Happy birthday, Patti Smith ...

"To be an artist - actually, to be a human being in these times - it's all difficult. What matters is to know what you want and pursue it." - Patti Smith

Creative Meditation

Because I need to be reminded of this ...

Thank you, Maya.

In propinquity, 

Nic

Wish You Were Here

The Heavens claimed him, my Dad.  The days that follow continue to feel surreal and hazy.  My father was a larger than life force.  He was as kind and loving as he was firm and rooted in his firm beliefs that if you apply yourself and work hard, you can have anything you want.  I think that I am still in a little bit of shock.  It feels like he’s away wintering in Florida and he’s coming back.  Although, when my birthday came, a week after his passing, and there was no phone call, I felt the reality a little.  It doesn’t matter that I gathered with my family to kiss him one last time or congregate at the Lions Hall with legions of people who came out to show their support and mourn the loss with us, it still seems unreal.

It was heartening, to see so many people come to help us celebrate his life.  There were so many in fact that he caused quite traffic jam.  The Lions Hall is on Hornes Road and currently in our community there is construction on the main artery so the bulk of local traffic, including transit, travel along Hornes Road.  A friend of mine who works for the city sent me a text message to tell me that complaints were rolling in about the cars parked all along the street and people were really getting frustrated by the jam.  I laughed because there is was again, causing a ruckus.  His last prank and it was glorious.

I delivered his eulogy to a swelling crowd:

For my Dad:

The word ‘eulogy’ originates from the Greeks and it means ‘to praise’, ‘to speak good words’. I have an endless amount reserved especially for this guy.  I was afraid that I may not be able to write and deliver an adequate nod to him because in the hours and days since he’s passed, I felt like I had lost all of my words.  But when I sat down by myself and starting thinking about him, reminiscing and looking at all of the photos, the flood gates opened.  Still, it is hard to find the words to express how much I will miss one of the first people who ever loved me.

Everyone had their own relationship with Dad and knew him in different and unique ways but on each of us he left a deep, lasting impression.  A perfect example of that is a childhood friend of mine was in touch when she heard the news of his passing.  To her, he was an amazing man, and how lucky was I lucky to have him as my father because hers wasn’t much of one.  She told me that my Dad made her growing years so much fun. I know that would make him really happy to hear.

He was a loving husband, a good father, and grandfather, a brother, a role model, a gutsy salesman, a world class entertainer and jokester, and certainly, everyone’s comic relief.  I’m almost positive, as I’ve heard it a thousand times this week, there isn’t a soul in this room he hasn’t barked at at one point or another. You could always count on him for his ridiculous sense of humor and his infectious smile just when you needed it most. 

As a family, it is true that we have experienced our fair share of setbacks, misunderstandings, and real sorrows but for each of them there are a thousand moments of joy and comfort and closeness with Dad at the heart of it.  And I think that his physical absence will be the truest sorrow we’ll ever know, he was a larger than life presence, a big wonderful personality, he was loud and funny and always on the go.

To me, Dad was the promise of a long talk on a short drive.  He was always there listening and good at helping me see things right side up and I relish that there were even times I was able to do that for him too. The quiet assurance of his voice rocking back and forth against my heart while driving around in whatever car he may be in that day or week made me feel safe and valued.  I thought my Dad lit the sky, now he actually does. 

Dad had an appreciation for the good things in life.  He was well traveled and knew a little bit about a lot of things. You could always find him with a strong drink and a good story, pulling a prank, grilling a steak, hitting a golf ball, watching sports or his favorite shows, looking after others.  Some of the greatest gifts he gave to us kids was the ability to appreciate life, to endear ourselves to others with the captivating Myers charm, with a joke, a kind word, an ear, a hand – a sense of humanity, just as he did.  I look at my brothers and sisters and their kids and it is in all of them.  Dad will never truly gone from us because he is in the things we do and say, our gestures and our features.  And we’ll carry him forward with the utmost pride.  It used to always annoy me, you know, when someone would say, ‘Oh, you must be Lawrence’s daughter.  You must be a Myers.’ I wondered if I’d ever have my own identity but I realize now, it’s one of the best parts of it.

Losing Dad was not unexpected but that doesn’t make it any easier.  He had a quiet dignity about dying.  As he faced his final days feeling as miserable as he did, he occasionally lost his good humour but did not dwell in one single moment of self-pity.  During our private conversations when he was in the hospital, talks I will cherish forever, he talked a lot about how rich and full his life was, how much he enjoyed each day and how fulfilling it is to live without regrets and hoped that us kids could all do the same.  I promised him we would, we had excellent leadership despite the fact that he is the guy who as a kid taught the nuns how to roll cigarettes in the stairwell of St Andrews and then was politely asked not to return to school.

