I am simply a pawn with a pen ...

Over the span of my lifetime I will make mere pennies writing poetry.  Poems won’t pay the bills, build my dream house or win me any awards other than the personal reward of the sheer joy just writing them.  Kurt Vonnegut was truthful in his words displayed above; writing simply makes life more bearable, expands your soul and magnifies your insides for the whole world to see when your work is unleashed upon them (provided of course that you have a willing audience to read them or listen to them shared aloud).

In some way, every poem I have ever written poses personal.  Some have meanings buried deep inside of esoteric language; some have dubious double meanings, and some house blatant heartfelt homage rife with a wide array of human emotion and life experience.  Mirroring  Kurt’s sentiments, I have written so many poems to/for friends, family, lovers and enemies, lousy poems written with the best of intentions and by my superlative (or maybe not) skills spinning words.   While I have been told I lack in departments, like character, worth and wealth, I have always been complimented on my word-smithing.  So when I am reminded I am less worthy (to which I laugh inside and know better because I am fucking awesome) it is always coupled with, ‘But you’re a tremendous writer, do that.’  Thanks, jerks.  Those are the vermin who will find themselves underscored in poetries rampant in requited language.  Writing lousy poems for those who pad their footprints through my mindful muck and either leave a trail of timelessness or treachery is something I revel in.  I delight in paying praise forward, even though the wind can shift and turn the tide in a completely different direction.

The following poems are examples of poems directly asserted to specific persons; one complimentary, the other not so much.  Both written by my hand bearing the truth of each instance, moments long since gone, their remnants just poems now, scribbled in the pages of my writing book.  It is worth nothing that when they were written, they were both sincerely spurred on, one by pure gratitude and love, the other by whatever the opposite of pure gratitude and love is. 

At one of the many Open Heart Forgery readings I have attended, I read ‘No Ordinary Magic’ aloud and received such wonderful applause and feedback from those who shared the room and the podium with me.  It was the first poem that I read aloud with clear confidence, where my palms didn’t sweat nor did the room feel like it was spinning.  Stage fright is something I have been slowly trying to conquer and the readings I attend are a big help in that department.  I even attempted karaoke, potentially fuelled by a few too many cheerful libations, and was explicitly informed I should never quit my day job to embark on a singing career but the fact that I took the mic and sang at all is a miracle.  I’m not a born performer and choose to leave that to my more talented kinfolk and friends.  My stage fright originated in childhood.  Being the littlest Myers, anticipating a visit from my ‘rock star’ brother, I was in the comfort of my own bedroom belting out a Marie Osmond standard.  I was oblivious to the fact that my crappy sister was recording me crooning and I lost my lunch when I discovered she’d done so and demanded she never play it for anyone, EVER.  Later that day, during my brother’s visit, she ignored my earlier plea and played it for my brother, who at the time, seemed larger than life to me.  Forget Santa Claus, I had TJ.  I was horrified and I cried and hid.  I was so embarrassed and ever since, I’ve been plagued with awful stage fright.  I tried public speaking in junior high school.  I wrote fabulous speeches but my delivery was less than pensive and terribly shaky.  I used practice in the mirror at home and it’d be perfect but the second I stood up at the podium, I would freeze.   The Open Heart Forgery readings have really helped me to come out of my shell and conquer my fears.  I have since read aloud a thoughtful wedding toast and have read a healthy handful of poems in coffee houses and the like.  I’m proud of myself for advancing in my confidence and in truth, it feels really good to emote and be heard.  Took me a long time to realize and revel in it though.  Damn sister.  I guess, in part, this is why the following poem means a lot to me.  The first example of two to come from burgeoning emotion, this one, written in a propinquitious haze of adoration:

No Ordinary Magic

(for J.W.)

Thou art the surpassing pilot star …

W.B. Yeats

I exist when I write poems about catching myself in your augmented light

or when I travel the terrain of your body like a meticulous map of the world;

both, infallible tests to confirm that you have turned my heart into shapes of the sea.

Where do you come from?  Man from such small ceremony with dancing eyes, upending

all focus from ordinary to reverence, unbuttoning the night, turning everything to gold.

How did you personify the sovereignty I have only ever found when binding words? 

In depth, breath and in silliness, you make every page ever written seem perfect.

I am the poet thing but in your ever bountiful, unexpected and elegantly consistent pose I assemble a collage from all of the colours, words and pictures I’ve collected in your grace to define, illustrate, and narrate how you are able to strike fire without ever speaking a word.

In what magical word-pool do you wade?  One deep enough to gather mystery, washing me fixed in the shallows, unearthed by your potent tide that surges under a full moon.

All of the places you’ve ever been, slept, walked, tasted and touched inspire verses and I am simply a pawn with a pen ardently ambushed by your detail. I pay attention and write.

I write down every detail, never to forget.

