Zelda Sayre

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you

you leave the same impression

of something beautiful but annihilating

- Sylvia Plath

Posthumously, after a fire claimed her life, Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald was coined as being most remembered for her defeats, portrayed as a victim of an over-bearing husband and then heralded a feminist icon.  It is quite a legacy for one woman, an emblem of the Roaring Twenties and the Jazz Age – full of youth, apparent wealth and beauty.

Most know Zelda from being the spirited partner of literary superstar, F. Scott Fitzgerald but together the two of them left quite a carnival of monkeyshines behind.  F. Scott dubbed Zelda ‘the first American flapper’ and after the success of his first novel, they became rapid celebrities.  The pair rubbed elbows with other literary giants like Ernest Hemingway, were party darlings riding on top of taxi cabs and infamously jumping in the Union Square fountain together; the golden couple of a golden age. 

Theirs is a long and complicated history, their relationship has been debated just as much as that of Plath and Hughes.  Their marriage was a byzantine tangle of jealousy, antipathy and acrimony.  Zelda’s audacious behavior and F. Scott’s wily ways became a great subject of gossip.  They fought passionately, broke up frequently but married in 1920.  F. Scott would often use the details of their personal lives as raw material for his writing.   It is also said that he was so in awe of Zelda’s writing style and voice, he would sometimes rifle through her diaries and letters in search of anything new and fresh and uncommon to infuse into his own work.

Zelda had a passion for dance, for painting and writing.  She possessed an illustrious, tactile vernacular.  Her prose, like her artwork was lush, extravagant and acutely original.  Her language bountiful and her descriptions were often saturated with sensual, visual metaphors.  Zelda wasn’t content to be idolized but she did garner a fierce talent all of her own that was overcast by her famous husband and was never really truly credited for her own art or identity.

The party life took its toll on them.  F. Scott was consumed by his alcoholism and Zelda began her slow agonizing descent into schizophrenia, compounded by the sheer isolation and boredom she endured when her husband was hunkered down writing.  At the end of the Jazz Age, F. Scott mused, ‘Sometimes I don’t know whether Zelda and I are real or whether we are characters in one of my novels.’  They certainly had a larger than life presence together.

My first introduction to F. Scott Fitzgerald was of course in high school when I protested against doing my paper on the Roaring Twenties, opting to explore the world of Dylan Thomas instead.  It was later, on my own that I discovered Zelda and that she wasn’t just the wife of a famed writer but an artist in her own right and while it certainly wasn’t behavior akin to receiving company in my bath, choosing to write about Dylan Thomas instead of the Jazz Age was a very Zelda Sayre thing to do.

She was a fascinating figure often overlooked artistically in favor of F. Scott’s literary success but she was an extraordinary writer.  Her novel Save Me The Waltz rivaled her husband’s work.  It is said he was furious with her for using bits and pieces of their lives in her book when he was to do the very same thing with his work Tender Is The Night. The two pieces of writing stand as divergent renderings of a doomed marriage.

Zelda was indeed the wife of a literary darling but she truly deserves that title all on her own as well.  She was a vivacious, coquettish woman, whose vibrant personality influenced her partner’s writing.  She was a mother, ballerina, writer and painter.  While her written word lives on, much of her artwork has been lost.  Either misplaced or destroyed by her family.

I have a fantastic book called Zelda: A Life Illustrated that by all accounts is difficult to find these days.  It holds a prestigious place on my bookshelf.  Its pages are full of high quality depictions of her paintings and sketches and a warm (biased perhaps) biography written by her grand-child.  I pull it down now and then to peruse her strange and unique style of painting; paper-dolls, Alice in Wonderland, fairy-tales, mothers with babies, cityscapes and sometimes gruesome depictions of dancers.  Upon buying, devouring and securing a home for its pages in my book collection, I wrote this for her:

Tiny Dancer

Zelda Sayre

climbed

the royal

staircase

&

jumped

just to see

how far she

could fall

for

spinach

&

champagne.

One can surmise

so much from her

candy-coated

courage.

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald symbolized the freedom of the Jazz Age.  She wrote in part to combat her restiveness while F. Scott was immersed in his own writing.  Zelda was diagnosed with schizophrenia and hospitalized after a breakdown in 1930 and spent the rest of her years in sanatoriums until a hospital fire claimed her life in 1948.  It wasn’t until the 1960s when her work began to gain recognition and studied seriously outside of her husband’s looming shadow.

Sometimes the most talented are the most tortured.

(SIDENOTE:  When I pulled my book down off the shelf last night to prepare my noodle for this blog entry I happened upon a few mementos from someone I used to know.  When the worn white sheets of paper slid from the inside cover into my lap I felt my heart break a little bit.  It’s been a good while since I happened upon these pages and in all honesty I thought I had disposed of them.  I am known to be a touch sentimental so I wasn’t surprised to discover I hadn’t thrown them away after all; two pages of writing, two pieces that when they were given to me, it meant everything just to be trusted enough to share their words.  I know how difficult that can be.  I read both of the poems and then I tucked them back into the tome for safe keeping and eased my harried heart to its common measure.  I am notorious for placing things inside my books, notes, letters and scribbled bits of writing.  You never know what you might find if you borrow something of mine.)

I will leave you with a favorite quote of mine, courtesy of Zelda:

‘Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.’

