a little pick-me-up from the spam filter (found poetry)

Posted on by laurie macfayden

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Etown Top 30: #2, Folk Fest

Posted on by laurie macfayden
(This Top 30 comes to you courtesy of Edmonton Winter. It’s a list of things that keep me here despite weather like, well, like the royal blizzarding we’ve had this week. Today’s item is a true summer gem: The Edmonton Folk Music Festival.)

I lived in Edmonton for almost a decade before I ventured to Gallagher Park on the second weekend in August. Friends had gushed on about Edmonton’s storied folk music festival, yet for some reason I steered clear of it until the early ’90s.
Then I got my first taste … and have been hooked ever since.

Weather movin' in, main hill, 2011

The Topp Twins. Jennifer Berezan. Ferron. Catie Curtis. Melissa Ferrick. Janis Ian. Ani. The Waifs. The Nields. Serena Ryder. Sarah Harmer. Iris Dement. Long John Baldry.
The Stage 3 Gospel Hour on any given Sunday morning…

My fave year remains 1996. That heavenly lineup featured Jann Arden. Joan Armatrading. Laura Love. Roseanne Cash. The Flirtations with Suede. (One of my favourite FF workshop memories is Suede recalling being asked if the Flirtations ever played at weddings. ‘Our people aren’t allowed to HAVE weddings,’ she replied with a grin. My, how times have changed.) k.d. lang in a dashing white suit belting ’em out during the Sunday finale. (Garth Brooks was also in town that weekend, and he stole the front page spotlight in the local tabloid. Twice. Harumph.)

Other highlights from over the years: Mary Gauthier rockin’ Wheel Inside the Wheel with Buffy Sainte-Marie’s band. A Stage 6 folkapalooza with Kate & Anna McGarrigle, Nancy Griffith, Tom Russell, plus Greg Brown if memory serves (and it doesn’t always). The northern lights dancing across the eastern sky as the Indigo Girls closed out the 2002 festival …

Melanie and her son lay down Candles in the Rain

There have been amazing blasts from my teenaged past (Melanie,
Al Stewart, Linda Ronstadt, Joan Baez, Bruce Cockburn …)

There have been marriage proposals … and actual weddings … and a whole lotta flirtin’ in between. Oh yeah, baby.

Each August I heard things that caused me to race to the ‘record tent’ to purchase music by artists I’d never heard of and who now, years later, still feature prominently on my iPod.

Of course, I’ve missed a few folkfests here and there – we always seem to be out of town when Emmylou Harris drops in. And family commitments prevented me from hearing Joni Mitchell and Elvis Costello in ’94. Chris Isaak shuttin’ her down a couple of years ago? I was, I confess, too tired to stay around for the finale that year. But managed to stick for the return of k.d. lang and the Siss Boom Bang this year; another outstanding lineup from three decades of outstanding lineups. Other 2011 notables (for me) were Imelda May, Lissie, Angelique Kidjo, Lyall Lovett and Jeremy Fisher, to name just a handful.

Rather than gush on and on about how wonderful this festival is — I haven’t even mentioned the green onion cakes, chickpea curry, getting all folked up in the beer garden on more than one occasion, eating lunch with Dar Williams (still kicking myself that I didn’t have the guts to introduce myself and my partner as Jane and Amber), or the legendary tarp races of last century — I’ll just sign off with a gallery of snapshots from over the years.

Top 30 things I love about Edmonton

Posted on by laurie macfayden

See, here’s the thing. I do not like winter. It does not agree with me. It depresses me, it makes me cold and cranky and ornery and sad.
So why do I reside in a city that is occupied by winter for a minimum of five months each year? And not just mild winter; HARSH winter. The kind of winter that renders sidewalks so icy they are hip-fracturingly treacherous; the kind of winter where the daily temperature forecast comes with an automatic ‘feels like’ number called Wind Chill that has made me weep on occasion. The kind of winter that means seven hours of daylight per day – on a good day – between now and next March. The kind of winter that means parkas, toques, mitts, scarves, fleece vests and lined, industrial-strength boots. Where fashion accessories include snow shovels, snow blowers, ice scrapers, hand warmers, flannel sheets and crampons.
Why do I live here? Yup. That’s a damn good question.
But I’ve lived here for 27 years. So there must be something keeping me here. It’s just that, when my relatives from Down East ask (as they inevitably do after having visited me during late November 2007 when the temperature didn’t rise above minus 23 – feels like minus 33! – for the entire duration of their stay) Why do you stay there? I have trouble articulating an answer.