*

I have no idea how this poem was truly received by its subject but it was revered by the room it was read aloud to; a shining moment for me, a personal success that I am proud of.

This second poem is contradictory to the feelings expressed in the first poem, denoting emphatic certainty that my naiveté was apparent and my trust was apportioned to another who was exceptionally undeserving:

Parable

this is a splintered parable

about Reverence and Virtue

revealing precarious prayers

a verbal allowance

of restricted truths

& harrowing sorrow

malignant material

tawdry testaments

contentious content

this is an augmented ode

to the fractured non-fiction

of broken-hearted introverts

shuffled by hues of homesickness

put on a brave face, darling

drink for free

cry at a price

story  skewed

story  shared

lesson learned

this is a parable

of Respect and Dignity

teach it

&

pay it forward

*

Apples and oranges but both are one hundred percent authentic me and where I was in life each time.

It’s almost the weekend and I’ve gone most of the week without reading material to ease the commute home from work.  Today,  because I couldn’t settle on a book to pluck from my bookshelves and can’t stand the thought of nowhere to escape to on my way home, I brought Steve Pressfield’s Do The Work with me.  I may be writing this blog but feel unable to write.  Suffering I suppose from a little bit of writer’s block stemming from a steady stream of elements plaguing my daily life.  Resistance has bitten me so when that happens, I spend time with Steven Pressfield because he always helps.  I also sometimes thumb through The War of Art when I’m struggling to write too.  The writer of The Legend of Bagger Vance, Steven has guided me through some serious blocks with his gentle brand of tough love and advice about conquering Resistance.  He’ll be a welcome companion for my afternoon recess and my travel buddy home.

Thanks for visiting and for reading.  I appreciate you.

In propinquity,

Nic

The Dissonance of Love

Writing sustains me.  The act of putting pen to paper is, at the end of the day, the only thing that saves me from being the kind of person I dislike; the kind of person who is lazy and intolerant, someone who is unable to convey thoughts, feelings, opinions, and someone who censors themselves to spare others.  Writing allows me to be free.  It gives me purpose and it is an outlet, to purge all of the things that bottle up inside when life is less than forgiving.  I am grateful for the act and art of writing.  It has helped define my character while I am busy creating new ones in prose.  It allows for a unique perspective of the world around me, the people and places, the sounds, smells, tastes and impressions that all lend themselves to my artistic license and stand as inspiration for what manifests on a clean sheet of paper.  

It has been my experience that I write most inexhaustibly when I am happy, or a reasonably hand-drawn facsimile of.  For some writers, being down and out when they create the flesh and blood of their work is essential, for me, it’s when I am content, unbridled of worry, heart and guts (for the most part) whole.  I find it terribly challenging to write when I am less than human, half of myself, heartbroken or full of angst.  I have on occasion sat to write while in this state but always end up throwing the pages away because they were just too strewn and not worth editing.  I am better to wait and gain a little perspective after an upheaval before committing the experience to the page.  Most of what I endure ends up in written form, one way or another.  It’s perfect release and it allows me to ascertain the moral in the wound to restore myself and continue to thrive, in truth and goodness; two things I am a firm believer in.  For the most part, I am relaxed, content to live daily with my chin up, my eyes open and my heart heavily guarded to avoid mistakes that toss me into the rubble where I am unable to work creatively with passion.  One such time is described here in my poem called ‘The Dissonance of Love’.   Written with keen clarity (although the verses may describe otherwise) after a grave mistake was made on my behalf but written when I was able to see the thick, dense forest for the trees:

The Dissonance of Love

Bellicose Brute,

cannon though my chorus

with your mutinous melody

the dissonance of love

is ours.

It is your clever conceit

your pretentious disposition

that bleeds my heart vermilion

the dissonance of love

is ours.

Bellicose Brute,

buoy my brave ocean

with your infinite hubris

unimaginable boldness

becomes you.

I mean to mistrust

the press of your mouth

the urgency of your touch

yet

foolhardiness befalls me.

I mean to suspect

your audacious ability

to fortify and dismantle

my citadel

yet

the pleasures of your kingdom

are unguarded and seductive

and cannot be denied.

Bellicose Brute,

the dissonance of love

is ours

and while you wax and wane

I disappear in the dance of the lost.

**

I believe in writing with an honest heart and a steady hand.  I am in love with language and appreciate every second I am afforded the luxury to write.  I am also, in a most back-handed way, appreciative of the blunders in life that I have sustained because some of the things I have written due to faltering have turned out beautifully and I’m fortunate to be able to see my life mapped out in poems.  There are instances where I feel like I have barely lived yet but when I look back over everything I’ve written I have truly done my share, not just existing as I sometimes solemnly surmise.  Through trials and triumphs, it has been a bumpy ride with stretches of smooth sailing in between, all of which has led me to this entry today, this conversation with you.  We are always right where we are meant to be. 

