The Scream and back again
Poetry. It’s what we all know and love. It’s what moves the earth and breaks our hearts, the ebb and flow of our spiritual lives – makes the world go round, makes the merry-go-round go round, feeds the wallets of artists and the bardic hunger of aficionados.
I just got back from the Scream Literary Festival in Toronto. I went to Niagara Falls, up the CN Tower, and poetried a duett with Paul Dutton. Ate persian food with a.rawlings and Derek Beaulieu, went to the movies with my beautiful wife, bought one million books and marvelled at a Jack Spicer impersonator. We had breakfasty dinner and watched different people read from Gwendolyn MacEwens A Breakfast for Barbarians, took a workshop on Naive Translation, saw apropriators agree on their profession being a good thing (and agreed with them, but missed copyright nazis from the panel), admired the dancing skills of computer-game characters of Machinima and watched the indie-rock band the Bicycles be too indie and not enough rock. Icelandic krútt-músic has nothing on Canadian cute-music.
Also: Fantastic Vocable workshop with Angela Rawlings and Ciara Adams; and loads of great readings, most memorable of which were Alixandra Bamford’s beautifully chaotic style (with Steve Venright), Mariko Tamaki’s reading of a comic book, Sonnet L’Abbé’s O’s, Sina Queras’ repetitions, Kenny G’s court transcripts, Rob Read’s bird-sounds and Beaulieu’s How-To’s.
Travelling home was a bitch, as such things tend to be. The plane was small and filled with people, whom at the time I felt deserved to get shot, but have since taken a more lenient, more humane stance.