If You Love Me

If You Love Me

if you love me

be the one to

snare the sun

if you love me

be the voice to

sing the sweetness

of

sustained devotions

themed declarations

if you love me

be the hand to

touch my heart

if you love me

be the one to

trace the distance

of

the writing of your body

the writing of my body

if you love me

be the single face

that remains still

be the only one

to restore my faith

in a dark world

if you love me

if you love me

tell me so

**

Growing up the fat kid, clothes were always extra special to me because rarely was it I was allowed to buy new things and when something really fabulous fit I didn’t feel like the fat kid.  Case in point, my pink jeans I bought as part of my tiny 6^th grade wardrobe.  This school year was particularly important for a few reasons, the first being they were placing our grade for that one year in the junior high building so that meant going to school as an elementary student with all the cool intimidating junior high kids including the grade 9s (who looked like giants to me back then and scared my socks off) and the second reason was, obviously, a boy.  My dear friend Kenny and I, in the last part of summer leading up to the first days of school at Eastern Passage Junior High started spending a fair amount of time together.  There were days when we’d be sitting out on the front walk way, batting eyes at one another and laughing at everything that was said, complete innocence of the time and my sister would poke her head out the door and whistle or tease us.  He’d retort by calling her a ‘faggot’ because he was embarrassed by being heckled but the one day she asked him if he knew what a faggot was (and he didn’t) he threw up her middle finger and blushed. 

Kenny was a sweet boy and at that time in my life I was sure he’d be the boy I’d grow up and marry.  So as you can imagine, I certainly wasn’t feeling like the fat kid but rather someone who felt happy and wanted to dress as such.  In my school clothes shopping, such as it was, I bought myself two pairs of jeans.  One pair were blue and black checkered and other were pink.  I was quite excited and for the first few days of school I planned my outfits very carefully.  The first day of school I wore the checkered jeans and my fancy white shirt.  The second I stepped onto the bus that morning of the first day, Kenny said, “I like your outfit.”  I’m pretty sure my feet didn’t hit the ground all day.  The day was only made better by the fact that Kenny’s desk was right beside mine, just as it had been for 4^th and 5^th grade.  Things were looking up.

I don’t remember what I wore to school on the second day but on our third day of school I selected my pink jeans.  I adored them and they made me feel like a million bucks.  I had no idea that the day would end in tragedy.  To make a long story short, while we were all waiting for the school bus to go to school, there was an accident.  I didn’t see it because it was down the road a stretch but I sure as hell saw the ambulance and police cars speed by and toward the general area where all of my friends were at their bus stops.  That morning, while waiting for the school bus, my friend Kenny with the long dark eyelashes and the most beautiful smile was struck by a car and killed.  I didn’t know any details about what happened until we were seated in our classrooms and announcements started.  I took full notice that he wasn’t in his seat but the rumor on the bus was that his sister had been hurt so it made sense for him not to be there.  Truth was, it was actually Kenny.  I will never forget the feeling when our principal delivered the news over the intercom.  I felt the world slow down and start to tilt.  At that age I had no idea what I was feeling but I bolted up from my seat and ran to the bathroom because I felt like I was going to be sick.  It was a tough days of heavy emotion that at my age, couldn’t truly understand.

At the end of the school day I was anxious to get home to my mother to tell her about my friend.  The bus dropped me off at my usual spot and I just started running, running so fast and hard my heart might explode.  Instead, I fell.  On the gravel.  I ripped a large irreparable hole in the right knee of my pink jeans rushing home to the comfort of my family.  It was the first and only day I wore my pink jeans.

I ran to the mall yesterday on my way home from work.  The Body Shop had a 50% off sale on all of their make-up and I was desperate for a new All in one Face Base.  I also treated myself to a new blush and a new kabuki brush for loose powder.  Body Shop make-up brushes are dreamy soft and since they are fairly pricey I thought I’d spring for one while the sale was on.  On my way out of the mall I did my usual walk-through at Winners.  I haven’t been feeling like buying new clothes lately but I strolled by the racks anyway.  There, on the rack, hung a pair of petite hot pink jeans.  In MY size.  I grabbed them and proceeded straight to the dressing room.  And, guess what?  They fit like a glove.  I have wanted another pair of pink jeans since the 6^th grade and yesterday I made it happen.  I wear them with happiness and I have to tell you, the bright cheerful pink adds a bit of a spring to my step (no pun intended).  They make me feel like a million bucks and they buoy my spirit and they also make me think fondly of my friend whose bright shiny smile beams from an oval picture frame in my writing room and the same smile attached to my keys so that he’s with me wherever I go.