It is heartwarming to see so many people here to celebrate Dad’s life because it was such a good life.  He would hate all this fuss and attention on the surface but deep down he’d love it.  I know you all cared for him and enjoyed the life he brought to your parties.  I can tell you with great certainty that he loved you just as much. 

And Carol, from all of us, I want to say thank you for caring for Dad with your love and your compassion and your promise.  I watched you turn yourself inside out for him and I know with every fiber of his being he felt safe and brave because of all you gave and did for him.

A childhood story of Dad’s was relayed to us not long ago about when his mother was going to the hospital to have Aunt Clara, he was just a wee Lawrence then.  She told him that if he was really good while she was away, when she came home she would get him a brand new bike.  Of course, she never did get to come home.  Now that he’s with her, we really hope he got his bike.

**

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  I could see my one dear friend in my line of sight, otherwise it was just a wall of people with fuzzy faces.  My cousin Cathy stood beside me and I’m grateful she stayed close otherwise I may not have made it all the way through.  I did it for him.  And as awkward as it was holding a microphone in one hand and trying to steady my sheets of paper on the podium, I just kept thinking he could hear me, see me, and I wanted to do him justice.  I’m told I did beautifully but in truth I can barely remember it.

It’s my 41^st year, my first year without my Dad.  I don’t know what it’ll bring but I am confident he’ll be close to guide me when I need it.  It is one of the many reasons I agreed to spend my birthday afternoon getting a tattoo that represents something important to me, something I believe in.  Dad would dig the concept of ‘Amoria’ – living with intention to love and serve others, Amoria, the Empire of Love, with no physical location but something that is in all of us.  My good friend and extraordinary artist Matt Epp spearheaded the movement and I hitched my wagon to it in a heartbeat.  It’s simple really, love can really rule the world if we allow it to.  I am proud to be Amorian and will happily explain the ink to anyone who asks.  It is for me, it’s for Matt, my Dad and the world I live in.  It is my intention to carry on, to move forward in love, to share that with my people and the world and to carry on my Dad’s memory. 

The world is going to be so different without him in it, but my goodness, Heaven is lucky.

In propinquity,

Nic

Let Me Be Frank

Saturday was a good day.  It was a breezy one.  I collected myself for what Ruthie would call a decent dose of flanerie, aimless idle behaviour (aka adrift on the winds of adventure).  I put my ear-buds in to ward off the wind and headed to downtown Dartmouth to visit the art gallery and shop I’ve been hearing such wonderful things about.  My first stop was ‘Kept’.  I fell in love the second I walked in.  It is full of wonderful sundry gifts, jewellery, and other neat things to feast your eyes and spend your hard earned money on.  I was in the market for a few little trinkets for Christmas gifts which I found.  I completed the West Coast Santa box there.  I also got myself a neat Leonard Cohen print and some cards for card tag.  I exited before I maxed out my credit card and went next door to ‘The Dart Gallery’ (word play for art gallery in Dartmouth).  It’s a bright, inspiring space complete with an in-house pet bunny named Huxley.  There, I bought one Christmas gift for my bud and purchased myself a fabulous piece of music-related pun art.  A cheeky take on Sgt. Pepper by artist Ben Jeddrie.  It lives right on my writing desk next to the photo of my published poem in the first Open Heart Forgery anthology that Kiersten took for me and my Mary Magdalene print from Patti. 

These are my gifts to me from Saturday:

Cohen print from Kept and 'Sgt. Pepper' pun art by Ben Jeddrie

There was one painting that I kept coming back to. It is called ‘Boredom’ and if I was the kind of person who had a spare $600 odd dollars kicking around I’d have brought it home with me too.  It really captured me.  I will have to settle for a picture of it I took on my phone that is now the background on my laptop.  Isn’t it fabulous?:

'Boredom' 

I wanted to have a bite of lunch at Celtic Corner but when I cracked the front door of the pub it was noisy with sports and sports fans so I crossed Alderney Drive and parked myself at The Wooden Monkey.  I had pasta with scallops.  The pasta was made with quinoa and it was finished with parmesan cheese and cream.  It was also beautifully quiet.  I sat peacefully overlooking the chopping Halifax Harbour and listened to the music overhead.  Was perfect.  If you’ve never been to the Halifax or Dartmouth ‘Monkey’ you should go.  And if you ever leave enough room for dessert, the tofu chocolate pie is to die for.

Monkey art on The Wooden Monkey wall.

By now many of you are aware that my Dad is very sick.  These past few months have been fantastically difficult and emotional.  My father has always been a bright and vibrant man, full of energy, pranks, and laughter and firm insights.  Despite his smallness and frail form, I can still see the signature twinkle in his blue eyes.  It especially comes to life when something makes him laugh.  He spent his entire life entertaining people so I take a lot of comfort in being able to entice a chuckle from him now.  Like when I showed him the photo of Erica and I done up like Mexicans for Halloween.  He almost lost his teeth he smiled so wide.

