Poetry is supposed to be cathartic. You always here poets and lyricists say something along the lines of 'it had to be written and then I felt better'. Personally, I've always admired how much a good poem can say with so few words. I always write to much. One sentence, one word too many. Much to my dismay, I have to describe my writing as sprawling, rather than concise. So in an attempt to be more concise and with the aforementioned promise of catharsis I engage I haven't really done since I was fifteen. The dairy-esque poem (don't laugh):
Empty boxes, wrapped in broken bows
but misplaced blame proves how low you'll go.
And ever since I met you, all I want to be
is a girl who shows less sympathy.
When I open my mouth to speak
your empty boxes make me meek.
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple.
I watch you, you paint everything green.
Gifts, and girls, and every smile you've seen.
It's not about love, but if they love you more.
It's not a game, but you still keep score.
I choke on all your smoke, I know. It's green.
You keep fuming. It's your nicotine.
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple
You've somehow built your existence on jealousy
but that's an excuse, not an apology.
And you devour everything you can get from me
so how can you be jealous of someone who's so empty?
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
On Death...
In Vancouver I watched children watch a dead pigeon. Child's-first-fatality.
It was lying there, on Grandville Island's pier. Beak to pavement, and you could almost see the little x's over it's eyes. While the other pigeons spread bird flu by swooping over head, this one was still.
Children started to gather, dropping the bread crumbs they were holding out in their palms. They stood over the pigeon, observing, but keeping a safe distance. One of the cleaning staff noticed the circle and intersected. She kicked at the pigeon to make sure it was dead. The kids gasped and closed their eyes.
Satisfied the bird was dead, the woman took a broom and dust pan from her trolley. Trying not to actually touch the bird she swept it up, and looked around for the nearest garbage.
She found one of those garbages with the spring loaded opening. As the woman shoved the dust pan against the door the bird started to slip into the garbage can. She quickly retracted her hand. The door snapped shut on it's legs. And that's how it was left--dead little legs sticking out of the trash can.
The children had stood watching the whole funeral and continued to watch until the were swept away by their parents. Given more bread crumbs.
It was lying there, on Grandville Island's pier. Beak to pavement, and you could almost see the little x's over it's eyes. While the other pigeons spread bird flu by swooping over head, this one was still.
Children started to gather, dropping the bread crumbs they were holding out in their palms. They stood over the pigeon, observing, but keeping a safe distance. One of the cleaning staff noticed the circle and intersected. She kicked at the pigeon to make sure it was dead. The kids gasped and closed their eyes.
Satisfied the bird was dead, the woman took a broom and dust pan from her trolley. Trying not to actually touch the bird she swept it up, and looked around for the nearest garbage.
She found one of those garbages with the spring loaded opening. As the woman shoved the dust pan against the door the bird started to slip into the garbage can. She quickly retracted her hand. The door snapped shut on it's legs. And that's how it was left--dead little legs sticking out of the trash can.
The children had stood watching the whole funeral and continued to watch until the were swept away by their parents. Given more bread crumbs.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Falling over the line… The Story Continues
The drummer tapes his headphones to his head with duct tape. Apparently it’s a good luck charm, but after the show was over, it's tempting to say the tape was for practical reasons as well.
The stage, to Mute Math, was not a slightly elevated platform on which they could present their wares, but an added member of the performance. Not an entity to be traversed, but one to be included. While their instruments seemed to be randomly tossed about the stage, that sense of confusion was embraced by the band creating a show that danced around the edge of insanity.
The singer would do handstands on his keyboard. The basses would abandon his bass to join the drummer—helping to beat out almost tribal rhythms. Eventually, the drummer dismantled his kit all together, grabbing the bass drum and bringing it with him as he climbed atop the keyboard for a bass drum solo.
It was all over by 10:30. Encore included. Too early by everyone’s standards.
Michelle, inspired by their greatest, required a souvenir. She asked the sound-guy for the set list. Candace and I also needed a little something to take home with us, so e headed for the merch booth.
Long line-ups. Sure sign of a good show. We waited--heck, it was only 10:30! Behind us the venue slowly cleared out. By the time we got the goods the place was nearly empty, and, much to our delight, the guitarist and bassist had come out to greet the hardcores. Michelle asked for their autographs.
