The Things We Don't Say

Confession time; I had a cigarette tonight for the first time in almost 6 months. When I quit, I kept the half pack that I had left next to my bed and tonight I got out of bed, found a lighter in an old coat and smoked one. Its a stupid thing to do and it tasted awful, but in a strange way the smell and the taste is comforting. And tonight, I needed a little comfort.

I was talking to a coworker today and telling a story about something that happened in the office last year. This is nothing strange, nothing out of the ordinary, just plain old office talk. Except one part of the story is that I had to leave work for almost 5 weeks because my dad got sick. And then he died. I mentioned this so casually that I barely noticed and this didn't even occur to me until tonight.

Its been 10 months since he died and 9 months since we found out he was sick. Sometimes, mostly at night, it feels like the grief is going to explode out of me and theres nothing I can do except sob. Everyone I know that has lost a parent has said the same thing; it gets easier, but it never goes away. There's always an empty space, a phone call missing on your birthday, a missing seat at the Christmas dinner table. It always feels like something is not quite right and this is how I've felt for the last 10 months. It is as if a part of me has dislodged and nothing feels quite comfortable.

Mostly on nights like this I think about all the things I didn't say. I think about the time I missed being angry, resentful and distant. I think about the things that kept my dad and I apart. We had a complicated relationship and in the end I'm so glad I pushed it all away and showed up at the hospital every day. I'm glad I knew the names of his doctors, I pushed the wheelchair, I brought coffees and talked with my dad about when he was younger and before I was born. But we missed so much time and this is what I think about when the sorrow takes over.

Sometimes I talk to him. I tell him that I've met someone and I've fallen in love, that I wish he could meet him. I tell him that I'm sorry, I tell him that I still don't know what I want to do with my life but that I have a better idea than I did a year ago. I can almost hear him say "You'll find it someday".

One thing that my dad told me in the hospital was; "Please quit smoking and live a long, long good life ok, meg. Please." He had tears in his eyes and he was clutching my hand. I said I would. So 6 months ago I stopped smoking because I wanted to keep my promise to him. Tonight, I broke and had one. I don't know about tomorrow. Right now I'm just hoping that the tears can turn in to sleep and that maybe tomorrow missing my dad won't hurt so much.

I love you dad. I miss you.

In The Dead of Winter

It's happened. I've written a new poem! It has been almost a year and a half since I wrote anything, so this is exciting for me.

Without further ado, here it is.

In the Dead of Winter

I found you in the dead of winter

In your warm city

Covered by sunshine and ocean breeze

You peeled off the layers

Of my jaded coat of armor

Slowly, like you were tasting my return to naivete

You sipped my opening heart

Like a warm coffee after a sleepless night

Made less bitter by the rising day

You found me in the deadest winter

Ready to strip off the silence that had taken hold

I grabbed your hand to lead it where your eyes couldn't go

And found it sweating in optimism

Like a river coursing through a long drought

We found ourselves treading water

In unfamiliar territory

Grasping at each other like buoys

Ecstatically drowning in each other's happiness

We found each other at a distance

In the lifelessness of that winter

With only the hope and promises we'd laid out on a strangers' bedspread

As the map to our waiting

For the times when our patience would become thin and ragged with want

For those days when counting down the hours took our breaths away

Somehow, we still managed believed in sunshine,  warm coffee

And that three hundred miles

Could never bleed us of each other. 

Poetry Is Not For Poets

Hello my dears,

I use the words "my dears" because I'm feeling quite like a grandma today, bundled up in my kitchen with my hair in a bun waiting for the coffee to percolate. It's a Thursday morning and its also American Thanksgiving (barf- but that's another rant about assimilation and genocide) which means I get the day off. Before you go thinking that I'm American or that I've moved to the States let me clarify- I work at a company that mostly has American clients. I'm still in Montreal and I haven't succumbed to the lure of cheap cell phone service and better Netflix. Speaking of copious amounts of Netflix, the first snow fell yesterday. There's a thin blanket of white over everything this morning and it feels a little surreal because it's already almost December. With a mixture of horror and relief I had almost begun to think it wouldn't come this year, that winter would skip us or something. How naive I can be sometimes. I still see pictures of my friends in Victoria in jean jackets at this time of year and seethe with jealousy. I can't seem to adjust to the freeze so I mostly choose to hibernate. But I'm here to talk about something else, so let's get moving shall we?