In propinquity,

Nic

Life Is A Beautiful Struggle

I hated high school with the fire of a thousand suns. By the time 12^th grade started I was bored with class schedules, homework and feeling disillusioned about the future. That was the year, in 1991/1992 that I really started to feel the passion for pushing my pen across the page. I submitted a poem I wrote about Simon LeBon's boat accident simply called 'Drum' to my English teacher for a poetry contest. Our relationship was tumultuous because I faked a lot of headaches that year missed several of his classes. I did hand in all of my assignments and did well unless you count the paper I wrote on Dylan Thomas. We were studying the 'roaring twenties' and I had no desire to wax poetic about 'The Great Gatsy' (at the time) because I was reading about Dylan Thomas on my own. At the time, he seemed so much more interesting. So, my teacher let me stray from his curriculum and do my paper on my chosen subject. Unfortunately for me, he discovered this amazing new program that allowed a computer grade our papers instead of his lazy form. I made an astounding 50 percent on that paper. The computer said my language was 'too sophisticated' for high school level, that those reading at high school level wouldn't comprehend it. I protested the mark because I worked my GUTS out on that paper and it was fantastic! He said his hands were tied because all of the papers were graded the same way and he wouldn't take a second look on account of it being fair. He hadn't even read them himself. So unfair. Between that and the fact that when I handed in my poem for the contest and he 'forgot' to submit it on my behalf as he said he would, I lost complete faith in him. I was beginning to feel writing in my bones and he was mocking me while all of the daft hockey players and Colby kids were getting all of the accolades. This was especially distressing when he came up to me on graduation day, shook my hand and said, 'Congratulations on your graduation, you are an extraordinary writer. It was a pleasure having you in my class.' My initial reaction was to slap the stupid hippy moustache off of his smug face. I was devastated. He spent a lot of time at odds with me when all I needed from was a little bit of support. In fact, HE was the one who asked me to submit the poem for that contest. I was hesitant because I wasn't sure if it was polished enough. He assured me it was perfect. It was the only time I ever stayed behind after a class and ate my lunch with a teacher. We talked about Bob Dylan's songwriting, the Beat poets and I felt like I finally had a teacher I could trust. He knew I knew my stuff but he favoured the idiot hockey players because they were the school's gold and set the Eastern Passage kids to the side.

If all that wasn't bad enough, I was also busy trying to figure out my 'after school' plans in the Co-op program. It wasn't an easy program to get accepted into but I really wanted it so that I could gather some focus for what I was going to do after school was done. My essay landed me a seat and I couldn't have been happier. It was a welcome distraction from the dull classes I was taking. I actually looked forward to going to school on Co-op days. My Co-op instructor loved me and I collected perfect marks for pretty much everything I did. I was feeling good. Then it came time to start choosing the fields we were interested in and where we'd like to go and do our work-placements. This was the part I was most interested in. Getting out of that staunchy school and doing something in the real world. I mulled over my choices for a long time and presented them to her with much resistance. I either wanted to do my placement at a newspaper or some type of print media setting or a recording studio. She looked at me like I had ten heads. In the end, she pushed me to take something more 'practical'. Something with a future. I ended up working my weeks at Canadian Mental Health. I was organizing programming for their social club, interacting with the clients and being an ear when they needed someone to talk and that was often. I enjoyed it and liked the people I worked with a great deal but that wasn't where I wanted to be. I wanted to be knee deep in a place where things were created and ideas sprang eternal. My teachers and parents were pleased I took the appropriate route but I was dying inside.

I landed my first job the week after high school ended. All of my hard work at Canadian Mental Health helped me secure a position with Regional Residential Services. I was the new kid on a very seasoned team in a group home for functioning adults who needed guidance and supervision but could do pretty much everything on their own. In the beginning it was intimidating but I soon became part of the family and I came to care about the residents very much. We made meals together, played cards, watched movies, I took them shopping and I eased their tempers and tantrums and I was good at it. I was under the watchful eye of a supportive manager who was filling in for the full time house matron who was holding an administrative position at head office for someone's maternity leave. I was having a great time. I was making my own money and I was good at my job and often told as much. Then the the full time manager returned. I was new and young and she liked her power. The people I worked alongside for almost eight months started to turn on me, mostly because I think they were afraid of her. I tried my best to keep my chin up under the pressure of her coming back. You could cut the tension in the house with a knife. I just kept doing what I'd always done but it was incredibly uncomfortable. Long story short, she forced me to quit over something really stupid, helping one of the residents clean our their dresser. She was a pack rat and it was overflowing with junk. I spent a few hours helping her because my co-worker hadn't had the chance to help her yet. Turns out, she told our manager that she asked me to do on more than one occasion and that I hadn't so SHE had to do it. Complete and utter lie. The politics were dirty and I was ousted because of a power struggle. I gathered my things and went home. Not one person, aside from the residents said goodbye to me. I cried my eyes out the whole way home. That was a hard first lesson in the working world. If I'd have gone and done my Co-op placement at one of my desired locations, who knows where I'd have ended up.

I was heart-broken. Not only with the work stuff but boy stuff too. When it rains it pours, you know? I spent a lot of time in coffee shops with my notebook and a pen writing and observing my surroundings. The tea and music that played overhead was soothing and I was desperately in need of something uplifting. I found an ad inside the door on the poster walls of Paperchase Cafe for a weekly writing group. I called and signed up immediately.

The writing group was every Thursday from 7pm to 9pm, hosted by a kind soul named David Publicover. Incidentally, he ran a group home upstairs but held his meetings in the basement of his house. There I was, dejected and full of woe with my writing tucked under my arm. Turns out it was just what I needed. An eclectic cast of characters came together to share their writings and ideas and offer support and friendship. I lived for those Thursday nights. I was shy as all get out back then but I managed to whisper a few poems and lines and things. David made us all feel really at home. The basement was dark and cozy, smelled of incense and time, the walls lined with books and every nook and cranny full of interesting knick-knacks. Every week we'd all sit together, sip raspberry juice or mulled wine and talk about writing and meet the guest speakers he'd have in for inspiration. I wrote some interesting stuff during those six weeks. One of our homework assignments was to take the item David offered and to write a thousand words about it. He chose a stone African mask for me and I wrote at least five thousand words and called my story 'Ajuji's Stone Beauty'. I wish I still had it.

David's writing group saved me from losing my mind and helped restore my defeated heart. I was still so young and unaware of just how cruel the world could be. I made some wonderful friends and most importantly, I was writing. All the time. I was constantly inspired and his writing group also led me to the friend who helped me get the job at the theatre company. SO many good things came from those few weeks. Partaking in these sessions reminded me that writing was my passion and creativity was just as essential as air for survival.

David is no longer with us. He died some years back now but he was one of the first people contribute to my postcard collection. He traveled a lot and always wanted to share the width of the world with others. He was a welcome presence in my life at a time when I felt very small and insignificant. I owe him a debt of gratitude for his encouragement and for instilling the brilliance and beauty of words in me and reminding me that I was meant to share mine.

He wrote about our group in his weekly newspaper column, singling each one of us out and introducing us to his readers:

Located in the bowels of Dartmouth is my basement hideaway. On Thursday evenings, between seven and nine, and when Jupiter is aligned with Mars, my space becomes a meeting place for eight sensitive souls who get together to write, to share ideas and to energize.

