The Year of the Pause

Though I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I do begin each year with a blank office bulletin board, and every year that board has a theme. 2017 was about the moon and stars. I sprinkled the paper with celestial quotes from Shakespeare to Einstein to Neil Degrasse-Tyson and drew pictures in higher chakra colours to lend a calming “night sky” atmosphere to my increasingly crazy workdays.

It didn’t always work, but it was always gratifying to see my colleagues smile so maybe it worked better than I think.

As January 1 approached, I began contemplating my theme for 2018. On Christmas Day, rather than annoy myself by surfing F***book, I was prompted to pay a rare visit to the Paper Teapot and catch up on far too many of Nicole’s poems. In calmer times, I dropped into the Pot quite often; altered priorities of late have put the screws to that, to my detriment. Nic’s poetry is both beautiful and practical, as it encourages my creativity and my interpretive skills—an artistic two-for-one that I confess has been taken for granted in light of more pressing (yet ultimately less important) issues.

I digress.

As I scrolled through her unread posts, my admiration—and, yes, envy—was reawakened. Her turn of phrase, her magical metaphors and airbrushed imagery held me in thrall until I could no longer stand it: I had to email her and gush about the handful of gems she managed to wring from spare moments around her epic year-long writing project.

One poem in particular pounced: a flame so pure in its perfection that it sparked the theme for my 2018 bulletin board and may even have prompted my first NY resolution in decades. It’s called “This Pause” and here’s what it inspired:

·         In the midst of chaos, hit the pause button.

·         Stop the carousel and take a conscious breath.

·         Hear the space between the notes.

·         See beauty in unexpected places (like the mirror).

·         Don’t buy into drama.

·         Foster your connection to the things that really count and release the rest.

Some days will be tougher than others. My resolve is an exercise in mindfulness, but it will be worth it when I remember to pause.

Thank you, Beanie.

Happy New Year!

With love,

Nobel Poet

I have no problem with Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize for Poetry. He may not be able to sing for toffee, but few poets can. It’s the poetry that earns the recognition, and someone with a body of work as extensive and influential as Dylan’s deserves all the credit he can get.

Same goes for Leonard Cohen, by the way. It may be my maple leaf showing, but I’d sign a petition to have him awarded the same prize (regrettably posthumously) since I find his poetry/lyrics/sentiments more moving than Dylan’s.

I sort of digress.

I own no Dylan albums. I only know what songs I’ve heard on the radio. I love the impression of him done by Don Ferguson of the Royal Canadian Air Farce, mostly because it highlights the mumbled nasal twang that enables most folks to pick out no more than an occasional word. But Bob Dylan is responsible for one of the few bright sparks in my 2011 “Holiday From Hell”.

Up until 2015, when they stopped producing it, the annual Starbucks Christmas CD was anticipated with all the energy and excitement of a kid for, well, Christmas. I have all but one disc in the collection, my favourite being Let it Snow, released in 2011. Even the cover art is fabulous. It’s still among the first discs to hit rotation at the start of the festive season. Every song on it is a winner—including Dylan’s. In fact, his is one of my favourite tracks.

Not because he wrote it (he didn’t). Not because he recorded it (for a charitable cause). Not for any other reason than the cornball foot stompin’ headbangin’ country-fried tempo had my Ter dancing around the kitchen in a truly rare fit of present-moment glee. To this day, whenever I hear it, I am reminded of a sparkle in the snowstorm that became a whopping dump and nearly destroyed us.

The poet goofed, though. Another Dylan track was featured on the Bucky’s disc the following Christmas, and alas, it’s the one track I consistently skip.

Proof that even a Nobel Prize winner can make mistakes.

White Lace and Promises

Have you noticed how everything starts out perfect and promising?

A new home. A new car. A new project. A new relationship. An idea. Each day. Life itself.

Today is the Rebellion’s third anniversary. This is the five hundred and sixty-second post. Wow. I can’t say I haven’t been writing, can I?