I admit that up until the last week or so I’ve been holding up pretty good.  I’ve been realistic and logical and adult about it.  I fear now that my heart is starting to slowly overthrow my brain.  For example, I was sitting at work the other day busying myself with my daily tasks and broke out into a full-blown panic attack which can only be attributed to not allowing myself to be emotional about what’s happening.  It took me several minutes in the bathroom to be able to catch my breath, regain my composure so that I could return to my station and continue working.  I’m not good with big crowds lately, not good with being alone and when I’m out and about I’m not good with that either.  I don’t have the words to express how I’m feeling and don’t want to fill the ears of those I love with my strife because I dislike being a burden.  However, it is building up and seeping out.  So, in typical me fashion, I wrote it out.  I started writing this poem the day of my panic attack and finished it today.  I didn’t have the heart to go back to it until today.  My bravery came from thinking about so many people today, on November 11^th, who lost their loved ones to war.  I thought about my dear friends who have been through losing the patriarchs of their families.  I thought of their eyes, their hearts and their willingness to be beside me and I finished.  My Dad is a proud man and would probably hate this blog post but if he hadn’t had an important hand in making me I wouldn’t be able to write poetry and use it as an outlet for my pains and my glories.

Some of what is in this poem are his words, most are mine.  My one collaboration with the first man I ever loved:

 Let Me Be Frank

let me be frank with you I am almost ready to expire

this last fever is juddering my words out slowly, softly

into a reliable memoir you will all thumb through in time

regrets do not overwhelm me the dark rum has run dry

and my farewell highlight reel has surreptitiously circled

I would like to burnish a bit more and I hope to be remembered

if for nothing else other than sweeping curls of laughter I initiated

let me be frank with you I am almost ready to sing a sweet goodbye

an old man once young inching onward, nearing man-made Nirvana

to transfer the burden of sentiment into a simple refrain on the wind

let me be frank with you while my night is muted with sweat and ache

I want to tell you this: in my final refuge I am what I am surrounded by – Light

**

I love my Dad.  I’m scared to lose him.  And when I do, I am going to be terribly sad poet but I know that he’ll be in everything that I do.  That is a comfort.

In propinquity,

Nic

Broken Hero With a Poet's Name

Sunday. November 2^nd, 2014.  The first day of the time change.  Gaining an hour of sleep they say.  For me, it’s one less hour of sunlight that I require.  I am now facing those several months where I will be getting up in the dark and going home in it too.  While I do enjoy the nighttime, sunlight as I get older tends to hold more promise and it alleviates the seasonal blues.  Must buy some vitamin D.  It doesn’t help that it’s cold as a witch’s teet today and has been pouring rain all weekend.  Such is Fall, just like cool cousin Spring.  I have had enough of sitting around, I am going to get out today and stretch my legs and browse around, hopefully get a visit in with my Dad if he’s up for it and then prepare my noodle for the return to the 9 to 5.  I daydream about a retreat every Sunday, a quiet place to think and write and wonder.  I think I’m just longing for a vacation.  A real one.  Not one where I just don’t go to work, but one where I am away from my daily life, somewhere other than here.  I’m still hoping for a trip down South in the Spring before my bud moves to Newfoundland.  We planned for it last April for our 40^th birthdays but circumstances prevented me from being able to have the time off.  It HAS to happen this April.  I long for a real grown up vacation.  I work my tail off.  I deserve it.  Most importantly, I need it.

I did get up this morning when it was still dark.  I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t get my noodle to settle long enough to rest.  I read Ru’s blog last night and a line in the preface to the new piece she posted stuck with me, ‘a broken hero with a poet’s name’.  I haven’t written a thing in weeks.  And since this line stuck with me, I thought I’d try to use it as a beginning of a poem, inspired by her creative wisdom.  I hope she doesn’t mind.

This is what I wrote.  Unedited and raw, in Sylvia Plath’s ‘blue hour’ and in the pouring rain:

Broken Hero With a Poet’s Name

I encountered a broken hero with a poet’s name

the weight of his dark eyes evoked an eccentric peace

I put him in a clamorous setting on a critical piece of paper

the noises, crashing cymbals, tambourines, vociferous voices

I wish it had been more of an airy dream under weeping trees

our happenstance was a mere trace of the truest North

a romantic’s naiveté where the moon is always just the moon

the broken hero with the poet’s name propositioned my fate

gone longer than he was present but not without a quiet farewell

I encountered him in the place where I was supposed to be

the stark adequacy of his small oblivion touched me for hours

the broken hero with the poet’s name

entered my emptiest spaces without a word

and re-wrote the laws of chaos into exquisite verses

I sing them now against the wind and into the sun

**

A little writing exercise to flex my muscles just a little bit.  I abandoned all of my stories and characters that were present and I feel really bad about that.  I do try to work but lately I haven’t had the heart for it but I feel like I should be a responsible writer and force myself to do it.  How can I even call myself a writer if I don’t do it each day?  I am desperate to be back in that place where I was prolific and productive, churning out stories faster than I could ever believe.  That was an amazing feeling, a happy time in my creativity.  I hope to have that back.  No, not hope, I WILL.  Right?

