to post for you, & maybe set up a webcam or something, but I don’t get off on being cruel. Furthermore, after the initial feelings of shock, guilt, and anger subsided, I felt some compassion for the guy. He must really live in his own head a lot, to think that he could just pick up where we left off over a decade ago without so much as asking how my day was. I looked through his profile; I saw the pics of his beautiful wife and kids. Sad. Skeevy, but sad. Not sad enough to earn a sympathy cyber-BJ, but enough for me to pull myself out of my own righteous indignation, and see HIM as a human, whether he returned the favor or not.

I was pretty done with the whole situation, so evasive action was required. All I had left in my arsenal after all this exhaustive introspection was:

“Um, my husband’s calling me to dinner.”

The ol’ mealtime excuse. An oldie, but a goodie. It was 10 pm, but hopefully the lameness of the excuse sent a parting message.

Captain Beefheart's 10 Commandments of Music

2009-05-13T16:25:00.000-07:00

1. Listen to the birds.
That's where all the music comes from. Birds know everything about how it should sound and where that sound should come from. And watch hummingbirds. They fly really fast, but a lot of times they aren't going anywhere.

2. Your guitar is not really a guitar Your guitar is a divining rod.
Use it to find spirits in the other world and bring them over. A guitar is also a fishing rod. If you're good, you'll land a big one.

3. Practice in front of a bush
Wait until the moon is out, then go outside, eat a multi-grained bread and play your guitar to a bush. If the bush dosen't shake, eat another piece of bread.

4. Walk with the devil
Old Delta blues players referred to guitar amplifiers as the "devil box." And they were right. You have to be an equal opportunity employer in terms of who you're bringing over from the other side. Electricity attracts devils and demons. Other instruments attract other spirits. An acoustic guitar attracts Casper. A mandolin attracts Wendy. But an electric guitar attracts Beelzebub.

5. If you're guilty of thinking, you're out
If your brain is part of the process, you're missing it. You should play like a drowning man, struggling to reach shore. If you can trap that feeling, then you have something that is fur bearing.

6. Never point your guitar at anyone
Your instrument has more clout than lightning. Just hit a big chord then run outside to hear it. But make sure you are not standing in an open field.

7. Always carry a church key
That's your key-man clause. Like One String Sam. He's one. He was a Detroit street musician who played in the fifties on a homemade instrument. His song "I Need a Hundred Dollars" is warm pie. Another key to the church is Hubert Sumlin, Howlin' Wolf's guitar player. He just stands there like the Statue of Liberty-making you want to look up her dress the whole time to see how he's doing it.

8. Don't wipe the sweat off your instrument
You need that stink on there. Then you have to get that stink onto your music.

9. Keep your guitar in a dark place
When you're not playing your guitar, cover it and keep it in a dark place. If you don't play your guitar for more than a day, be sure you put a saucer of water in with it.

10. You gotta have a hood for your engine
Keep that hat on. A hat is a pressure cooker. If you have a roof on your house, the hot air can't escape. Even a lima bean has to have a piece of wet paper around it to make it grow.

I like commas.

2009-05-06T17:35:00.001-07:00

Bacon links.

2009-05-06T16:37:00.000-07:00

Only one today, but that's all we need because it's so effing awesome.

Lego Bacon

MSN- Twinkie edition.

2009-05-05T11:11:00.000-07:00

Carleigh says:
Twinkies cookbook arrived

Carleigh says:
!!!

Carleigh says:
want to hear some recipes?

DrChaos says:
YES YES YES!!!!

Carleigh says:
Twinkie sushi

Carleigh says:
Twinkie Peanut butter logs

Carleigh says:
Twinkiehenge

Carleigh says:
you can picture that last one...

DrChaos says:
MMMmmmmm

DrChaos says:
i know whats for dinner.

Carleigh says:
how about: Chicken-Raspberry Twinkie salad?

DrChaos says:
oh god

Carleigh says:
Pigs in a Twinkie

DrChaos says:
OoooOoooo good timing

DrChaos says:
H1N1 in a Twinki!