And in truth, again, Chuck Palahniuk told me once (I think I’ve mentioned it already) that in writing and in life, ‘don’t ever be afraid to look like an asshole’.  There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t recall that quote and try to instill its weight in my travels.  I have appeared as such many a time, especially in the past few years but the finest reprisal is writing it out and setting it free.  It’s the cheapest form of therapy one can buy.  Don’t hate me but I’m a bit of a romantic, even if my heart is tainted with pessimism in my old age.   You’ll see me wax poetic about love throughout my blog, love that has waned and love that remains.  Some of my favorite poems to share at readings are steeped in a time when I was blissful about love (I will share them here as well when the mood strikes) because it feels good to talk about love and promote it, even love that has been lost.  It elevated me once and is part of both my personal and literary journey.  The poems are important to me and are a step closer to whatever is yet to come.  Love belongs to all of us and I look forward to sharing more of mine with you.

In propinquity,

Nic

Dear Neal Cassady

Neal Cassady is another figure of note from the Beat Generation.  He served his inclination for trouble with the law from a young age and spent his early years slumming with the occupiers of skid row and did a stint in reform school.  Raised by an alcoholic father after his mother’s death at ten years old, he performed a slew of petty crimes that eventually landed him in jail despite the efforts of a prominent Denver educator who tried to help Neal turn his life around. He served eleven months of a one year sentence for receipt of stolen property.  It was from this incarceration that some of his earliest letters survive.  

When Neal was released from prison in 1945, he married fifteen year old Luanne Henderson and together they moved to New York City where he was introduced to Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac at Columbia University.  Cassady was never a Columbia student but it was there that he rubbed elbows with the denizens of the Beat Generation.  During this time he met Carolyn Robinson, who later wrote Off The Road, its pages outlining their relationship and where she coined Neal as ‘the archetype of the American Man’.  Robinson originally dated Kerouac but after walking in on Neal, Luanne and Allen Ginsberg in bed together, she fled the Beat’s group.  Five weeks later, Neal Cassady annulled his marriage to Luanne and wed Carolyn.   The two settled down on a ranch in Monte Sereno, California and has three children.  In 1950, Neal  entered a bigamous marriage with Diane Hansen and eventually fathered a son. Diane appears in Jack Kerouac’s On The Road as the character Inez.  It is said that Neal maintained a sexual relationship too with Allen Ginsberg for close to twenty years.

Cassady worked in California for the Southern Pacific Railroad and kept in touch with his Beat counterparts even though they were miles apart in their philosophical views.  Drugs played a role in his life and he soon found himself serving time at San Quentin for offering to share marijuana with an undercover agent at a bar.  When he was released in 1960 he was unable to provide for his family so Carolyn sent him packing, divorcing him.  He shacked up with Allen Ginsberg and another roommate in San Francisco.  It was around this time he first met Ken Kesey and was adopted as one of the Merry Pranksters (immortalized in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test), circles formed around Kesey and were choral about the use of psychedelic drugs.   

Neal would make his way across country with his Beats and Pranksters, traveling, experimenting until his demise in Mexico when he attended a wedding.  After the reception, he took a stroll along the railroad track that stretch on into the neighboring town.  It is believed he passed out and slipped into a coma somewhere along that way.  He was found wearing just jeans and a t-shirt and carried to the nearest hospital where he died only a few hours later, four days shy of his forty-second birthday.  A veil of mystery still shrouds his death.

In many ways, Neal Cassady is a true American icon. Upon his death Ken Kesey penned an illusory version of his death titled, ‘The Day After Superman Died’.  And famously, Jack Kerouac built the character of Dean Moriarty in On The Road from the foundation of Neal’s persona.  Kerouac also fashioned Cody Pomeray after him in other novels as well.  Ginsberg mentions Cassady in his epic poem ‘Howl’ and it is even said that Neal was the inspiration for main character in Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. 

Neal was a Beat poet and a Prankster but perhaps is most noted for his letters and for the influence he had on the writings of his counterparts.  The title of my poem reflects that fact that his letters are often talked about.  I still haven’t read them all but this piece was written as a letter and/or a response to his legacy and his place in the Beat Generation history.  Perhaps those affiliated with the Beat Generation are less than desirable to some in terms of their lifestyle and beliefs and are by no means heroes.  Yet it was Cassady who is credited for helping to release Jack Kerouac from his sentimental writing style, Thomas Wolfe-like, to what he excelled in and delivered to us some of his best work by writing ‘spontaneous prose’ – a stream of consciousness  chic.  I love the whole idea of spontaneous prose.  Like the old adage says, rules were meant to be broken and the concept of free-flowing thoughts that turn into classic pieces of writing resonates with me deeply.  I’m a big fan of free verse when writing poetry, I’m not much of a rhymer and would be a terrible rapper.  I enjoy the idea of verses being free of rules and unrestricted.  They form easier for me that way and I am better able to get onto the page what needs to be said.  The Beats really gave creative license to this style of writing and way of living.  I abide by so many rules on a daily basis but I never allow my creativity to be powered by 'procedure'.  It’s liberating.