I started the blog why? Well, why not?

That was the title of my first post. I had to revisit it, to remind myself of what “why not” meant at the time. It seems I’ve remained true to my original intention, which was to share writerly thoughts, bits of fiction, quotes from heroes, and philosophical hypotheses developed over the course of my journey through this phase. In some ways, not much has changed. I’m still writing the same novel. I’m still working on my attitude, trying to create a positive vibe in a world of ever increasing contrast. I’m still imperfect and hoping to improve as I go.

I have, however, discovered something wonderful. Three years later, I am happier now than I have ever been.

Blogging is not solely responsible for my progress, but it’s helped. At least I can look back and see the trail behind me. It’s taught me a few things, that’s for sure. Things like, the smallest piece can trigger the greatest response. I get comments about things that I forget almost as soon as I’ve written them, while my treasures are seemingly passed without notice. A good reminder to “detach from the outcome” and not be too invested in the end result!

Remarkably, the poem that Nicole wrote for my fortieth birthday is equally relevant today, after fifteen years and five hundred-plus posts, so here it is again, because I love it and I love Nicole for writing it, and because it’s the nucleus around which the Rebellion is built. It was the promise of the CR’s potential when I stepped into cyberspace thirty-six months ago.

Enjoy again!

With love,

Sitting on a Shady Veranda with Ruthie Wordsmyth

 “You are the Saint of Storytelling.”

I tell her while sharing bits of

smooth candy and cups of green tea
sitting on a shady veranda under a Vienna sky.

“The Zeitgeist of Paragraph! 

Mistress of Manuscript Extravaganza!”

I tell her this because it is the truth

my friend, the writer, word-spinner
is the main character of a poetic prophecy
rising with an exquisite voice
an Enchanted Empress baring her
woven soul into spirals of fiction
into epiphanies of elemental editing.

My literary gentlewoman friend

the Storyteller, Princess of Plentitude
is the keynote speaker at a symposium
for the Gorgeous Struggle
offering simple directions to the center
of the universe and sundry side-streets of Sublime.

Her biography will soon be available in trade paperback

autographed copies of Comfortable Rebellion
will grace the bookshelves of admiring fans
but will pale in comparison to my first edition hardcover
inscribed with her permanent wisdom.

Inside will the near-art experience booklovers have longed for a fort-night

inside there will be polaroid pictures, convictions and conversations
dreams and disappointments though her tears will be absent
saved in a mason jar on the edge of her prolific writing table.

“You are the Operatic Melody of my heart!”

I tell her while brewing a fresh pot of green tea.

“A Victorious Virago!”

I tell her this because it is true.

“What would I do without you?”  I ask her.

She just smiles, shrugs her shoulders 

and tells me another story.

LeBon Homie

With John Taylor’s birthday as an excuse, I pulled out a couple of Duran Duran albums to play over the weekend. I could have gone, like, totally retro and played Rio, Seven and the Ragged Tiger, or even the jazz/funk Notorious and been happy, but I chose Astronaut—otherwise known as “The Original Five Reunion Album”. For one thing, any of JT’s killer basslines sound fa-boo-lus on the Tiguan’s kickass stereo, and for another, well, the twisted wordsmith in me has always loved Simon LeBon’s way with a lyric and he wrote a couple of dandies when O5 got back together in 2005.

I’ve always considered him to be a poet rather than a lyricist, and while I admit that his distinctive vocal style (some call it “whiny”) can be annoying, he’s a master at using his voice to convey the mood of the song. He once said that his job as a poet is to knock holes in the wall between the conscious and the subconscious without breaching said wall. That way, the darker aspects of human nature are allowed to leak into the light and be dispelled in relative safety. He can write hit radio candy, but from the beginning of the band’s career, his lyrics often took the typical “boy wants girl” theme to a deeper, more contemplative place. As he progressed, his scope naturally widened to reflect social issues and a more mature attitude to romance, but he never lost his ability to have fun.

