Beautifully Scripted

Last night’s Left Bank reading for the December launch of Open Heart Forgery was fantastical.  There was nowhere else in the world I would have wanted to be on a cold November night.  I was quite content, with a cup of hot green tea, with friends and the words of so many talented writers to warm my bones. 

It was a lovely crowd, some constants and a few new faces which for me is always exciting because it means I’m inching closer to being a constant instead of a newbie and it also means that Donal’s brilliant idea in creating OHF is reaching people, especially writers who are ready to share their work.  It’s a beautiful thing.

I always come away from those readings so richly fulfilled, as a person and a creative.  There is something so liberating and satisfying about word-play and hearing them come out of your own mouth after having them shoot out from your fingertips onto the page.  It was also nice to have my friend Colleen and her sister Laura come by.  The moral support is always welcome as when my best friend Erica attended in the past.  There is always an added element of ease when you look up from the podium and you can feel the back of your neck burning from being in the spotlight and someone you love and who loves you is there for you.  Means a lot to me, makes the writing life seem less solitary.

I am constantly grateful to Donal for this whole experience.

Tonight marks a last minute return to The Dirty O for Big Sugar’s show with my new concert buddy.  I’m pushing through this day after a long but lovely week only to end up on the receiving end of Gordie Johnson’s wall of sound.  Bring it ON.  I won’t be able to hear a thing tomorrow I’m sure but their live shows are outstanding.  Beats sitting home watching TV.

Speaking of Gords I love, I wrote the following poem for one of my favorite Canadians, Gord Downie (of Tragically Hip fame who I am SO pumped to see in February) after reading his profound volume of poetry, Coke Machine Glow.  It seems to be the appropriate verse to share with a rock show pending tonight.

Beautifully Scripted

(for Gord Downie)

When you sing I take notes.

I am awake in your movie

the subject of protest & censure

charting the erratic behavior of blackflies

against a stretched stain of summer.

I am on display

left alone before a crowd of

possessive Phantoms to explain

the rape of envy

all while maintaining a smile

through stern reprimands.

I am reading poetry aloud

in an empty bar-room

crude with artistic quality

this is bottom, friend.

Poet,

you are beautifully y scripted

I want to break in two

& become you.

You are exquisite.

**

(Sidenote:  If you aren’t aware of Big Sugar or Tragically Hip for their musical awesome-ness, please do yourself a giant favor and investigate.)

Happy Friday, friendly readers!   Don’t forget to be good to yourself and kind to others.

In propinquity,

Nic

Teahouse Tenure

This morning I spent some time browsing through my entries here at The Paper Teapot, trying to decide which two pieces to print and share tonight at the Open Heart Forgery launch and reading.  I read and re-read everything and even considered choosing something that’s a work in progress but in the end, I decided on a small handful but won’t be completely sure which ones I’ll read until I’m actually in the room.  It’ll depend on my mood too.  A day can really do a number on the kind of words you want spilling off of the page, out of your mouth.  Maybe I’ll be feeling sentimental and/or romantic; perhaps I’ll be agitated with the direction of the day and go a little more angsty.  I have something to fit every emotion.   My dear friend Colleen (and maybe her sweet sister) will be in attendance too.  Pleased about that.

In the interim, since I’ll be meeting with other writers in a café, I wrote a tiny poem to celebrate the atmosphere.  You can never write too many poems about tea, the elixir of life.

The poem:

Teahouse Tenure

fresh-drawn

cold water

rolling boil

warm porcelain

fragrant steam

cup and saucer

mystic meaning

purified peace

&

patterned patience

the perfect

cup of tea

sipping solace

**

I am praying the hours fly by today to arrive to a place where creativity and kindness rules.  If you’re in the downtown Halifax area around 6:30pm and are looking for something to do, we’ll be gathered at Just Us! Café on Spring Garden Road. I look so forward to seeing my writer friends, to sip tea and take in their verses.  It's a beautiful thing.

As my talented script supervisor/fellow writer friend Elspeth Grafton posted a few days ago on her Facebook status, ‘Creativity begets creativity.’  Do something that brings color to the world, for yourself and those around you.  Anything.  A poem, a sketch, knit a mitten.  Whatever moves you, do it. The world will be better because you did.

Happy Thursday!