Carleigh says:
el-oh-el.

Carleigh says:
ok forget the pigs... too controversial.

Carleigh says:
omg. there's one that involves spraying the twinkies with food coloring.

DrChaos says:
you can do that?

Carleigh says:
I GUESS SO!

Burning Man.

2009-05-04T11:29:00.000-07:00

We are starting to get our costumes together for Burning Man. Jim and I are each putting together a Steampunk costume, (Jim is a mad inventor, and I am an airship pirate) and I am working on a kinda post- apocalyptic outfit too.

FYI, Steampunk looks like this:

You have to imagine that you are in the past, and dreaming of the future. Brass, leather, cogs, all sorts of little gadgets and wires... Very geeky. Here's another good one:

We aren't bringing anything this elaborate to the Playa, but we have some fun stuff put together! I bought these boots from ebay:

And an avaitor hat of course! A MUST HAVE for any airship pirate:

The round goggles are kind of an anchor piece for any Steampunk costume:

But we also wanted some really good goggles for the dust storms, so we are buying these ones too!

My job is to find the basic pieces, and Jim will trick them out with all sorts of lasers & cogs & gauges & stuff.

Fun. Geeky. Just like us.

Ill take pictures when I've got a few more pieces together.

I like commas.

2009-04-27T15:39:00.000-07:00

I like commas.

2009-04-22T17:01:00.001-07:00

Ajahn Brahm

2009-04-22T11:42:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling less-than-articulate today, which may or may not be due to the martinis last night. It took me 5 minutes to retrieve the word "articulate" from my memory banks, but I wasn't about to settle for "well-spoken".

Ajahn Brahmavamso Mahathera is a theoretical physicist turned Buddhist monk. He spent nine years studying and training in the Thai Theravada (forest meditation) tradition under Venerable Ajahn Chah. Currently Ajahn Brahm is the abbot of Bodhinyana Monastery in Serpentine, Western Australia.

Also, is not your typical monk. Today I'll let him do the talking!

Dealing with emotion

Getting high on Vesak

Fear

I like commas.

2009-04-16T11:20:00.000-07:00

Bacon links.

2009-04-14T17:21:00.001-07:00

Baconwear:

Bacon of the Month Club:

Bacon unwrapped:

Bacon Book:

I like commas. (Easter edition)

2009-04-14T14:26:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter.

Vipassana retreat: Part 1.

2009-04-07T15:30:00.000-07:00

People often ask me what the hell the deal is with this ten-day silent meditation thing I do in January/ February. And if they don’t ask, I often bring it up- because I like to toot my own horn.

Like most people who have found something that makes them happy, I want everyone to meditate. You don’t have to go to a retreat to meditate, but for those who appreciate the baptism-by-fire approach to spirituality, this is it. Needless to say, the experience is not the same for everyone. I’m hoping people who are interested in the concept of a retreat, but don’t want to be subjected to my notoriously long-winded description of my experiences, can scan through my long-winded entries and take what they want.

Alright then.

Gong is rung at 4 am
4:30: Morning Meditation in the hall until 6:30
6:30 Breakfast and rest time until 8:00
8:00 Meditate until 11:00 (with a few 5 minute breaks)
11:00 Lunch and rest time until 1:00
1:00 Meditate until 5:00 (with a few 5 minute breaks)
5:00 Tea until 6:00
6:00 Meditate until 7:00
7:00 A pre-taped talk given By S.N. Goenka (the real hard cores meditate throughout this) until 8:15
8:15 Meditate until 9:00
9:00 Ask the group leader questions about the practice or go to bed.
9:30 Lights out.
Repeat for 9 days.

It’s hard.
It’s hard to be quiet for 10 days. It’s hard to sit for an hour at a time. It’s hard to keep my eyes closed for the better part of the day. Sometimes at the end of a sitting, my eyes are crusted shut. As I slowly quiet my mind and become more aware of my body, I become exponentially more aware of how uncomfortable I am.