Nicole arrives first. She smiles, and her eyes sparkle. A deep, thoughtful person, I hand her a glass of raspberry juice and we wait for the others to arrive. “I just want to make my mark on the world.” she tells me. I feel that she will. She has much to offer and her vibes are good.”

My friend Charles called to tell me about the column and when I finally got my copy of the paper and sat down to read I couldn't help but feel a little bashful and elated at the same time. I had just spent the last few years before, getting my ass kicked by high school and my first paying job. I had so little faith in myself, had felt so small and here was someone complimenting me for all eyes to see. I hadn't seen myself as David had and it took a long time to succeed in doing so but I did. But, before doing so, I had several other lessons to learn.

I was and still am a work in progress. As they say, it isn't about the destination, it's the journey.

In propinquity,

Nic

Morrison Laments

“That's what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is. Most people love you for who you pretend to be. To keep their love, you keep pretending - performing. You get to love your pretense. It's true, we're locked in an image, an act - and the sad thing is, people get so used to their image, they grow attached to their masks. They love their chains. They forget all about who they really are. And if you try to remind them, they hate you for it, they feel like you're trying to steal their most precious possession.”

-Jim Morrison, Poet and Singer, (December 8^th, 1943 – July 3^rd, 1971)

In the early 1990s I discovered Jim Morrison, the poet.  I’d been listening to The Doors for as long as I can remember but was unaware of their history or of the enigmatic persona of their front man.  The above quote really says a lot about who Jim really was.  Military brat, film student, self- inflated rock star on the outside but inside he was equal parts poet and soft passion.  At least, after all of the reading and research and listening I did, that is the conclusion I’ve drawn.

Jim Morrison mesmerized the young budding writer in me.  He was exciting, sharp-tongued and had all of these uninhibited perceptions.  His approach to writing was inspired and the outcome riotously esoteric.  I was elated reading his work.  It was dark, portentous and at times thoughtful depending on the subject.  Here was a guy who on sight, looked rebellious with his swaggering attire and long shaggy hair but who on the inside was a soft parade of poetics and phrases.  He was a paradox and I was bewitched as so many others were.  Morrison possessed a strange litany of qualities whereby he could draw you in even if you insisted on being repulsed by his lack of regard for authority or spewing his licentious obscenities.  There was something about him that was irresistible, even at his worst.

In 1947, when here was just four years old, Jim allegedly witnessed a bloody car accident on a desert highway where a family of Native Americans were either injured or killed.  Bleeding in the road, it is believed to have made quite an impression on him because in later interviews he suggests that the spirits of those Natives jumped into his soul, transferring shaman-like powers that he carried with him in his rock and roll guise.

The man, who claimed that some of the worst mistakes of his life were haircuts, loved the romantic verses of William Blake just as much as the contemporary revolution of the Beat Poets in Kerouac and Ginsberg etc.  He spent some time in LA film school, became bored with it but opted to stay enrolled to avoid being drafted for the army.  Later, he shared some of his fanciful writing with a soon to be Doors member on Venice Beach, words that he’d written on a rooftop and from there the band formed and they gradually made the climb atop the rock world with their distinct brand of psychedelic ear candy.

Ultimately, Jim wanted to be and was a poet first.  He wanted to be heard, for people to absorb his thoughts and writings.  He became a rock representation by default and instead of being known for his true poet self, he became better known for his dark lyrics and eccentric stage presence.  The poet started his music tenure singing shyly with his back to the crowd and then conjured up enough mojo to turn the world on its axis when he finally delivered his face.  As the band became more famous, Morrison’s private life and public persona started to rapidly spiral out of control.  Morrison lost his true essence to his alcoholism and drug addictions and his infamous womanizing, all of which led to violent onstage outbursts that provoked the ire of cops and club-owners wherever he went and ultimately led to obscenity charges in December 1967.  He was backstage, blitzed and fraternizing with a young woman, the police came upon the couple, Jim ignored orders to disperse and so the policed sprayed him with mace to get him moving.  This episode caused his temper to flare to new heights and he bound onstage and delivered a profane diatribe that induced a riot to break out and led to his arrest on obscenity charges.  He was considered a menace.  Not well liked by law officials and his audience were growing impatient with his antics.

By 1969, his svelte form bulged from excessive drinking forcing him to trade his primal leather pants and Concho belts for more comfortable clothing, slacks, jeans and t-shirts.  His puffy face was covered by a thick beard and mustache.  The Lizard King who could do anything was growing weary, frustrated with the LA music scene.  He packed up with Pamela (the woman with whom he had a tumultuous on again off again romance with and ultimately bequeathed his entire estate to) and moved to Paris in March 1971.  Plans for a future Doors record was rumored but Jim needed a much needed amnesty from the rock and roll lifestyle.

The Doors record that was planned, a blues record never did happen because Jim passed away in a Paris bathtub on July 3, 1971.  Allegedly an overdose but mystery shrouds around the actual events because no autopsy was done and Pamela orchestrated a quick and suspicious burial.  Jim Morrison rests in Pere Lachaise, his grave-site is visited frequently and in the past has had parts stolen, vandalized and innumerable tokens of affection in homage by adoring fans who make the pilgrimage.  His grave is said to be guarded daily and because when he died Pamela only bought a 30 year lease, he was in jeopardy of being evicted by Paris’s most famous cemetery.  His family, who he seldom acknowledged while he was alive, upgraded the lease allowing his resting place to stay and purchased a steam cleaner for the Pere Lachaise to help alleviate the graffiti problem.

I was a hungry student when I discovered Jim Morrison.  I devoured books about him, the poetry books he’d written (all of which I used to carry around with me on early artist dates) and I delved more into the Doors discography.  In 1998, I got the bright idea (from spending so much time with theatre people) that I would write a one man show about Jim Morrison.  Mind you, I was no playwright and had no faith in my writing abilities at the time but I had this vision in my head from bumming around stages that I needed to get down on paper.  I called it ‘Morrison Laments’.  It’s a short one man show, it’d be good for the Fringe Festival but my ambitions were lofty because the piece would have to include Doors music and I’m certain the rights to those songs would cost an arm and a leg but a little girl lost can dream, right?