In propinquity,

Nic

From You I Return New

I found a poem I started working on a few years ago, stuck inside of the pages of a book I was reading but obviously didn't finish.  I was in a happy place and it escapes me now why I never finished the piece.  Perhaps I was too busy living and tripping on a hole in a paper heart to concentrate?  At any rate, stumbling across the first few lines scribbled in my hurried scrawl, I rewound time and completed it.  It's more a work of fiction now, except for the first two lines.  They harken back.  Feels like a whole other lifetime, looking back at someone who is nothing but a stranger to me now.  Amazing isn't it, that the people who sit so close can often become the scariest ghosts of our past.  In the interest of writing, I never mind exorcising them here.  

The poem:

From You I Return New

to understand how we were brought here by love

to be such a woman to find you in the melody of hymns

to count the scattered stars strewn across your sea

to gather the precious stones flecked along your shoreline

to decipher the guarded grammar of your body language

to travel the safe passages traced along your warm flesh

to enunciate accurately that I am bare to your essence

to articulate the profound poetry forming on my tongue

from you I return new

to the world

to the heavens

to the ground

to know why we will surpass the glow of northern lights

to be the kind of miracle you discover at the end of desire

to love

to aspire

to nurture

from you I return new

from you I rise

**

PS:  I hope that each and every one of you find someone to compliment your life and you allow you to rise and feel whole.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sad End For A Writer

Sad End For A Writer

I believed you

emphatically

my synonym for beauty

in the present moment

when you openly professed

the intrinsic phases of poetry

evident through a summary

of sated spiritual upsurge

a veritable deluge of exactitude

so peculiar and incongruous

for your character to concede to

such an inspiring blithe explanation

that in response

I ceased a shrugging dismissal to

your dubious aggrandized anecdotes

I trusted you

haphazardly

my synonym for contentment

in the instantaneous past tense

I tended your

fragile heart

w/ quiet care

revolved around

your hours

w/ compassion

when you shed

your armor

leveled my field

& we settled into

that palpable

space in between

truth & lies

black & white

feast & famine

& then pretense

invaded the calm

I annulled our amalgamation

my antonym for abundance

disengaged our composition

my antonym for affection

all of your contradictions

have been redeemed

all of the words in your

failed language expired

a sad end

for a writer

in love

**

This week and crawling by after a great few days away from the norm.  I have Thursday's reading with the Open Heart Forgery gang to look forward to though.  The new issue is being released and I am happy to report that 'Aubade' will be included.  It's getting colder here now, with Winter looming.  I'm not a fan of snow and I hear the white stuff will fly sometime between tomorrow and Sunday.  Barf.  I was born in the wrong climate.

A little poetry for a sleepy Tuesday, hope you enjoyed.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sunday Morning With Wallace Stevens

Sunday Morning With Wallace Stevens

there will always be time for paradise

between the pages of a posthumous opus

on a Sunday morning with Wallace Stevens

& a stack of single-spaced American sonnets

to camouflage my infinite longing for poise

quietly we discuss the depths of imagination

while I rifle through my worn-in handbag

& he re-organizes the formula for poetry

there will always be cause for confusion

between my reflection and his encumbrance

with experience’s heart pulsing in my palm

& an entire winter of muted illustrations

to occupy his reclusive contemporary aplomb

nothing prepared us for what we would discover

from our time spent together chewing oranges

& sipping home-made wine from chipped goblets

the residue of our combined private predilections

sound after sound make a perfect song of loss

championing the seventy-five verses composed

on those calm Sunday mornings between breaths

intellect made of us a series

intention made of us a celebration

there will always be time for heaven

between me and Wallace Stevens

grazing the circumference of revolving angelic choirs

syllables in intervals illuminate the darkness of things

me and Wallace Stevens

***

Gearing up to hit the road for a weekend away but not before arriving home to pack to find two fantastic postcards waiting for me in my mailbox.  More for the collection!

Be nice to each other.

In propinquity,

Nic

She Appeals The Epilogue

She Appeals The Epilogue

she appeals the epilogue

by reshuffling the canons  of

squared indecipherable dreams

armed force with

skin-deep textures

outlines sketched with

equably anticipated oblivion

the seize of blind battled-field speeches

toil timidly through preventable asylum

trudging in harried footsteps toward

recumbent balance with vertical lines

of boundless textual assertions

trials of poorly inscribed margins

let loose a vague skein of clemency

the gesture of intrinsic opposition

abolishes traversed fractures of time

twisting in open-aired arguments

rippling rapidly with inaudible intonations

everything differed

everything dismissed

when she petitions the coda

her horizon looms

across the lowlands

raised voices

claim occupancy

&

the conflict expires

& ratifies her bones

**

Nothing pressing today, just a poem.  Gearing up for a quiet weekend out of town.  I look forward to a change of scenery, a little shopping, exploring, writing and relaxing.  