Oh, and Halloween was a gas.  We went as happy Mexicans.  I was stunned at how unlike myself I looked.  I was stunned by how much I looked like my oldest brother.  The comments and laughs our costumes got were fun and eased my worried self for a few hours.  Grateful for that and for my friends.

In propinquity,

Nic

The Sequestered

My pieces are scattered.  I am all over the place.  Emotionally.  Practically. Creatively stunted.  Lost. This past week all of the pieces of my life twisted and bruised and frayed.  Overwhelmed, I was accused of uncharacteristic behaviour, I was hurt, I was angered, felt strained and fell into a few days of sickness that were lost to misery and sleep.  It could have been I caught something on my travels but if I know my body and my heart like I do, I am guessing I wore down, broke down and succumbed to the struggles.  It happens.  I know I am not alone there.

I am doing my best, my very best.  I am trying to keep my chin up, muddle through the worry and to honour what is asked of me and expected.  It is a difficult task when you feel adrift and you have no idea how to reach the shore.  Safely.  Without capsizing.

I am feeling better today.  I got outside, bought some stationary, bought tea, bought trinkets for Halloween.  It helped.  More than I can mention.  I even wrote a sappy little poem while eating tomato soup with crackers, listening to Matt Epp records.  I thumbed through my worn dictionary, took time to appreciate words and the solitude of it all.  It felt good, like home, like healing.  Sort of.

This was the result of spending time alone:

The Sequestered

‘what will survive of us is love’ – Philip Larkin

the moment you wake up

in the middle of the night

quietly hopeful talking in bed

a snare of soft supple syllables

you place your kiss on my face

charming and tender and civil

in the blue hour of morning

the moment you find sleep

your throat humming low

slowly alerting me awake

just an ordinary woman

just an ordinary gentleman

the sequestered

the harmonious

                two blending

imperfect is a passive paradise

when true romance is vanquished

**

Speaking of Matt Epp, he's releasing a six song EP called 'Luma' in a few days.  20% of his CD sales world wide will be going to Save The Children.  He was inspired by the efforts of Alicia Keys and is following suit. He is such a good human.  Make sure you go take a listen and support.

In propinquity,

Nic

The Conquering Sun

Like yesterday’s sun, I was conquered.  Conquered by a little big show at The Marquee Ballroom on Gottingen Street.  Gord Downie, The Sadies & The Conquering Sun completed their summer tour in Halifax.  I had been looking forward to this show for MONTHS.  Gord, of course, is my poet love and hero.  I have so much appreciation and respect for him and his art, his performances, his ideals and approach to music and the world.  As I mentioned before, I’ve seen the Tragically Hip a lot but I’ve always watched from a fair distance.  Last night, I was fortunate to be right in the front and prior to them taking the stage butterflies swirled around like caged animals in my tummy.  Nerdy as it may be, it was a big deal for me to be that close to the stage, to experience Gord.  The whole damn thing altered my insides, shuffled my pieces around.  I haven’t felt that way since my Leonard Cohen show in 2013.

He looked like a rogue angel in white, wide-brimmed hat and all. He was incendiary right down to the tips of his black pointed budget shoes.  He toyed endlessly with his microphone stand, toyed with the audience that were just as rapt as I was. I am in complete awe of the man, his antics, his facial expressions, his inventiveness and his command of the English language, he knows how to manipulate words to make wonder.  And really, what other man do you know who would insert the word ‘odious’ into audience banter? He is the polar opposite of anything extremely unpleasant, repulsive.  He is a Supreme Being. My heart grew six sizes to Sunday, I thought it might burst in my chest.

So close, so damn close.

Holy snappin' bananas, so close.  So cool.

I was nervous that with all of my family goings-on, I’d be hard pressed to find it in me to fully enjoy the moment and be present.  For the minutes he was obliterating the stage, everything melted away.  I was in my moment that I had been anticipating all these months.  I am grateful for the time that I spent outside of my head and my worries; fully engaged in music, euphoric and weightless.  Gord looked down into my little old soul, literally. He stood over me, looked into my face as he sang, full frontal eye contact.  All at once, it was soothing and overwhelming, so much so I had to momentarily look away. Too much power for my tender heart but I will savour that feeling for the rest of my small literary life. At the end of the show, he reached down with his warm hand and squeezed mine (my bud’s too) and said, ‘Thank you for being in front.’  I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.

Mind was blown.

