About Gravity

I built the city when I first laid eyes upon it.

I made this chair when I sat down on it.

I killed you when I saw you already lifeless in the grass

beneath the apple tree that taught me about gravity.

Paint a rainbow when you opened my eyes.

Walked through the rest of my life expecting a big surprise.

Fell through the traps I found in picture frames.

Became the catalyst to my own decay.

I saw hellos when I first heard your good-byes.

Felt the tears of my laughter and the joys of my sorrow.

Shut my mouth and watched my open palm shake while it did the talking.

I do my best running when I'm faced with walking.

Bum a cigarette from a stranger,tell a line to feed a friend.

I saw a tall tree, you saw the opportunity to fall.

You dressed for winter like you didn't notice the summer at all.

We built this island when we stopped to see the sea.

Right in front of us while we slept way up in the apple tree

that taught us about gravity.

Thoughts on Music and Writing

My relationship with music is the same as everybody else's: it puts me into a certain mood, it gets me out of certain moods, it's the soundtrack to my workouts at the gym and when I'm running along the canal under the watchful eyes of trees robust with summer leaves. When I hear a good piece of music, its brilliance will fester inside me for a while and I imagine the composer toiling away at a piano, or a guitar, or one of the woodwinds, trying to put down on the page what they hear in their heads so they can share their work and others can learn.

The first time I remember watching someone play a musical instrument, I was probably three or four. It was my grandfather, which is to say my mother's father. He played the banjo, and he still does. My siblings and I can look back upon our memories at their cottage and hear him pluck those strings and play those scales.

When I was ten, he bought me my first guitar. I had been doing a little work as a paper delivery person - pretty standard for a pre-teen - and my grandfather told me that when I had saved one hundred and fifty dollars, he'd take me to the music shop and we would pick out a guitar. About two months later - and after a few youth-driving impulse purchases - I had saved the one-fifty, and like he said, my grandfather took me to the music shop.

It's almost twenty-years later, and I'm still playing the guitar. But the role of music - or perhaps more accurately, my playing music - has taken on something of a different purpose in my life. During university, I started reading and then writing with increasing frequency. Each summer I would read what I considered to be classics, and this in turn made me want to write.

Writers do all sorts of things when they write, and they have all sorts of rituals and things they do to keep moments of inspiration on the horizon, get them through a tough place in a novel, or whatever the case may be. One of my favourite writers, James Frey, has said that listening to music while he's thinking and writing dialogue, helps him to write dialogue in a more authentic way. Other's like Joyce Carole Oates, turn instead to physical exercise like running when they are working out plots lines or characters or whatever, in their head. In the case of Oates, she maintains that doing something methodical can be creatively restorative - and if you're lucky, something inspirational may trigger your writing hand along the way!

What I like to do is something of a mixture, in concept at least, as it doesn't involving running. Whenever I'm working out a problem or am aimless as to where I want my story to go, I grab my guitar and start playing chords. What's funny is that most times, I play the same pattern of chords over and over and over again, until I either relent to the increasing feeling that this work is lost for the night, it's gone out to sea...or until I figure it out and get going again. The words land safely on the page and nobody gets hurt.

There's just something about those beats, those sounds that clear my head and give me the proper head space to think about my story. But that's just my jive!

Drive-by Love, part three: playing by the rules

First date goes down at her place. Cool. Don't they usually happen at some bar with a one-word name?

They've spent the better part of the week "talking" via "instant message service of the moment". He thinks her conversational style is weird; she doesn't write that much, or respond with any sense of urgency. Sometimes an entire sleep cycle passes and he'll wake up to a message. She makes him laugh though. Asks her out. She responds with the question: "Are you ready for this jelly?" Hahahahaha....smily face. He saw the pictures of her though, there's no jelly.

Things he knows about her: beautiful, moved from Northern Ontario three years ago, likes beer (the seeds of "maybe too much" were planted in his head at that moment), she's very active, and she has a dog named Stanley. He looks at her profile picture while he waits for her reply. He's tired but doesn't want to put the phone down. She's wandering around a casino with a drink in her hand and her blackberry on vibrate buried in the abyss of her purse. He's on his couch reading and glancing at his phone. Calm down man. Don't watch the pot. Seriously. Relax, the red light will flash. Plus, you'll hear the noise. If it's quiet, then she's not paying any attention to you right now. This is where he begins to wonder if she's really into him or not.

He figures, maybe too simplistically, that, if you're interested in the person, you're calling them back. Even if you have the urge to talk to her so bad that you have to put the phone on mute and ask her to tell you a story, partly so you can hear her voice, but also so she didn't figure out that you're sitting on the toilet. She'd never understand that sort of impulse. He's been trained to think that men and women approach this stuff differently.

They talk through the night. End up falling asleep beside their respective phones. Next day she says good morning and apologies for falling asleep. He say's no worries. Asks so when are we getting together. She says how about tomorrow? That's cool with him, besides, give him time to rent that movie he told her about. Downloading didn't work, too slow.

It's the first time he's walked to a girl's house with a video rental tucked under his arm since high school. Oh memory lane. Thinks it's cool that the first date is going down at her house. She casually responding: Where and when? and Your place or mine? Seemed pretty open-minded. Of course he suggests her place. Knows she lives alone. Well, her dog is there, but no other people. It's on a big street so he checks the address on the internet as he's getting ready. Enters her address, then enters his. Clicks "get directions" and waits a few seconds. Bam. Hey, she's so close. He smiles because he's averted the possibility of paying for a taxi. That's so cool, she's in my neighbourhood. Awesome. He leaves his house with a smile on his face. Thinks he'll stop and get a bottle of wine. Doesn't know what she prefers, but everybody likes red.

