Chance encounter
A deliberate encounter downtown yesterday with a friend led to a chance encounter or two in the stacks of VPL. I alighted on Gerry Gilbert’s slender May 1931 poetry bookeen. It is a weather-treasure. Each poem commences with a forecast, followed by a reportage, illustrated by a weather map. I reclined last night and read them aloud, incapacitated by my previous night’s adventure to a very crowded, noisy gathering that I had to flee from and trundle over the bridge, dizzy as a duck, with my nose sadly in a bag.
I also landed me hand upon Betty Lambert’s Crossings (sp?), published in 1979, what I have read which is the early chapter has fishing and Campbell River and a raised house, among a few too many invocations of the moon. It appears to have been a divisive book when it was published. I am v intrigued by Betty’s prose (a certain elasticity to it!) and shall plough on before I utter another word on it. Chancing upon it reminded me of George Ryga’s slim novel … Night Watch? (night bar?) oh God damn it Night Desk! which I read last year and must read again.
And Mr Fraser continues to tap dance me down the beyond. Does the garden path on this one ever end? Will I ever finish this piece? I have so delighted in it, it has sent me soaring off to the place where I appear to make no sense about it whatsoever. But still on. Past the cabbages and the sleeping strawberry plants, I see the garage roof in sight, so up on top of it til a swift drop … and escape. Po-t’etre.
Rhotic 27
Ding a gra,
An bhfaca tu go bhfuil Seachtaine na Gaeilge anseo:
Ta suim agamsa ar an Drochpháipéar agus Peann Luaidhe 5.04 p.m.
Clár faisnéise faoin saothar liteartha neamhghnáthach ‘An Haicléara Mánas’ a scríobhadh i gceantar an Chlocháin sa naoú haois déag. Scríobhadh an scéal i nGaeilge, ach is litriú an Bhéarla a bhí air. Páirteach sa chlár, tá Nancy Stenson, Pádhraic Ó Ciardha, Máire Féirtéir, Joe Steve Ó Neachtain agus Aisteoirí Chorr na Móna. Léiriú: Micheál Ó Gionnáin. Léireofar an clár seo le cúnamh airgeadais ón gciste craolacháin ‘Fuaim agus Fís’.
*********
An bhfuil aithne agat?
Conas T? Mise tuirseach agus pian i mo bolg.
Also before I forget there’s an exhibit at MOMA NY that’s streaming each day online live. The artist is Maria Abramovic (sp?). Today she was wearing a blue dress. I am going to visit her each day. Tomorrow I’ll find the link.
Between people who sat at her table she took this very long catlike stretch, poured her head into her hands. There was no sound, but somehow you could hear every vertabrae of her back protest at the public absorption of her. Because there’s no sound at all, her body becomes an interesting vessel and one’s attention is drawn to it and only it and its language.
For all these online maps and sophisticated directioning devices I still find myself considering taking the bus instead of driving to certain places if I want to be certain of arriving there: there just always this guarantee with the bus that it will deliver you to where it says it’s going on the front. If I drive to unfamiliar places there’s no assurance I’ll make it either there or ever return. I could be driving around in circles for a small lifetime so confused by left and right I am.
I even managed to get myself lost recently driving just around the corner.
Shaker loops
Small man and I were introduced to John Adams Shaker Loops today by his wonderful music mentor Mark in relation to a piece small man is composing on violin. I’ve always been interested in the relationship between musical scoring and shaping and narrative and tried to write whole parts of my first novel based on what was underneath the text rather than in the text. That novel which has not yet become a book has instead become a box (it fails somewhat spectacularly in both incarnations) at the moment in BLIM gallery window installation STORAGE, which opens shortly in its fantastic new space in Chinatown on Pender St.
As we were introduced to this piece, we learned about events in the music and layering and cells and well, small man understood much more than I who was just fortunate enough to be ear wigging nearby.
Enjoy
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aLwfDoaCsw&hl=en_GB&fs=1&]
Concrete Vancouver
Sunday, I went to a talk about an art exhibit taking place currently at SFU Burnaby. The talk about “expanded literary practices” in Vancouver 1954-1969 was given by Michael Turner, who put the show together and it, to my ears, is the realisation of aspects of a piece he wrote as part of an online exhibit Vancouverartinthesixties.com. It seems to be a time that has been woefully ignored and yet one of vibrant collaboration.
There are particular crevices of the topic that interest me and I explored a couple of them last summer in conversations with artists Judith Copithorne and visited Judy Williams studio on Cortes where she showed me material related to the time and later. I also asked many artists I bumped into that summer about the time.