After a few days, heightened self-awareness doesn’t really seem like such a great idea after all. At that point you may make a choice to buy into this marathon of pain, and believe that things will get better as you learn the technique. Or, if you’re like me, you’re just too intimidated by the nuns to tell them you want to get the fuck out of there, and you have no money or cell phone, so staying seems like the path of least resistance.

If you are one of those people who sometimes fear that you might scream out in church, or start laughing uncontrollably at a funeral, you will know what we go through in those ten days. We are supposed to be QUIET all the time. No speaking. No heavy footsteps. No closing the door or turning on/off the tap too loudly. (The latter command was issued on a little sign next to the bathroom tap, making me laugh the first time I saw it- then clap a hand over my mouth in fear that someone had been disturbed by my little outburst of delight.)

Disturbing the other students is obviously frowned upon, and some students take this directive more seriously then others. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to be quiet, like when your mind is screaming at you. And when you shut your mouth up for 10 days, your mind will have a few things to offer up. Trust. My mind is apparently dominated by a bratty 2 year old. The anger… the tears… it all comes out, and somehow I try to make it come out QUIETLY.

It's strange and kind of hilarious to be weeping uncontrollably through your lunch, because its your last meal of the day and dammit, you are going to EAT THIS MEAL NO MATTER WHAT IT TAKES, and every fibre of your being is therefore devoted to bawling as QUIETLY as humanly possible.
Of course, this is an absurd exercise, because there are people seated inches away from you on either side, and they would have to be deaf, blind, and somewhat dulled in their emotional capacity to not know what is happening. But this is what I do, and I hope people aren’t too annoyed by my showing of weakness.

At the end of the retreat, people I barely know approach me with wide, compassion-filled eyes, to say things like: “I don’t know what you were crying about at lunch that day, but I wanted so badly to hug you and tell you that you’re not alone”. And then I cry again, because I had forgotten, and it feels so good to be reminded.

Spandex Man.

2009-04-06T14:15:00.000-07:00

RULES:
1. Put your I Pod on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.

Here we go.

IF SOMEONE SAYS 'ARE YOU OKAY' YOU SAY... Insensible. (Portishead)

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF? Reverse Cowgirl (Preserved cowgirl). (People like us)
How about: “Not a cowgirl, but sometimes wears those cute straw cowboy hats at the beach, because they’re kind of fun & look good with my aviators.” ?
“Preserved” makes it sounds like I sleep in brine. Or formaldehyde.

WHAT DO YOU LOOK FOR IN A GUY/GIRL? You've got Maelstrom. (Blockhead)
A maelstrom (or malström/malstrøm in the Scandinavian languages) is a very powerful whirlpool; a large, swirling body of water. A free vortex, it has considerable downdraft. The Nordic word was introduced into English by Edgar Allan Poe in his story "A Descent into the Maelström" (1841).
So I look for a giant vortex, popularized by such starry-eyed romantic poets as Edgar Allan Poe? The I Pod knows all…

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY? A season in Hell. (Moby)
A bit over-dramatic maybe… kind of like Moby.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE? The Killer's Vanilla. (Amon Tobin)

WHAT'S YOUR MOTTO? Abba Zaba (Captain Beefheart & his Magic Band)

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU? Metamorphosis 3. (Philip Glass)

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU? Amy, Amy, Amy. (Amy Winehouse)
Because they… have dementia? The I pod knows all.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT YOU? Sucker. (Peeping Tom)
Bit of a low self esteem issue, I guess. The I pod knows all.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR FIRST KISS? On Her Majesty's Secret Service (Propellerheads)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND? Kitty Takes a Ride (kitty mix up). (The Bran Flakes)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY? Israel. (Ween)

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? El Camino. (Ween)
TWO WEEN SONGS in a ROW! IT MUST be a sign! Long live the Boognish!

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE? Teach me Tiger (April Stevens)
RAWR!

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING? Buddham Sharanam (Craig Pruess)
This is from an album titled: "Sacred Chants of Buddha". Needless to say, It’s not very danceable. And also, I’m already married.