So we had merch, the set list, and autographs. Bully for us. After all that, it was pretty much time to peace out. On our way, we stopped to high five the announcer DJ from Sonic, when he says: "Did you talk to the drummer? He's around the corner."
We turn our cute little asses (which will be vital in mere minutes) around with intentions of chatting up the drummer... until we get around the corner, that is.
At this point the real Kathleen shows back up and is all "What the hell am I doing trying to talk to the drummer from Mute Math? Run away!" But no. This was the perfect opportunity to get a well deserved autograph for one little miss Allyson (a youth I work with at my job.) Not only is he a drummer (Allyson is a drummer too,) he is a amazing, experimental and creative one. Candace and Michelle are all 'this ones yours Kathleen. Step up for Allyson.'
The couple he was chatting with says their goodbyes and moves off. He turns to another set of fans patiently waiting for their turn to tell him how fabulous he is. I move in to the vacant spot left by the couple and wait - Tim Hortons line-up style. But the waiting is leaving me thinking time, and nervousness time and freak out time. My face must have shown it because Candace and Michelle start whispering words of confidence, like 'you're a drummer too remember!'
Then, in what Candace later reveals to be the best way she could think of to support me, she takes of picture of my butt. But Candace had accidentally put her camera on timer. So I'm in front of this amazing talent, 'bum posing,' with a little blinking light flashing in the direction of my ass.
Between, the 'whispering,' the blinking light, and my stupid posture, the drummer (Darren from now on) is totally distracted. He turns:
"Sorry. Is she taking a picture of your butt?" he asks.
"Yes." I mumble.
"Why?"
"She does that sometimes." I confess ever so sheepishly.
"Can I get in the picture?"
"Yes!" That, of course, came from Candace.
So now I 'bum posing' with the Darren from Mute Math. Of course, Candace forgets to take off the timer, so their is me, Darren, and the blinking camera.
"This might take awhile" I say
.
"I don't mind."
After 10 seconds of my bum being right next to Darren's bum, we get the shot.
"That will end up on facebook you realize?"
"I know." He smiles.
I warned him it would make its way to the internet. And so I present to you the evidence: The first time I went from simply attending a concert to groupie--okay. So not groupie as in Anita Pallenburg. But my ass did spend time next to his, and I have the picture to prove it.
The stage, to Mute Math, was not a slightly elevated platform on which they could present their wares, but an added member of the performance. Not an entity to be traversed, but one to be included. While their instruments seemed to be randomly tossed about the stage, that sense of confusion was embraced by the band creating a show that danced around the edge of insanity.
The singer would do handstands on his keyboard. The basses would abandon his bass to join the drummer—helping to beat out almost tribal rhythms. Eventually, the drummer dismantled his kit all together, grabbing the bass drum and bringing it with him as he climbed atop the keyboard for a bass drum solo.
It was all over by 10:30. Encore included. Too early by everyone’s standards.
Michelle, inspired by their greatest, required a souvenir. She asked the sound-guy for the set list. Candace and I also needed a little something to take home with us, so e headed for the merch booth.
Long line-ups. Sure sign of a good show. We waited--heck, it was only 10:30! Behind us the venue slowly cleared out. By the time we got the goods the place was nearly empty, and, much to our delight, the guitarist and bassist had come out to greet the hardcores. Michelle asked for their autographs.
So we had merch, the set list, and autographs. Bully for us. After all that, it was pretty much time to peace out. On our way, we stopped to high five the announcer DJ from Sonic, when he says: "Did you talk to the drummer? He's around the corner."
We turn our cute little asses (which will be vital in mere minutes) around with intentions of chatting up the drummer... until we get around the corner, that is.
At this point the real Kathleen shows back up and is all "What the hell am I doing trying to talk to the drummer from Mute Math? Run away!" But no. This was the perfect opportunity to get a well deserved autograph for one little miss Allyson (a youth I work with at my job.) Not only is he a drummer (Allyson is a drummer too,) he is a amazing, experimental and creative one. Candace and Michelle are all 'this ones yours Kathleen. Step up for Allyson.'