Walks, bottle of wine in hand, up the street to her's and makes a left turn. Heading toward the canal now. Slowly the apartment buildings and offices complexes give way to the brownstones of an Ottawa long gone. Back when the houses were built with care, good materials, a greater sense of craftsmanship. Ever seen a stained-glass window on a mobile home? By the address she gave, number "three", he figured she lived in one of those three storey jobs that had been divided into three single apartments. So common in this area. Rare nowadays to see a big house for a single family down here. Anyway. Past Cartier. Almost at Queen Elisabeth Drive. Third house from the corner. Apartment three. Takes a breath and rings the door bell.

Sounds of a dog barking leak through the door. Followed closely by footsteps down a steep stairwell and the smile of a beautiful women. Hi. It's her. She's holding Stanley. The dog. Go figure. He's a yapping little shit of a boston terrier, he's in fashion though, dressed in a sort of winter coat for dogs. She says he doesn't like the cold. Says he's soft like velvet. Pet him. He does. Agrees. Fucking dog is soft. She says come on up and he follows her. He takes the opportunity to check her out and he's happy because she's so fit. Loves a fit girl. Who doesn't, really? She wore black tights with a dress shirt and a scarf tied around her waist. She stands before him as he closes her door in a pair of thick wool socks pulled up to her knees. She looks cute as hell. In a messy way.

Tries to show that he hasn't already formed an opinion about her boobs. He totally has though. Are you kidding me? Poker face registers in a pasted on smile that he can't tare off. Looks into her eyes when she talks. Then at her cheek bones. Then at her hair. Then...then...

Nice place. Taupe walls. White moldings. She hangs his coat then they walk into the kitchen. She's already drinking wine. He'll just have what he's having. Puts the bottle he brought off to the side for now. Maybe they'll get to it later. Leans up against the counter while she's pouring wine and they make conversation. Good day today? Blah. Blah. Blah. Then he asks what she does for a living. I'm a cop, she says. Cool, he responds (maybe a little too eagerly, he might already be thinking about her handcuffs). Really, she asks. Yeah, he confirms. Because a lot of guys don't seem cool with that. They usually don't sound like they think it's cool, anyway. No, it is. In his mind, he's going, okay...good thing I didn't bring that joint with me. She's a cop, eh? Well, that explains the shape she's in. Fit. Fit. Fit. She smells like yoga for christ's sake.

They go into the living room. He looks at the all the precise decor. Glass table and four neatly arranged chairs. Perfect picture frames. Even a goddamn mantel. Place is beautiful. He tells her this twice in the first half hour. Feels stupid after the second time. She brings crackers and dip and they drink their wine and get to know each other. They're sitting on her love seat. The dog, for now, is sitting on the other couch. He's chewing a bone or something.

They turn the movie on and settle into the couch to watch it. He's thinking this is good because their elbows are touching. First contact. Cool. She's not huddled in the corner of the couch with her arms up, as if on guard. She turns around for her wine glass but then settles back down closer to him each time. Their hips are touching now. He puts his feet up on the table.

Bad move. Not because she doesn't like feet on the table, but because the dog then thinks it's his cue to sit on his out-stretched legs. It was not a cue. They were getting close. From where he sat the dog was just fine sitting on the other couch licking his balls or whatever. Not now though. Now the dog is sprawled out on his legs. But then begins to get up and relocate to a position that really isn't, between them. Hips move apart. Contact aborted.

She apologies and and says he just loves men. Especially her brother. Sorry. Sorry. He's being a little snot tonight. He hasn't seen my brother in a really long time. He's okay with it at first. Because the dog is cute and it hasn't forced her away from him completely. Elbows begin to rub together again after a few minutes. Then dog starts to move again. Back and forth, stepping on his crotch. Not the attention he was hoping for. Thing dog is a pain in the ass. Pain in the ass. Pain in the ass and a total cock-blocker. What did I do to you? Relax man, can't hit her dog. She'll throw you out. Plus she's a cop. So she'll kick your ass and then throw you out.

For the rest of the night it's follow the rules. Pretend to like the dog. Pretend to like the dog. Don't hit the fucking dog that's ruining everything right now. Leave the dog alone.

Note: no dogs were harmed during the date depicted. Seriously.

Drive-by Love, part two: the games

We're going to meet and it's going to be great. Hopefully. May be dwelling a little too much on the question, what's worse on a first date: no physical attraction, or nothing to talk about?

It's all a game, isn't? Just a loose, undefined list of rules that aren't written down anywhere, but seem to appear whenever two people make each other feel "funny". Don't send another email. Wait. Don't seem too eager. It's exactly the type of self-consciousness you feel when somebody's about to take your picture. How desperate will this make me look? You have to wait. If you get her number in a bar, wait three days, then call. NO. She won't call you first. Well, maybe. But don't count on it. Wait. Then call. If you like her, wait three days to tell her.

Games change over time. Or maybe it's just what you stand to win, that changes. Playing cards used to remind me of trying to glean the finer points of euchre from my grandparents while watching them play at the cottage. Then it became playing games like "speed" and "asshole" with the cute girls who came to the place next door from ours. There we'd be, hiding from our parents in the woodshed - the sounds of our laughter and reckless abandon leaking through the walls, giving us away every time. What are you kids up to? Nothing. Just playing cards. Adolescence changed the nature of the game. Don't 'go swimming', go skinny-dipping! You follow?