In addition to the music from their ‘Conquering Sun’ record they were touring in support of, they also pulled out three stellar covers, ‘So Sad About Us’ by The Who and in their encore they pulled out Guided By Voices’ ‘I Am A Scientist’ and then obliterated us with ‘I Got A Right’ by Iggy & The Stooges.  Musically, it was a perfect show.  What am I saying, it was a perfect show in every single aspect.

And what about The Sadies! Holy snappin’ bananas they are increddddible.  They are an opulent and cohesive unit.  They melted my face. Miraculous. I was just as enthralled by their musical offerings as I was with Gord’s.  And together, they are a mighty mighty force. When The Sadies get back to Haliax, I will be there.  No question.

I should also note that the Adam Baldwin Band opened with a killer set and primed the room with his exceptional songs.  He tweeted yesterday (and I am paraphrasing) that The Sadies are an institution, Gord Downie was a legend and he was just a skid opening for them. I, in my nerdy fashion, being the music geek I am replied and told him he is OUR institution.  I am pleased to see him doing so well with his EP, he was nominated for SIX Music Nova Scotia music awards this year.  He’s loved and rightly so. Skid no more in my opinion, not that he ever was one. The kid can PLAY.  And his band is top shelf.  Hometown pride right there.  And all of this happened with my good buds alongside me.  There’s nothing better than having your friends next to you for the important things.  I sure do love them.

Adam Baldwin Band KILLING it as per usual.

Last night’s show and Leonard Cohen at the Halifax Metro Center in 2013 are the two most important music moments of my life.  And Duran Duran in Montreal, seeing the O5, as it brought my childhood full circle.

I’m still reeling from the whole crazy thing this morning.  I’m appreciative to have a vacation day to unwind and process it all before I return to my 9 to 5 and my family.  I can honestly say that the smile on my face is a genuine one.  I haven't had cause to smile for a little bit now but when he waltzed across that stage, my face hurt from happiness. This moment will always be a bright spot in a large sadness.  I'll never forget it.

Grateful, grateful, grateful. For music, for my heroes who are also my friends and for Gord Downie, my poet love.

In propinquity,

Nic

Timekeeper

Timekeeper

a mere man at his center

averts the world patiently

fixes romantic tenements

in blazing lionized sangfroid

is anonymous yet eminent

an ingenious timekeeper

drawn over hours and days

breathed in and savoured

a veritable man at his core

makes mountainous waves

maintains theatrical distance

to cue perfection to dance

is more than flaws wrought

an acclaimed timekeeper

an impassioned instance

embraced and then set free

keeping time

                serene progression

keeping time

                ordained peace

the timekeeper expressing the

syllables of my commandment

a mere man at his center

invisibly clear classically trained

a nighttime hymn a soft ear

the timekeeper impressing

touch on sure summer nights

standing still

standing tall

holding tight

holding mine

he is the compass of supreme fiction

the timekeeper lacquered in armour

permissible and possible

 **

I’ve been pecking at this poem for over a week.  It’s been a long worrisome one, dealing with a family matter that stopped my creativity that had just re-emerged.  This past week has been a blur, it’s been like floating in a dream, being on the outside watching myself.  It’s tough to watch someone you love weaken and move closer to their end.  It’s so important to be present and loving and open with your people.  It’s so important to communicate and laugh and share your life and in turn share in theirs.  Be kind and tell those you love that you truly do.  Before it’s too late, everything truly is temporary in this life which makes time extraordinarily precious.  Use it wisely, don’t waste it.  I’ve been doing just that even more so this past week.

I managed to spend some time this weekend out with my buds, decompressing.  Friday night I attended the first birthday party for my favorite Halifax radio station, Radio 965.  I was bone tired but loved the festive red carpet, the fun in the photo-booth and great performances by The Brood, Soho Ghetto, Dylan Gythro and Adam Baldwin.  I kept close watch on my phone in case of emergency and swallowed the guilt of being out. There are people who would be extremely judgemental of me for stepping out during this tentative time in my family but I was instructed by a wise man to pay no mind to that nonsense and do what eases and fulfills me.  The music was soothing, I won’t lie. 

The same thing happened last night.  My bud yanked me out of the house and spent her extra ticket on me to go see former Guns n Roses guitarist play at The Seahorse.  Cape Breton got Slash and Aerosmith but I got to see Gilby Clarke.  It was an excellent rock show.  I was disappointed in this city that there were so few people in the bar.  Maybe 50 or so.  He deserved better.  And what a great human.  He stopped us on the sidewalk in the pouring rain while lugging his own gear and thanked us for coming.  He recognized us from being inside.  Zero pretension.  I was glad I decided to get out in the world and experience something instead of hiding away. 