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL? Ars Moriendi. (Mr Bungle)
Nah… Maybe “Pink Cigarette”…

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST? Vacetious Blooms. (Neotropic)

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR? Untitled. (Amon Tobin & Kid Koala)
OooOOooo, sounds creepy. Kinda vague… Fear of the unknown?

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET? Chinese Translation. (M. Ward)

WHAT DO YOU WANT RIGHT NOW? Twiggy Twiggy (Twiggy vs. James Bond). (Pizzicato Five)
I want to see Twiggy vs. James Bond in an all-out, no holds barred, grudge match. Right Now. The I pod knows all.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS? Customized. (Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet)

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS? Spandex Man. (Mr. Scruff)

I like commas.

2009-04-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

For info on the bunny/birdcages pic, visit Meladori Magpie:
http://www.meladori.com/

Bacon links.

2009-04-01T14:47:00.000-07:00

Squeez Bacon:

Chicken fried bacon:

Baconnaise:

Bacon salt:

Giant sausage wrapped in bacon:

MSN

2009-04-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

Carleigh says:
you come home now, k?
Carleigh says:
I promised Chris Mair I’d beat you tonight.
DrChaos says:
Check. he just got beat by me today and is trying to beat me now.... You may still have to beat me on my return.
DrChaos says:
Likely, you will
Carleigh says:
That’s what I'm SAYING!
DrChaos says:
ok then
Carleigh says:
I got the +1 mace ready
DrChaos says:
Ah!
DrChaos says:
and the ring of ass-whopping?
Carleigh says:
and the katana of eternal acid reflux
DrChaos says:
OH ... god.....
Carleigh says:
the claymore of painful constipationx2...
DrChaos says:
fear....
Carleigh says:
Why do my weapons all involve digestive function?
DrChaos says:
..... and more fear....
DrChaos says:
too bad my ginch of invulnerability is in the wash.
DrChaos says:
my bad luck on this roll

I like commas.

2009-03-31T11:20:00.001-07:00

Here are some pictures I found in my "Carleigh's docs" folder.

EMDR, forgiveness, & acceptance.

2009-03-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

EMDR is a kind of therapy that I am doing. I don't really want to explain the details here. You can Google it, or ask me for my therapist's web site if you're interested.

Its the weirdest thing to be sitting there on the couch, with a memory replaying in your mind's eye, and you are right there, feeling the anger, fear, sadness, or sometimes just deadness (that was a big one from my childhood) that enveloped your early life. What’s different is that now you are also there as an adult, seeing things from a rational and often more forgiving perspective.

You simultaneously re-live and observe the exact moments when you took on the blame/shame for something that wasn't your fault, and started to hate yourself. It might have been something you were blamed for, or something you decided was your fault.
You see yourself, and suddenly it makes sense that a 4 year old would have reacted "that way", or that a ten year old would have done “that”. You start forgiving yourself for things you have held on to for 20 years or more, and weirdly, it gradually becomes easier to forgive the mistakes you are currently making as well.

You also see how those who love you vastly, breathtakingly wronged you, and it hurts. You are revisiting these memories with an adult perspective now, so forgiving others (or at least understanding their motivations) is easier too. It actually feels good. You start to forgive and accept those who are currently hurting you. And gradually you start to understand that people can’t hurt you if you don’t let them.

Sometimes, you realize that no forgiveness is required, because your self-hate is based on a child-like misconception about life that you have carried for years, without ever revisiting it to see if it was still logical/ helpful. The relief you feel in these situations is so wonderful, and so deep. These are the freebies, and you will learn to love them.

But for any of this to work, you have to put yourself completely in your therapist’s hands. This is not to say that you don't question what she tells you, but sometimes you just have to take her word on things even if you don't agree at first. Changing thought patterns does require actual vigilance, but its way easier then I ever thought it would be. And I’m usually pretty bad with the day-to-day maintenance of this stuff. But I forgive myself!

No that’s a lie. I don’t beat myself up as much as I used to for not being perfect! And that is half the battle GI Joe.

Buying shit. Lots of it. And then throwing it away. And buying more shit to replace it.

