a brag, a middle finger at those ghost moments that, when she was dying burned again through her mind so many years, her birthday a crucible enduring, unpopular outcast youth; beauty seeking wings, and made cruel she sang at Carnegie Hall with grit built in backwoods honed in bully-yards defiant in second hand clothes we…
Category: memoir
Day 2: San Antonio Tlayacapán, In the Pocket
In this pocket weighing in pebble by pebble mountains of consequence my passport in that pocket of expat artifice American dollars translate to big houses high walls with shanties built into their pockets poverty that never knocks at carved doors, iron gates shoulder pushed against shoulder on cobbled streets in the same slight tide as…
In the 80s
Back in the 80s, we were going to die of nuclear war, whether instant or over-wintered, in a flash or frozen slowly. In the 80s, we danced to big-hair music genderbending stars with cocaine voices synthesizing freedom, formulaic fun. 80s, and rumours from New York and San Francisco disco drugs and a mysterious…
In Residence
Well, I’m In-Residence now. Following in footsteps of many respected colleagues, peers and mentors, I’m the Writer-in-Residence at MacEwan University. A residency is so much more than a sponsored time and space for pursuing one’s own artistic goals, although that, in itself, makes a residency a wonderful thing. I’m being paid to obey my muse,…
One: sort of a review of Stewart Copeland’s Ben Hur, but really a run on, excitable meditation on music, fandom, family; a cacophonous riot, wherein complexity matters, but never overrules the sheer bombastic roar…
I bought Zenyatta Mondatta with my own money, back when I was a kid, and albums were at thing, and we were that family – openly ‘halfbreed’ and forever under suspicion, building salt enough to resist the constant grinding. I had to have it. It was weird. It fit. I was embarrassed by these guys,…
Reflection: St. Eugene, 2019
“We’re selling an opportunity to understand our history, to know our people and to share our vision of turning a 60-year nightmare around. We’re creating new memories for our children.” – Ktunaxa Chief Sophie Pierre St. Eugene is a former Indian Residential School, which has been made over into a resort, complete with casino and…
Day 12: Dull Thing
Day 12, our task is to write a poem addressing something dull, or mundane. Sure. Dull Thing dull thing: I could speak here of a knife worn thin it is its metal, atom by atom, infused into all who have shared my kitchen binding us. but a knife is a tool, best kept sharp; or…
The Silence Between Two Rivers
I call myself the Silence Between Two Rivers because I inherit two large streams of humanity. The stories of our interconnections are not well told, for the most part. And the pressure to choose one side or another of my identity is real. And tedious. And not nearly as interesting to me as the territory in between.
Another Podcast Up, at CBC
Here’s another great podcast series; this one’s about Indigenous languages. Each guest is interviewed about our relationship to/use of our Indigenous language(s), and asked to share 3 words for the audience to learn. Have a listen! First Words There is so much more I’d like to say, and of course, so much more we discussed,…
Podcast Up!
Recently, I had the most delicious privilege of spending an evening as the guest of Let’s Get Lit* – Have a listen! * I was their Alcohol-Free special edition, ’cause I’m truly just that square! And ’cause being part of such a sweet, hilarious and warm-hearted community just lights me up!
Morning
Originally posted on Prairiepomes:
Joy comes in the morning. – Psalm 30:5 Morning was always Mom’s time. In the winter on the farm, morning would begin with the sound of her rattling the kitchen stove, stoking up the fire. We heated the house via a mixed-fuel furnace in the basement, whom, for reasons that live…