They're having dinner. He suggested the place. She suggested the time. After work means he'll look extra kick-ass because he wears a suit. She's effortless and doesn't worry about it. New restaurant. He's been here before, for wine but not for food. She's been meaning to try it. Little plates. Meant for sharing. Weird combinations. Menu changes every week. He walks to the place, confidence growing with every step. Pictures her smile from the profile pick as he walks. Almost walks into moving traffic. Steady. Runs through a mental note of shared characteristics he's saved up. Talk to her about the theatre. Talk to her about politics. Talk to her about writing. Don't talk too much. Don't bore her into a stupor so that you have to pick her face out of the soup bowl. Checks his phone. Plenty of time. Shit, might be a little early. Pictures himself sitting alone waiting for her to join. Candle light for company. Waitress bringing water for conversation. Paces outside the place for several minutes before deciding it's cold enough to wait inside. Heads inside. Hostess looks at him. Takes his coat. It's one of those places. Follows Hostess upstairs. Minimalist atmosphere. Chairs and tables look back-breakingly modern. Two rows of diners jammed together. We're all listening to your first date conversation. HA!

Sits. Waits. Checks emails while he waits. Painfully typical. Waitress brings water. Yes, he's waiting for another person. Reservations in my name. Does she know my last name? My first name is too common. Shit. Didn't give her my last name. Waits. Sips water. Waits. Knows she looks beautiful but this is the part where he wonders if that's actually her in the picture or not. Because you hear all kinds of stories. That's actually my cousin. Yeah, that's me...five years and a hundred pounds less ago. No. It's her. She sounded hot in her text messages.

Drinks a glass of water. Then another. Kind of has to pee. Can't get up though. What if she comes by and I'm not here? She'll think I left or something. Calm down. And try not to ring your bladder out all over this chair. (That would be something of an introduction. Yeah, hey, I was just in the middle of pissing myself...how are you? Extend your hand out of routine, ignorant to the piss that's dripping from your fingers.) Relax, bud. It's really just the condensation from the glass of water you've been cupping for the last five minutes. Sits. Waits. Should have got a hair cut. Damn. This is like a job interview. Hi, so you got my add for a boyfriend. Do you have any references? Sits. Waits. Three cleansing breathes. One...two...

Hi. He gets up as she's making her way through the crowd. Last cleansing breath aborted.

She sits down. They sit down. She slides off her coat. He can't wipe the smile off of his face. She is pretty. She looks up at him. They both smile. He speaks first. So how are you? Good, glad to be out of the office. Me too. So you've never been here before. Blah. Blah. Blah. No. Haven't eaten the food, no. Drank the wine though. Speaking of wine. Yes. Drink menu. They peruse in silence. Subtle glances over the menu say smiles. Nice to finally meet you in person, he says. Yeah, you too, she agrees. And now the people at the table next to them can see this is a first date going down. (They stay for dessert.)

They order wine. He a red. She a white. First nothing-to-say look around the room occurs. All the fancy people. Restaurant policy is wear a uniform. He just looks at her and smiles. She always seems to smile back. What else can you do? Wink? No, that would be weird. They get the wine and spend a few minutes talking about wine. They look at the menus and spend a few minutes talking about the food. They put what with what? Really? Sounds weird. NO. It's trendy. OH. Okay.

They order something they can share. Then look into their wine glasses with despair.

Then he asks for her thoughts on online dating. So stupid. Says she's on there too so she can't really knock it. He agrees. Drinks more wine. She looks bored and he's recently found out that he has nothing to say. The food comes, they eat it. More wine comes, they drink it.

She asks for a refill and he pours her more. Wishing there was more than just the bottle between them.

~ to be continued ~

Drive-by love: part one

In the beginning there were butterflies in the stomachs of all the girls next door, a sense of conquest and adventure in the eyes of the boys - a curiousity, really. I remember it well, all the first times when you lay eyes on a person and something in your chemistry changes and now you don't look at her the same way anymore and thoughts of spending another day apart begin to tare you like a flag in the wind.

The moments that give you pause and take you back to a room where the sight of each other's faces seemed to part a sea people, a feeling like you're the only two people on the planet right here, this moment begins to snowball down a mountain and it gets bigger and bigger and once it roles through town nobodies lives will ever be the same. Everything thereafter becomes an I've-got-to-see-you moment, and you find yourself sprinting to her apartment through the rain to feel her place a hand on your face. The appearance of a toga and gold leaf crown not uncanny in the least.

Now, though, it was hitting the refresh page while staring at a computer screen waiting to see if there's a message, or if somebody new came to visit your profile. Sort of like drive-by love: your eyes cruise across the pages of the profile, you look at all the words in the tiny boxes and you get hooked on something. You continue to read the profile. When you finish, maybe you read it a second time, to see if there's something you missed. For some reason you choose to focus on the fact that she apparently "owns cats", which make you have asthmatic reactions requiring rapid self-medication. Easy tiger. You're just saying hello. Think of something to say. Does she have pictures of herself? She does. How many? Four, nice. Oh, she looks awesome in this one. Man, this chick is the hottest f*#king girl I've ever seen in my life!

Look at her pictures.

Think of something to say.

Look at her pictures, again.

Think of something to say.

What to say?