Because, frankly, it’s hell for half the year. And if the other half is, as a former colleague used to say on an annoyingly regular basis, six months of potholes and bad skiing (not to mention the mosquito factor), why do I stay?

The prime reason is, of course, friends. I have an amazing assortment of super amazing friends here, so whenever I start to believe that it might be pleasant (and possibly even artistically more lucrative) to move somewhere with a better climate (literally, politically, culturally – pick any that apply) I am reminded that if I were to leave this place, I would be leaving behind a wonderful tribe of people whom I love and by whom i am loved. That is no small thing.

Not my idea of a good time.

But there must be other factors that make the place bearable, yes? Absolutely. Because I don’t ski, and nor do I skate; and while I am in fact very much a “sweater person,” I do not enjoy having to wear wool and turtlenecks every day from mid-October to the end of April (and sometimes through the May long weekend).

So for the past several months I’ve been making a list of the things that I like, in fact (dare I say?) LOVE about Edmonton. And I decided to launch this list here in this blog on the day the first snowfall announced the arrival of Winter 2011. Which is today. Sadly. (Although, not so sadly, it could have arrived on a day in mid-October. Or even earlier. So, thank goddess for small mercies.)

Throughout the next few weeks I will list one thing a day that I love about Etown. As you may have surmised, there is nothing winter-related on this list. OK, maybe one thing – but you will have to wait for another day to find out what that is. (Hint – it’s got nothing to do with the Oilers.)

This list is in no particular order, by the way. And a lot of it is going to be about food. Which is my prerogative because I like food … and food is a great thing to share with friends … and it’s MY LIST.

So here goes: kicking things off is (drumroll, please) …

1. The Sugarbowl Cafe.

Located in the Garneau neighbourhood (10922 88 Ave.) next to Red Bike and a stone’s throw from the High Level Diner, the Sugarbowl is historic and cozy and has a great patio. It has an extensive beer list. It offers smoked paprika popcorn + lime (don’t knock it until you’ve tried it – and then you will be forever hooked, like me).
It is famous for its cinnamon buns (get there first thing or you’ll be disappointed) and it has lovely warm, dark wood and local art on the walls.
It’s comfortable in the most literal sense of the word.
And though it’s only a few blocks from campus, you don’t have to be a U of A student to hang out there. Lots of writers, in fact, hang out and write there.

I have sipped many a kriek (Belgian cherry beer) on the Sugarbowl patio. I have gotten sunburned on the Sugarbowl patio. I have plotted world travels (and my world takeover) over lattes on the Sugarbowl patio.
And once I found a $20 bill on the Sugarbowl patio.

Did I mention the patio?

Pomme frites, hummus & pita, yam fries, cheese plate … the eclectic menu (open for breakfast, lunch and dinner) has enough options to satisfy carnivores and vegetarians alike. Plus, the proprietors get their eggs and meats from local farms. Other bonuses: sometimes there are beer tastings; live music has been known to break out.

And while parking in that area can be a challenge, the Sugarbowl is easily accessible via public transit: the number 9 bus stops less than half a block away on 109 Street.

One down, 29 to go.

why don’t dreams speak english

Posted on by laurie macfayden

(revised for november 11, 2011)

why don’t dreams speak english
why do i crave coffee and salt
why can’t two or more lovers
vie for my affection with flowers
sonnets, chocolate, pearls
& boat trips down the seine

why don’t we hold hands anymore

why don’t we give people names to war games
like we do with hurricanes:
peggy sue instead of desert storm,
sam & dave
instead of shock & awe
(it might be hard to take all this fighting seriously
if patriot missiles were called emily
& soldiers were all called sarah)
why don’t we search with flashlights
for kindnesses
instead of with big tanks
for more things to destroy

why are my eyes so red
where have all the flowers gone
who knows where the time goes
does anybody really know what time it is?
why do i eat when i’m not hungry
why don’t i just sleep when i’m too tired to stand
when did i get so naive
when did i first practice to deceive
when did i let myself go

and what the christ happened to our prayer flags?