The company I work for held a talent show this month fundraising for a youth association called the Bathsaw Foundation (http://www.batshaw.qc.ca/en). It was a great night and there was so much work put into it by all the staff, and we raised a lot of money. I've been with the company for a couple of years and pretty much everyone knows that I'm a poet. I mean, I took a month off last May to go on tour- so it's pretty common knowledge that I'm a performer. Originally I said I didn't want to perform due to my recent poetry hiatus. This year for the first time in about 4 years I missed Nationals completely even though it was in Montreal. I just decided I didn't want to be a part of it. It broke my heart a little bit to know that dozens of awesome people from all over the country that I love were ten minutes away from me and I didn't go see them. At the same time, I felt relieved when it was over and everyone went home. Maybe this sounds awful, and I wouldn't be surprised if there are some that are angry with me. But I had my reasons for doing this, and at the talent show I realized what they were.

I finally did get talked into performing when a few other people dropped out of the show. I wasn't exactly enthusiastic but it was a favor to my good friend Leann who was organizing it. I did two poems; Shifty Kids and Sex (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXd-R7jPcxQ). It felt great and natural and effortless to be on stage on again. I knew I was performing to a room full of people who didn't listen to spoken word, who didn't go to slams and who maybe had never heard stuff like this before. That's always a little intimidating because they could either love it or hate it and even though most of these people know me, they could easily be underwhelmed by my heartfelt poetry. It's not like I talk about my feelings at work a lot and let's be honest- my poetry is a wee bit on the personal side. In the end the response was overwhelming good. I even made a few people cry which as some of you know is my specialty. And this reminded me of why I love performing poetry and also clarified why I didn't want to go to Nationals this year.

I'm tired of performing for other poets. We all love the same thing, we all grow together and learn and get better at our craft. I certainly appreciate that community more than words can say. But if we always stay in our little cafes and rooms performing for each other then what is the point? At festivals like Nationals we try to outdo each other in the spirit of competition and we try to do crazier things than last year. Do we even consider our audience outside of what they might score us? Are we aware of how they feel, what they are hearing and the impact we can have on someone who has never heard poetry like this before? Because most of the time it feels like we are just showing off for each other. Fresh ears, fresh eyes and a new perspective came to me the night of the Talent Show. I don't want to create art for other artists. The more I do that the more I miss the point, especially if I am creating art in order to score points and outdo other artists. I want to create art to connect to people - not just people who already love poetry or other poets. I have to take my art to my other communities also and bridge that gap. Have the difficult/ annoying conversations about what spoken word is and why I do it. Once I separated myself from an insular community which seems to look down on anyone who doesn't know about it, I am starting to figure out what I want out of this art.

Please do not think that I am bashing the spoken word community right now- because that is not my intent. I love that community because it is so loving, so kind and filled with so much incredible talent. I am simply saying it is time to spread out a little wider, beyond the slams, to something more inclusive and open. The competition is not helping the community grow the way it once did, but I fear it is keeping people away.

That's my rant on this snowy November morning. I'm off to enjoy my freedom for the next four days and maybe even start a snowball fight with some little kids in the park. Because I'm a rebel like that (not).

Dear Poetry- It's Been Awhile, I Know.

First of all, I know its been too long. I hadn't realized that this blog has become so neglected until I opened it and saw that my last post was in May at the end of the tour. I could come up with a lot of bullshit reasons as to why I haven't written here, but let's just skip that part. I think we are close enough that I can be honest.