Everybody says that online dating cuts through the bullshit, and gets the asses of the lonely into the chairs of coffee houses and pubs all across this fair city. People are more easy going on the internet. Look, buddy, we're all here for a reason. Sure.

That may be true. People are always telling me about some friends they know who hooked up and hit it off right away. After listening to this sort of talk for a while, you naively form the opinion that people on the internet will actually be as open-minded as their search for a partner appears to be. They will want to meet.

The meeting places. It's always someplace neutral, like a coffee shop, or some casual dining affair a couples steps away from hotdog vendor. Some place mutually comfortable where the ambient noise is dialed down enough to hear the other person speak. So you can nod along, letting out a few "yeahs" in a half-hearted attempt to communicate that you're actually listening and not wondering if you can look at her tits during the time it takes her to blink. This way to the gentlemen's room.

Sometimes a month's worth of emails. She takes her time to reply, it seems. You reply right away. Doesn't that make me seem a little too...eager? Whatever, first introductions are always awkward, it's the impression they cause that sometimes sticks in a bad way.

Here's the story. She was twenty-two and he was twenty-seven. She was in school, he was in limbo. He knew this, she did not. Not yet. He'd wait and see what happens first before he lets her know just how pathetic he really is. They spent the first two days sending instant messages to each other, flirty, but not obnoxiously so.

He then asked if she had plans that night. Her disclosure that she was staying in tonight made him smile the smile of an opportunist. Suggested drinks. She lived sort of in the west end, he lived definitely downtown. Give me an hour, he said. She was down. Just a walk down the street from her place. Said she'd wait for him outside. Cool. He changed his shirt, splashed his face with cologne, and called a cab from his BlackBerry while waiting for the elevator. It's an apartment. He'll be downstairs. Five to twenty-minutes. Plenty of time. He didn't want to smell like smoke for the first meeting, but he was getting anxious and was pacing the handicap ramp, so he decided to give into the tug of self-medication. Flick. Light. Breathe deep and relax. Checked his phone, he called the taxi almost twenty minutes ago. Still not here. He'd better send her a text letting her know that he'll be a bit late, waiting for the cab. So sorry. Send. Inhales pathologically for the next several minutes. Checks the time on his phone like he's expecting a bomb to detonate somewhere nearby. Stares down the street. Empty. Looks for cars with white lights on the roofs. Walks down to the other intersection, parked cars line the street but no taxis. No taxis. This is a first date for Christ's sake. Wow this looks bad. I'd better text her again. Hey, still no taxi, I'm gonna walk up to Bank and see what happens. Be there soon. Send. She replies. Sure, sure. You're probably just ditching me. Huh? No way. Panics. Words rush to his mouth and once and stumble into each other. Comes out squished. Drops his phone. Landed on the top of his shoe, so no worries. Hey, I'm coming, I really am. Don't leave. She writes back, you've got another half-hour. Okay. Send.

Keeping the girl waiting. Not the fake-out game to play when meeting her for the first time. No. But there she was leaning against the building wrapped tightly in a winter coat as it was unseasonably cold that night. Snowing a little. There she stood. I told you I was coming. Again, really sorry about the wait. I guess my apartment is in a taxi black-hole or something. No worries. Cute smile. Ended up having a great time with her. Talked for three hours and a couple of cocktails each. Nice girl. He walked her home and they smiled at each other when they parted. That could have been really bad, he thought. Still reeling from the late taxi pickup. Oh well. The next day she texted him.

Another time there was this forty-something woman. Looked nice in her profile pick so he send her a message. Over the summer. To his surprise she writes back right away. Teacher, so, I'm off during the summer. Must be nice. Secretly unemployed. Describes it as vacation instead. They talk, they talk, they talk. She's from Montreal though. He's in Ottawa. Shitty. They get along right away and bond over a mutual love of running and hiking. She's in great shape, has the legs and ass of a woman half her age. Nice. Running, hello. Gotcha. She's going hiking the next day. For some reason asks him to come along. Yeah, he can get there by 7am. She'll pick him up at the bus station. Cool. All in one day. Sort of weird. But, whatever. She feels taken aback by her own impulse and he asks if she'd like to call him so they could actually talk. Yeah, that'd be good. Yeah. Here, that's my cell. She calls they talk. Tells him that she never does anything like this. He says, ah, it's going to be fun. Then she asks him. Are you a serial killer? He laughs. No, are you? They laugh. He tells her to relax, people say I'm disarming by natural and I've always considered myself an extremely non-violent fellow. Seriously, no worries. Good. Because I have two kids and they need me. I would think. Don't worry. We'll have fun, and you'll remain alive.

Wow. Really? A non-violent pact before a date. This was truly the first of its kind in his experience anyway. What sort of men had this girl been seeing before? What sort of dates were they going on? Yikes. Then again, maybe it wasn't all that weird. Girl tells me that her friends shamed her for deleting her profile. Tells them why, though. Too many messages. Hey baby, this and that. Pictures of...well, you know. Gawd. Tells them that she'd receive one hundred a day, easily. Friends don't believe her. No way. Not because she isn't pretty, just, no way that many messages. Oh yeah, she says. Watch this. Fakes a profile. Leaves the boxes blank, just a name. Not even a picture. Gives the girls a copy of the password so they can check it out for themselves. So they can watch the progress.

Not even three hours later. Twelve messages.

~to be continued~

Stale Bread

A loaf of stale bread under my head,

killer instinct in my eye but I don't bite,

you know why? cause it's suffocating quietly inside.