Gilby Clarke rockin' @ The Seahorse, September 13th, 2014

Tonight is the night I’ve been waiting on for MONTHS.  I scooped up tickets for my poet love Gord Downie and The Sadies right away because they are playing The Marquee and that means an intimate show compared to the several Tragically Hip shows in large arenas and open air fields.  I’m still riddled with guilt and am truly trying to maintain my excitement for this show.  The thought of being THAT close to a stage he’ll grace, gives me goose-bumps.  He’s an absolute hero of mine, I admire and respect his writing, and he’s an incredible performer.  His poetry book, ‘Coke Machine Glow’ is one of my most coveted volumes, like ever.  A massive fire broke out this morning in a commercial building just behind the venue, I hope it doesn’t have any impact on the show.  If it does, I hope the contingency plan is a good one.  The Adam Baldwin Band is opening tonight too so that will make it a good night all around. 

While I putter and lounge a little, I’m also attempting to break in my shoes for a wedding next weekend.  A family wedding.  My nephew is marrying his love and it will be so nice to witness that and have a night where my family are all in one place together.  I am hoping Dad is well enough to attend.  I know how badly he wants to be there.  Prayers are welcome.

As for the above poem, I did write it with a specific human in mind.  Exactly who it is I will never tell.  Hee.

In propinquity,

Nic

               

                

This is the Song to Calm the Crazy Master of Your Heart

I maintain that music sustains me, it is my form of prayer, how I measure time and place, music is oxygen, music is life and love and longevity.  It inspires me to write, rocks my core, brings me to tears and raises me up to religious heights.  For someone who can’t play an instrument and his highly uncoordinated, I am a slave to every note, every pulsing beat, taking each waltz to the edge of everywhere; music is everything.  Music solves the sunset, muses the moonlight.  It’s hard to not wax poetic about the most beautiful and unifying language on the planet.

I have attended a plethora of shows this year, discovered new and exciting artists and value each experience for the energy and stimulus I garnered. 

Here’s a loose list of many of 2014’s musical highlights:

Matt Mays – NYE @ Casino NS w/ Carmen Townsend, Big Red Festival in PEI and at The Shore Club in Hubbards, NS.

Blue Rodeo - Halifax Metro Center

Adam Baldwin CD release party with Sam Cash & The Romantic Dogs - Seahorse Tavern

Wintersleep/USS/The Trews  – The Marquee

Matt Epp – The Carleton

Royal Wood – St Matthew’s Church

City and Colour – Halifax Metro Center

The Stanfields (acoustic) – The Carleton

July Talk – Alderney Landing for Canada Day, Big Red Festival in PEI

Sam Roberts – Alderney Landing for Canada Day

Ben Caplan, Alderney Landing for Canada Day

Drive By Truckers – Big Red Festival in PEI

Platinum Blonde – Casino NS

Brian Byrne – The Carleton

Gloryhound CD release w/ The Motorleague – Seahorse Tavern

Dave Marsh & True Love Rules, The Navy Brats – Jacob’s Lounge & The Carleton for HUFF

The Killers – Big Red Festival in PEI

Nashville Pussy w/ Fifth on the Floor – Seahorse Tavern

Dropkick Murphys – Cunard Center

Ashley MacIsaac – The Carleton

Dylan Guthro & Mo Kenney – Casino NS

Dwight Twilley (soundcheck) – The Carleton for HUFF w/ an honourable mentionable hug from Garland Jeffreys

Adam Cohen – The Carleton

My list is missing bits and bobs I am sure, things like remarkable Saturday nights at The Carleton with The Carletones etc etc but what I really want to discuss is the last entry on my list, Adam Cohen.

For those of you born under a rock, Adam Cohen is the song of Leonard Cohen but stands beautifully on his own two feet as a singer/songwriter/performer.  While he acutely resembles his father and has the same awe-inspiring voice, his songs are all his own.  It’s true, there is homage present to the music he was born into but there is a definite tone of originality and songs that express what he so deeply wishes to share with his audience.

I’m not sure I have attended a show at The Carleton with such palpable energy, a loving energy that boasted a sheer veil of faith and hope, creativity and grace.  Adam took the stage with his outstanding band and straight out of the gate, just from the ambiance of humanity circulating through the room, from person to person, a tiny and constant tear streamed from my left eye.  I tried very hard to stop it but an overwhelming wash of emotion was too powerful to defeat. 

His stories of his family and his father, his sweet sense of humour and his songs made for a beautiful evening.  He speaks like a poet, performs like a rock star and accepts his accolades with a humble heart.  When he played a new song from his new record called ‘Love Is’ he had the whole bar singing it with him and those as you know are moments I live for; harmony among humans, unity in one voice.  It fills me up and it pours out of my silly face.  He continued to overthrow my heart when he finished with Dad Cohen’s ‘So Long Marianne’.  If I was permitted and it wouldn’t made me look like a complete wiener I’d have let the tears come like Niagara Falls.  It was really hard to sing along without my eyes bursting and then my concert company would have clocked me for crying.  Thankfully her back was to me for the duration of the show.  I was singing ‘Now so long Marianne, it’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again …’ but not at the top of my lungs like I wanted because it would have come out in sobs.  This is how I know that the time he shared with his last night will resonate for a long time to come.  After the encore I made a mad dash for a mascara check and to catch my breath.

