“I’m Sandra Dee!”

Actually, I’m only me and me.  Thanks to Shawna Lemay, (hats off to you for your interview, and the other wonderful interviews you’ve done with bloggers); that’s quite enough for me!

The storm that rolled over Emma seemed to terminate the internet in my cabin for the duration of my stay, which was alright, as I really needed to find some reading’writing time away from the email. The sky after the storm was an impressive colour, one of which I’d not really seen before.

Writers and artists were not the only creatures up at Emma this week. Here’s a shot of one of the moths that rested on the screen door of the dining porch. They flew off a few days before we did.

These three things naturally come together at times, like today, when I realize I’ve done nothing in writing new poetry, even though I can honestly say, I’ve been thinking about it. Today I took my 3.6 km walk a little later in the morning because of a rain violation. As I walked, I began to contemplate ways to move a certain poetic story forward (I seem a bit stalled as far as story goes). I’ve been reading an eclectic bunch of books in order to move the thought process forward, mostly on art, and I was thinking about Tracey Emin and the method of plundering the past. And the thing about being in your head and walking through a part-wild, part-inhabited space, is that you always have to be prepared for the unexpected (like the little baby rabbits on the road–they showed little fear of me, not knowing they should be afraid (I’m pretty scary–there are people that will attest to that)). And I wasn’t paying the world any mind at all, until I saw the huge German Shepherd out of the corner of my eye, his tail raised, ears raised, body stiff. And I kept walking, holding its rather frightening gaze (now keep in mind I’m the coordinator for a writer/artist colony, so I don’t scare easily) realizing that the guard dog was loose, and guarding, and holding his ground. I continued to walk by, trying not to provoke it, and I was almost by it, but being as graceful as I am most days, decided to look forward at the road ahead, and that’s when it lunged for me, visciously snapping at me. And that was when I screamed, but didn’t run, though my heart did, up my chest, into my throat and maybe even out my nose. While it came close enough to slobber on my capris, it didn’t bite me, merely guarded his territory, the million dollar cabin being built by the lake.

But, it did something to my headspace. It snapped me out of my stall enough to think about the poetry I’ve not been writing, made me think about ways and methods of pushing at the myths/stories I’m trying to reconstruct in a deconstructing way. It pushed me to think about the art as an act, or the think about the act as art. And sure, that might be vague to you, but it’s an echo that will continue for some time, those teeth grinding, the thoughts plundering, my words reacting with as well as against. Here at writer/artist camp, anything can happen.

So, the trip up to Emma was uneventful, except for this one moment in time. You’ll have to forgive the shoddy camera work. It’s tough to drive, gear down, and take successful video at the same time, but hopefully you get a sense of the strangeness of this metal bridge that connects the land on each side the South Saskatchewan river (kind of like the way I’m connecting with you). I hadn’t planned on taking the video, so you get the radio instead of a lot of voice-over (after nearly 4 hours of driving, I was tired of listening to cd’s), the bug guts on the windshield, and the delight of follwoing a camper over the water. (I’m not really going very fast at all, but it looks faster in the video.)

…the smallness of number. Which will probably be posts on this blog in the next while.

And this could carry on into the summer (if it arrives). But there’s abundance in this paucity, because I’ll be away, basking in the cabin next to the dining room at Emma Lake, then in the room above the kitchen at St. Peter’s, then briefly at Sage Hill for the anniversary bash, then back to St. Peter’s. Then maybe home, sometime in August. And while away, I’ll be editing the second ms for a spring date, writing new material for some poems I started this spring, reading some good books, meeting some great people, co-habitating with old friends, and finding something inspiring to treasure.

And maybe, in this smallness of number, a post or two will shine through.

…the yard begins to awaken, first with a slow show of white, then purple then all sorts of colourful shades. Every year I probably post pictures of the trees, blossoming, but every time I see them in bloom, I think it’s worth a look, at least once a year. 

Author’s note: these pictures were taken while wearing my new berry-picking skirt which was purchased during a fantastic day of shopping and hanging with Brenda Schmidt. 

…when you grow up? Sure, this question might sound strange because most of the five people that read this blog are grown up, although the one that lives in Calgary just never will, but the world would be a worse place without him, so we forgive him for that; however, in times of post-stress (or pre-stress, the old giving way to the new) I can’t help but wonder (sorry, a little Sex in the City never hurts to dramatize the point further, besides we’re all writers here, we steal from the rich and give to the poor) what does it all mean? Do we want to grow up? Are we grown up? How did we end up here?