In writing news, I’m still plugging away at ‘Mute’.  Several things became clear to me yesterday on the drive home.  I just need to formulate the words and make sure I have the sequence of events that the characters have told me about in the proper order.  See, the end of the story was made known to me before any other part so it’s been hard for me to focus.  What a fun challenge they have become.  So, watch this space.

Happy sunny Spring Thursday!

In propinquity,

Nic

A Thousand Kisses Deep - An Evening with Leonard Cohen

My bucket list is one item shorter.  Leonard Cohen played a sold out show last night in Halifax, almost four hours of his best work accompanied by a band and their gorgeous talents collected from all over the world.

The stage was set like a European dream.  Lush Persian-style rugs, red velvet chairs for the musicians and long white curtains cascading down and throughout the show turned all sorts of colors by the ambient and precise lighting.  He also had two large video screens for those far away from the stage.  Where we were sitting, in the nosebleeds, the show was projected on the white walls so we could see.  My seats may have been high up but we were next to the stage so I could see just fine, he was just a bit smaller.  It didn't matter much to me because I was sharing air with a literary hero and it served as a defining moment for me.  I've seen hundreds of shows but this one was miraculously different - it was life changing.  The pristine sound of a finely tuned band, Cohen's sub-baritone husk and his words, that poetry.

I was submerged in a quiet ecstacy while my lovely childhood friend struggled to keep her eyes open.  I commend her for going with me to something that wasn't quite her cup of tea for me to be blessed by the presence of a hero.  That's a good friend.

The show had so many incredible moments but they all blended seamlessly together with ease quelling any anxieties that raced through my body from my daily life.  In those soft hours, nothing else truly mattered except for Leonard's deep crooning and the intricate design of his poetics.

He is a tremendous performer.  Grateful for his audience he refers to as 'friends', respectful of his handsome band and dedicated to his extensive and extraordinary body of work.  He opened his almost four hour show with 'Dance Me To The End Of Love' and built an impressive tower of song until intermission.  The defining moment of the show for me, when the tears came streaming down, was his stunning spoken word delivery of  'A Thousand Kisses Deep'.  His band exited the stage, Cohen stood in a bright white spotlight and whispered the lines.  And of course, his launch into the universally beloved 'Hallelujah' was another emotional moment.  Perhaps one of the most iconic and celebrated songs every written.  The only other thing next to the perfection of Jeff Buckley's heartbreaking cover of the song that could ever compare is hearing Leonard Cohen perform it live.  A single moment really can alter your person, re-align your soul. cleanse your spirit.  

Cohen treated the Halifax audience to three encores and if he'd been allowed he probably would have played on.  It was a beautiful night and I not only walked away richer in spirit but with my arms full of amazing merch.  I rarely buy merchandise at concerts but last night I bought the program, a coffee mug and a limited edition Moleskine notebook with Cohen embossed on the front in gold and the quote 'stop writing everything down'.  The notebook was a bit pricey but I didn't just want it, I needed it.  I needed it because it is akin in a sweet way to the first few lines of my new short story denote a Moleskine notebook and its importance to my character.  In a silly way that only I would associate, it seemed like a sign.  I have learned hard lessons about following and not following signs over the past three years and this one was a sign worth following.  I can't wait to start a new story and start using my book to fill up with notes and ideas, some old and some new.  Maybe even a few borrowed.

I also was in love with his audience.  I bantered with several concert-goers and they shared their Cohen stories of their youth and mused about him and Joni Mitchell and other music that peppered the soundtrack of their lives.  And I loved seeing small kids with their parents taking their seats.  What an incredibly profound and culturally rich experience for them.  I recall one little girl holding her Mom's hand, wearing a pretty dress, black paten leather shoes and leotards carrying a long-stemmed red carnation in her hand.  It moved me.  The whole night, from the fun dinner Colleen and I shared at Midtown Tavern before filing into the Metro Center to the pure power of the show, was perfect.  