I can’t pick a favourite track from Astronaut—there are too many goodies in the bag—but I truly love “Bedroom Toys”. It’s a weird, warped lyric in keeping with DD’s renowned love of “artistic smut”, and SLB sings it with a genuinely playful humour. I laughed out loud when I first heard it and even now, ten years later, it’s worth cranking up and singing along.

DD is and has been my all time feel good band; I cannot be depressed when listening to them, for which I am eternally grateful. Paper Gods, their 14^th studio album, is due for release in September—too late to be a birthday present, alas—and as devoted as I am to the bass player, I am eagerly anticipating what SLB brings to this party.

Extraordinary Miracles III

“The Concert”

Gee, maybe I am a fan!

Ter and I missed my niece’s wedding reception because we had tickets with our good buddy Treena to see Sarah McLachlan the same night. I have never seen Sarah live, though I have every album except her greatest hits—which, if you want to be literal about it, means that I have her greatest hits, just not on a single disc. I didn’t even realize that I have all her discs. 

How can someone be a fan and not know it until the night before the show? Maybe because I had not been driven to see her live? Not until last spring, anyway, when Shine On was released and I got word of a tour starting in Victoria on October 18. The email notification came and I debated getting tickets. It’s no fun going alone, and Ter isn’t enough of a fan to make me make her go with me. Treena has some of her albums, though, so I thought I’d ask if she wanted to go. Then Ter said she’d come with us just for the joy in watching us see an icon perform live in our hometown. So I got the tickets and put them away until October.

In a day piled high with extraordinary miracles, the concert was the cherry on top. First, the seats turned out to be most excellent – the only three seats in the second row up in the bowl, just shy of right angles to the stage. The set was modeled after a living room, with cozy chairs, carpets, a couch, and hanging lamps reminiscent of Christmas ornaments. At 8:00, a woman who could have been my sister walked on stage and welcomed everyone to the show. She explained the format, the band came on behind her, and this normal, chatty individual instantly morphed into Sarah McLachlan performing Flesh and Blood off the new album. Even then, it didn’t really register that I was watching her play live until the second song, Buildinga Mystery, which is one of my favourite Sarah songs and numbers among her biggest hits. I think it won a Grammy; the album, Surfacing, certainly did. Her voice is so distinct, so unique, that it stands alone among the voices of her generation, but when she’s talking, she sounds like any other Canadian girl and you’d be hard-pressed to believe your eyes when they try to tell your brain that yep, she’s the real deal.

She doesn’t need a band. Her songs are poems set to music; she can sit at a piano and mesmerize you with a range of emotion that defies description. Treena put it best after the show: with almost every song, I thought, oh, my favourite! Until the next song started and I thought, No, this is my favourite! And so on, for almost two hours straight. She broke to invite a few fans on stage and answer questions submitted pre-show from the audience; I swear, it was like spending an evening with my sister. She was warm, funny, generous, honest, powerful and absolutely perfect.

Well, except that she sang one song in the wrong half of the show. She finished The Answer and launched straight into I  Will remember You, which confused her band though they let her go unsupported and joined when they were meant to. We only knew she’d goofed because she apologized to them.

Yep, every song was a gem. Every lyric a poem, every moment a precious reminder that this woman, this singer/songwriter with the angel’s voice, is actually more to me than a mere nice-to-have in my CD collection. She started to sing Fallen and I realized with a jolt that the Afterglow album was the soundtrack for Reijo’s failed first romance, one of the most powerfully painful stories I’ve ever written. The album Fumbling Toward Ecstasy fuelled the relationship between Lucius and his half-sister Fae, particularly the songs Possession, Fear, and the title track. And yes, she performed those songs on Saturday night. I couldn’t believe my luck. She cranked that voice up to an octave undocumented on Fear—the recording of it is unearthly and haunting beyond chills, yet live (and twenty years later), she nailed it. Effing nailed it! I wanted to scream with her, but burst into tears instead.