I had the opportunity to shake his hand, compliment his artist and offer my gratitude for making my Saturday perfect.  He spoke very highly about his father’s command of the English language and his elegance.  I told Adam Cohen I loved the words he spoke about Leonard but they truly mirror back at him in his own right.  His handshake was firm and warm and appreciative.  It was an honour to look a Poet in the eye and speak about words and music and for it to have meaning.  It was a small but mighty exchange but I can’t tell you what it meant to me.

For me, Adam Cohen, who sold out every single seat for three nights straight, was the BEST show I’ve seen to date at The Carleton.  It runs dangerously close to every Matt Epp show I’ve seen there because his shows and music and artistic intention moves me in the very same way. 

I am compelled to spend today writing, musing, thinking creatively, counting blessings and filling my ears with beautiful music.

Music like this:

In propinquity,

Nic

Sharp Tender Shock

I am desperate to write. My story outline sits stagnant, waiting for me to pay attention, the characters are off to the side, and their are arms folded impatiently waiting for me to get my poop in a group.  I am still stifled by the 9 to 5 but maybe now I’m using that as an excuse because my lofty procrastination has turned into another painful bout of writer’s block.  It is entirely my fault for not writing.  I should be writing.  And trust me, I am trying.

The good news is, I am reading a lot and taking in live music shows to keep me breathing.  I did manage to get a lovely weekend away from the grind but I maintain I still require a retreat.  Absolute solitude, no technology, no distractions.  If I didn't require a steady paycheck I’d be gone in a heartbeat.

I just want to be artful. 

And, in the spirit of wanting to be artful on the last day of the long weekend and since I didn't post a single thing in the month of August, I set a goal for myself to write a poem today.  

This was the result:

 Sharp Tender Shock

You, in the brazen sun

a concept easily quoted

a sharp critical engagement

an event among philosophers.

You, fixed in a delicious swirl

throwing a tender muted gaze

speaking an intoxicating language

an unprecedented artful arrangement.

You, safe in the comforts of metaphor

a stimulating shock of necessary illusion

a threshold to the fall of cinnamon rain

a font of deeply decorous translations.

I invited you to the end of this poem

to reference the sharp tender shock I am

in from the tenacity of your turgid heart

where I am permitted to mention a thing

so vulgar as love.

**

Phew.  It's icky but it is writing, right?  Right.

You'd think that after watching Dwight Twilley's soundcheck yesterday, getting a hug from Garland Jeffreys and sitting in on a songwriter's workshop by Brian Potvin (Northern Pikes) and David Pirner (Soul Asylum) I'd have more to say.  But in all honesty, I'm still in awe of my day. of those artists.  I did soak up some mojo though.  Maybe this week I will set small attainable goals for writing.  Even a page an evening.  I think I can handle that.  Maybe I need to revisit the concept of writing prompts again.  Ugh.

In propinquity, 

Nic

Things That Have Sharp Edges

Things That Have Sharp Edges

the harlequin inside of you cannot soften things that have hard edges

your pointed collar, your puffed chest, your servant character unable

to dull the ends even with one hundred inclinations of body language

things that have sharp edges are not as eager to entertain as you are

they don’t let you fall in love handsome faces or dance around in time

things that have sharp edges strain you into odd shapes headlong into

distilled regret burnished by bad hands, drunk processions, sad enemies

improbable is a gracious response from the things that have sharp edges

the things that leave you hungry for details and for the greatest escape

the heart inside of you cannot ease the disorder of my trenchant story

the things that have sharp edges are deceptively casual and cut in deep

the singular purpose of my long inner monologue is to not accept the truth

things that have sharp edges are revelatory

even the unspecified parts of you recognize

 **

Trying to keep my noodle working by writing poetry.  I tweaked this while loading my iPod, doing laundry ans nursing a beer, relief from the muggy weather.  I was given a writing prompt, make a list of things that have sharp edges.  I didn't feel like making a list so I did what I usually do when I break the rules, I write a poem.

I was listening to Serena Ryder but switched to my favorite Canadian band, July Talk.  Check them out below if you don't know them yet.  They are AMAZING live.  

In propinquity,

Nic

In Limbo

In Limbo

there are extenuating circumstances

palliative conditions not felt by anyone else

like unreciprocated desire for example

it culls stormy weather in the radical middle

of profound sadness and the lightness of contentment

I cannot seem to find the trajectory of my dented pattern

the impatience of having to wait for someone to endow

the impaired notions of memorizing romantic proverbs

for luck

why can I not enjoy the pleasant feeling of oneness, harmony

why can I not put this particular melancholy into wistful words

and accrue eager detractors with the lure of licentiousness

but we all know extravagances wane quickly in the glint of morning

I am sojourned in limbo waiting for a sovereign man

I am abided by minted annulment anticipating love

**

I had some time to play with words today.  I finished this little mess of a poem. I would reveal my inspiration but then it might ruin your interpretation.  It comes from a deeply personal place and for some reason I had reservations about sharing it.  Sometimes, what goes into a poem can make me feel insecure when it should be empowering.  It does empower and help to release the stress of a dilemma once I let it go and share it, put it into the ether.  So, that's what I've set to do today.