Cohen mused he hopes this one isn't a farewell tour and I also hope for the same.  I would do that all over again in a heartbeat.  I hope he returns.

My bucket list is one item shorter but I feel like my humanness has deepened and I left the venue vastly different than when I entered.  For the better.

Thank you Leonard Cohen, for being my man last night.  A gentleman.  You are absolutely everything a hero is made of.

In propinquity,

Nic

My loot.

Writer's Room

(the newest 'rock wall' instillation - in progress)

I have a space.  A writing space.  And while it is currently without a working computer for all of my creative pursuits, it is my space.  My writing space is littered with things.  With books, music, photos, trinkets and momentos.  It's the museum of my life.  There is a little bit of everyone I love in this room, all of the things that have introduced me to joy, inspired me, elevated me and let me down.  This is my space, it is primarily where I create and where my most precious collections are.  Yes, of late I've been writing at work but it's more about finding the best use of my down time than it is about ignoring my safe, creative haven.

When I am in this room (that is currently without curtains but gives me a great view of a brand new window where a protective pewter dragonfly hang) I think, I sing and pace and sulk and cry.  I laugh in here, I make a mess sometimes and other times it's so pristine that I beam with pride.  When I am in this room I am safe and creative and I am my true self.  I know to some it looks like a hot mess but it somewhere I truly breathe and brainstorm.  There is so much to catch my eye, to cull ideas and the comforts of those who make me happiest and those times we shared, shows, parties, weddings, births and break-ups - it is my artist's home.

Tonight is a bucket list event.  I'll be seeing Leonard Cohen in concert.  He's a literary hero and I am beside myself with excitement even though I'll be in the nosebleed section.  I can't wait to absorb all of that energy and then come home in an inspired haze and add his ticket stub to my wall.  Today is momentous.  It is happy.  It is something that means a great deal to me.  I strong-armed one of my oldest and dearest friends to accompany me.  Perhaps a little of that old-school charm and grace will seep into her skin and she'll come away a fan. ;)

If you should find yourself on my wall, know you are loved.  If you don't see yourself chances are you are somewhere on the other side of the room.  That wall is almost full but still needs work.  If you want me to love you, let me know.  There's always room in my heart.

Happy Leonard Cohen day to ME!  Happy Saturday to you all.  Wherever you end up, enjoy.  Don't forget to love your people and offer kindness into the universe so that it comes back to you.  That, is poetry.

In propinquity,

Nic

Rock Ranger

Rock Ranger

equal parts peace and promise

animate talent louder than bombs

& a pure hurricane-chasing heart

full throttle classic rock ranger

you were an exhilarating surprise

& fused unbridled passion in your stride

this extant twinkling passes by slowly

without your patient dreams dancing

& joyous flashes of musical quick fingers

on the back of a postcard from the road

it simply reads JS, we wish you were here

come back home Jay

                into the light

for you the pursuit of rainbows

on the other side of midnight

will never expire

absence will not quell your golden voice

it is absolute truth you will never be gone

in our bones your music remains

 **

I met Jay Smith twice.  Friendly banter ensued but mostly it me waxing poetic about his performances and him being graciously thankful I enjoyed it.  There may have been a pun or two in there as well, not from me though, surprisingly.

I saw him play several times, on stage with Gordie Sampson, Matt Mays and on his own.  I admired his natural ease, his raw talent, his love of music fiercely evident in his on stage antics and in his voice.

His passing made me profoundly sad.  Too young, too much left to do, see, write and places to play and people to wildly inspire.  Too much living for him to do.  I was so moved at how quickly our incredible tight knit music community here on the East Coast and Canada wide rallied together in both mourning and in celebration of their fallen brother.  I have the utmost respect for Matt Mays for finishing his tour despite their tragic loss.  It takes good humans to carry on and for that Matt and his band have my infinite admiration.

Regardless of the reasons Jay left this world, he awoke in all of us a certain kind of reverence, a great deal of happiness and the music that will continue to color the world and represent his truest essence.  For that, as a fan, I am grateful.

I attended a benefit concert on Sunday evening in support of his little ones, his family.  His musical brothers and sisters filled up the stage with emotionally riveting performances.  It was a love fest.  A celebration.  And, even though for much of the time tears came, there were warm moments of remembrance and tribute from his sister, his wife and his band. 