Dear Neil Cassady

aesthetic waste

makes a metaphor of me

in my old empty

smoke-smeared art

drunk writers

break the angry balance

of my splotched screaming

and pacing shadow

here it is

my deep canvas

absurd with mess

Yours,

Secret Hero Howl

**

Jack Kerouac said of Neal Cassady that he was, ‘more like Dostoevsky than anyone I know’.  Neal Cassady lived and breathed the things that only others wrote.  My to-read bucket list includes his book of letters published by Penguin detailing the years 1944 to 1967 and a biography by William Plummer called The Holy Goof. 

My fascination with the Beats continues.

In propinquity,

Nic

Radio Everywhere

Some of the most profound friendships I have forged in my lifetime have always been because we’ve shared a common interest or passion.  In many cases it has been either music or writing or a healthy combination of both.  I’ve been scribbling things down my whole life and have always had a deep affinity for music.

I have been a Duran Duran fan since I was eight years old.  I was one of those 80s babies who peppered the bedroom walls with their faces torn out of Bop and Tiger Beat and Star Hits magazines.  I devoured every note of their discography (and to a point still do but as a mature music-loving adult and not a hormone filled pre-teen) and in addition to the wide-range musical education I received from having a father who played in a country band and five siblings who all had specific and diverse musical tastes (ranging from Shawn Cassidy to Black Sabbath) and one sibling who grew into one of the most talented and passionate musicians I know, getting to know Duran Duran – the things they listened to, the books they read and the visual artists they admired, opened up a whole new world to me.  Painters, pop artists, writers and other musical artists, I studied them all.  They helped shape the things I love now.  Interesting how inspiration can work and can mold young, hungry minds.  Additionally, discovering the internet did the same thing but on a much more personal level.

The first time I found my way on the internet, I felt like a kid in a candy store.  All of this fascinating information and thousands upon thousands of photographs and video clips came up with one simple search.  Not only that, the entire world burst open and I found a group of people, like-minded, who loved my favorite band just as much and sometimes even more than I did.

It’s certain I had to weed through a lot of rotten eggs and unnecessary drama (you are all aware of how the internet can be) but I managed to whittle down the insanity to a group of people who have become comrades, friends and in some ways, family.  They have resilient natures, strong opinions, excellent taste and beautiful hearts to go with their lovely families and their ability to make me smile every single day, even when I don’t want to.  Some of them I’ve met, some of them I haven’t but I struggle to remember a time when they weren’t in my life.  It is amazing how just loving a band’s music can create a community of people and friendships that surpass the common interest and become connections that make you rich of heart.  It has also had a domino effect.  From that group of people others have come and so on and so forth.  There are pieces of my heart resting in every corner of the globe, from my sweet friend Melly way down under to, to the smashing UK gals, Isa in Spain, kindred creative Elspeth in Vancouver, my home-slice Darci in Oregon and all of the charming faces across the US.  You all know who you are and it’s such a pleasure making your acquaintance.

These people are fantastic human beings.  They are mothers and fathers, musicians and writers, homemakers, students, professionals, straight, gay, married, divorced, religious or non, political …. you get the idea … and really just all around stellar folks.  I am fortunate to know them all, even if it is just bantering on Facebook about punny photos, shared life experiences or offering prayers when they are needed for their loved ones.  In a way, we’ve all sort of grown up together; on message boards, chat-rooms, at concerts and gatherings.  What began as an exciting meet cute between fans of music turned into friendships that have endured through good times and in some not so shiny ones.  At any rate, I am grateful for them.  They make life beautiful with their collective wit, humor, insights and their impeccable taste.  I count my lucky stars.

If I could, I would name them all, one by one and rhyme off all the things I love about them individually.  I do my best to reciprocate their steadfast support and friendship because they are all so special to me. I hope they know so.