So embarrassing.

During the intermission, Treena and I decided we had to hit the swag table. This occasion could not pass without acquiring some memento to mark it. She was as blown away as I was and, in a day of mounting miracles, so was Ter. It’s relatively easy to satisfy a fan. To elevate your status in the eyes of a casual awareness takes some talent.

Will I see her again? Dunno. Am I playing her music as I write this? You bet. She is and always will be one of the strongest musical inspirations for my writing. If I had to see her live to realize this, then her work is done. I am a fan, but in this instance I’m a fan for different reasons. I listen to her for pleasure, but mostly, I listen to her music, her lyrics, and her voice, to write my tales of the human heart in all its conflict.

I am in awe. I am inspired. I am grateful.

Writer's Conundrum

A Scribe’s Skirmish

writer’s conflict

the impossibility

of writing with

magnificence

contrasted with

the impossibility

 

of

 

abandoning

the challenge

writer’s conundrum

            © Nicole D. Myers 2013

What do you do when neither version is working? You dump the whole project. Except that there is something in a writer’s makeup that refuses to quit.

My personal poet laureate, the exceptional Nicole D. Myers, wrote this poem a few weeks—yes, weeks—ago, and has kindly given her consent for me to share it here. I asked because dang if she didn’t nail the universal quandary square on the coconut. I loved the poem from the get-go (it’s posted on my office bulletin board) and came face to face with an example of “the conundrum” last weekend.

The angel story isn’t working. Shifting perspective temporarily fooled me into believing otherwise, but as Ter observed following my latest grouchy rant, I have emerged from my room unhappy and dissatisfied each time I’ve tangled with it. She recommended that I bag it for the nonce, adding that I can always go back to it when the time is right. The story is good. It’s just not meant to happen right now. So I skulked back to my room, opened chapter 18 of my stalled Castasian novel, and actually finished it (the chapter, not the novel). At least I worked on something, even if it evolved from admitting defeat on another count.

Only admitting defeat does not come easily to this writer. While I was distracted with the tale of Reijo and Jannika that afternoon, the other part of my brain was pondering the problem with Cristal and Shade. It is a good story. Why the %^$#*&^ isn’t it effing working????

The answer came, as usual, at bedtime.

It’s not one story. It’s actually two. Two different freaking stories about angels. This explains why Cristal and Shade in her version are completely different from Cristal and Shade in his version. I mean it. The characters in one POV (point of view) are polar opposites of the characters in the other, hence my garment-rending angst over getting anywhere. Clearly I have four characters using two names. I’ll fix that forthwith, but the relief I felt at discovering the potential for a whole new pair of stories set in this angelic realm was akin to the relief of discovering that the headache you’ve endured for weeks is finally gone.

The impossibility of writing either with magnificence remains. Okay, so does the challenge of crafting two separate stories when I’d anticipated a single piece. If there’s any good news here, it’s that I have a whole new world in which to play ... assuming I can relax enough to accept what comes when it comes and quit forcing it when it won’t.

Writer’s conundrum indeed.

On Dallas Road

Dallas Road (the big house with the flat roof is Chez Ru)

"On Dallas Road"

What is it about the struggle of the sea,

The lust of a spirit longing to take shape
And dashing itself upon the rocks in its
Frustration, bursting into a thousand
Fragments of sun-dazzled spray,
That makes us laugh like children
As we dance out of its way
Then back again,
Daring it to touch our toes,
To try again to capture what we are
Water with substance
Spirit with flesh
Saying, “Catch me if you can”?

This morning I spent some time sunning on a log at the beach. The sun was still rising and the water was as tranquil as the Pacific ever gets. I lay on a big chunk of driftwood and listened to it gently washing ashore, sucking back pebbles on its retreat, and as the chatter began to fall out of my head, I was reminded of this poem.