I haven't written anything, anywhere for a good long while.

Not a poem, not working on my novel, not an article or a journal entry. Nothing. Zilp, zilch, nada.

So don't take it personally, its not about you. I think I've grown distant from the writer in me, I don't feel connected to this right now. I have absolutely no ambition to take pen to paper. I'm not even depressed, it's not a crazy time in my life and I'm not busier than usual. I just don't want to write.

This started long before the tour and I've been too embarrassed to admit it to my poet friends. I have no interested in slam right now or poetry shows in general. Last year at Nationals I think I realized that I didn't even like it that much anymore.

Which is not to say that I don't love poetry or spoken word. I do, sometimes. But it all seems a little played out to me right now. I think I need to find another art form to fall in love with for awhile so I can really appreciate what spoken word is again. I'd like to make something other than poems and sentences for awhile, use my hands and stop opening my heart so wide all the time. I've been closing in and there doesn't seem to be enough room in here for all your pain too or to stare in the face of all the horrors that exist in our world. I'm simplifying my little life. I'm not striving for fame, or even the kind of success I used to think would make me happy. My ideals are changing and I have no idea what that even means.

Except that its not you poetry, its me. Maybe I'll come back to you, maybe I won't. Nothing is forever anyway.

Frequently Asked Questions

So the tour is pretty much over! I did my last show last night and I'm currently in my mother's apartment in Okotoks, AB. 

I can't say enough about this experience. It's been filled with many friends whose faces and spirits have filled me with gratitude. Having a community is so important, and I'm blessed to have a community that spans hundreds of miles across the country. Without their support and encouragement I would not be where I am or have accomplished anything. I've learned alot in the last month, and I've realized that as much as I love touring and travelling, I also love my home. Montreal has become my place, the city that fits me and I'm longing to go back there right now. 

First, I want to take this opportunity to answer some of the most commonly asked questions about my art. Because many people I know are not a part of the spoken word community I answer the same 5 questions alot. Even in interviews with people who do know this world there is always a theme in the questions. So I'm going to answer some of them here.

1. Q: What is "Slam Poetry"?
    A: There is no such thing as "Slam Poetry". Slam is a competition, it is a game that we play with poetry. As much as there may seem to be a style or a framework for these types of poems, they are framed that way most of the time because there is a 3 minute time limit. But the artform is not called slam poetry, it is spoken word or performance poetry, or just plain poetry. Slam has made spoken word more popular because it is exciting, there are scores and competition, and there is a winner. This has made poetry into a game. But it is not an artform in itself. Example; There are story slams where storytellers compete in the same fashion. But noone calls that "slam stories", they are simply stories that are being used in a competition. The same goes for spoken word. 

2. Q: What's the difference between spoken word and "regular" poetry? 
     A: The only difference is that spoken word focuses more on the oral tradition of relaying stories and poetry. It is written less for the page and more to be heard. This does not mean that spoken word is always memorized by the performer and many do read off the page. It is however more focused on how you use your voice and body on the stage in order to convey your poem. This means it is more theatrical than a poet sitting in a chair reading from their book. We attempt to engage audiences imaginations through stage presence and the presentation of our work. 

3. Q: (Generally from members of the community in interviews) Why are there less women in Slam? 
    A: I get this question alot and I can only assume it is because I am a woman who has competed in Slam. The truth is that I don't know, and I cannot/ will not speak for all women. I do know that slam spaces are not always the safest spaces and that this is something that needs to change. Each slam community across the country is different, and each has to have their own discussion of what 'safe space' means for them. There are a ton of amazing women in spoken word and slam and if you are not seeing them then you are not looking hard enough.