One such person has been a driving force in keeping me writing, keeping me creative, sane and in her heart.  She’s someone I have hurt deeply over the course of our friendship and I hope in some small way she knows she’s loved and appreciated for all of the music, laughter, written words and sisterhood we’ve shared and continue to.  Those I love most inspire verse and this one was for her, inspired by our mutual love for each other, music, Thunder Road and its map.  It was written on October 9^th, 2007 and still holds true now:

Radio Everywhere

(for Kiersten)

                        ‘The highway’s jammed with broken heroes.’ – Bruce Springsteen

                                                                                                                                                                       

I want to create a table of sunlight

for you to place your radio on

for you to sit in sturdy wooden chairs

with your friends and dissect their songs

radio is everywhere

capitalizing on the bound set of blank pages

you are longing to fill

radio is everywhere

transmitting heartbreakingly beautiful poems

to outline your intentions

close your eyes

listen

there is nothing

you’re missing

radio is everywhere

everywhere is radio

I want to build you a mountain made of music

for you to base your secrets on

for you to stand on and sing at the top of your lungs

with your friends and celebrate their musings

close your eyes

hear the heroes

sing

radio is everywhere

you are radio

write the frequency

 **

In a way, those of you of whom I speak, you are the radio to me too.  Your frequency comes through loud and clear.  Dear-hearts aplenty. I love love love you guys.  Mucho.  Thanks for letting me run with the cool kids.

In propinquity,

Nic

The Devil's Cask

I used to write stories for a local newspaper affiliated with The Daily News when it was still in circulation. I wrote for free, for the pure enjoyment of it, for the research experience and because all of the pieces were ‘stories from the past’, stories about the community I was born and raised in, where my roots are firmly planted – Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia.

My favorite part of writing those stories (that are all clipped and archived in a large book on my bookshelf) was the feedback.  Eastern Passage is a small (but rapidly growing) community on the outskirts of Halifax, Nova Scotia’s capital.  Every week when a story was published, people would stop me to comment, compliment or offer anecdotes.  When The Daily News folded, I stopped writing for the tiny associated community paper.  Then, people would stop me and ask when I was going to write another story.  I felt bad for having to say I was no longer doing them.  Often people would say they looked forward to them and only bothered reading the paper to see what I’d written which is such lovely compliment.  When I browse through all of the pieces I did, it makes me proud to hail from such an interesting town rich in history.

Because Eastern Passage is a still considered a fishing village and outlined by harbor islands, ghost stories and tales of the sea are plentiful.  One of the stories I shared was a ghostly tale on Devil’s Island.  I originally did it for a Halloween edition and found the original lurking in my Gmail account so I thought I’d share here.

Seems apt to share it now and Cow Bay/Eastern Passage is hosting the 37^th annual Summer Carnival.  It’s a week-long event complete with fireworks, parade and midway among other family oriented activities.  This event is almost as old as I am and so in pure community spirit I offer a little spooky story about a harbor island.

The Devil’s Cask

Devil’s Island, situated at the mouth of the Halifax Harbour, one mile in circumference, was once a prosperous fishing community. Twenty odd families inhabited the petite island and etched out nice tidy lives fishing with the Atlantic Ocean at their front door. Today, it is desolate, nothing standing but an old dilapidated lighthouse and is home to some of the area’s most legendary ghost stories.

Back in the heyday of the island two residents Dave Henneberry and Ned Edwards were loitering at the water’s edge when they came upon a curious sight. What they believed to be a large chalky white barrel was bobbing along the surf. Dave pointed excitedly at the buoying cask and proclaimed it as the Devil’s treasure. Ned reacted to his proclamation with skepticism but Henneberry persisted, 

“I’m telling you Ned, it’s the Devil’s treasure there bobbin’ around. You see, every seven years the treasure surfaces for a drop of sunlight strictly to tease the innocence of the angels and then it sinks back down into the abyss.”

“Should we take a shot at ‘er?” Ned asked nervously, raising his rifle and pointing it square at the ivory keg. “Maybe, if we shoot a hole in ‘er we’ll slow ‘er down?”

“Are you crazy!?” Dave exclaimed, “And run the risk of rilin’ the Devil himself!? I should say not. That’d be takin’ evil in your own hands.”

Though in a moment of pure mischievousness, some called it a strange island-born perversity, Dave picked up a stone and hurled it at the drifting drum. The rock caused a spooky thunking sound and seconds later it slowly sank away and down beneath the waves out of sight as if it hadn’t been there at all.

Ned looked at his friend both stunned and agog,

“Thought you said not to bother with it or else you’d rile up the Devil!”

Dave folded his arms and grinned at the spot on the water where the supposed Devil’s treasure had floated moments before without reply. Ned let out an exasperated sigh, shook his head and shuffled back up on to the shore and home, mumbling about his friend’s superstitions.

Some thought perhaps Dave threw the rock knocking the keg for luck some whispered it may have been spite. Ned, believing in the fate of the barrel knew it was Dave’s peevish curiosity that led him to do it.

Early the next morning a few of the fisherman ventured down by the shore and happened upon Dave who appeared to be leaning over the edge of his rowboat. On closer inspection the men discovered their fellow Islander head and shoulders deep in the water, drowned. His boat was floating eerily close to the spot where the Devil’s hoard graced the water’s surface. Those who found him say he looked as if he had been fixated on something smothered deep in the water, staring at it and had fallen asleep.