I spent a lot of time reading interviews Jim did.  I compiled many of his actual quotes and wrote a seven page script on them with some of my own words to flesh it out.  It’s based on the idea that Jim was misunderstood, like in the above quote at the beginning of the blog, that how sometimes we grow so attached to our masks and the masks of others that we can’t ever just love them for who they truly are but who we need them to be.  Jim was a poet who posed as a Dionysus rock God.  He used rock and roll to spread his message but in the end, the message was lost and he was consumed by evils instead.  That’s the premise of my ‘show’. 

The play starts with a darkened theatre that gives way to a dim red haze.  We see Jim center stage, dressed in the iconic leather pants and Concho belt, long wily dark hair framing his intense expression, knelt down on one knee. Think his ‘Young Lion’ photo-shoot.  He rises, straight but swaggered, closing his eyes.  He sings the first verse of ‘Moonlight Drive’.

There are few props in this piece, books and such, a soap-box type thing, a white porcelain bathtub and a bottle of booze he swigs from now and then as he laments.  And lament he does.  My writing is shoddy and this needs A LOT of editing and refining but here’s a little excerpt from the piece:

‘I didn’t want to be a singer.  I couldn’t conceive it.  I thought I was going to be a writer or a sociologist, maybe just write plays.  I went to film school when I moved to California but I quit, man.  I guess the truth in my cinema made them see the ugly side of themselves maybe, I don’t know.  The idea that they hated it pleases me though, I was testing the bounds of reality and decency to see what would happen.  That’s just me.  I’m into anything about revolt, disorder, chaos.  I like to shake people up and make them feel … uncomfortable.  People think I’m high all the time.  I think they want me to take their trips for them. I guess it’s because they are too afraid, you know?  I’m not afraid.  The answer to a hard question about fear … expose yourself to your deepest fears, after that man, fear has no power and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes.  You are free.  For anything.  There is no more fear, just words and poetry and songs, so many songs and then death … the inevitable end.’

My goal, now that I have had a few people ask me about this piece, is to red pen it to perfection,  format and fix it so that it’s cohesive and while it’ll never make it to an actual opening, be stage ready.  Another challenge I am prepared to undertake because to be honest, currently, it’s a pile of donkey dung but there’s a gem in there somewhere.

I love the Doors.  I appreciate all of the rebellious antics of Jim Morrison because I was never that kind of person and in many ways, afraid to be.  Maybe that was his appeal, he said all of the things everyone else was thinking, did what he wanted, thwarted the establishment, punk perhaps but with lazier mind altering drugs and a brave new world perspective.  

One of my bucket list items is to park myself in the sand on Venice Beach, where Jim started the Doors, just to sit there and write.  Just absorb the Morrison ether in the ocean air and maybe adopt a little of that mischievous mojo for myself.  I will get there.  Sooner or later.

I have several (varying) literary heroes and I regard Jim Morrison as one of them.  He is one of the most prominent, iconic, magnetic and revolutionary front men in music but he was also a brilliant mind and a thoughtful poet.  Many see his raucous exterior and wild antics but I see an artist, with a purpose, an artist who had so much left to share. 

In propinquity,

Nic

Luke

I truly believe that the universe takes care of us, that goodness is infinite and whatever higher power we choose to believe in has a beautiful plan for each of us.  To foster our life's purpose and to touch as many lives as possible.  At least, I think so.  After my last post, a friend of mine and I were talking about how love in an instant is possible and while it is more often than not, fleeting, still carries weight and further proves that it isn't the length of time that a person is in your life that matters, it's the mark they leave on you.  Some can change the whole of your insides, some change your perspective and some awaken you to what you weren't able to see before.

At a time when I was blown wide open, in extreme pain and trying desperately to ease it anyway I could, one such human-being appeared.  I was in Hubbards with my family and friends, on my way back to the cabin after kicking up my heels at the Shore Club.  We were walking the same path, both figuratively and literally.  Somehow we ended up strolling together, engaging in meaningless small talk.  Enjoying the coy exchange, we then parked our weary selves on a big boulder by the beach and talked deep into the night.  Either of us was really in a position to offer much else but the timing was perfect for both of us to have an ear to bend, a shoulder to cry on and someone to laugh deep belly laughs with.  It was soul-satisfying.  Just to feel noticed, just to be heard and be in genuine company with someone who wanted to be beside you and not away from you.  He mirrored the same anecdote.

It was foggy and cool that night.  We both started to catch a chill, it was time to go.  He walked me back to my cabin but not without being a bit of a boy.  He was the kindest man I'd ever met; rapt, munificent and mirthful.  I had never been regarded with such tenderness.  We parted ways and that was the end of it.  I will always be grateful for that little bit of time I shared with him.  It was the best first and only date ever.  He has no idea how altered I became from our encounter.  How fulfilling it was and how much it was needed.  In my opinion, that's what a real man is made of.  I've yet to meet another like him.  I hope wherever he is in the world, he's happy and bestowing that Lion Heart on a deserving partner.  For a brief moment in time, he was my hero.

It happened just like this.  A snippet for you:

Snapshot From a Chance Meeting

Luke took my hand and together we climbed the steep craggy ocean wall from our stoop. He said,

'Let's break into that cabin over there and make out!' nodding toward the dark, ominous structure.

Piquant humour, I mused to myself, I like that in a man. Our midnight conversation shifted from elegiac to that of amusement.

'Absolutely not! That's how horror movies start.' I protested. All things considered, taking risks at this juncture wasn't in my best interest.

He threw his head back and laughed, squeezed my hand. Still chuckling, he whispered,

'Also how love stories begin.'  Luke had a tender, broken spirit. We matched.  For too brief a moment in time, we were meant for each other.

We were a mere whisper in a much greater cacophony. Two fractured hearts in transit, high on the smells of summer and imbued by the trials of loss and longing. His story written in boldfaced cuneiform, mine in italicized Times New Roman. There was nothing injurious about the person sitting next to me beside the water's edge, exchanging war stories and innocent words about life, love and the Great Canadian Dream under a lazy moon engulfed by fog.  It was a chance meeting, irreverent, erotic, and contented set against a subtle sea-side landscape; all through synchronized dialogue.  The time spent was all heart-song, every ounce sincere.

Our blurry silhouettes, spent from sharing our secrets under invisible stars, embraced and parted ways just before sun-up. He held me a second longer than he needed to. His arms were strong and comforting, a fortress. I savored in it, breathed it in. The kindest man I'd ever known.