When I went back to university at the young age of, uh, lets say theoretically, 12 (or so it felt like), a psychology class professor, in introducing herself to the class, and wanting to get to know her 150 students more intimately, asked us to fill out little recipe cards with our identities, and a few valuable tidbits of information about ourselves. Namely, what did we want to do when we were grown up? I turned to the baby beside me and said: I am grown up, aren’t I? She said no. Obviously not. But I said, what do I do if I’m grown up, and I don’t know what I want to do? Then, she said, you’re not grown up. Grown ups know what they want to do.

Indeed. It seems they do. Poet-thinkers seem to know what they’re doing. I read that in the Walrus this week, thanks to my neighbour Sandra Birdsell, who lent me the magazine, because at my age, I don’t think about buying subscriptions. Do I want to be a thinker? Ouch, that thought makes my brain hurt.

Well, as usual I know you’re thinking, where the hell is she going with this? Well, let’s put it another way:

Reporter: Tracy Hamon, soon you will have your Masters in English, what are you going to do then?

TH: I’m going to Disneyland!

Reporter: Seriously. How about a job?

TH: Uh?

Reporter: Yeah, you know. The paying kind.

TH: But I have a job. I work.

Reporter: But you have a degree.

TH: I will have two actually.

Reporter: But you need to make money! Let me ask you that question again, what are you going to do?

TH: I’m going to colony for the summer to think about it.

Reporter: No, you’re not equipped to do that, you need to get out there and repay your debt to society.

TH: My what?

Reporter: Don’t you want to see your kids prosper?

TH: Uh, they’re older than I am in this post.

Reporter: Don’t you want to actively participate in the workforce? To toil in a structured, unionized force, setting daily and weekly goals, striving to meet those goals and setting the lifelong challenge for yourself of working harder, faster, more efficiently.

TH: Uh, do I?

Reporter: Of course you do. Doesn’t everybody want to be somebody when they grow up?

TH: But, if I’m grown up, then I’m already somebody. Isn’t that enough?

Reporter: Hey, I’m the one asking the questions. That’ll cost you $50.

TH: Uh?

Reporter: You can owe me. Later. When you get a job.

TH: But…

Reporter: Who is the adult here?

TH: But what if I don’t know what I want to be?

Reporter: Tsk. Tsk. You should’ve thought about that before you grew up.

…is something I don’t seem to have much time for these days.  I’m preparing the intro for the thesis that I’m preparing to defend, I’m preparing  to attend a summer colony, and to top it all off, I’m helping to prepare an anniversary for Sage Hill; however, tonight I found my missing copy of Robert Duncan’s Ground Work II: in the dark (in the closet, like where else would you expect to find it??) and while I soaked my sore ass (the cause: sitting at the computer for the past 12 hours) in the tub (I miss this ritual in summer when it’s too hot to do this, and too wet to read in the shower) I began to read over the poems. I remember reading this book once, but not really following or understanding it, but tonight, I found myself drawn into the poems in a new way. I was immediately reminded of Yeats, and theosophy, and lingered on some of the poems like “An Alternate Life” for the entire tub time. I’ll have to go through my collection before I leave for the summer, and see who I need to read again, if only because I can and have some time to do so.

This is a shot of Lia Pas at the Spring-Bling Salon last week. As you can see, my camera has issues–it likes to make things narrow. The lens cover doesn’t want to open very well, probably due to some sticky liquid that once grazed the surface. One of those elusive things the children always reply with “It wasn’t me!”

And here is the enigmatic Bernice Friesen, reading a snippet from a novel in progress. The sunflower wins the award for the narrowest bling (I can’t include the light). On the table behind Bernie are the prizes that were drawn for later in the evening. Some lucky people (that lovely red-head at the front of the picture) were lucky enough to be multiple winners.

We were able to raise a good chunk of money for Sage Hill, which has its own narrowing this week with a May 8th deadline for applications, which of course, is the same deadline at the St. Peter’s colony (the Emma Lake Colony deadline has come and gone).  If you haven’t attended either of these, you should think about it. They’re worth every cent, and more!

…Yes. It’s true. I handed in the thesis. I’m feeling lightheaded. It wasn’t quite complete–there are five more pages of introduction to pen away, then revise, but as I’m fond of saying, how hard can it be?

That said, I’m preparing for Mayday. You’ll find all the info you need on the site, including what I hope to do, though I haven’t quite got my head wrapped around where to start my project. I’m sure something will hit me soon. Maybe snow in the eye.

And, to add to the dirt I am shovelling at you, I thought I would give you taste of the summer Sage Hill Anniversary (come to my salon tomorrow and you’ll find out more, or less about the experience), but I thought I would share some Richard Ford stories with you. Pare them down into one post. Make you want to join us in our celebrations by enticing you with Ford. Did I mention Richard Ford is coming to town? That’s realism.