Did Dave Henneberry determine his own fate by challenging the Devil himself or was it a mere coincidence? Consider then that after his death his ghost was said to inhabit the Henneberry homestead and the family was cursed. Shortly after Dave’s death an infant was found lifeless in its crib in the upstairs bedroom. The family who purchased the house a little later claimed to hear the sloshing of wet rubber boots on the floor thought to belong to Dave and the shrill cries of a baby coming from the upstairs room.

**

Wishing everyone a happy and healthy weekend.  Perhaps when you have a quiet moment to yourself, consider your roots, where you are from and ponder how they have shaped the person you have become.  

In propinquity,

Nic

Mr. Egg

I was putting some laundry away last night and something curious caught my eye at the bottom of my closet, the bright blue Leaning Tower of Pisa (italicized because it seems fitting, you know, leaning tower and all) bag that holds all of my school work from Kinder-garden to Grade 12.  It beckoned me.  It occurred to me that I may find that blasted Dylan Thomas paper inside.  I pulled it out from its little crook of the closet floor and heaved it up on my bed.  It’s crammed with projects, duo-tangs full of essays and creative writings, report cards, awards and my student handbooks.  I couldn’t resist leafing through some of it.  I haven’t peered into that bag for a really long time so it was fun to peruse my old papers that at one time meant so much to me.  Turns out in junior high school I was ‘activist’ minded as a younger self.  I wrote piles of essays on things like apartheid, abortion, capital punishment, and euthanasia, drug abuse and teenage pregnancy.  I wrote furiously with my elementary cursive handwriting, passionately and profusely.  I was certain to change the world with my brave ideas and bold pronouncements.  My journal entries were rife with ‘no one understands me’ rants and all of the things I wished for, for myself and others and often mused about the state of the world and the music I loved.  I had a lot to say and wasn’t afraid to spew my feelings and opinions onto the page.  It is safe to say that at that tender age, I had a bird’s eye-view of the world and possessed a very strict moral compass.  My stringent loyalty still remains intact however I am much more aware of the grey matter between black and white. 

I didn’t find the Dylan Thomas paper I talked about a few blogs back much to my dismay because I’d have shared my teacher’s comments with you here.  What I did find though was far more interesting and caused uproarious laughter in my house; the similar kind of amusement that was experienced after recently rifling through Hannah’s big box of artwork from school.  She’s 12-teen now and looking back at her over-sized creative faces framed with wild hair-dos that often sat on top of unusually petite bodies.

In 1^st grade I illustrated and wrote a rudimentary story about ‘Mr. Egg’.  The drawing alone had me in a fit of giggles.  I wasn’t and still am not much of an artiste but I won’t hold it against mini-Nic, I was only a munchkin.  Stunning writer though, what!?  Ha!

I give you Mr. Egg:

Mr. Egg was a nice egg.

He was funny and fat.

He played with the other eggs.

There were 3 boys and 7 girls.

He made a funny snowman

and he liked to swim in the summer.

He also really likes the pretty eggs.

The end.

So the premise of the story is that Mr. Egg is stout, audacious and likes the ladies, an oleaginous Humpty Dumpty.  Not an uncommon observation for a wee little one, correct?  Geez, where was my mind!?  I blame all that Beep I consumed at recess.  Sugar overload, I am surmising?  I amused myself with my fledgling depiction, drawing and thoughtful printing.  My letters were carefully written but some words were bigger than others.  I’d have taken a photo but I couldn’t get it to show up well enough as the story was written on cream coloured construction paper instead of the bright orange that Mr. Egg was drawn on.

I half hoped that while looking through my old school work I’d find the first and only children’s story I wrote.  It was about Nick the Turtle.  I am thinking it is being held hostage on a floppy disc (yes, I said floppy disc) that I no longer have and more than likely no longer exists.   I wrote it in 6^th grade and spent much of my free time, especially at lunch in the library at the far out Commodore 64s our school brought in and I had just learned how to use.  It was a huge step up in technology from playing tennis on Atari.   Wild times.  Nick the Turtle was pretty cute, a big green face and a brown checkered shell.  Think Gus from the Museum of Natural History in his salad days.  That’s what I was going for at least.  Sad to have Nick lost to time and a flat flimsy computer disc.  I never did print a hard copy of the text to go along with his illustrations. 

While I started to think about writing on a much deeper level in my high school years I did spend a significant amount of time writing when I was younger.  I wore rose-coloured glasses and had so much faith in humanity as children often do.  I was unaware of politics, religion, sex, violence, money’s rule and all of the unsavory atrocities that existed.  I believed that everyone was good and would always do the right thing, (boy was I green!), I believed everything would always work out and I knew that Mr. Egg crushed on girl eggs and enjoyed dipping his little eggy feet in the ocean.

What a cute kid I was.  I don’t know what happened to me.