Letting go, he smiled at me and tipped my nose with his finger, 'I'm glad I met you tonight. Thank you for all that back there.'

I returned the smile and blushed a little in his stare. 'Me too. It was lovely.'

With that, he slowly turned and started to walk away. At the same time, we both turned to look back at each other. We laughed. And then he was gone, into the wild but always in my heart.

***

While this moment is deeply personal (as is the subject of some of the best art in the world), it was such a charming twinkling of time that it deserves to be committed to the page (it started as a poem and ended up being a sliver of prose).  Also serves as a welcome reminder when I need it that there is enough love out there for all of us but sometimes it comes in small suites, as a surprise, when you least expect it.  It is moments such as these are worth living for, make the darkest days a little less lonely and keeps one buoyed in the notion that anything is possible and that goodness, in people and in the world, in the end, always prevails.

 In propinquity,

Nic

Curly Grapes

I was out enjoying myself with friends yesterday, soaking up the sun and culture of the Halifax waterfront lined with tall ships.  It was fun weaving through the waves of people, inhaling all of the aromas of food cooking (especially the sweet deliciousness of the Cow's Icecream waffle cones warming) and finally setting at the Lower Deck with my people for shenanigans, libations, laughs and great music.  In the middle of Shaydid's rendition of Adele's 'Rolling In The Deep' I spotted a face in the crowd I hadn't seen for many years.  Upon seeing him, I immediately remembered a poem a scribbled down on the back of a box office envelope I had tucked under my arm waiting around for instruction from the Artist Director.  I was working for a theatre company at the time and I always thought he was easily one of the loveliest faces God had ever awarded a man.  It appears he still has it.  After spotting him, I quietly recalled those years working alongside so many talented and tempermental people.  The theatre world is fascinating.  It was incredible to be part of so many amazing shows, from the germ stages of the first reading to the lights going down on opening night.  It was such a rush, such a challenge to watch and help mount an idea into a full production.  It takes a village and I lived for every second of it.

I was terribly fortunate to work as an assistant stage manager on Sheree Fitch's 'Light A Little Candle'.  Still one the most empowering and awe-inspiring/girl power times I have ever had.  The story was set in a transiton house and packed a powerful wallop.  I was there, stage-side for every single show, waiting for costume changes and the like.  I cried everynight.  Still weeping when the actor playing the eldest abuse character breaks down to reveal her reason for being there.  I knew every line of the show off by heart after a few days and I knew it was coming, yet every single time she'd wail, 'He raped me!' the hairs would raise on the back of my neck and my eyes filled with tears.  Used to make my stomach knot because she delivered that one line with outstanding emotion.  I'd be there helping her change, sobbing.  She would just smile and shake her head kindly and squeeze my arm gently.  So many great stories from that run, perhaps I'll share more on that show/experience at a later date.

This morning after whole wheat french toast and a steamy cup of joe, I dug through all of my writing books and found the poem I scribbled down that day.  Obviously, that envelope is long gone but I transfered it into my writing book once I was home.  You have to write things down where you have to until you can secure them to the pages of your writing book or commit them to a blank Word document.  What a flashback.  Pleasant.  I love to be reminded of good times.  His face and this poem did just that.

Curly Grapes

my eyes found you

leaning (casually)

on the Theatre Post

w/ a palm full of grapes

a pocket full of lightening

& a mess of wild tangles

in your curly blonde hair

you couldn't have been

any more beautiful

when the moon-clock ticked

& I paused to love you



I plan to fill my Sunday with things I love.  A few pages of my book, some writing, a killer playlist, exercise and a few hours with people I love.  And maybe, think a little more about all of the places I've been in my life that allowed me to arrive right here, right where I'm meant to be.  Punches, bumps in the road and all.  What a journey it's been so far.  Can't wait to see where else I'll go and who I'll meet.

In propinquity,

Nic

I Am Amelia Earhart

My brother married a super-hero.  Some of you know her well, some of you know of her because I often brag about her and those of you who don’t know her would love her.  My sister-n-law is a wonderful human who has a birthday coming up, and in honour of that I am giving her the gift of words (early) because I am a firm believer in goodness and grace, decency and love.  She embodies all of those things and so much more.

She deserves the following poetic accolades for thousands of reasons, all of which I can’t list here because there are just too many.  She has had a harrowing few years and I have watched her move through personal tragedy with poise and bravery.  She loves my brother unconditionally, guides two beautiful kids with a kind but firm rule and she’s the best kind of friend you could hope for.

Leanne is the one who forced me out of bed when my heart was broken, she’s made me martinis so strong that my eyes have popped out and has made me laugh so hard I almost pee my pants.  She is a miracle worker in a kitchen (one word: stew) and she lives her life everyday promoting positivity and kindness.  If you have the good fortune of knowing her, you are already aware of her riches.  I want to celebrate them here, because she deserves a nod and to be told she’s appreciated.  She is a strong, prominent woman, someone I admire, someone I adore.

Happy (early) birthday, Leanne.

I Am Amelia Earhart

‘If you really want to fly, just harness your power to your passion.’ – Oprah Winfrey

Infallible woman,

you are celebrated evidence

pure magnificence exists

one who glides eroded language

into finely fashioned arias

a beacon of courageous command

for those seeking higher altitude

from time’s unequivocal ambrosia

of alarm and apprehension

to a parlor of peace and contentment.

You are elevated,

goodness personified.

Indelible woman,

you place deeply profound impressions

with your auspicious cannon of influence

yielding a rare composite of emotive affection

amassing a generous volume of esteem

earned from perseverance and charismatic petition

your wealth of wisdom and feminine tenacity

incites promptitude to the advisories commissioned

by life’s obstinate windfall s that threaten quietude

obstacles that challenge innumerable layers of benevolence

you succeed these with vibrant perspective and ease.

Others follow.

Immeasurable woman,

you build fortresses with your strength

you spur vigilance with your unwavering loyalty

you create harmony with your soulful nature.

Incredible woman,

you are perfect human instruction to describe

how the synapses of a brave heart soars

because you can say, ‘I am Amelia Earhart.'

Happy Friday, friendly readers and fellow creatives!  Tall Ships weekend here in Halifax which loosely translates into 'boats and beer'.  Wherever your weekend takes you, enjoy.