I’ve been trying to articulate for days what that was like to be a small part of that but I really still can’t.  So, I wrote a poem.  I’ve read over a hundred times and it feels cliché to me because there truly aren’t words beautiful enough for Jay.  But, I tried.

It is difficult to watch people lose their dearest friend, their son, brother, husband and father.  It is difficult to know someone so admired was in pain.  It is simply difficult to lose the things and people we love.  The trick is to know how to celebrate them when they are gone from us.  I will continue to listen and celebrate, for his life, his memory and those who loved him most.  And judging from the crazy amount of love he generated I am certain his gifts will be paid forward, time and again.

In propinquity,

Nic

Jay Smith

1978 - 2013

Rest peacefully, Rock Ranger

Do Not Look Back

Do Not Look Back

do not look back

I want to remember

you as you were then

instead of my fountain pen

pining for the invented figure

of you

traced in cursive on clean paper

do not take pause

I no longer wish to be

an unprincipled poet

subtracting love from words

deducting passion from lies

you told

do not look back

do not take pause

my world will do beautifully

without you

**

I have had a few people inquire, 'Why have you been so quiet on the blog front?'  Fear not, I'm pecking away at something but this week has been somewhat hectic and I'm still searching for the words to talk about the Jay Smith benefit show I attended on Sunday so watch for that coming soon. Until then, just a wee poem I saved for a rainy day and seems fitting for a blue Wednesday.

I have decided that an impromptu artist date is needed today.  I will park myself somewhere with a meal, maybe some wine and my pen.  I need to sit, be quiet, observe and breathe.  That's exactly what I intend to do.  I may also plug away at my current prose piece too but I'm going slow since it warrants some deep thought and heart.

Take it on faith.

In propinquity,

Nic

Literary Scene

Literary Scene

a typewriter

one piece of paper

& a bottle of red wine

I rise to the occasion

a cadence of words

to wrestle with ambition

& a palm full of virtue

I accept the challenge

w/out trepidation

w/out extortion

I think

I drink

I write

**

Feeling a little blue today, a little blah.  So, a teeny poem (again) and I'll be on my way.  I didn't have the chance to peck too much at my new story so I'm only sitting at 788 for a total word count.  Nothing much to write home about, eh?  

I have an errand after work and then I'm throwing myself in my bed with a movie and some tea.  I don't know if I'm just lethargic today or I'm coming down with a touch of a cold.  A lot of sneezing from yours truly today.

Happy Thursday, folks.

In propinquity,

Nic

Waste Land

Waste Land

barren mind

empty pockets

moral ruin

bankrupt art

desolate heart

you

were my only hope

**

Prose is kicking my butt again.  I started writing a poem this morning (not this one) and then it occurred to me that the lines would work in my new (I said new) short story, titled 'Mute'.  Prose is stealing my poetry!  How rude!  I don't mind so much though because I'm writing, the Muse is active and I'm enjoying this long stretch of creative energy.  

I confess that I've been thinking a little bit more about Greyson (see Half Windsor Knot) and about his back-story.  I feel like I will at some point return to him and hope he'll be more open to telling me what needs to be told.

I'm out of sorts today.  I have a gaggle of butterflies in my tummy and my hands feel sweaty.  I'm on edge for some reason and I can't explain why.  Doesn't help that we've been delivered another blast of wind by way of freezing cold, gusty wind and below zero temps. Braving the wind without earbuds today is going to be simply awful.  Let's pray my goofy winter hat his in the bottom of my work bag somewhere.

I purchased tickets for me and two friends to attend the Jay Smith memorial concert at Casino Nova Scotia on Sunday.  Smith was a young, vibrant musician and human being.  He died while on tour with Matt Mays and it has sent a giant wave of sadness through our community of artists and music lovers out her on the East Coast and across the country.  In loss, there is a tremendous amount of healing power in music.  I just know that room will be full of good humans pulling together in one long song for a fallen brother.  That's when you  know just how powerful music is, in its healing elements, in it's beauty.  One room, one voice, one human heart.

Not a lot to share today other than this teeny poem and the knowledge that I am yet again on another journey with a few new characters.  I am pleased as punch.

Long week, short blog entry.

In propinquity,

Nic