The second that it breathes, it opens its eyes, to their surprise,

a jack in the box with a fully automatic inside,

pull this car over, get the kids off of the ride,

they don't show it with their eyes, but they know a truth from a lie.

An intergenerational game of monkey see, monkey do...

do as I say my lit' homey, but not as I do,

a lot easier to say when you don't see the

three fingers pointing back at you.

I've got some of the answers, but I keep finding clues.

I used to wear this life like a costume, now it's a second skin.

Some clothes you wear start to wear you,

you're the first to hope you win, and the last to see you lose.

Go to church and you can learn about sinners and saints,

go to confession anonymous and you can lodge your complaints,

my angel in the mail came with a demon inside...

a full metal jacket against the skin of my pretty young bride.

The inside is what's real and the outside is fake,

don't' be Bart Simpson reaching for the electric cupcake.

Can't fix a broken home with a sludge hammer,

can't win the game throwing TD passes to Quintin Jammer.

It's hard to get on the right track without a ticket to ride,

it's tough to find the inner beauty when you're dying inside.

Swans

I'm looking out across a sea of placated faces,

wondering how much damage time really erases.

Can I open a window in the room to vent some of this gloom,

the built up ambient noise, a home devoid of little joys.

Your silence is more telling than anything you really say

you walked away, never come again to stay, maybe to play, but not today.

But I want my shadow back, somebody to walk beside me

somebody to help me pick up the slack.

push our toes threw the sand on a beach in the promised land.

This auditorium my last stand,

won't you sit down there and keep your eyes on me?

the last desperate act of a guilty man tryin' a be free.

A bird in cage is always aware of its clipped wings,

a picture's worth a thousand different things,

it's just some guy on a cross, three days for the loss,

angel man in the cave's the boss.

Tellin' you why the rock was rolled back,

turn around to the see their tracks.

Can catch up to 'em too, just need to count to twelve,

in the library of the soul pulling tears off the shelves.

Always on my feet, I'm quick like a cat,

but if I had nine lives, why did I use 'em like that.

I'm in the middle of my own civil war, new streets but I've been here before.

Take the fork in the road, a needle in the weather vain

there's no shame in coming clean out of the shower.

Get my back for an hour, just let me fall

asleep in your gaze,

just got up and told 'em my name,

there's no praise to give because it won't be true.

And I could die in this bed lookin' back up to see you.

There's my life and my name and I'm waring 'em out,

Somethin' deep inside's finding its way to the door,

I managed to find from the floor.

Lemme have just five minutes more.

Got me a list of names who've been good to my bad,

time to fix it by sending sorries out into the dark night.

In any light, this wasn't right,

feed me tomorrow and I won't bite.

Just want you to know that I mean it,

so you can just sit back and glean it from my smile

that I smile when I'm looking at you,

from the rays of light from my brain when I'm thinkin' bout you.

Just one more chance to make it right, just sit tight,

28 days and a couple of nights.

The past is gory, got no glory,

featured voice in a broken toy storey.

Gotta get down off this wall, walk threw the mall.

Just a clear window between you and your dreams, it seems.

I placed a bet on the high of my lowest regret,

it fell on red but my wager was security set.

Walk me out to the street, call me a cab,

the last stab,

in the guts with this shaky microphone,

Are there anybody's lights on at home?

where I return alone.

Knowledge & Expression

A question was posed to me recently, and I answered what I thought was a good answer, but the substance of it began to fester. The question was, "Which do you think is life's ultimate pursuit: knowledge, or expression?" I ignored the fact that my options were so strictly limited in this sort of black and white sense, and thought about it for a while.

I answered, both, but my answer was not a product of indecision. I couldn't decide between knowledge or expression for the simple reason that they are linked in principle. It's knowing what to say and how to say it. The who, where, when questions add personality, reason, and objective to what we say and are made significant by how we say it.

The interconnection between knowledge and expression is particularly telling in writing. A writer's quest to find their own "voice" is a combination of knowledge acquired and expression learned. To stand out in a world filled with writers takes various paths of self-exploration, experimentation, if you like, and practice to find the modes of expression that does justice to an individuals experience with the world.

In this sense, the more you find out about yourself - the thoughts you're willing to write down, the areas of society you're willing to explore - the more knowledge you acquire. Taking the time to think about them and allowing for the time to practice writing allows a writer to access their truest voice, or style of expression.

Artists Inspire Artists: A note on the Paris Review Interviews

Once upon a day a few years ago, I was walking through my local bookstore with no particular destination in mind when I stumbled past a section of anthologies. There were short story collections, books of literary criticism, essay collections by John Updike and Susan Orlean, and books about theory and why writers write. I stood in front of the shelf for several minutes judging the books by their covers. Then I saw a book with the title The Paris Review Interviews, Vol. I, written across its bright yellow cover.

Taking the book off of the shelf and turning it over, I noticed a quote from Ernest Hemingway that read, "I have all the copies of The Paris Review and like the interviews very much. They will make a good book when collected and that will be very good for the Review." There were also included, quotes from several other established literary bright lights such as Margaret Atwood, John Ashbery and Salmon Rushdie. Each praised the Review for it's famous and thorough interviews.

Flipping to the table of contents, I began reading names like Truman Capote, Ernest Hemingway, T.S. Eliot, Saul Bellow, Dorothy Parker, Joan Didion, and several others, each interviewed by the Review for their insights into the arts of fiction, non-fiction, journalism, poetry and drama.

