40 pigeons

(i returned from 2 exhausting weeks in london at the end of august to no internet or phone - thanks very much, BT. it was probably a good thing; hours in front of a flickering computer screen are a tested-and-true method of ignoring a sore tired body's persistent requests to Just Lie Down. but we're back online now, and i'm makin up for lost time...in a gentle embodied way, of course.

damn, i missed the self-indulgence of blogging.)

i stopped to look because of the man who was staring. he was sitting moving on a bench in front of 40 pigeons. i counted because i feel particular satisfaction at numbers divisible by 3. i especially like 12 and 15. (there's something you didn't know about me.) i counted by 3s 3 times in the hopes of a 39. nope. 40 pigeons. 40 pigeons on the pavement overlooking the ASDA carpark, mostly ignoring the still silent man. he might be drunk. he could be confused. he may have noticed that on grey days the finest colours are found on the iridescent feathers of a pigeon. pigeons with heads under wings stubbornly sleeping through london's rush hour, pigeons pecking at invisible things, pigeons perched on a single foot because the other one's missing. pigeons are like that. they carry on.

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dented phone box

i had a frightening experience in a phone box today. after the fourth BT service representative apologized to me today for something which they could not personally fix, after i was told that although BT had mistakenly cut off my phone line they were still requiring me to submit to a credit check and a 12 month contract in order to get a new phone number, i snapped. i was physically unable of reiterating my personal details; i made an attempt to hang up with a vicious *click* but missed the cradle and then lisa left her body and someone else entered to repeatedly banged the phone on the side of the phone box.

i'd like to make this out like it was a somehow liberating departure from middle class feminine niceness, but really, i'm no stranger to anger, i busted through those blocks in 2001 thank you very much. what freaks me out is HOW enraged i became - enough to exit my body on a london street.

i left the phone box shaking and retired to a bench to burst into tears and call the pb to say I don't think we'll have our line reconnected for a few more days.

i dunno if this is a poem or not, but it appeared in my notebook a few days ago asking to be released into the world.

i don't want to shout at you.

you are sitting in a cubicle with limited airflow far from a window under unnatural lighting answering phones for the equivalent of £1 per day - which, by the way, isn't an example of the exploitation of low wage markets because the cost of living is cheaper Over There and anyways, increased competition in the global marketplace leads to increased productivity, and out-sourcing saves british companies money, which should trickle back down to the british consumer any day now.

no, i don't want to shout at you. you are sitting in a cubicle with limited airflow far from a window under unnatural lighting working from an inadequate script to deal with the impatient sarcasm of british customers ready to vent their resentment on someone they suspect of stealing a british job, someone with a heavily accented grasp of english, someone working for a company which works for a company with an astoundingly incompetent billing department

and you do this

for the equivalent

of £1 per day.

...yes, i do want to shout.

but really, not at you.

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the cost of clean living

it's the slow roll of your stomach as it circles the periphery of nausea, an unsettling increase in heart rate, a dry, unfocussed irritability, and a tension at your temples that isn't pain, but will be

that makes you think damn, i really like these people. but i wish i could quit second-hand nicotine.

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Effective Stress Management Tips and Techniques for Very Busy Very Important People

Part One: Interacting With Others

The first and most important point is not a technique, it is a mindset. Time is a scarce and precious commodity. There's just not enough of it. The only way to survive in this game, let alone get ahead, is to remember that your time is more important than anyone else's. If you take this approach, with confidence, other people will follow.

·         Take a moment to visualize tension vibrating outwards from your body. It may be helpful to picture it as a certain colour, like nicotine yellow or fluorescent green. Can you "see" it landing on others nearby? Good.

·         Always move with urgency. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing with intensity and speed. This will draw attention to whatever task you are doing. Others will notice, and will be more likely to offer assistance – or better yet, to do it for you.

·         Cultivate a look of horrified shock. You can use this anytime. When you are a Very Busy Very Important Person, any shift in plans or unforeseen event is a possible disaster. Your body language should reflect this.

·         Practice gushing thank yous and and a wheedling-yet-attractive "Could You Please…?" You know you're too busy to get everything done yourself. These techniques can help get people on your side. It's important to give little rewards to those who come around to your way of seeing things.  

·         Rehearse switching fluidly from Horrified Shock to Gushing Thank Yous. Abrupt changes or inconsistencies in your manner and facial expression tends to keep others slightly off balance, and extra-attentive to you.