After those exchanges and other conversations, the quandary occurred to me around the diminishment of peoples contribution and who decides and collates and appoints the significance of work made and how an important contribution can then be overlooked with reductive tag phrases. (People will be quick to say a particular artist was not a major figure, but will not recall much, if any, of the work that could inform on whether this is actually the case. I find the demarcation of “major figure” suspect. Why should that be a deciding factor in considering an individual’s contribution?) One artist said to me “There isn’t room for everybody” or something along those lines, which is perfectly true. However it strikes me that room can be made and needs to be made in the area of acknowledgement. Somehow we are all complicit in what is remembered and what is forgot and history can be rewritten/revised/spotlight budged on any average Monday around 2pm, since I find that a good hour, with the right strength of tea, the best time for reconsidering things.
One of the things I took from those discussions and examination of Judith Copithorne’s work was an admiration for the quiet labouring of continuing to make work amid little fanfare. When I began to look closely at some of her publications I noted an uplifting relevance to now (we see the beginnings of web comics, the doodle, fragments, recording, that’s evolved to blogging for starters in it) that more celebrated artists lack and I noted how the limits she faced through poverty, directed and shaped her work in this way. Handwriting, calligraphy over lettraset (sp?). Also, how her work translates well in an online sphere.
I came across Judith’s work initially at a reading at SFU that related to a UBC poetry conference in the sixties. She read with a number of concrete poets and not so concrete ones and her reading had a shape, inclusiveness, and physicality that nudged me. I was surprised to discover I could find none of her work in print and hence the questions started.
I will look up my notes later and write further on this because I have been wanting to write on it for a while and fermenting away.
(Aha! I have just recalled what took me to that initial reading at SFU it was hearing the audio work of Bob Copping and a desire to learn more about concrete poetry and whether there was any inter-relation between Copping and what took place here in Vancouver. There was I learnt at that reading.)
Small people are called small people because some of us possess small bones and small bodies. Otherwise they’d be call tall or medium people. We aren’t tiny or cute we’re just ordinary, small or short, people and just to confuse the matter some have very large feet, hands, tummies. Please stop telling me to grow bigger arms. My arms are indeterminately stubborn and refuse to conform even to number 10 dumb bells and handsprings, therefore no random yammerer is going to stand much a chance demanding of them. I’ve had a chat to them, they don’t listen to me.
I’ve great admiration for tall people. I want them to stay tall. I am glad someone can reach the hanging loops on the bus. I am glad there’s someone to ask to reach things down from the top shelf. I don’t want their arms to change in the slightest.
I have managed to grow a looking-likely-to-be-taller-than me any day person. I feel like I’ve amply contributed to the population bigger than me and should be left in peace to be a hummingbird.
I have no objection to being woken in the middle of the night by a storm. Indeed I find it quite a comfort that the weather lets me know its activity.
I semi object to being woken thinking there’s a storm to discover my neighbour is doing some kind of aerial move with what sounds like chest freezer.
I fully object to firework displays clattering the bejanuaryfebuarymarch into the rafters of the sky, especially when they fire green colours up there.
I am pretty confident the sky does not want to be green. It’s some kind of unwritten agreement with the trees.
IWD with SM & LMOP
The Small Male and I celebrated International Women’s Day with three episodes of Little Mosque on The Prairie. I commenced knitting a new shawl with the “hundreds and thousands” (sprinkles?) rainbow wool I purchased in an extremely extravagant gesture for the not so costly tag of 4.50 for 6 balls. The pre-festive watching was celebrated with a game of online LMOP curling. Small male is a demon online curler, complete with curling lingo. Mama is a bit more butter fingered and kept managing to click without bloody clicking and disaster ….
Every time there was any mention of Rayann getting married in our three episodes, small male tried to fast forward the show. Given the entire show hinges on Rayann getting almost married, not quite married and inevitably married to you-know-who this is a considerable amount of fast forwarding. Eventually he conceded the FF button and stuffed his head under a pillow instead.
I remember stuffing my head behind a pillow during Cagney & Lacey in my twenties, anytime anything actually happened other than boiling the kettle and answering the telephone or opening a drawer. I was just laughing to myself here that perhaps “sous le pillow” is genetic. He has 10 years on me, but we didn’t have a telly when I was a child, hence holy terrors at the sight of Cagney & co later on.
It was a perfect day today, except for a resounding headache that finally ceased a few hours ago.
My partner, wonderfully, thought today was a public holiday. Such admirable optimism.