2009-03-23T15:55:00.000-07:00

“Our enormously productive economy…demands that we make consumption our way of life, that we convert the buying and use of goods into rituals, that we seek our spiritual satisfaction, our ego satisfaction, in consumption…we need things consumed, burned up, replaced and discarded at an ever-accelerating rate.”

I know, I know... "Duh!" But we all need reminders sometimes. Just this morning I was seriously considering getting a cell phone even though I hate the phone, had one a few years back and never used it, have very little interest in Twitter, or taking pics on the fly and uploading them to my Facebook, and HATE sending text messages. Even though Jim has a cell, I have spent under 5 minutes trying to learn how to do anything besides answer it.

So why was I pining for a cell? We hung out with a couple of friends this weekend who have iphones. And they looked fun. That's it.

Please don't think I'm dissing you if you LOVE these things, or if you have an iphone. They look fun! But not for me. I hate the phone. Why should I own more than 1?

I liked to think of myself as anti-consumerist. Based on the amount of shit Jim and I have been carting away to the dump every weekend, in an effort to simplify our lives, I'm going to have to re-think that.

Oh, and the quote was Victor LeBeau, Retail Analyst Post WW II.

http://www.storyofstuff.com/

Dreams

2009-01-15T18:14:00.000-08:00

I just got back from a 10 day Vipassana meditation course. It’s my second course. You don’t speak for ten days, except to the teacher if you’re having a problem with the technique. Or if you’re having a break down or panic attack or something of that nature, and there were plenty of those.

You meditate for about 11 hours a day, in 1- 2 hour sittings, from 4:30 am to 9:00 at night. Not surprisingly, all that communication with the subconscious tends to encourage a lot of dreaming. Even the odd 20-minute nap I grabbed during the lunch or dinner breaks was full of dreams. Here are some I remember:

The compassionate Baker-y:

I own a beautiful bakery. Very feminine, old fashioned décor, with colorful dainty cupcakes arranged on cake trays in the front window. The color scheme is pastel.

Its evening and I’m closed. While I clean up, someone knocks on the door. It’s someone I seem to know fairly well, a young, awkward, kind of chubby guy covered in acne. I welcome him in, and we chat for a long time. I remember thinking that I should flirt harmlessly with him for a bit, to bolster is ego.

I check the time, and I see that it’s late, about 10 o’clock. I calmly tell him that the men who have been breaking into the bakery every night for the past few nights are about to arrive. Tonight, I’ve already done the deposit, but I’ve saved them some leftover cupcakes, and I had one sale after hours, so I’m going to give them that money too. I greet them warmly at the door as they arrive. They are a little surprised, but accept the cupcakes & money, and leave without incident. As the dream ends, I say, “That was a good show” as if I was critiquing the dream like a TV show or something.

Scary Dream:

In this dream my perspective is first person, and moves like a steady cam. There is absolutely no sound. The effect is surreal and spooky. I walk down a street at night in a bad neighborhood. I turn a corner and notice a skinny man with a curly gray beard walking slowly toward me, he was kind of biker looking come to think of it. I know he’s coming for me. I panic and turn around, looking for a place to hide. I duck into a dive bar, but it is completely empty and silent. I leave the bar and see that the man is still advancing slowly.

I run back around the corner and suddenly he is right in my face. He says something like: “Hello. You shouldn’t be here”, while backing me into an alley. A friend of his appears, and advances on me also. He kicks me, and the bearded guy punches me. Blood spatters out and hits them, and spatters across the first person perspective, so now it really looks more like a video camera then a human perspective. I am also starting to get the feeling that the victim isn’t me.

The police arrive and take the men away. The movie quality of the dream goes one step further, and a still photograph of a cop helping the victim, a bloodied young boy into a police car appears. I think there was voice over too, but I don’t remember what it was saying.

Mouth breather:

I’m going swimming at the pool. I am given a mouth-guard looking thing that will allow me to breathe in the water. As I approach the pool, a couple of lifeguards tell me that it’s too bad I chose to come today, because the pool is heavily chlorinated.