In propinquity,

Nic

Charlie, Don't Cry

Whether you’ve seen any of his work or not, you know who Sir Charles Spencer ‘Charlie’ Chaplin is just on sight.  He was the most iconic creative and influential personality in the silent film era, most famous for his unforgettable mime, slapstick and visual comedy routines.

A few months ago I read an online story about his death and how he’d been stolen from his place of rest and held for ransom by his grave-robbers.   I was mortified by the story and of course ended up writing a poem about it:

Charlie, Don’t Cry

famed Tramp

sweet pint-sized chap

with the bowler hat

moustache and cane

your strong affinity for

cinematic

sentimentality and pathos

died on Christmas day, 1977

then in a beat

like a scene from a silent film

two dodgy mechanics

one Polish (Roman Wardas)

one Bulgarian (Gantcho Ganev)

padded into Corsier Sur Vevey

filched your resting bones

from the beneath the earth

and

re-buried you in an rogue field

£400,000 was your ransom

handsomely snubbed by your

Lady Love who knew you would

have thought it preposterous

Charlie Chaplin

stolen from heaven

for extortion

11 weeks missing

and so, yielded back to your crypt

from a nearby Noville field to safety

under six feet of strong concrete

you don’t have to cry any-more

***

Crazy, eh?  I had no idea until I stumbled over it in an article.

Charlie’s widow, Oona Chaplin refused to pay the ransom and as a result the youngest Chaplin children were threatened with violence.   The two grave-robbers were involved in a large police round up in May 1978 and in December, Wardas was sentenced to four years in prison and Gantcho a suspended sentence for disturbing the peace of the dead and attempted extortion.

The world has always been a depraved place.  Fortunately we have characters like Chaplin to keep us light and laughing in the face of it all.

Charlie Chaplin died in his sleep on December 25^th, 1977 (I’d have been a mere four years old then).  Complications from a stroke he’d suffered.  He left behind a legacy that still to this day is imitated and celebrated.

Chaplin said, ‘A day without laughter is a day wasted.’  Laugh today.  Laugh everyday.

Happy humid Thursday!

In propinquity,

Nic

Artist Date

I took myself out on a an 'artist date' yesterday.  I got up early, went to cardio with my best friend, had some breakfast and when I got home I felt my mood begin to spiral into a foul state.  Rather than wallow in it, I put myself together, tucked my reading material, a notebook and a pen in my bag and ventured out into the sunny afternoon with no destination in mind.  I just knew I had to foster my spirit into happiness and try and enjoy the day.

The concept of an 'artist date' comes directly from the pages of 'The Artist's Way' by Julia Cameron (one of the books I commonly refer to when I need a kick in the pants).  Culled from her pages:

'An artist date is a block of time, perhaps two hours weekly, especially set aside and committed to nutruing your creative consciousness, your inner artist.  It its most primary form, the artist date is an excursion, a play date that you preplan and defend against all interlopers.  You do not take anyone on this artist date but you and your inner artist, a.k.a your creative child.'

This particular date wasn't planned but it was needed to bring myself out of my pending funk.  I had no solid plan but I had a calming day.  I treated myself to a low-fat lunch, started a new book, stocked up on my favorite raspberry body butter from The Body Shop that is incredibly hard to find (I'm swanked up now!), acquired new stationary that I used to write notes to friends while I sipped on a delightful earl grey latte.  In addition to pondering a thoughtful housewarming gift for a friend, people-watching and further window shopping, I spent time just breathing, feeling the warm sun on my face and regulating the beat of my heavy heart.  They work every time, artist dates.  I didn't write anything but I am confident that I filled the well up a bit more for future writings.  I capped the day off sharing a few laughs with some friends out in the back yard and put myself to bed early.  It was fantastic Saturday, any day or time spent on date with myself to nourish my inner creative is time well spent.

Fellow creatives, I challenge you to award yourself 'artist dates' frequently if you aren't already.  Friendly readers, I challenge you to the same.  Everyone deserves a little 'me' time, whether you are writing a screenplay, a novel or you're juggling a busy lifestyle with work and kids and feel like you have little time for yourself.  We ALL can find the time to be kind to ourselves at least one hour per week.  To do something just for yourself.  We all deserve it. 

A little verse for Sunday:

Lassitude

it is difficult to speak to you

w/out the language of legs and hands

i grow weary

somnolent

trying to articulate my heart book

when fiction prevents you from listening

at all

i brood from this chair

following breath instead of brain

this is a poem

this is you

this is me

and everything in between

it is a task in futility

w/out the lexicon of eyes and mouth

i become dormant

quiescent

struggling to mold something out of nothing

when kneading and pressing avert your interest

wayward

this is a poem

lassitude

you

me

and a deep sleep

***

Wishing you all a peaceful Sunday and hope you will consider the challenge to take some time just for yourself, just to breathe, just to be and to honour yourself.  You work hard, you deserve it.

In propinquity,

Nic



Our Human (Non) Fiction

Just a little poem for today, for my friendly readers.  Deriving a little heart in motion life experience and capturing it in verse.  Posting on the fly.  Busy day but always content to share a little something.

Our Human (Non) Fiction

It is passionately argued about

and dissected

the idealistic misconceptions

of our devilish, even submissive alliance

by those incapable of languorous consequence

Perhaps I have become willfully naïve

to their hard realism masked as

fake pleasantries

maybe even adverse to the quarrel

since imaginative love is never predictable

and is a prerequisite of earnest hope and

derives the benefits of animated optimism

The wrangle gives me quiet in the cacophony

it legitimizes and celebrates the need

to be still

to reflect

to be sensitive

it awakens the spirit to generosity and curiosity

the kind to be examined with clear eyes and intention

Sharp tongues and Opinionists wish to diminish us

lead us astray and up-end our essence to ephemeral

make us become less than the sum of our parts

It may be true that the splendid account

of our union is openly revisionist and subject to

interpretation by romantic poverty

but by the grace of my heart

by the bate of my breath

you were the highest of my

human experiences

**

Ponder the subject of your highest human experience and perhaps challenge yourself to frame them in a poem of your own and read it aloud to them.  Wish I had done the same with this one.  Perhaps next time.