who’s in charge
who goes first
whose is biggest …

who won
who won

who won, dammit, WHO WON?

and

what does it matter;
everyone’s still so bloody scared

& can somebody please explain to the virtual jarhead
in the back of the room
the killer irony of lining up to buy a videogame
that lets us make sport of the brutality of war
on the eve of remembrance day?

where’s the love? / that’s your call of duty
where’s the love? / that’s your call of duty
where’s the love? / yes sir, that’s your call of duty

hell, why can’t somebody just invent a peace bomb?

and jesus

if there’s really a wise & loving god,
why does everybody look so fucking sad?

torontosaurus wrecks

Posted on by laurie macfayden
News item, February 2011:
Toronto the Good ditches longtime nicknames T.O., T.Dot and Hogtown; dubs itself ‘El Toro.’
Dear Toronto,
Please refer to Seinfeld episode #175: You cannot give yourself a nickname. It must be bestowed upon you by others. As George Costanza discovered, when you try to get people to call you ‘T-Bone’ you end up being called ‘Koko.’
Ironically (or was it a cry-for-attention cheeky collective nod to Seinfeld?), ‘T-Bone’ was runner-up in the Eye Weekly contest that unleashed ‘El Toro.’
Whatever. Nine months have passed since CBC television host Evan Solomon, one of the celebrity judges, proclaimed the winning moniker has ‘a delightfully multicultural tinge.’ Right. So … Is anyone actually referring to Toronto
as El Toro?
Didn’t think so.
Love,
Spatherdab

ACT I
two bruised peaches on the subway platform
samuel taylor coleridge on the TTC
two new moleskin notebooks
to match your bergundy chick-magnet blundstones
whispering around the henry moore
gourmet popcorn on the menu at starbucks
*
man on crutches to litterer: you dropped something.
litterer: thank you.
man on crutches: you dropped something.
litterer: you’re welcome.
man on crutches: so why don’t you pick it up?
litterer: fuck you.
man on crutches: aren’t you going to pick it up?
litterer: fuck you!
man on crutches: pick it up!
litterer: go fuck yourself!
*
you miss chagall at the AGO by one week
dark green centre
lochhead . riopelle . borduas
shamanic art ^^^ automatist painting ^^ ahhhhh ^
canadian landscape (NFB movie
featuring a.y. jackson, 1941
you know, the year your grandmother
killed herself)
‘can paradise ever be achieved?‘
A) damnshit right it can. got some of it right here ahhhh ahhhh ^^^^^ ahhhhh ^^
B) not without modern appliances
*
robert motherwell says art = an experience, not an object.
general idea says poodles = “the hairdresser’s little friend”
(which of course = code for “SO GAY!”) ^~^~^~^
*
INTERMISSION
it’s obvious you’ve been wondering:
what is it about the poet brain?
what sets those sad captains apart?
is it hope? belief in miracles?
in true love in daffodils in forever?

you may not be ready to hear this but the truth is
when we myopic fools finish deep wrestling with a particularly obstreperous line
or recalcitrant couplet
we more frequently than we care to admit
wake up in a strange hotel room days later
lying next to stanzas smeared with blood and mascara
exclamation marks reeking the sweaty sour reek of vodka
hungover commas retching into the morning-after porcelain
(which act of punctuational thuggery
tore the bathroom door off its hinges this time?)
the fetid stench of onomatopoeia
hanging in the air
like stale pizza
*
DENOUEMENT
oh look look at the clever hipster youngster
being wicked funny on queen street
‘donation? donation?’ he giggles, waving an empty coffee cup
under the noses of saturday night flaneurs and leafs fans.
the genius is wearing a $200 gap sweater and shiny italian shoes.
begging as a lark, it’s such a joke, will anyone toss a coin
into his blatantly un-needy cup?
(true homelessness has become just so banal …)
three blocks later another sharp dresser grabs your arm and asks for change.
no but i’ll give you five bucks for that leather jacket
— what? fuck. no. seriously, lady. i need it for food. i haven’t eaten in three days.
sorry.
— PLEASE! THREE DAYS!
you start walking away so he accosts the person behind you
with even more hostility in his voice.
— for food! PLEASE!
then he leans against a brick wall and (blatantly, defiantly) lights up a joint.
someone yells:
geez, pal, if you can afford weed surely you can afford a cheeseburger