Also, a happy thanksgiving weekend to my American friends.  Be grateful.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sheepdogs Cometh

It amazes me that as I sit here every day plugging away at a mundane day job that some folks actually make a living playing music.  They are fortunate to be able to make money pursuing their passion.  Isn’t that a novel idea?  I think so.  Lucky are those who don’t have to subsidize their passion with menial work to pay the bills to be able to afford the time to do the REAL work.

Last night, a Tuesday and a proverbial school night, I ventured into the bustling metropolis of Halifax with my friend Colleen and her son Dustin to see the Sheepdogs with Yukon Blonde opening at the Dirty O. I confess I bought the Sheepdogs second self-titled release but didn’t listen to it much.  I purchased it mostly because I was obsessed with their single ‘The Way It Is’ but nothing else really grabbed me.  My second confession is that because nothing inspired repeat listens I forgot I even had it until Colleen asked me to go to the show and even then I didn’t listen to it much, mostly because I was busy or distracted or an even combination of both. 

The idea of seeing them live appealed mostly because I’ve proven to myself time and again that often when an artist’s work isn’t holding my attention from my stereo, when presented live, I tend to come away with a completely different perspective.  I proved my own theory once again.

En route home from work I got really pumped thinking about attending a live, sweaty, smoke-laden show at the Dirty O.  It was something to look forward to after waking up only to realize my alarm hadn’t sounded and I literally had one minute to get dressed, brush my teeth and get out the door to work.  I was in a panic but managed to get where I needed to be on time without forgetting my lunch.  Arriving home, I enjoyed a much needed shower and polish and plunked myself down for a date with iTunes before hitting the road.  I listened to the whole Sheepdogs record and turned to youtube to have one last listen to Yukon Blonde’s ‘Stairway’ (because I’m obsessed with that song too!) before taking it in up close and personal.

Once at the Dirty O, early enough to beat the crowd that would swell behind us, we checked our tickets, got our trusty wrist band, paid a visit to the bar for warm beer and then the merch table so I could grab the new Yukon Blonde CD (purchased right out of the hand of the guitar player) and we took our place for the show and somehow ended up in the front row right against the barricade.  Awesome, right!?  Works for me since I’m such a short arse so no one was in front of be to obstruct my view of the rock ‘n’ roll goings on.

Yukon Blonde catapulted into their set with a wave of boundless energy.  From Kelowna, BC they delivered their unique brand of indie rock to an appreciative crowd, approval resounding brassier and bigger with each song played.  I was shaking what my mama gave me and maybe a little bit more for ‘Stairway’.  I was really impressed with their cohesive sound and their obvious appetite for playing music.  A touring band is a good band.  They are just another example of that.  I don’t know the title of the song they ended their set with but it started off moody and melodic, lowly lit with blue hues.  Instrumental homage if you will, its crescendo climbed so slowly and languidly that it teased the senses.  You could feel it, the calm before the storm and the giant wall of sound that would result.  It came, washing over the crowd and ending in thunderous applause.  I hope they visit us more often.

(Sidenote:  I am obviously an observer and I find the whole music scene on stageand backstage fascinating, mechanics, set-up  et al.  What I really loved about last night is seeing various members of the Sheepdogs camped stage-side watching their Yukon Blonde brothers play like their lives depended on it.  It’s camaraderie, it is respect.  I really dig/dug that.)

Next, a brief intermezzo to break down Yukon Blonde’s gear, as meager as it was (I mused while looking around the stage before they came on and had no idea they had their own drums because it was so small and hidden behind the Sheepdogs kit).  The road crew busied themselves with the business of sound, smoke machinery and superlative musical instrument precision and perfection.  Checking guitars and carefully lining up cold cans of Heineken.   Rock ‘n’ roll is a thirsty business after all.  During this time, I enjoyed banter with my concert cohorts, fought with the tracking ball in my Black Berry (upgrade coming soon) and jammed a little to the overhead music.  I’m pretty sure the last song we heard was something Creedence as I recall John Fogerty’s voice but it was soon squashed by a raucous roar of welcome when the Sheepdog guys took the stage, picked up their guitars, sticks and tambourines and tore into their set. 