Needless to say, I bought the book and quickly became engrossed by its content. Each interview began with a short description of the setting of the interview: sometimes an office, a living room, hotel room, or restaurant, all describing the creative environment of the artists.

Reading these interviews provides one with a look into the creative engines that drive these artists, and the idiosyncrasies that keep them on track. And their methods are as diverse as the writers themselves.

For example, while Hemingway liked to write standing up, Truman Capote liked to lie down. While Annie Proulx begins composing in long-hand, she moves to the computer midway through; and Gay Talese uses shirt cards from the dry cleaners for taking notes on his subjects.

Kurt Vonnegut recounted how film adaptations (in his case for Slaughterhouse-Five and Mother Night) were a welcome source of financial stability to the writer. Capote, recounted the abandonment of several short stories and even an entire novel because he didn't believe they would sell. Winner of six Oscars and recipient of the 1987 Irving G. Thalberg Memorial Award, Billy Wilder, shared his thoughts on failure, by stating that:

"Sure, I've made blunders, for God's sake. Sometimes you lay an egg, and people will say, It was too early. Audiences weren't ready for it. Bullshit. If it's good, it's good. If it's bad, it's bad. The tragedy of the picture maker, as opposed to the playwright, is that for the playwright the play debuts in Bedford, Massachusetts, and then you take it to Pittsburgh. If it stinks you bury it. If you examine the credits of Moss Hart or George Kaufman, no one ever brings up the play that bombed in the provinces and was buried after four shows.

"With a picture that doesn't work, no matter how stupid and how bad, they're still going to try to squeeze every single penny out of it. You go home one night and turn on the TV and suddenly, there on television, staring back at you, on prime time, that lousy picture, that thing, is back! We don't bury our dead; we keep them around smelling badly."

However funny or odd the interviews (and sometimes the interviewees) seem, a common point with all is the hard work ethic needed to create, and the discipline it takes to reach the visions of their perfection. Again, I turn to Hemingway (I'll admit a bias for his interview, as he is one of my favourite writers), who admitted to writing the last page of his classic A Farewell To Arms, a staggering 39 times, before he was satisfied. With each of the interviews, there is included a page of manuscript, of one form or another, by the writer, where one gets a flavour for their editing style. (As a person who grew up typing, I also get a kick out of seeing the fine examples of remarkable penmanship.) Kurt Vonnegut's example even came from an unpublished novel of his called Spit and Image. Since the author's recent death and publication of other previously unreleased material, might fans be treated with this unknown work in the future?

Whoever you decide to highlight, reading The Paris Review Interviews gives book lovers a window into the composition of those classic works we love. The interviews are a place where a fan might also discover habits in common with their favourite author.

Inspiration takes many and all forms. But I think a great source of excitement lies in reading the thoughts and views of the people who have helped shape literary hunger in this world.

An interviewee once told me that "art inspires art". And I couldn't agree more. But I would extend this by saying also that artists inspire artists.

Reading the Dictionary

During university I had a political philosophy professor who stood before the class one day and asked, "Have you ever read the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) from cover to cover?"

It was a strange question because, as I thought anyway, aren't dictionaries something to be looked at when we forget how to spell something? Yeah, how do spell...look it up. The same with a Thesaurus. What's another word for....look it up. But then you put down the OED and never look at it again.

The professor's recommendation to us that day was simply that, "You should, it's remarkably interesting and entertaining!"

The interesting, I could see. Dictionaries, in a way, are the diary of languages, the way we track its past, present and ever-changing future. When somebody does something great (greatly evil, as you will find Hitler, Stalin and Pinochet's names; or just plain great like Tolstoy, Diana, Princess of Wales, et-cetera), their names are added to the OED.

In recent years this has been extended to consumer culture. Canadians will be pleased to know that if they are confused about what a "double-double" is, they can look it up in the Canadian OED. I'm sure in some American addition, one can find the hallmark of the original fast-food meal, the Big Mac.

When film and books began to be popularized by mass market PR strategies, making them available to global audiences, the word "blockbuster" was inserted and is defined informally as "a film or book with great commercial success." This was also extended to describe a person behind such great success, by calling them "superstars", and defining the term as "an extremely famous and successful performer or sports star." (Even animal noises are given a name and defined. Take for example, the "bleat" which is first defined as "a sheep or goat's weak or wavering cry.")

There are any number of examples where the changing nature of the English language has added to the content of the OED.

The entertaining, I can also understand, for the simple reason that some words or names are hilarious and given even funnier definitions. Take for example the "walrus moustache", a noun that describes a "long, thick, drooping moustache." (Along the lines of facial hair, maybe the term "Movember" might find its way in some day.)

How about "yippee", describing an "expression of wild excitement or delight." Canadians always love to point out the British influences on their lives, so in that spirit, consider the "yob" which is a British informal word describing a "rude or aggressive young man", or a "yobbo", which refers to a "yob".

The list goes on and on.

While the professor characterized the OED as an interesting and fascinating read, perhaps it is also a necessary read. How many times have you seen the wrong "your" or "you're", or "its" and "it's" or "they're", "their", and "there" used incorrectly? If you must, their definitions rather simply spell out their appropriate use, and they're found in the OED.

How many times have you had a conversation over Twitter or Facebook, and employed the letters "LMAO" or "LOL" to describe that you're "laughing your ass off" or that you just "laughed out loud"? How many times have you seen the aforementioned "your" simply written as "ur"?