The couple he was chatting with says their goodbyes and moves off. He turns to another set of fans patiently waiting for their turn to tell him how fabulous he is. I move in to the vacant spot left by the couple and wait - Tim Hortons line-up style. But the waiting is leaving me thinking time, and nervousness time and freak out time. My face must have shown it because Candace and Michelle start whispering words of confidence, like 'you're a drummer too remember!'
Then, in what Candace later reveals to be the best way she could think of to support me, she takes of picture of my butt. But Candace had accidentally put her camera on timer. So I'm in front of this amazing talent, 'bum posing,' with a little blinking light flashing in the direction of my ass.
Between, the 'whispering,' the blinking light, and my stupid posture, the drummer (Darren from now on) is totally distracted. He turns:
"Sorry. Is she taking a picture of your butt?" he asks.
"Yes." I mumble.
"Why?"
"She does that sometimes." I confess ever so sheepishly.
"Can I get in the picture?"
"Yes!" That, of course, came from Candace.
So now I 'bum posing' with the Darren from Mute Math. Of course, Candace forgets to take off the timer, so their is me, Darren, and the blinking camera.
"This might take awhile" I say
.
"I don't mind."
After 10 seconds of my bum being right next to Darren's bum, we get the shot.
"That will end up on facebook you realize?"
"I know." He smiles.
I warned him it would make its way to the internet. And so I present to you the evidence: The first time I went from simply attending a concert to groupie--okay. So not groupie as in Anita Pallenburg. But my ass did spend time next to his, and I have the picture to prove it.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Zoom. Zoom.
"So what do I have to do again?" asks Candace over the phone.
"Just act like you're interested in buying a car" I say.
I have to test drive a car for a school assignment, and as I don't drive myself, I've nominated my friend Candace to help me out. I've committed to the process of getting her to lie for my sake for the past couple weeks and for a girl who used to sneak out of her house so her mom wouldn't see what she was wearing, she's fairly resistant to the whole idea.
To be quite fair, Candace isn't the only one who is worried about a little lying. When I open the door to the Mazda Dealership my heart starts to beat in tight little bursts and I half expect the words "it's a school project" to race from my mouth as we greet Denis, our sales associate. But Candace speaks up, stepping quickly into the role of twenty-something looking for a sporty new ride.
"I want to test drive a Mazda Proteger 5" she says, completely skipping over what I assume would be the traditional meander and a little him-hawing.
"Used, you mean?" replies Denis. "Because they don't make 'em anymore"
"Err... yes. Used. I knew that." Candace and I try to move right through this crack in our first attempt at lying, and I start to wonder if the whole lying thing might not be so easy. Maybe we should have gone over our stories Ocean's Eleven style.
Denis, however, doesn't seemed fazed and we follow him outside. He's wearing beige dockers, and a well worn green golf shirt - what I assume to be a fairly standard outfit in car sales. His dark gray hair is streaked with white making him look genuine and, therefore, trustworthy. Probably a helpful trait to have in sales. We stop at a silver hatchback. Candace and I circle around it, investigating, while Denis tells us the details.
"You drive the Honda?" he asks. Candace's car is a 2003. The same year as the car we're looking at. I quickly realize we've stumbled onto another flaw in our poorly laid plan. If Candace owns a 2003, why would she be looking to buy a 2003?
"Ya. I like to change every couple years. I get bored" she offers as explanation and Denis seems to except the idea.
"You just get gas?" he asks. Now my heart is speeding up the tight little bursts. Why is he asking so many questions? Why does it matter if we just got gas or not? "Cause your tank is open." Oh.
We get into the car. It's all black, shiny and sleek. Since it's used, the new car smell is gone and replaced by what seems to be a complete absence of smell. As Candace pulls away she notices the warm hum of the engine and nothing else. Another absence cars makers seem to be capable of.
"Zoom. It's the only word for it" Denis slouches in the back sit, confident in his product and confident he has correctly pegged Candace as the 'Zoom Zoom' type. He's right. She taps the breaks when she notices the speedometer, but her zip over the speed limit is acknowledged with a mischievous grin. As we reach a corner she slows down even more.
"No. This car's made to step into corners" says Denis. With Denis' encouragement she 'steps into' the corner. The car sticks to the road like superglue and inside it feels like another bit of engineered nothingness. Candace's smile turns to a grin. Denis slouches further into his seat.