4. Q: What do spoken word poets write about? 
    A: This question is always a little baffling. I mean, what do playwrights write about? What do songwriter's write about? There is such a huge variety of voices, subject matter, styles and stories that it is impossible to tell you. We write about everything, from personal stories to fantasy to comedy to political rants. We write about historical figures, video games, love, the environment and everything in between. There is no answer to this question except for me to tell you to go to a show or YouTube some spoken word. For any subject matter you are interested in, there is a poem about it. 

5. Q: Can you make a living doing spoken word? Is there an audience? 
    A: This is tricky. Firstly, yes there is an audience. Spoken word has gained in popularity even though it is still considered by many as a fringe art. There are poets who make their entire living by performing and teaching spoken word. It`s alot like music in that touring is where the money is. Not many people head to the poetry section of their local bookstore anymore, but people will pay to see a show and they will buy your merchandise. Teaching workshops can also bring you income. It`s certainly not an easy path to take, but you can do it if you are motivated enough. It`s like making a living doing any artform, it takes drive and sometimes struggle, but it can be possible.

These are just some of the questions I get on a regular basis. If any of you have any more that you would like answered or other poets have other questions you get all the time please let me know and I will post answers! These are just my opinions, my answers. Just like the massive range of humanity and creativity we see in poetry so do we see in opinions to these types of questions. If you are interested in spoken word but have never been to a show, do a Google search for poetry slam in your community or spoken word events. There is sure to be something.

As for me, I`m headed home on Saturday and am very excited to see my cat and my friends. To spend some time in my apartment and to see a special person who shall not be named. My life is so very very good. 

Little Things About A Life

I'm currently sitting in a friend's apartment in Vancouver, listening to a Bandcamp playlist and leaning out a 4th story window to smoke. I'm listening to the sounds of the trains outside the window, smelling the meat processing plant on the other side of the tracks and sipping on a perfect cup of coffee. I'm thinking about Montreal, all the cities I've been in over the last two weeks and what today's anniversary really means to me.

All I keep circling back to is that this day would mean alot less if I didn't have the strenght of my loved ones, friends and aquaintances in my corner. If I didn't have a history of knowing incredible, loving folks who have at times opened their homes, their cupboards and their hearts to me. Over 7 years of my sobriety I have lived in 3 cities. In each of them I have met and have been blessed with mindblowing communities who hold me up when I can't hold myself, who have encouraged me to continue my artistic endeavours and never give up. These are not little things, these are huge things that I sometimes take for granted.

But there are other things I take for granted nowadays. Like the ability to wake up in the morning without shaking. The physical ability to walk down the street, take the metro, travel freely and access these communities I speak of. I have the mental capacity to share, to speak, to make coffee and the cognitive ability to do all of these things with (relative) ease. Obviously, this is not the case for everyone. This is a part of my privilege, that I am an able bodied person who can move in this world. I have access to medical resources, a doctor, and the ability to take medication which significantly improves and strengthens my ability to function. Even simple things like the ability to turn on my computer, access online communities, write a blog, email, and listen to music are gifts that I don't always consider. If I actively think about it, my gratitude extends far beyond being sober and into the simple things. Like owning a toothbrush, access to a warm shower and clean socks. Eating an ice cream cone in a park on a warm day. Sitting for 12 hours on a Greyhound bus and performing poetry at night. While on the Greyhound I am cranky, I am thinking about why the driver is going to slowly, why the person next to me chose to eat 100 pounds of garlic before their trip and then sweat it out in a crowded bus. I am thinking about how late I am going to be, how badly I would like to shower, how tired I am.

But what about the miracle of being able to walk onto a bus, sit down, be relatively comfortable and know that when I arrive in the next city or place there will be friends waiting. There will be a place to sleep and strangers to meet, a meal and an art that I love. Again, these are not little things. These are huge.

My hope for my life is that I am able to become a source of support and love for those I meet. If I am able to repay even a tiny fraction of what I have been given over the years, it will be a miracle. I try to actively dedicate my days to opening my home, my life, and my heart to those around me. I am getting better at this with practice, I am becoming more able to show affection and gratitude to those around me. This is all a learning process, and I have a long way to go.