I wrote it 20 years ago this July. That day, the water was livelier and Ter had ventured onto a concrete finger, whereupon the surf crashed near her toes and sprayed up into her face. She laughed like a little girl – I remember that very well – and when we got home, I dashed out a poem to try and capture the moment.

Today's walk was an attempt to be here now. No past, no future. Just the present, the gift that is now. At the end of a week where gratitude came solely in the form of “that could have been so much worse”, Ter put up the reminder on our refrigerator: “Just for today, be present in the moment.”

She then went to work. I dusted the furniture and ate my granola in front of the “big” computer, watching a couple of video links people had sent to me. One was just silly. The other led me to a Robbie Williams (I loooove Robbie Williams) tune called “Candy”, which has such an infectious hook that I looped it all the way to the beach and will likely buy the album ’cause it made me so happy. I had a brief moment of panic when I decided to lie down on the log where I was sitting (how was I going to get upright again?), but once I was down, the sun was so warm and the breeze was so sweet and the water was like music that I could have lain there indefinitely. But then the poem came back to me, so I hauled myself up and hiked back to compose this post.

Now I’m going to make gluten-free scones, then brew some Whiskey White and see if Jake wants to talk to me.

The past is past, so let it go. The future is yet to come, so don’t bother about it. Just be here now.

With love,

Why Not?

“Writing is easy. You just stare at a blank screen until blood forms on your forehead.”

I don’t recall who said this and I’m paraphrasing anyway, but the point is that whatever else I may be—daughter, sister, friend, co-worker, fragment of universal flotsam—I am, in the very core of my being, a writer.

My forte is fiction, my preference fantasy. I write novels and short fiction and silly poems for homemade greeting cards. I collect quotes and follow my heroes. Most importantly, I find inspiration everywhere, usually when I least expect it.

That’s what this blog is intended to be: a cornucopia of literary bits and bites, sometimes fictional, sometimes philosophical, sometimes plain old ramblin’ Ru. And what better way to begin than with The Poem That Started It All, courtesy of my sister in propinquity, Nicole D. Myers. Years ago, she honoured me with this amazingly insightful poem. How she managed to capture my hidden essence so quickly still amazes me. Welcome to Comfortable Rebellion.

I`ll brew the tea. You pull up a chair, and together we`ll sit and sip and wait for the blood to form on our foreheads.

With love,

Ru

Sitting on a Shady Veranda with Ruthie Wordsmyth

 “You are the Saint of Storytelling.”

I tell her while sharing bits of

smooth candy and cups of green tea
sitting on a shady veranda under a Vienna sky.

“The Zeitgeist of Paragraph! 

Mistress of Manuscript Extravaganza!”

I tell her this because it is the truth

my friend, the writer, word-spinner
is the main character of a poetic prophecy
rising with an exquisite voice
an Enchanted Empress baring her
woven soul into spirals of fiction
into epiphanies of elemental editing.

My literary gentlewoman friend

the Storyteller, Princess of Plentitude
is the keynote speaker at a symposium
for the Gorgeous Struggle
offering simple directions to the center
of the universe and sundry side-streets of Sublime.

Her biography will soon be available in trade paperback

autographed copies of Comfortable Rebellion
will grace the bookshelves of admiring fans
but will pale in comparison to my first edition hardcover
inscribed with her permanent wisdom.

Inside will the near-art experience booklovers have longed for a fort-night

inside there will be polaroid pictures, convictions and conversations
dreams and disappointments though her tears will be absent
saved in a mason jar on the edge of her prolific writing table.

“You are the Operatic Melody of my heart!”

I tell her while brewing a fresh pot of green tea.

“A Victorious Virago!”

I tell her this because it is true.

“What would I do without you?”  I ask her.

She just smiles, shrugs her shoulders
and tells me another story.