You know what I love about the Sheepdogs?  I’ll tell you – while the music business becomes bogged down with music made by computers and strung together dance-beats (which of course have their place) the Sheepdogs harken back to a time when music was simple and honest and earthy.  Their groovy, laid back brand of boogie-woogie southern rock made me feel like I was standing in a frame of Cameron Crowe’s film (incidentally my all-time favorite flick) ‘Almost Famous’, like an acid flashback to the 1970s.  The Sheepdogs could easily have been on the bill with Stillwater.  I got caught up in the feel-goodery  conjured up by Leot Hanson’s blistering guitar solos, Sam Corbett’s punchy drum assaults, Ryan Gullen’s impressive bass lines, smooth organ sounds and even a little brass by way of trombone.  While I may have found Leot to be mesmerizing to watch, Ewan Currie was the capital.  He commanded the audience with ease, his smoky pipes and deft skills ruled.  I was also (unfortunately) the recipient of a generous spray of Leot’s saliva that flew from his mouth, one of the non-perks of front row.  I hope I’m not pregnant.

(Photo taken by the folks at Q104.  My head is directly under the bass player's knee.)

I don’t have any complaints about the show except for they gave up ‘The Way It Is’ really early in their show considering it’s such a smash hit right now.  It’s a short ditty on the record and felt like it flew by even faster live, likely because I love it so much.  I wish they had extended it, added a solo or a booga-loo to make it last longer.  When I first heard the song on the radio I was thinking, “Gee, that sounds Black Keys-ish.”  Turns out my ear is still keen, Patrick Carney, the Black Keys drummer assisted them in the studio.  Coolness.

It is safe to say that the coolest part of the show was the encore.  When the Dogs returned to the stage, they invited Jeff Innes from Yukon Blonde out and then surprised the blissed out crowd by welcoming our one and only, Matt Mays to the stage too for a rousing sing-a-long of The Band’s ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’. 

‘The night they drove old Dixie down

and the people were singing …’

Oh, and they were singing.

It was further accelerated when Yukon Blonde guitarist Brandon Scott (the dude I bought my CD from) climbed up on the barricade looking to crowd surf.  With a little help from a few of my friends we gave him a giant boost and watched him coast over a sea of eager hands until he disappeared.  Hope he made it out.

I left the venue feeling revitalized and sanctified by the powers of rock ‘n’ roll, happy to have shared a killer show with my good friend and her uber-cool spawn.  For a band I knew so little about, they really impressed me. 

No poetry today.  It’s all about the rock show.  I feel like I have smoker’s lung today.  The fog machine was in full steam and I still have a bit of a cold lingering so sometimes my voice gets squeaky.

In rock, we sacrifice.

All for now, keep on rockin’ in the free world.

In propinquity,

Nic

On The Incline

Everyone wants to elevate, yes?  Improve and grow, ascend to higher levels of humanity?  I’d like to think so.  I’d like to believe that even amidst all of the anguish and despair and outright stupidity in the world there are still those of us who want to burn brighter, to put colour in the world with goodness and fortitude.  Optimism in the face of on-going global strife, political emergency and spiritual discord – that’s what I believe in.  It’s frightening to look to news outlets for the world’s summary.  To have to turn to those who spin a story on its anguished axis to sell papers and magazines and improve ratings.  I feel like public figures have become not so much celebrities but cartoon characters and we are constantly missing the punch-line or are the butt of their asinine jokes.  And what of those people who call themselves writers?  The ones who bring us the news?  For the many that gravitate toward TMZing us for quick thrills and fast-paced tabloid faux-accolades, they are burying those few decent journalists that work tirelessly and strive to bring you the ‘real’ news.  We are so stupefied by bullshit reporting these days that true, intelligent newsworthy pieces are lost on us.  As are the lessons.

I suppose this comes from still being in a US Election hangover and discovering that the Globe & Mail has gone assaholic and will only allow me to read 10 stories before I am supposed to ‘subscribe’ and pay to read my news online.  Guess what, negative.  Literally.  I am making a promise to myself to ease off of the news for a little bit.  To not allow myself become so engrossed in it and to frequent sites and watch broadcasts that care more about their people and communities and the world instead of salacious splashy details and rely on fabrications *coughcoughfoxnewscoughcough*.  I could say that’d be CBC but they sort of have a hate on for our Canadian Forces which doesn’t really sit well with me so I guess I’ll have to resort to CTV news here at home, which means more of Cindy Day’s loopy hair and wardrobe fiascos and the Live At 5 crew who take us into our own backyards with stories that for the most part, appear relevant. 