Whether you view the OED as simply a reference tool, a vital reminder of the roots of the English language, as a source of entertaining and amusing words and definitions, or as a log meant to track the evolution of words and phrases, I would say that it is all of these things.

And definitely worth a read!

What I learned while writing a novel

This past fall, after years of kicking around mere fragments of ideas in my head, I sat down in front of an old Smith/Corona typewriter and hunted and pecked and miss-typed my way to two hundred pages of manuscript. The typewriter had been bought at the Glebe Garage sale (an immensely popular annual purging of basements and crawl-spaces in one of Ottawa's oldest neighbourhoods) for $10 dollars, and given to me as a gift.

As writers know, there are as many ways and methods to approach writing a novel as there are novelists. And if you're honest with yourself, it is a process that you don't necessarily prefect, as methods of expression can change with age, as one acquires new perspectives. In any case, I began my journey baring two rules in mind: (1) write every day, whether one paragraph, an entire chapter, story arc, character introduction; and (2) finish each day knowing where to begin the next. Let's be honest, these two principles are very basic (and I stole the second rule from Hemingway! Paris Review interview lovers may note his 1958 sit-down with George Plimpton).

I chose to focus on these rules for the simple reason that they seem easy to follow, even when writing each day seems like a serious challenge. Allowing myself to be satisfied with whatever I had written on a particular day seemed to take the pressure off of trying to perform some Kerouacian feat of marathon spontaneity. It also allowed me to completely envision the world I was trying to describe before I approached the typewriter, if only one place at a time, one character at at time.

As this project was my first attempt at composing a novel, I also learned not only how to manage a creative schedule, but I also learned to pay close attention to the stuff of novels: people, places, objects, time of day, sounds, noise, the way people walk, the way people talk, how they hold their coffee cups or pens, and probably a million other things. I have always been a social person, but writing this novel heightened my awareness as to how much personal interaction goes a long way in creating moulds of character.

For me this meant turning off the iPod, turning off the BlackBerry, and opening my senses to the things going on around me, the smells in the air, sitting on the bus and not drowning out the ambient noise with the damn rap music, et-cetera. Letting go of various digital distractions through the writing process was vital in capturing the essence of place, setting, character. These may not be the things that drive a novel, but they are the blood and muscle that layers the skeleton of plot.

In the end it is about simplicity. For myself (and I didn't write this to sound like a garden Buddha passing out fortune cookie wisdom), ignoring the complexities of the world around me and paying more attention to the "little things", allowed me to find places where my characters could exist, and allowed me to give them traits that were relatable to others.

February's Song

Only see your around at Christmas,
from the look on your face, I know you missed us.
But you look lost in the frozen faces of familiar picture frames.
Don't need to remember the dates and names,
and you can still find your fringerprints on the window panes.
Come back to me in footsteps through the snow.
Each crunch that you hear is another wall between us breaking down,
the sidewalks may look different but it's the same old town.
Take the ship out of the bottle and sail across the room,
you might find the record player's playing a new tune.

Learning how to stand

Searching through the forest of my mind -
there's something I've lost, but don't want to find.
I wanna kneel amongst the trees, witness heaven on my knees -
and say something hot to this cool breeze.
Lose my footprints in the river trying to walk across the water;
change direction like a bird;
suck sun like a flower;
walk without a shadow and crawl away praying for a new day;
fall asleep beneath a rainbow, and wake up next to a pot of gold -
just give me another life to hold,
but this story's been sold.
Put down the brush and guide your colours with both hands,
you might fall amongst the rubble,
but you're learning how to stand.

This Blog's 4

This blog's 4,

another year like the one before.

Many pass by without leaving a trace,

hard to find your footprints in this internet space.

Through travel,

through pain,

some sun,

some rain,

it's all here,

and it's not left-over.

No used tires,

or cliche clover.

In the eyes of the normal man,

his property is kingdom and he is king.

So here's my

something, nothing, everything.

a 2010

A new birth in 2010;

the annual chance to begin again.

Slopping through snow, and ice and regrets...

take another opportunity to place your bets.

Some celebrate this day like the ones before,

some stay buried beneath the old war.

Between beginning and end we find ourselves today,

hoping for change that doesn't seem far away.

Undone

Unclasp the watch to write this rhythm;

photos of another place and time ---

this reverie is both yours and mine.

Our interaction on the side-street knows,

that the cold of the winter-wind blows

your whispers past the tip of my nose,

as the sign flips from open to close;

and you stand under the shadow of your choosing,

and I crawl away a casualty of your musing.

victims of a fight where both are losing,

junk-sick from the drugs we're using.

Photos of another place and time ---

this life is both yours and mine.

Can't wash this feeling from my hand,

of being tucked away in a foreign land,

reduced to the occasional family pity- visit.

(Not our creation or is it?)

Splashes on the blank canvas,

old water in the empty vase;

footprints in the frozen grass,

tear-tracks down your tired face.

Inside the wooden crate wrapped in lace,

trinkets warn from use before,

we ignited a civil war.

You stand under the shadow of your choosing,

and I crawl away a casualty of your musing.

victims of a fight where both are losing,

junk-sick from the drugs we're using.

It was done before it was over,

fields of fire now filled with clover;

a reminder of peacefully counting sheep

under skies too beautiful to miss for sleep.

A memory for down-the-road to keep,

no battle could ever be had or won,

those days have past,

we've come undone.