These are subtle yet effective methods to encourage the people around you to respond favourably to your stress. You'll find them effective at home, with friends and family, and in the workplace. When you master these techniques, you won't have to make specific requests or state your needs – even strangers will leap to guess what it is that you want, and then you can all enjoy a sigh of relief!

Stress is a fact of life. How you make use of your stress is up to you.

…Stay tuned for

Effective Stress Management Tips and Techniques for Very Busy Very Important People 

Part Two:  Getting The Most Out Of Your Body

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Fuck Modesty. (new poem, and fractal truth 2)

two days ago i launched my new book, "diving for shiny things" in manchester. wednesday's show was definitely in the top 10 of the last 6 years, in every way. our raptly attentive audience was sardined onto available spaces on the floor leaning in from the open door beaming from the front row. thank you so much to everyone who came and to libby tempest for being such an avid poetry advocate at the central library and to jackie and steph for sharing the stage with me (by the way you two, we should something like that again. we fit.)

i sold out of books. i didn't bring enough copies with me, and had to take down addresses and promise to mail them in the next week. that's a first. i reckon it had summat to do with the poem i finished the second set with...and here's a fractal truth: when i move in a less-than-fully-confident way, other people respond accordingly. i don't sell stuff when i'm too shy or worried about taking up too much space to talk about the fact that i've books and cds in my bag. if, however, i overcome social conditioning enough to honestly say something to the effect of: "i think this thing i made will make your life more wonderful; buy it, you'll like it" then people respond to that, too. and no, the point of the launch was not just to move merchandise. if poets did it for the money there'd be a lot fewer poets. but it's a really nice plus when you get to break even and have a few quid left over to buy another poet a drink afterwards.

here's the poem. (if you want a book but i'd sold out before you got to the table, email me, and we'll sort it out. luckygoatnews(at)yahoo.ca

fuck modesty

   sometimes i write poems on the hardest things to say. if i can't mention it in casual conversation then i spit it out onstage.

   modesty is ingrained.

   especially for girls.

   self-promotion is hard.

   so. here i go, with a little show and tell as well.

   the title is "diving for shiny things." that's a reference to a crow, diving for shiny things in the depths of a dumpster, ie rescuing treasure from rubbish, and it's a metaphor for a lot of my life.

   the crow on the cover is crouching to pick up a small mystery object. i took a silver gel pen to 100 covers to make 100 tiny shiny things catch your eye.

   there are 53 poems written over 2 and a half years in here, set within 6 chapters on 6 different themes in 6 different fonts – i really want you to appreciate the fonts.

   each book comes with a bookmark individually stamped with a poetry fragment about fractals and an image of a fern. i had the stamp specially made and i pressed 100 bookmarks by hand in sepia ink.

   wyndi spent hours on the cover and on the inside design as well as one the bookmark and she and louis and michelle and rusty read and edited these poems; there are pieces of some of my dearest friends between these pages and because people like them believe in me and my poetry enough to challenge and encourage me, tonight i'm being brave enough to say Fuck Modesty, this book is brilliant enough to light up some corner of your life, and this isn't about getting that fiver from your pocket because whether or not you go home with a copy, now you've heard me say Fuck Modesty, Hey Everybody, I've Made a Work of Art!

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fractal truths pt. 1

fractal truths are the lessons you learn again and again until you accept and integrate. they continuously crop up in conversations with close friends who know you well. fractal truths unfold and fan out in infinitely repeating patterns throughout your life because they are so profoundly relevant.

the P.B. and i went to stay with friends on their farm 4 miles above rochdale for a weekend of sumptuous meals, storytelling and outdoor exploration. (the massage, the sauna and the bed pre-warmed by an electric blanket were added bonuses.) we ate gorgeous persian food, inhaled crushed spearmint rosemary lemon balm and cicely in the fecundity of L's garden, and went for a long walk and talk on the moors. upon our return, windblown and sunkissed and satiated by open sky and wide green vistas, i was reminded of a fractal truth which i often forget – or rather, don't forget, but don't remember as strongly as i should. i have surprised myself by how much i've come to appreciate large cities; the art and the communities found in big urban centres nourish me in ways that i really need right now. although i will probably choose to live more rurally someday, for now, i want to be a city dweller. but i need regular escapes! i need the quiet and the clean green and the unobstructed views and wild critters on the move.

fractal truth: i need regular respites from the city.

what are your fractal truths, o blog reader?