In propinquity,

Nic

Meet Chuck

I sometimes find writing prose difficult.  Poems tend to come much easier than stories.  A few years ago, a friend of mine and I embarked on a lengthy writing challenge aided by weekly writing prompts we agreed on and sat down and hammered away at them.  We drew from photographs, single word prompts, first line of our favorite book prompts and various subjects that interested us.  It was wonderful because whenever I got stuck I had her to lean on, had her brain to pick.  All of this writing was done mostly during evenings after long workdays, via MSN messenger, our writing spaces allied by the internet; the beauty of technology.

One of them really stands out for me.  We settled on writing that week’s exercise about ‘insomnia’.  The first line that came to mind was this:

‘Hi, my name is Chuck and I can’t fucking sleep.’

I wrote my 500 or so words about a guy called Chuck who had poor sleep hygiene.  Chuck is brash and cocky.  He’s humorous and witty.   He lives an insular existence for several complicated reasons and is wealthy though you’d never know it by his appearance.  That’s the thing about assumptions, yes?  You meet him trying to sort out his insomnia among other things at the office of his psychiatrist, Dr. Chipman.  I was really pleased with it and of all the exercises we had done and would do, that was the one I had the most fun penning.

A few challenges later, I proposed the idea of revisiting one of the pieces we’d already written.   To go back and perhaps expand on something we’d already done.  Truth was Chuck wouldn’t leave me alone.  His voice kept nagging me which is very much his personality.  We did the revisit piece and then it started to snowball until I had written so many pieces about him I had created a whole life, cast of characters and circumstances for him.  I’m still at a loss as to what to do with his story because reading through them there is a definite need for editing and fine-tuning the details of his past what truly motivates him.

I am sharing a piece here today.  ‘Chuck Has an Accident’.  You’ll meet Chuck and his nerdy best friend Norman (who he often refers to as ‘Normal’ which is an ironic title for him because he’s unique).  Normal is a Flavorist, food chemist.  He’s a pocket protector, horn-rimmed glasses wearing sod that loves cheesy 80’s music and is desperate to find love.  In this particular piece he has finally found a girlfriend who Chuck reluctantly accepts.  Norman has a big work party and invites Chuck to join them (they are neighbors) and Chuckness ensues.  This is still a very gritty, unedited chapter of what became an all-consuming character.   You’ll also become aware that his full name is Chuck E. Norris and he’s very sensitive about the famous likening. 

The most amazing part of Chuck is that he is certainly nothing like me.  I have no idea where he came from but he has become like a fifth limb.  He still bugs me sometimes and I do still scribble but haven’t spent any quality time with him in about two years.  Maybe I should.

Here he is, Chuck:

CHUCK HAS AN ACCIDENT

Yep, I had an accident.  And before you start trying to be a smart ass, no, I did not shit my pants; it wasn’t that kind of accident.  I went ass over kettle on a bicycle and near broke my neck.  It should be noted that it occurred when I was utterly shit-faced at Norman’s work party he threw over at his house.  All of the flavorists, the little food lab nerds convened at his pad for their annual company soiree.  Norman is always the host and I have to admit, he throws quite a shindig.  His new soul mate, insert gag here, Angie helped him orchestrate it, everything from the food to the fruit shaped piñatas in the trees. He is absolutely smitten with this woman and only after two coffee dates, an afternoon of go-kart racing and a threesome with me.  Now don’t get too excited, we went to see a movie, nothing shocking.  You couldn’t persuade me with anything to be anywhere near Normal naked. I felt like a third wheel sitting next to two giggling teenagers in puppy love. Gross.  She has a hippy quality to her, fair haired and thin, sort of graceful but with freckles and a goofy smile.  I didn’t want to like her but in a way, she suits Normal and as long as she’s floating his raft who am I to judge?  I still worry that he’s too eager to be a sitting duck that he’ll miss some of the other things that drift on the pond; you know what I’m saying?  But hey, it’s his lily pad and he’s not a tadpole anymore and one of these days a princess is going to kiss that frog and he’s going to bloom into a big dumb happily ever-after retard.    Asshole.  And here I’ll be, still fishing while he’s sailing off into the sunset on the fucking love boat.  I make a friend and some bitch steals him. Great, just my luck. 

So getting back to my mishap, Norman’s boss claimed he was thee beer pong champion to which I guffawed at mightily.  There is no fucking way that suburban hack with a severe graying comb-over and a Jay Leno chin was the beer pong champion.  I owned that title three years running in college.  Of course, after my admission, a bet was made, a duel was necessary and insanity ensued.  I proved once again that I am indeed the master and commander of beer pong.  Boss Man ended up drinking so much beer he puked his ol’ scientific guts out.  I followed suit in celebration of my mad skills and got fucking plastered.  The boss’s wife, who was a dead ringer for Miss Piggy but with gray hair, tore a strip off of me for her hubby’s unnecessary intoxication, adding that now thanks to me and my childish game of beer pong she was going to have to wipe his drunk ass all night.  According to the angry Muppet woman, binge drinking for the boss results not only in projectile vomiting but chronic diarrhea.  Not my fault beer turns him into Mr. Poopy Pants.  Apparently he has a very irritable bowl AND wife.  Poor fucker.  

After my run in with the upper management’s upper management I noticed one of Normal’s co-workers, a pretty wallflower, her name escapes me now, sitting alone eyeballing me like I’m the second coming so I park myself in the lawn chair beside her and engage in some heavy duty flirting that causes her rosy cheeks to turn blood red.  I didn’t get to use any of my best lines because her assaholic boyfriend drove up alongside us on a BMX bike and broke up our little meeting of the minds before it could get interesting.  He was a little twat, an unintelligent show-off and I knew that much about him before he even opened his mouth.  I am well aware that I have serious deficits in my overall personality but this idiot was over the fucking top.  First off, he was treating the girl like a peon and she was lame enough to comply with his every whim and that made my stomach turn.  That’s when he started bragging about all the slick moves he could make on his bike, his little crotch rocket.  Pffftt.  I must have said that out-loud because he glared at me and said, “Let’s see what you can do then, big shot.”  I saw Norman try to shake his head no but before I knew it I was pedaling that bad boy over a make-shift ramp.   I have to say, even for my being drunk and colored unimpressed with the owner, the bike was pretty fucking stellar – strong, quick handling and light-weight.  I jumped that bitch like a fucking pro watching that bastard’s smug face contort in awe because there is NOTHING Chuck E. Norris can’t do.  And then my arrogance got the best of me.  On my third and final time over the ramp, I rode hard and fast and flew like lightening through Norman’s mini pleasure grounds.  I was hot and unruffled and kicking ass so much so that even Mother Nature wanted to fuck me.  And fuck me she did.  Hard. 