This rant also comes on the heels of my inquiring about volunteer opportunities.  I really want to do something with a positive edge, to give to others, help others, to give back to the world somehow.  I have a few feelers out right now and am hoping to get started sometime soon.  More on that as it develops.  It’s time for me to re-focus and be mindful that reading articles about CIA numbskulls bonking babes and overdosing on news articles that in no way shape my person are better left for those with a lot of time on their hands, like those who leave long negative diatribes under news articles online.  Opinions are like assholes …

All that being said, it’s another day of trying to find the blessings, the better stuff, to be grateful and to seek justice when only it’s needed, to listen without judgment, learn and keep hope and goodness at the forefront of all of my intentions.  While I am doing good, I will maintain hope for greatness for the world and for others.  I know that those who do succeed but I like to think that those with hope will act and move toward positive change.   I think hope has a real place in our lives; it upholds our faith and inspires us to advance.  I like to live my life always on an incline.  It gives me something to strive for.  I trust it does for you as well.

Poetry:

On The Incline

amid

sand

& sky

speech

& space

words

& wonder

are

the full

focus

of

surveying

hope

&

endorsing

infinite

wisdom

on the

incline

**

Happy Monday, friendly readers and fellow optimists.

In propinquity,

Nic

Civil Twilight

It’s twelve years today that my brother in law Joe lost his battle with cancer.  So, before I do anything of note, the most important act of my day is to take a moment of silence in remembrance for him, for all of the life he lived and all of the gifts he left behind when we had to say goodbye. 

Miss you, Joe.

And before I carry on any further, I’d ask you to take a moment to consider your loved ones, say one nice thing about them TO them and maybe even give them a squeeze.   We all deserve it, that’s how we keep breathing. 

Love.

Now for poetry …

‘Civil twilight’ (which has nothing whatsoever to do with the Twilight Saga so sorry to disappoint those few who were hoping) is technically defined as the time after sunset and before sunrise when the sun is below the horizon but not more than six degrees below.  During ‘civil twilight’ the expanse of the sky is still quite bright only where only the very brightest of stars and satellites can be seen.

It seemed an appropriate setting/theme to touch on for writing on the anniversary of my loved one’s passing.  Because in theory, Joe is one of the brightest stars and I’m quite certain if I look closely enough I can see him.

This poem was written with Joe in mind, during the time when all things are still and the brightest of the bright shine.  That’s how I think of him, that’s how he will remain. 

Civil Twilight

all seats

are reserved

for

civil

twilight

please

see

ammended

addendum

for

illegible

itinerary

thank

you

for

your

patronage 

**

Side-note: I did write a poem when Joe was ailing from his brief battle with cancer.  He used to sit on a chair in the bathroom by the window.  I wrote a poem called ‘One Brown Chair’ that I was never really able to share anywhere. I’m not even sure anyone has read it. 

And before one of my music savvy friends beat me to the punch, there’s also a great band out of Cape Town, South Africa called Civil Twilight.  I used to listen to their track, ‘Something She Said’ a lot.  I had forgotten all about their stuff, writing this poem has made me recall them and in turn, rediscover their music.  Check them out on iTunes or wherever fine music is sold.  They are worth a listen.

Happy weekend, friendly readers.

In propinquity,

Nic

Elsewhere

Our lives are inundated with rules, expectations, pre-conceived ideas and pressures to be something other than what or who we are.  We are led down long, exhausting paths that find us traveling further and further away from your true selves.  Media, politics, religion and our workplaces are some of the culprits.  Some people can’t be who they truly are at work for fear of being ostracized or not fitting in, some live double lives based on family ideologies and strict religious direction, some exist to simply please others because they have no idea they are able to choose for themselves.  I’ve seen it all.  It’s sad and frightening.  We are only on this earthly plane for such a brief time and it is an unhappy verity to know there are so many of us living by someone else’s trend instead of our own.  Time and time again, I’ve been cultured by wise humans to never suppress the characteristics of my true self in exchange for someone else’s preference.  The older I get, the more I heed the advice.  It started with writing.  Learning now to not censor myself in case someone I loved may take offense or issue with what was put on paper.  It’s probably the greatest lesson I’ve ever learned and has spilled over into other areas of my life.  From there, I’ve tried incredibly hard to maintain that attitude in my relationships with other people and the world.  Relationships with other people can be a challenge since there are several who are still living their lives based on what others believe they should be doing or thinking, who they should love or not love etc, it is terribly hard to break through their barriers and much of it has to do with debilitating fear on their part.  My relationship with the world is much less taxing.  I have come to trust my own voice, my own opinions, beliefs because I listen and learn and contemplate before I decide how to proceed, whatever it is.  I have had people fall away from my life because we don’t agree or enjoy the same things or even though we both believe in God I choose to follow my faith in my own heart instead of inside a church.  That being said, I’d happily congregate with anyone in their place of worship to broaden my perspective and who knows, maybe my spiritual serenity would truly be discovered.  However, because of such rigid black and white ways of thinking, the one invitation I so desperately wanted never came and truthfully now that I have some space and perspective, there isn’t room in my pro-happiness, free-thinking all-encompassing goodness-filled life for those so shallow, narrow-minded, so caught up, so judgmental and for what?  Someone else’s opinion of what they should be doing?  Boring.