I must be wearing a mask or goggles, because I can clearly see the bottom of the pool as I swim. It is strewn with tampons, both used and unused, as well as other assorted feminine hygiene paraphernalia, band-aids, etc…

As the mouth breather thing I’m using requires me to suck the water into my mouth, I’m kind of grossed out, but glad the pool was heavily chlorinated that day.

Intimidation:

I’m driving a big bulky van in a narrow alley, and I’m not happy about it. I try to turn around, and end up blocking the road, unable to move. An old man comes out of his house, and gets in a pickup.

He can see perfectly well that I’m blocking the way, but he still drives his truck right into my van, at a fairly low speed. Very little damage is done, I’m confused and surprised, and I get out to question him. He doesn’t say much, but seems quite menacing, full of quiet rage.

I ask for his license, since we’ve just been in an accident, and that’s what you’re supposed to do. He looks furious and says something like: “Oh yeah? You want my license?”. Suddenly another pickup pulls up, as if he has been summoned by the old man.. I can’t see the driver’s face, just his hands. He’s holding a flask.

I’m terrified and tell the old man to just forget it. He immediately drops the menacing persona, backs up his truck, and drives away. As I walk away from the van with the passenger I had with me, she says: “you should be happy, you avoided a bad situation there.” I reply “But I’m not happy.” And I fall to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

I wake up kind of convulsing and breathing funny, sobbing without tears. But I quickly fall back to sleep.

When I woke up the next day, I wasn’t sure if the sobbing thing had been real, or another part of the dream (like when you think you’re waking up for the day and start getting ready, only to realize it’s a dream). Because it was the last full day of the course, we were allowed to speak again, so I asked my roommates if I had made a lot of noise that night. The woman in the bed next to me said that I had been very noisy, and had sat up straight at one point and yelled out “WHAT?” She heard me even with her earplugs in.

I'll post more about the actual meditation experience later. And more dreams if I remember them.

Your Attention Please

2008-09-05T08:31:00.000-07:00

The Polar DEW has just warned that
A nuclear rocket strike of
At least one thousand megatons
Has been launched by the enemy
Directly at our major cities.
This announcement will take
Two and a quarter minutes to make,
You therefore have a further
Eight and a quarter minutes
To comply with the shelter
Requirements published in the Civil
Defence Code - section Atomic Attack.
A specially shortened Mass
Will be broadcast at the end
Of this announcement -
Protestant and Jewish services
Will begin simultaneously -
Select your wavelength immediately
According to instructions
In the Defence Code. Do not
Take well-loved pets (including birds)
Into your shelter - they will consume
Fresh air. Leave the old and bed-
ridden, you can do nothing for them.
Remember to press the sealing
Switch when everyone is in
The shelter. Set the radiation
Aerial, turn on the geiger barometer.
Turn off your Television now.
Turn off your radio immediately
The Services end. At the same time
Secure explosion plugs in the ears
Of each member of your family. Take
Down your plasma flasks. Give your children
The pills marked one and two
In the C.D green container, then put
Them to bed. Do not break
The inside airlock seals until
The radiation All Clear shows
(Watch for the cuckoo in your
perspex panel), or your District
Touring Doctor rings your bell.
If before this, your air becomes
Exhousted or if any of your family
In critically injured, administer
The capsules marked 'Valley Forge'
(Red Pocket in No. 1 Survival Kit)
For painless death. (Catholics
Will have been instructed by their priests
What to do in this eventuality).
This announcement is ending. Our President
Has already given orders for
Massive retaliation - it will be
Decisive. Some of us may die.
Remember, statistically
It is not likely to be you.
All flags are flying fully dressed
On Government buildings - the sun is shining.
Death is the least we have to fear.
We are all ,
Whatever happens happens by His Will.
Now go quickly to your shelters.

 -- Peter Porter


My Dad read this at the school Remembrance Day
assembly when I was in ninth grade.
Blew my young, cynical, know-it-all ninth grade mind.
I love the idea that even as we bomb the shit
out of ourselves,we're still resting comfortably
"in the hands of God".
But then really, what else is there to say
at a moment like that?