When I was about to make my awesome landing the front wheel of the bike got caught in a generous dip in the grass causing my entire carcass to hurl up over the handle bars, somersault in the air and slam into the ground, sprawled out everywhere like I just plunged to my own demise from a twelve storey building and was fade to black for Chuck E. Norris.

I woke up in a hospital bed with Norman at my side holding my hand.  Queer.  My head felt like someone stepped on it repeatedly and every other part of me hurt.  I tried to sit up but Norman stopped me, “Oh Chuck, thank God you’re awake.  I was so scared you were going to slip into a coma, you’ve been out forever.”  Dramatic-o.  I asked him what the hell happened after I realized I wasn’t dreaming and was indeed in a hospital bed.  He told me I was drunk and preening around like a tool and took an unfortunate spill on a BMX that belonged to the boss’s son.  Oops.  Not only did I kick the big cheese’s ass at beer pong causing him sudden shit death, piss of Miss Piggy, I mangled the son’s bike and almost killed myself in the process.  “You almost got me fired, donkey nuts!  But I will say that your jump was out of this freakin’ world.  And the other bad news is, you’re banned for life from any future company functions.  Sorry pal.  Dare devil, chicka chicka yeaaaah.” 

I had to stay overnight for observation because I had head trauma.  In addition to braining myself, I had a gash down the left side of my face, a sprained wrist and was black and blue from ass to shoulder blades.  Normal and Angie got me home and settled in.  Angie, who is a vegetarian, made me a meatless chili which made me suspicious of her, no meat in chili?! Come ON now. Then she arranged a vase of wild flowers on my night stand that made me sneeze causing me further aches and pains.  Before Norman left, I told him I was really sorry for almost getting him fired.  He turned a sincere apology into a Brokeback Mountain moment when he turned to me and said, “Aw, I know, Chucky.  I know.  It’s ok.  I forgive you.”  Then he horrified me by kissing my forehead.  If I hadn’t been in so much pain I might have punched him in his cock but instead I told him to go suck on his elbow and with that we both started to laugh.  And because I was starting to feel the pain killers kick in I howled like a wimp when he turned back and said, “I can’t quit you, Chuck E. Norris.”  Fucking galoot.

What a weekend.  I neglected to mention before that while I am the master and commander of beer pong I get myself in trouble every time I play.

Friday I was in Chips office with the cut on my face starting to heal up nicely, my wrist still bandaged and a slight hobble in my gait.  She seemed pissy right off the top and asked me who I got into a fight with this time.  This time?  Wha?  I was happy to snap back at her sarcasm and debunk her assumption to tell her I was in a bike accident.  She studied me for an awkward moment and asked if I had been drunk on said bike.  Busted.  I paused too long and was forced to fess up to that truth.  “What has gotten into you, Chuck?  You were doing so well, make great strides, making brave choices, buying a house, making friends and now you’re getting into fights and making decisions that jeopardize all that we’ve worked on.  What’s that all about?”  Chip was exasperated.  I told her how the hell should I know, she was the shrink why doesn’t she tell me what’s the what.  I followed that up with, “And it was a BIKE accident, not a fight.  Who pissed in your Captain Crunch this morning, Doc?”  That must have been going a little too far because she booted me out of her office and slammed the door.  Wow.  It irked me so I yelled at her door, “Thanks SO much for your EMPATHY and NON JUDGEMENT, Dr. Phil.  MUCH APPRECIATED.”  Her secretary stood up and went to say something but I cut her off and said, “Stay the fuck away from her today, she’s raggin’ HARD.”  Then I got the hell out of there.  Her sour mood lay to rest my intended plan to ask her if she would be willing to kiss my boo boos and make them all better.  What the hell just happened?

Women.

*

I find him amusing.  I hope you do too.  I have a lot of work to do with him if I choose to pursue it.  There is a binder full of chapters.  Chuck kept me company many a lonely night.  He's made me laugh as has Norman. They are my favorite duo of all time.  In my head anyway.

In propinquity,

Nic

Paean

‘Poetry is at least elegance and at most a revelation.’ ~ Robert Fitzgerald

Poetry is an alternative form of communication.  It’s another way of getting the drama out and onto the page, it’s another way to paint a picture or perhaps to tell someone how you feel about them when actions fail.  Poetry allows you to forge your feelings into tangible, durable products of art.  It challenges you to consider simple things and shape them into verses of figurative language.  Writing poetry requires generosity and patience on the part of the Poet and in honour of the Muse not written from ego or a pretentious perspective.

There will always be readers who won’t understand the intentions embedded in your writing but that’s the beauty of poetry.  Open to personal interpretation, everyone takes something different from the words based on their perception and taste.  As a writer, it also leaves you a little breathing room, a little bit of anonymity and personal space.  The piece of work becomes an extension of you, of the subject and when shared becomes something entirely different to the hearts and minds of the reader.  There is also the chance to veil specific meanings and your audience be none the wiser.  Ah, the power of words.

Today’s offering is a poem called ‘Paean’.  And, so you don’t have to dig out ‘The Good Book’ again, paean is an expression of praise and exultation often in the form of a lyrical poem or song to convey triumph or thanksgiving. 

Paean

and that’s how it happened

the occasion of piecing together

the thanksgiving hymn

the paean

eulogistic oration

choral invocation

extolling an en endless

poetic compliment

encomium

for someone who knows how to

accept the shade without losing

an ounce of unfettered light

it is an easy task to

calculate the formula of adulation

pen a song of triumph

pose panegyric

for someone stout of heart

and even then

a melodic ode

is a lean accolade

the paean

keenly describes

with affirming messages

your incalculable sustenance

all of which

lessens the bedlam

in my lonely heart

and

eases the tumult

of longing

This was my thanksgiving hymn for someone who lit up my life for a brief spell.  Written when I would have  been too shy to share and the time for revealing the sentiment is long gone.  Words remain.  Ever grateful to beautiful souls who inspire verse.

In propinquity,

Nic