At any rate, this poem is written with all of those things in mind.  That it is so damn confusing to choose what and who to believe in, and how and really shouldn’t be.  I vote for believing in myself.  You should too.  Don’t accept someone else’s dogma because of tradition or family obligation, don’t accept an opinion if it isn’t truly yours and don’t waste your time not being a whole person, splitting yourself into pieces to fit into certain folds.  It’s a waste of precious time and a detriment to your uniqueness, the one who really matters and the one who deserves the world. 

Stand up for yourself, for who you are, as you are, not how someone wants you to be.  You rule. 

/rant

Elsewhere

behave cautiously

tethered to instructions

consider the act of suffering

through opportune margins

but resist

& look instead toward

the ribald ruins of poetry

for customary questions

& anticipated demands

slender queries

yet prosperous

with definitive conclusions

full of raw luster

& human guise

believe everything

is insufficiently inadequate

choose elusive uncertainty

bound to pastel commands

deliberate reverse happenchance

through unfavorable boundaries

but repel

& seek instead the stillness

of stretched sentences

audible only to you

(be tangled

elsewhere)

anywhere but here

with anyone but them

**

Over and out.

In propinquity,

Nic

Indemnify

I had a dream last night that distressed me.  It involved two people I care about deeply and in this dream their intention was to deliberately deceive me, right in front of my eyes.  Because of the sensitive nature of the dream, names and specifics are being withheld but suffice it to say when I woke up I was incredibly angry.  It took a minute to realize it was only a dream, a terrible dream and a massive figment of my over-active imagination at work.  To exorcise it, I wrote a poem.  It’s harsh and blunt but in truth, deceit does indeed delineate us.  I’ve known enough of it to know and have reached my tolerance level, perhaps which is why the dream bothered me so much prompting me to put the drama down on the page.  I confess the faux deception stuck with me for a little bit, took some time to shrug off but after a quick conversation with a close friend, opting to write it out seemed to be the best course of action. 

Indemnify

Consequently

the death of love

is inevitable

the careful detail

of your embellished

monologues

serve as

ample evidence.

Our supreme fusion

was my estate

my indemnity

your penchant for

roving & weakness

for effluence

obliges our

obvious deconstruction.

The revelation

of your leaden character

exhorts my command

to seek compensation

with laborious precision

for incurred hurt

of which you will

extraordinarily deny.

The aforementioned

damages are substantial

souvenirs of your pretense

only noteworthy

to shape your paltry

place in the grand scheme

of things that will no

longer concern you.

Deception defines us all.

**

Anyway, enough of that.  It’s written out.  Done.  Finis!

In other literary news, I started toying with a new short story.  It is tentatively titled, ‘Seated Women’.  As far as I can tell, it’s about friendship, courage and human connection.  It’s been a bit of a rough start but I really like the characters and wish I’d had more time to spend with them over the weekend.  They’re talking up a storm in my head but it isn’t hitting the page nearly as fast.  Unlike ‘Whistle’ which sort of just fell out of me, ‘Seated Women’ will be a long laborious challenge.  I look forward to it though, very much.  I had thought to set myself a deadline but I’m just going to let their story percolate and stream as it comes.  You can’t rush beauty.

I submitted something too for the last issue of Open Heart Forgery for the year.  I can’t wait until the next reading.  I have some poems to articulate.

Happy Spring-day-in-November, a whopping 17 degrees out in the Halifax area today.  No complaints here.

Stay beautiful.

In propinquity,

Nic