I am still working relentlessly on a pile of notes for my short story.  I cannot seem to get my act together, get out of my own way long enough to get anything done.  Perhaps once the renos at home are complete and my writing space is my own again and not cluttered with the downstairs mess I will be able to focus and carry on.

Fingers crossed.

Until then, one day left of the work week and I can cap the week off with a show at The Marquee with my buds.  Deertick, Adam Baldwin and Jessie Brown. I'm looking forward to a little rock to relax me.

In propinquity,

Nic

True Objective Occurrences

True Objective Occurrences

my thoughtful process is tethered

an elegantly designed limited edition

a noteworthy measure of artistic intention

a significant percentage of provocative analog

I suppose it means something akin to compromise

or an over-determined allegiance to instructive joy

a sunset-flush shared only to propose civility

an obvious argument for quiet happenstance

I will try in good faith not to hold it against you

the banning of my bare bones and my daring breaths

be mad with desire

be riled by knowledge

be assimilated by art

it is a fated pursuit to become the Invisible Woman

it is a fated pursuit to become exceptionally vague

the prayers of misguided angels are rudimentary in design

the predictions of vestigial clowns pale in comparison to

enticed writers

artful painters

faithful architects

my observant progression is a generous portrait

instrumental in adding wistfulness to apprehension

a simple remedy for bewilderment and righteous despair

a humble antidote for soaring shelves of pitiful prose

I suppose it means something to rally against the bravado

to perpetuate the philosophy of heavy fists and sharp words

into something believable and deserves deft devotion

into something that leads you to the source of my words

laid neatly and organized carefully on sheets of soft paper

ubiquitous creations

voluptuous chastity

distinctive penmanship

all of it seems magical to those of us dependent on typical flaws

challenging our contemporary impression of fire and brimstone

and that is the dirty little secret of poets writing reams of poems

about true objective occurrences swathed in incendiary language

**

I had a burst of creative energy this afternoon while listening to the rain pour against our hot tin roof.  This is what transpired.

In propinquity,

Nic

So, Sylvia ...

I came across this wonderful little image on the inter-web.  We are so accustomed to thinking about Sylvia in her darkest hour, head in the oven at the end of her life; this reminded me that she was a woman, a mother, a wife, an active member of the creative universe.  She smiled even though she cried.  But most of all, she was a writer.  Intelligent and thoughtful, relevant.  

I stopped for a moment to consider the expression on her sketched face and the bullet points around her pretty head.  Her words, her effort, her artistic spirit; they lasted long after her vessel expired.  Her presence in the physical world was meaningful.  She left footprints, deep, indelible impressions.

Believe in your story.

Work at it everyday.

Keep trying.

... this, my new writing mantra.  

Thank you, Sylvia Plath.  Not for teaching me but for reminding me.

In propinquity,

Nic

Preposterous, but delightful …

Preposterous, but delightful …

be eloquent, your true imaginary best

procrastinate, pen the perfect sentence late

be essential, collect a slew quantifiable accolades

adjourn, to muse on the publish or perish superlative

be cagey, reveal your sensibilities on third impression

intend, smile and perform tongue twisters in silence

do not be haunted by looming long shadows

do not be frightened of staggering contradictions

do not be repetitive, snappy or sound phony

be superstitious, about hubris and about hilarity

position, be coolly deliberate and be elegant in clarity

be contradictory, situate yourself aesthetically on the verge

sustain, selfishly replete with outstanding inventive narratives

do not be a clichéd carbon copy

be preposterous, but delightful

**

I haven’t been writing much these days but that doesn’t mean that something isn’t brewing.  I have a folder as thick as my head full of notes and snippets of conversations, thoughts and descriptions for my pending story.  Yes, I did write the first page or so that I’ve since added and subtracted to but I’m still uncertain on exactly how to proceed.  In the meantime, I’ve accumulated a stack of material that is begging to be molded into a story.  The characters are full figured (fictionally of course) and active but I’m being cautious instead of anxious.  I like these women, new female characters, creative people (yes again, I know) and I want to do them justice; funny that I ended up writing a poem about one of them today.  The title is almost how I feel about her (Tilda).  She is indeed preposterous but delightful.  This poem is a nod her and my gratitude for her presence in my imagination and whispering to me.  I can’t wait to share her story.

I know it’s only a wee update but the poem perked me up today and I wanted to share.

In propinquity,

Nic