She plays with the pick-up as we return to the dealership, tickled at how quickly it will jump forward on her command. I open and close compartments and fiddle with knobs trying to seem critical.
"I think I'd get a lot of speeding tickets."
"You get used to it after a couple hours on the road."
I ask Denis if he ever gets nervous during test-drives. The answer is an assured no. He's done it so many times. We are clearly just another time.
After we get back to the dealership it's all thank yous and the exchanging of the business card. Candace and I hop back into the Honda (after she shuts the open gas tank.)
"I really like that car" says Candace.
We, clearly, didn't get away scot free. Our little white lie might end up costing Candace $15,000. Not to mention a couple speeding tickets.
"Just act like you're interested in buying a car" I say.
I have to test drive a car for a school assignment, and as I don't drive myself, I've nominated my friend Candace to help me out. I've committed to the process of getting her to lie for my sake for the past couple weeks and for a girl who used to sneak out of her house so her mom wouldn't see what she was wearing, she's fairly resistant to the whole idea.
To be quite fair, Candace isn't the only one who is worried about a little lying. When I open the door to the Mazda Dealership my heart starts to beat in tight little bursts and I half expect the words "it's a school project" to race from my mouth as we greet Denis, our sales associate. But Candace speaks up, stepping quickly into the role of twenty-something looking for a sporty new ride.
"I want to test drive a Mazda Proteger 5" she says, completely skipping over what I assume would be the traditional meander and a little him-hawing.
"Used, you mean?" replies Denis. "Because they don't make 'em anymore"
"Err... yes. Used. I knew that." Candace and I try to move right through this crack in our first attempt at lying, and I start to wonder if the whole lying thing might not be so easy. Maybe we should have gone over our stories Ocean's Eleven style.
Denis, however, doesn't seemed fazed and we follow him outside. He's wearing beige dockers, and a well worn green golf shirt - what I assume to be a fairly standard outfit in car sales. His dark gray hair is streaked with white making him look genuine and, therefore, trustworthy. Probably a helpful trait to have in sales. We stop at a silver hatchback. Candace and I circle around it, investigating, while Denis tells us the details.
"You drive the Honda?" he asks. Candace's car is a 2003. The same year as the car we're looking at. I quickly realize we've stumbled onto another flaw in our poorly laid plan. If Candace owns a 2003, why would she be looking to buy a 2003?
"Ya. I like to change every couple years. I get bored" she offers as explanation and Denis seems to except the idea.
"You just get gas?" he asks. Now my heart is speeding up the tight little bursts. Why is he asking so many questions? Why does it matter if we just got gas or not? "Cause your tank is open." Oh.
We get into the car. It's all black, shiny and sleek. Since it's used, the new car smell is gone and replaced by what seems to be a complete absence of smell. As Candace pulls away she notices the warm hum of the engine and nothing else. Another absence cars makers seem to be capable of.
"Zoom. It's the only word for it" Denis slouches in the back sit, confident in his product and confident he has correctly pegged Candace as the 'Zoom Zoom' type. He's right. She taps the breaks when she notices the speedometer, but her zip over the speed limit is acknowledged with a mischievous grin. As we reach a corner she slows down even more.
"No. This car's made to step into corners" says Denis. With Denis' encouragement she 'steps into' the corner. The car sticks to the road like superglue and inside it feels like another bit of engineered nothingness. Candace's smile turns to a grin. Denis slouches further into his seat.
She plays with the pick-up as we return to the dealership, tickled at how quickly it will jump forward on her command. I open and close compartments and fiddle with knobs trying to seem critical.
"I think I'd get a lot of speeding tickets."
"You get used to it after a couple hours on the road."
I ask Denis if he ever gets nervous during test-drives. The answer is an assured no. He's done it so many times. We are clearly just another time.
After we get back to the dealership it's all thank yous and the exchanging of the business card. Candace and I hop back into the Honda (after she shuts the open gas tank.)
"I really like that car" says Candace.
We, clearly, didn't get away scot free. Our little white lie might end up costing Candace $15,000. Not to mention a couple speeding tickets.
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