One thing I know for sure is that it is not enough to say I am grateful. It has to be evident in the way I live and interact with others. It has to be something that I am, that I exhale with each breath. I imagine a warm wind covering everyone I meet on the road and at home. I want to be a warm wind that hugs you. I want my hand to be out when someone needs it, wants it, or is unsure of what they need. I like the saying 'Faith without works is dead'. It is a call to action to hug your community, to be present mentally, emotionally and physically and to ask what needs to be done. To put your hand up and say "I will" in everyday life.

I will care.
I will be present.
I will be available.
I will be human.
Vulnerable.
Compassionate.
Caring.
I will be here.
I will be.

This is what has been given to me. It is the reason I am alive today. Let's eat some ice cream. 

Notes from the road

Hey ya'll,

So I've in Edmonton for the past few days and its been an eye opening experience in some ways. I've always heard about how people in the West are oh so friendly and I've always just nodded my head and thought 'yeah yeah right'. The truth is that I lived in Calgary and I didn't see much of a difference. People still scowl at each other on the train and avoid eye contact in the street. To me, every city is kind of the same. You have nice people, and then you have asshats, and you have those in between that want to be left alone. It's all good, I mean one of the perks of living in a big city is relative anonymity.

But oh man, have I been at the receiving end of western hospitatily on this trip. Example: Yesterday a bus driver (public transit) whom I asked for directions to my destination gave me two extra hours on my tranfer in case I got lost. Thats basically three free bus trips ($3.20 x 3 = $9.60 = A WEEKS WORTH OF LUNCH MONEY FOR TOURING POET). I had multiple conversations with elderly women, one of whom tried to help me find an earring on the ground for 10 minutes (we found it!). I chatted with a man in a wheelchair with no legs who had a super awesome beagle puppy. A girl in a vintage store basically helped me try on a million dresses and became my personal shopper/ much needed opiniated friend helper and she didn't even work at the store. So yeah, now I buy into all that 'damn, people here are nice.' They really are so much friendlier than in Montreal or Toronto.

And tonight I get on a Greyhound bus at 6pm headed to Nelson, which I am set to arrive in at 9am tomorrow morning. I have spent the day frantically getting supplies for this journey. Right now I am stocked with the following for the dreadfully long bus ride: Pyjama pants, travel blanket and pillow, a gazilion snacks including trail mix, fruit, chips and candy, juice boxes and water, and of course Gravol. The last item on this list may be the most important. Although I generally dislike taking medication of any kind (other than the kind that keeps me from going disastrously mental), Gravol is the exception during road trips of any kind. Because as the years have passed I have found myself getting car sick more often than not. And car sickness + 16hr Greyhound in the rockies is a horrible combination. Basically I take the pills so as to not throw up on other cranky travellers and spend the rest of the ride roasting in my own vomit (such lovely imagery, no?). I am doing everyone else a public service, trust me.

Today I was thinking about some of the traveller type people I know, specifically the women I know, who always seem to arrive looking fresh and happy. Let me make one thing clear: I am not one of them. I generally arrive looking like a freshly revived zombie: eyes swollen, glassy and half asleep, mangled hair splayed all over the place and a thin aroma of putrid body odour rising from my 5'2 frame. I do not understand why everyone else does not experience this. Also, after a long day of travelling I generally am not super social. I would rather hide underneath some blankets with a movie than talk to people. I need a shower, a nap and some substantial food in order to feel human again.

In case you hadn't noticed, I really am dreading the next couple long Greyhound bus rides. After Nelson I head to Vancouver on Sunday, which is only about a 10hr trip. Still, I am looking forward to not seeing another bus for awhile once I go home in June.

I'll keep you guys posted on how the journey goes. Enjoy your eating, your running, your parks and all your long legged freedom, I'll be thinking of you when I'm curled into a ball all night in travel limbo.