In youthful propinquity,

Nic

As the Crowe Flies

Cameron Crowe is a fucking genius.  He’s one of my creative heroes; a man who syntheses his idiosyncratic script-writing style with picture-perfect soundtracks, track listings to complement his often autobiographical, character-driven stories that have consistently been innovative, devoid of cynicism.  Cameron Crowe is an optimist’s film-maker.  Perhaps that’s why I admire him like I do. 

My favorite movie of all time is ‘Almost Famous’.  The film is an atmospheric coming-of-age tale (loosely based on Cameron’s life) of a starry-eyed teenager with journalistic dreams and a passion for rock ‘n’ roll who befriends Lester Bangs, inadvertently writes for Rolling Stone magazine and goes on the road with fictitious band, Stillwater.  William Miller, free from the restraints of his university professor mother’s unorthodox methods for living and raising her children, makes friends with the fellows of Stillwater and embarks on a didactic and capricious self-discovery.

‘Almost Famous’ is perfectly cast.  In particular, Patrick Fugit who plays the focal point of the story, William Miller, is astonishing as a young, naïve teen on the precipice of adulthood, discovering who he is and where life is going to take him.  He owns the role with perfect pitch, emotion and humour.  His sweet, dimpled face and shy disposition morphs into a more mature human by the end of the film.  As on-lookers, we ripen and share his growing pains with him for the duration of the movie until he is redeemed and credits roll (note optimism).  The rest of the cast, Kate Hudson, Jason Lee, Billy Crudup, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Zooey Deschanel and Fracnces McDormand are all awe-inspiring in their roles.  If ever a movie were perfect in atmosphere, dialogue, character and story development, wit, humour and heart, it’s ‘Almost Famous’.  If you haven’t seen it yet, do yourself a favor and watch it.  You’ll fall in love with the characters and you’ll wonder about them long after it’s over.  I often pop it in the DVD player when I’m sad or plagued with insomnia or just because time spent with those characters is needed.  Sometimes you just need to spend time with your friends.   If you’ve seen the movie, that last statement will mean something to you.

Crowe’s filmography often follows male protagonists who are most often, outcasts, underdogs or subjects of uncoolness and even so, as a female I am still one hundred percent capable of identifying with the plight of these characters.  For example, take Lloyd Dobler from ‘Say Anything’, the greatest modern romance movie ever.  Hopeless and ordinary small fry pours his heart out for a too cool for him girl who inevitably breaks his heart six ways to Sunday.  It’s everyone’s story at one time or another, feeling like you’re so average and tripping over yourself because you’ve fallen head over heels for someone you believe to be out of your league.  Who can’t identify with that?  We’ve all been through it.  ‘She’s gone.  She gave me a pen.  I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.’  Classic quote, just as classic and iconic as the image of Lloyd standing outside of Diane’s window with a ghetto blaster hoisted up above his head with Peter Gabriel’s ‘In Your Eyes’ playing.  I call it a ‘Say Anything’ moment.  Everyone wants a ‘Say Anything’ moment where someone loves you so much they heave a giant electronic overhead and try and woo you with a romantic song.  I’m still waiting for my ‘Say Anything’ moment and have often been in Lloyd’s shoes, doling them out.  I’m that same loser, my ghetto blaster much smaller and probably prettier, but with the same longings.  Hopeless romantics of the world unite!

I love consistencies in Cameron’s work.  Celebrity cameos, re-occurring themes and faces and subtle nods to other works and somewhere in most everything there is almost always something Eric Stoltz included or intended to be and like how in almost all of his movies there is a scene where someone is singing.  In ‘Almost Famous’ it’s the crew on the bus singing ‘Tiny Dancer’ (which always brings me to tears) and Jerry ‘Show Me The Money’ Maguire belting out Tom Petty’s ‘Free Falling’ while driving.  Mostly though, I just love his innate ability to weave a story so unique, so tight, so full of passionate resolve and so rewarding that you want to revisit them over and over again.  He has an astute knack for pairing his fiction with music that truly takes his writing to a higher plane.  He has molding my popular culture.  He has wrought a body of work, both in a journalistic and film sense that I am in complete awe of.   Cameron is down for the underdog, his ballpoint is sanguine and his record collection is next to heaven and he isn’t afraid to share.  He’s brave and intelligent and has impeccable taste.  He believes in and knows his characters so well that sometimes he writes them with actors in mind but also is very good to choose those who turn them into three dimensional silver-screen ideals.  Real blood and bone, so that while you’re rooting for the happy ending and you’re feeling deeply for their struggles you forget they are actors playing a role and they become their own creative entities.  That is the beauty of Cameron Crowe’s genius. 