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(NEW POEM) when i was six, i drew maps.

i created continents with mountains and jungle, swamps and flat plains, deserts and rivers and cities with strange names, crinkly coastlines and bright blue squiggles indicating ocean – vast oceans.

when i was six, i drew worlds, wrote stories of adventure and quests. every story worth telling began with chance, a direction, a Yes, a once upon a time in a land far far away. when i was six i looked for the compass in the corner indicating north south east west, the section at the bottom marked "legend" (how fitting,) i travelled with enchanted talismans and magical beings – you need solid friends when you're going on a quest.

coloured pencils easily dissolve the walls of a suburban bedroom. a romance with the horizon, a fascination with maps and geography starts at a blank page with a vivid imagination and a pressing need for escape.

i'm almost thirty now and the horizon tilts many times a day, north south east Yes. i search for a You Are Here sign on any map even when i'm not confused, spend afternoons with atlases. i'm looking for the overview, something to place myself in relation to, the dotted line of a ferry's journey between islands over squiggles of blue. give me an indicating arrow in bright yellow, and i'll decide where i think i am.

i'm almost thirty now and still got one eye on the skyline. but the difference between running-from and going-to lies in touching the ground. the time is now. and You. Are. Here.

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salvaging n snatching

one of the deeper scars of my childhood and adolescence was around music. my mother and my sister were both extremely gifted musicians. they could play any instrument they picked up. i'm using the past tense not because they're dead, but because as far as i know, they don't really make much art anymore. (i hope i'm wrong about this.) in a subconscious and unsuccessful attempt to neutralize the competition between my sister and me, i avoided all artistic pursuits. my mom and my sister made music together; it was the one area where they didn't have friction, so i stayed out of it. years later, long after my estrangement from my biological family, i was still staying out of it. i was hoping, with the skewed logic of a small child who thinks that if something's gone wrong it's their fault and their responsibility to fix it, that if i didn't "take" music then it could still be there for my sister and my mom. i was subconsciously, futilely hoping that maybe they'd heal their fucked up lives and make art instead of perpetuating cycles of abuse.

maybe they will and maybe they won't. regardless, busting through this block to collaborate with musicians has been wildly healing for me. this is why i named my debut cd "salvaged music".

this is a belated post to draw your attention to the new(ish) track. it's (finally) the first one to play when you arrive at my myspace page. the technical crew at myspace took a long time to upload it and then would not allow me to name it correctly; apparently "reflections on growing up white and middle class" is too long a name to fit into the wee box.

so here it is. a poem which leans far out of the box. i wrote it in 2003 but only recently recorded it, with caro snatch. this is a belated post to draw your attention to what a fucking fabulous duo we are. we've only gigged together a few times but i have already decided that performance poetry is more fun when i'm sharing the stage with her.

caro's not only a talented and fiercely original musician (www.myspace.com/carosnatch, by the way) she's also a kickass sound engineer and producer. for me, this means that she plays intuitive musical accompaniment to my poetry, lifting it and my understanding and enjoyment of my own work to another level, and she also records the magickal stuff we come up with. she's mistress of the knobs and buttons and mysterious flashy coloured lights. she reminds me to check in with my intention and to think of where i want my voice to be coming from (up high in my nose? no. rumbling from my groin and belly? yes...) these hours in the studio with caro each month are among the most meaningful, exhilarating and fun times in my life in manchester. i have become increasingly reluctant to do anything which pushes me to the point of extreme fatigue. i make an exception for recording with caro. (as long as i'm gushing in this entirely sincere fashion i'll add that she's a dear friend to me as well:)

yes, i will be posting more tracks. yes, we're making a cd. it'll be released autumn 2008, on the anorakism label. (www.myspace.com/anorakism)

12:58 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

kissing the sky (new poem)

our landlord has just replaced the living room windows. the new ones open out at the bottom, leaving just enough room for a smallish person to clamber out and perch on the tiny balcony. i'm thrilled at how much sky surrounds a second floor balcony. bring on the hot weather, already. i'm thinking meals outside, a second storey poetry date with myself tomorrow if the weather permits, i'm thinking to put out that tomato plant from Tomato…and i'm thinking this'd be a great place to smoke a joint.

i've not smoked weed since august 24^th of 2006. but i indulged regularly before that for nearly a decade, and there is a still a part of my awareness always keen to note good places to spark up. manchester's full of them: there's many a secluded spot along the canals (near water was always a favourite) or amongst the exposed-then-overgrown stones from the foundation of a house in birchfield park…there's a cemetery in west gorton where i was suddenly thinking of excellent b.c. weed one morning when i was early for an appointment and on an explore.