Playboy Magazine: Playing nice on the coffee tables of mainstream

It's been a theory of mine for a while that the once taboo men's magazine, Playboy, has shaken off its label as the bible of moral turpitude, to dawn the cloak of a respectful, mainstream avenue for literature, social commentary and critique.

This has happened for three reasons: the Internet has moved pornography away from still pictures and transformed that label to movies; the 'playboy' pose isn't something that's akin to pornography, but rather more closely relates to fine art, even promoting an almost overarching artistic merit. And lastly, its content has seen contributions from diverse sources such as stories by Margaret Atwood, to Marge Simpson as the newest cover model.

Hardly a surprise to the Internet-savvy, but people don't go to magazines anymore for 'the really good stuff.' NO. Save that for the plethora of websites that make you pass through a disclaimer screen asking you to make sure you're old enough to view the content. Nothing that anybody could put in a magazine could be as bad. More importantly, though, is the Internet has changed the medium of porn, replacing the once sought-after pictures with movies. (Note: pornography refers to how acts of a sexual nature are depicted, not actually the substance of what's being depicted.)

Second, the "Playboy" pose. I don't think high-gloss pictures of women posing in the country-side on fur blankets with elegant jewelry constitutes porn. The pictures look like fine art pictures, which do, by their very definition promote some sort of overarching artist merit. In a sense, these types of photos aren't about the women at all, but the quality of the photos. Real pornography has a grittiness to it that photo spreads in Playboy completely lack. The centerfolds look they've been touched up with an airbrush. That's fine, I think everyone knows about airbrushing by now, but the problem is the photos LOOK like they've been airbrushed. Polished is not pornography. If Playboy magazine were a girl, she'd be the type who wears makeup to the gym.

Above all, the content of the magazine promotes a more mainstream audience than say its traditional market penetration of the mid-40s white male. Many fine writers from Margaret Atwood to James Ellroy have published a story in Playboy: hardly headline writers for Penthouse.

In the end, Playboy has made a transition from the secret-porno-stash-closets of fathers, to the coffee tables of mainstream. Think I'm wrong, here's more proof. This past Friday I was in barber shop having my hair cut when I noticed the magazine rack. The two latest editions of Playboy magazine. Just sitting right there, in public. Not tucked away, out there where the world can see them. The part of this argument that makes it art is that this barber shop, is located in the basement of a government of Canada building.

No Access?

The issue of transparency always manages to surface, in one form or another, in democratic societies. Our Access to Information Act makes it possible for ordinary citizens like you and I to request information from the Government of Canada, and receive a reply shortly thereafter.

Seems simple enough.

Really though, the Access to Information Act was not designed as a simple query and answer forum. Rather, this access to information system was put in place so that the government would have a legitimate way to say: NO.

Firstly, the Access to Information Act had to be written in the first place! If our government was concerned about how uninformed its citizens were, all information, from all ministries would be available, all the time. There would not be an Act that prescribes the procedures for filling out an access to information request form because there would not be a request form. There would not be timelines for answering requests and processes to follow because the only answer would be, yes.

Secondly, the Act itself includes a measure that ensures the public-at-large never fully understands what information is available. Section 10 (where access is refused), subsection 1, states that:

“Where the head of a government institution refuses to give access to a record requested under this Act or a part thereof, the head of the institution shall state in the notice given under paragraph 7(a): (a) that the record does not exist.”

Looks pretty straight-forward.

You make a request for access, you are denied, end of the story, right? Maybe not. Subsection 2 states that, “The head of a government institution may but is not required to indicate under subsection (1) whether a record exists.”

When your access to information request is denied – and you are supplied with the reason: the record does not exist – there is no way of knowing if that is in fact the case. This logic is the reason why the request is being denied access, but the head of the government institution is not required to provide proof.

Sounds like no access to me.

Broken

This home is broken,
cut me open.
Give me an answer,
don't leave the cancer.

Liberal Homebase?

Canada might be on the verge of conservative reign for years to come: of course only time will tell if that's true. For what it's worth, I'm starting to feel like the Progressive Conservatives after the 1993 election that returned only two Tories to Parliament Hill: gearing up for a long stay in Opposition territory.

In the face of yesterday's by-elections in British Columbia, Quebec and Nova Scotia, I am concerned for the fderal Liberals. In each of these by-elections, the Liberal candidate was not in the top two, rather, third. It's not only the finishing position that is cause for concern but that in each case, Liberals were severly trailing their competition in the number of votes. Using these numbers to project any type of outcome in a possible spring election, the results are less than desired.

One of the things I find uncanny about the Liberal party is how its own players (Parliamentarians and staffers) talk about their voters. When talking about the general public, they all seem to say the same thing: "We need to reach out to our base!"

I find this declaration interesting, and a little confusing because, there is no Grit base. For much of its ruling history, the Liberal Party of Canada has been a successful brokerage party, nothing else. It has been able to find success by pulling socially progressive voters away from the Tories, and has managed to make the argument that of the opposition parties, they'll be the ones to win power.

Not sure if that's true. If the recent elections in Canada have taught us anything, they have reminded us of the importance and necessity of a homebase. In this department, the Liberals seem out-gunned by the religous right and family values based voters of the CPC; the environmental activitist base of the Green Party; the Quebec Nationalist base of the Bloc Quebecois; and the socially progressive, workers-rights voters of the NDP.

So, when federal Liberals say, "we need to reach out to our base," who are they talking about? To be sure, the Liberal Party needs a real identity, not a stolen one, or a borrowed one. If the identity remains securely attached to being the middle of the road, then that's where they'll stay.