If I had the chance to have dinner with one person living or dead, it would be with Cameron Crowe.  If I could be one person just for a day, it would be Cameron Crowe.  If I could choose one creative person to work alongside on a dream project it would be with him.  Crowe is insightful, smart and an all-around mensch.  His writing is inspiring, his keen eye encourages me to be more perceptive in my own word and aspire to his level of humanity and skill.  He’s tasted living, from the ground up.  He portrays live as it truly is and he makes us believe.  I believe very sturdily in what he does, where he’s been, where he takes me and where I have yet to go.

My favorite quote from ‘Almost Famous’, uttered by Lester Bangs, played by Phillip Seymour Hoffman:

‘The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we’re uncool.’

Truer words.

I typically recite the movie quietly each time I watch it.  As I’ve already mused, it’s my late-night companion when I can’t sleep and my pick-me-up when I’m blue.  And sometimes, even though it’s probably one of his weaker films, I watch ‘Elizabethtown’ because that whole road map the main character is given to move across the country, complete with CDs to get him from point A to point B, is one of the most beautiful concepts I’ve ever seen.  The story is loosely based on the loss of Crowe’s own father.  It’s a sleepy film but it does pack a wallop if you stick with it and put yourself in the character’s shoes.  There’s a pun there and you’ll know what it is if you’ve seen the movie.

So yes, Cameron Crowe is the man.  If you haven’t seen any of his movies, go educate yourself and suspend in disbelief.  Be prepared for greatness.  I would marry his movies.  He is a true master of his craft.

That’s all I’ve got today.  Popcorn time!

In propinquity,

Nic

Propinquity

My favorite word in the English language is 'propinquity'. Derived from the Latin word prope which means near. Propinquity means nearness in space, proximity; close kinship and/or similarity. I was introduced to the word by Sheree Fitch during one of our many conversations we shared during the run of her adult play 'Light A Little Candle' – culled from her book of poetry called, In This House Are Many Women. This was the play I spent so many days working on in so many respects with a group of talented and dedicated females. Heralded (as mentioned in a previous blog) as one of the best times of my life. Sheree and I were talking about the book of poems, writings that explore a very personal and intimate time in her life. She titled one fraction of poems 'Propinquity'. I asked her about the word and as with me, it was passed down to her from someone she both loved and looked up to and solidified the power of kinship and friendship. The rest of our conversation was about the women we admire; mothers, writers, friends, sisters and every women who stood for something. That's what that whole run was about for me, representing femininity, strength, obstacles and rising above adversity. I adopted propinquity. I used it, continue to feel it and share whenever possible.

In my house there are many women. Metaphorically speaking of course. Women who have endured abuse and injustices, women who have loved and lost and stand tall in spite of their trials, women who birth children and raise them as tall trees, women who write, women who sing, women who create, women who fight, women who shape and mold this big beautiful world we live in; nurturing, guiding and building with the tools provided. These women live in my house, they roam my halls, sip my tea, share my meals and their heart. Some of these women share my city, some of these women live thousands of miles away but they are all close in proximity, kindred spirits and my accumulated family, both by blood and breath. Having love in your life is essential to survival but having women in your life who will stand shoulder to shoulder with you, to walk with you and in your shoes when need be and speak for you when you cannot is a special kind of love, it's a unique brand of union and one that has transcended time. Women are doing it for themselves, girls do want to have fun, we are family; in propinquitious unison.

Sheree's word resonated with me. It burrowed deeply into my psyche. It became part of my being and part of the way I forge friendships, relationships and impressions. At least, that's my hope. I personally strive to be a good human, to be kind and loving, to foster goodness in my interpersonal interactions. The people who pass through my life and the ones who choose to stay are important to me. I work terribly hard to convey that. I believe in it, in propinquity. In love and its power. Being human, I have failed more than I'd like to mention but I lead my life with good intentions, I regard those who cross my path with respect and unconditional, non-judgmental care. Before meeting Sheree, I may have partially been that kind of person but because of one word, the stories and the time spent, I re-evaluated my attitude and decided to alter my whole person. Seems drastic to some I'm sure but it's all very true. I turned away from the unsureness of others and opened myself to a whole new way of thinking and behaving. Some life lessons are bigger than others and my epiphany was life-changing. All because of one word.

Whether I've loved you and lost you or I love you and you are present in my life right now, you can be certain that you are regarded in the highest esteem. My circle is sacred and for those of you in it, soulful sisters especially, you are valued and appreciated more than you could ever know and are celebrated for your troubles and your triumphs.

And I leave you with a tiny poem written for a fabulous writer friend, someone I consider to be one of my many soul-mates. She's a intelligent, thoughtful, she's my Helen of Troy and my snail mail buddy.

This one is for you, Ru:

Tea

(for Ru)

your words pour in

steeped in propinquity

over peaceful terrain

sipped with joy

savored with love

a pot of tea with you

is a blessing

Blessings. Count yours. Make propinquity yours. Pay it forward.

In propinquity,

Nic