a good toking spot is outdoors, private enough to avoid unwelcome attention, and pretty. or interesting. ideally both. someplace like a second storey balcony on the northwest edge of longsight overlooking construction and a catholic church and opening out under sky. so much sky.

they're still my favourite places. here's the goodbye-to-weed poem.

kissing the sky

of course, i miss it. especially in summer when the sun's setting. i remember. warm evenings outside when nothing's more important than being in freshness and green; i remember smoking a bowl of weed with a friend and then slowing and softening that much more – and you thought that you were relaxed before, but now you're melting, you're liquid, wrapped in a warm buzz that blurs and clarifies at the same time. i remember.

i remember smoking on my own and roaming wide-open in the woods, receptive to texture and scent and colour, intuition stopping me abruptly to look up intently on my way past a tree i'd passed a hundred times already so how had i never noticed its reach, the lines of it against the sky, the play of light on the upper branches as it shifts in the wind? i remember this. i remember a long slow toke before flying along on my bike or splashing gasping into the ocean with a mad mix of endorphins and oxygen and thc stirring my body's chemistry and making bliss, i remember kissing the sky. many times.

i remember. i remember wild laughter, head thrown back, sides aching on the night of the infamous carob sultana banana marijuana cake, the kind of absurdity only stoners get up to, and you had to be there to get it, so just trust me: it was really funny.

and i remember how handy it was to get so high that my ex couldn't expect me to take care of her.

i remember inhaling in search of the buzz that blurred, needing to be numb enough to ignore an unsavoury vibe in the room, i remember believing i didn't notice or care that it was there.

and i remember being too stoned to say no, i don't know how many times.

i remember rattling home with rasping nerves after a long day to scrape resin from the insides of a tiny glass pipe with an unbent paperclip, i remember being privately desperate. many times.

watch me as i bob and weave around using the word "addiction".

i remember reaching for the bliss, and missing.

i remember a cloud of confusion around frightening and familiar sensations, i remember smoking to escape into uneasy dreams. many times.

i remember reliving old body trauma, witnessing this with spiky clarity, palms coated in cold sweat, mouth dry, the first few months of sobriety, the boomerang return of anxiety, and learning about the body's debt:

sleep missed does insist on happening, sooner or later,

and anger or fear muffled/stifled/stuffed down must come up to demand its fair share of air time.

many times.

but now on a summer evening when dusk is deepening, when nothing's more important than being in freshness and green – i still kiss the sky sometimes, but with both feet on the ground now –

you might not know it to look at me

but actually, when i want to be

i'm that tall.

'cause sometimes something works until it stops, it's magic until it's just not, and sometimes a girl quits smoking pot to recreate her relationship with reality,

and make new memories;

beautiful

terrifying

and complete.

2:33 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

urban birding

is there a word for it, when church bells go off in a medley for hours? what's going on? is someone practising? do their arms get sore? or are the bells mechanized? are the off-switches prone to malfunction? was june 9th a christian holy day?

...i'm glad that i enjoy church bells. from a distance.

i sat listening to the bells and writing at a bird-shit splattered table on the roof of a 6-storey building in birmingham near the end of a hot clear summer day. crescent moon overhead. 2 hours later i was still writing and the bells were still ringing as magic hour slowly slid across the city. buildings glowed gold and wisps of cloud flushed pink. (did i mention that i was atop a tall building?? those who know me will know how happy this made me.)

just me and the seagulls. i managed to resist the temptation to cross to the other side of the rooftop where a couple of parent seagulls hovered and swooped over 2 nests. 3 days previously when i first noticed them, one nest held a single egg, black-and-grey-mottled and warm (yes, i know that i shouldn't have handled it; i was unthinkingly responding to something enchantingly pretty) and in the planter box next door, 3 fresh fluffy hatchlings, one of them still damp. from where i sat i could see wee grey heads bobbing over the lip of the box, tiny and fragile and fiercely alive.

parent seagulls make an awesome range of sounds. a crow-peacock hybrid's got nothing on an excited parent seagull. what's going on? are they scolding? instructing? reassuring? "don't worry, that nasty human creature isn't coming any closer."

Michelle Tea and Chrystos, 2 feminist writers from the west coast of the usa, have both commented on the creatures which thrive in urban decay, about people going on holiday to "get back to nature" without noticing what's in front of them, about what kind of beast we label as dirty, about the judgements we make about who eats our waste.

since they've already said it more eloquently than i could, i'll just add that i'm glad i enjoy the sound of excited parent seagull. (and by the way, birmingham is not as ugly as they say.)

1:25 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment