January 30, 2013
Hallmark'd.
January 22, 2013
Throw! Up
The first time I went to a slam with the Throw! Poetry Collective here in Montreal, was way back in October. I enjoyed it as much as I do all slams, noting with strange, confused curiosity, that for a giant, artsy city, we had a small spoken word following. There were 50 people or less. I was happy about this for a few reasons.
I've got a head full of dreams, and in my own imagination, I saw myself getting involved in the scene, learning everything I could, helping to bring this powerful form of poetry to the masses, changing lives along the way, including my own. The second reason a small poetry community would be nice is because, should I decide to chase the dream and perform a poem of my own, it would be LESS petrifying to do it with a small audience.
Friends, last night was the night. My spoken word debut.
I had decided I was going to do it or die (or puke or faint) trying. Possibly the second two, followed by the first. I cranked the music in my room a few hours before and tried to put the words into memory as much as I could before I had a chance to forget them. Half because I hoped the music would disguise the sound of my words (I'm bashful, so naturally when practicing to recite to a room full of people, I couldn't have ANYONE HEARING ME) and half because I wanted to do it with distractions, hoping I would nail it later on, no matter what.
Hustling through the cold to the Divan Orange, I wasn't sure whether I was speaking too much, or not enough but.... I was already nervous. I was psyched up. I've been on stages at random intervals for my entire life. I sang "Hey Jude" in my highschool variety show, and I'm a karaoke addict. I've acted, I've hosted stuff. I'm no stranger to the dream and the reality of being on a stage.
But when I walked into the hustle and bustle of the bar, a new kind of panic set in. People. Lots of people. People as far as the eye could see. No vacant chairs at the tables, no seats at the bar. Standing room in the back, filling up fast. There was me with my starry eyed dreams of poetic power and grace quickly turning into horrible nightmares. Panic set in. I asked the people at the sign in whether or not one of the four open mic spots was open.
There was one left. Against the apprehension tugging at my heart strings, my nerves stumbling around like a drunk in the dark, I signed up, figuring fate had wanted it to be mine. Then I stood around fretting for the next 20 minutes, with my mouth running dry, clutching my red writing notebook, feeling as though it was a bible and I was in desperate need of saving. I locked myself in the bathroom for 5 minutes to take a nervous pee and say my poem out loud one last time. I felt the full effect of 8-Mile pounding on my shoulders. My moment was coming, faster than I was sure I was ready for.
When the MC starting his opening spiel, I started up to the front of the stage to get ready to go. The place was so full by then, the path to the stage was filled with people sitting cross legged on the floor. I had to step around them, a human tire football drill. When I finally was called, second in the open mic line up... I walked up on stage, and out of my body.
Does anyone remember at the summer Olympics when Usain Bolt won the 200m dash and then borrowed one of the photographer's cameras and started taking pictures of his worldview? Those photos are pretty much what the crowded bar looked like to me. Faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and my pulse like a rabbit having a heart attack and faces.
I told them it was my first time performing ever, and the crowd was really warm and supportive. Guess what? I still thought I was going to throw up.
"Wow," I said, or something equally eloquent, how I do, "there are so many of you, I wish I'd just prepared a haiku."
The lights were bright and I proceed to spit whatever words I thought I had memorized. I honestly couldn't tell you if I messed up my poem or if I got all the words right. If I sped up in the right parts, slowed in the wrong ones, paused when I needed to, stopped dead, or anything. All I remember is the shaking. Trembling, through my torso, into my legs like a bone shattering earthquake. My body trembled. My hands clutching my notebook trembled. My breath between sentences trembled, audibly into the microphone. I bet my soul was trembling too, holding on with its last, failing muscles to keep me upright, breathing, gasping these words I had written for the ears of others.
When I finished, I thanked them and hurried off the stage, fast as I could. I heard the MC say, "Give it up for Riley!" And the cheers made me weak in the knees. I watched the other two open mic-ers go without issue. I don't when the trembling STOPPED, but eventually it did. I slipped back into the crowd, to watch the slammers with my friends, who hugged me and congratulated me.
A girl who was leaving stopped and said she had loved my poem and that I had made her cry. And that.... made me blush. And realize that I really need to work on making eye contact with strangers. I have the social skills of Forrest Gump, except I'm less charming.
I guess one thing is for certain, I have plenty to work on. Poetry. Delivery. Social skillery.
I've got a head full of dreams, and in my own imagination, I saw myself getting involved in the scene, learning everything I could, helping to bring this powerful form of poetry to the masses, changing lives along the way, including my own. The second reason a small poetry community would be nice is because, should I decide to chase the dream and perform a poem of my own, it would be LESS petrifying to do it with a small audience.
Friends, last night was the night. My spoken word debut.
I had decided I was going to do it or die (or puke or faint) trying. Possibly the second two, followed by the first. I cranked the music in my room a few hours before and tried to put the words into memory as much as I could before I had a chance to forget them. Half because I hoped the music would disguise the sound of my words (I'm bashful, so naturally when practicing to recite to a room full of people, I couldn't have ANYONE HEARING ME) and half because I wanted to do it with distractions, hoping I would nail it later on, no matter what.
Hustling through the cold to the Divan Orange, I wasn't sure whether I was speaking too much, or not enough but.... I was already nervous. I was psyched up. I've been on stages at random intervals for my entire life. I sang "Hey Jude" in my highschool variety show, and I'm a karaoke addict. I've acted, I've hosted stuff. I'm no stranger to the dream and the reality of being on a stage.
But when I walked into the hustle and bustle of the bar, a new kind of panic set in. People. Lots of people. People as far as the eye could see. No vacant chairs at the tables, no seats at the bar. Standing room in the back, filling up fast. There was me with my starry eyed dreams of poetic power and grace quickly turning into horrible nightmares. Panic set in. I asked the people at the sign in whether or not one of the four open mic spots was open.
There was one left. Against the apprehension tugging at my heart strings, my nerves stumbling around like a drunk in the dark, I signed up, figuring fate had wanted it to be mine. Then I stood around fretting for the next 20 minutes, with my mouth running dry, clutching my red writing notebook, feeling as though it was a bible and I was in desperate need of saving. I locked myself in the bathroom for 5 minutes to take a nervous pee and say my poem out loud one last time. I felt the full effect of 8-Mile pounding on my shoulders. My moment was coming, faster than I was sure I was ready for.
When the MC starting his opening spiel, I started up to the front of the stage to get ready to go. The place was so full by then, the path to the stage was filled with people sitting cross legged on the floor. I had to step around them, a human tire football drill. When I finally was called, second in the open mic line up... I walked up on stage, and out of my body.
Does anyone remember at the summer Olympics when Usain Bolt won the 200m dash and then borrowed one of the photographer's cameras and started taking pictures of his worldview? Those photos are pretty much what the crowded bar looked like to me. Faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and my pulse like a rabbit having a heart attack and faces.
I told them it was my first time performing ever, and the crowd was really warm and supportive. Guess what? I still thought I was going to throw up.
"Wow," I said, or something equally eloquent, how I do, "there are so many of you, I wish I'd just prepared a haiku."
The lights were bright and I proceed to spit whatever words I thought I had memorized. I honestly couldn't tell you if I messed up my poem or if I got all the words right. If I sped up in the right parts, slowed in the wrong ones, paused when I needed to, stopped dead, or anything. All I remember is the shaking. Trembling, through my torso, into my legs like a bone shattering earthquake. My body trembled. My hands clutching my notebook trembled. My breath between sentences trembled, audibly into the microphone. I bet my soul was trembling too, holding on with its last, failing muscles to keep me upright, breathing, gasping these words I had written for the ears of others.
When I finished, I thanked them and hurried off the stage, fast as I could. I heard the MC say, "Give it up for Riley!" And the cheers made me weak in the knees. I watched the other two open mic-ers go without issue. I don't when the trembling STOPPED, but eventually it did. I slipped back into the crowd, to watch the slammers with my friends, who hugged me and congratulated me.
A girl who was leaving stopped and said she had loved my poem and that I had made her cry. And that.... made me blush. And realize that I really need to work on making eye contact with strangers. I have the social skills of Forrest Gump, except I'm less charming.
I guess one thing is for certain, I have plenty to work on. Poetry. Delivery. Social skillery.
January 17, 2013
Mish Mash
Today was a great food day.
Breakfast: 1 serving of Budget Bytes "Gingerbread Baked Oatmeal" which is pretty much as good as it sounds. With cold milk on top. Coffee.
Lunch: I slice of Bek and I's special leftover homemade pizza (spinach, peppers, feta, mozz, DIY crust....obviously. Food snob standards!) from Tuesday night and carrot sticks.
Dinner: Honey Whiskey Pulled BBQ Chicken on a homemade whole wheat bun with onions and my parent's homemade pickles. Thinly sliced yukon gold potato, baked and salted to crispy perfection. Fresh snow peas. Goooood, I love food.
I love cooking so much I think I would be a great but awful housewife, on my merit of singing when I'm home by myself and my baking skills alone.
------
People are lovely in summer sunshine, but I think winter lends people a different kind of beauty. All bundled up in their jackets, with their breath escaping to rejoin the rest of the air in a swirling expulsion, their cheeks a warmed through red, a burst of life and colour. Hats make your hair a mess. Eyes brighten as they water in the icy wind. It's awesome.
That being said, it's supposed to feel like -31 in the morning tomorrow. SCREW. YOU. WINTER.
------
Last Saturday, we climbed up to the top of Mont-Royal and looked over this big giant city, scored on its crown with the St. Lawrence river. All I thought was, "We don't have anything like this in Waterloo." I'm going back to that park and sledding before winter is over. So I probably have a good 100 months or so.
Breakfast: 1 serving of Budget Bytes "Gingerbread Baked Oatmeal" which is pretty much as good as it sounds. With cold milk on top. Coffee.
Lunch: I slice of Bek and I's special leftover homemade pizza (spinach, peppers, feta, mozz, DIY crust....obviously. Food snob standards!) from Tuesday night and carrot sticks.
Dinner: Honey Whiskey Pulled BBQ Chicken on a homemade whole wheat bun with onions and my parent's homemade pickles. Thinly sliced yukon gold potato, baked and salted to crispy perfection. Fresh snow peas. Goooood, I love food.
I love cooking so much I think I would be a great but awful housewife, on my merit of singing when I'm home by myself and my baking skills alone.
------
People are lovely in summer sunshine, but I think winter lends people a different kind of beauty. All bundled up in their jackets, with their breath escaping to rejoin the rest of the air in a swirling expulsion, their cheeks a warmed through red, a burst of life and colour. Hats make your hair a mess. Eyes brighten as they water in the icy wind. It's awesome.
That being said, it's supposed to feel like -31 in the morning tomorrow. SCREW. YOU. WINTER.
------
Last Saturday, we climbed up to the top of Mont-Royal and looked over this big giant city, scored on its crown with the St. Lawrence river. All I thought was, "We don't have anything like this in Waterloo." I'm going back to that park and sledding before winter is over. So I probably have a good 100 months or so.
January 07, 2013
Eff.
I literally have tried to write a post a good 5 times today, but nothing seems to be coming out right, so I thought I might as well bite the bullet and spit something out before I lose my mind and neglect to update all over again.
A week late: HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Saturday afternoon I arrived back at my apartment in Montréal, leaving behind a holiday season busy to the brim with family, food, friends, drink, laughter, tears, hellos and goodbyes. I felt a little weird being back here, but planning on making good on my resolution to use my time for art when I can, I brought my keyboard back with me and moved it into my room today. For some reason, with it all set up in the corner, waiting for a melody makes me feel more at home. A fridge stocked with veggies and music were what it took to make me feel alright again.
It's the little things, I guess.
I feel like I'm losing my steam as I'm typing this. Additional resolution: re-locate my blogging voice and drag it back here kicking and screaming.
A week late: HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Saturday afternoon I arrived back at my apartment in Montréal, leaving behind a holiday season busy to the brim with family, food, friends, drink, laughter, tears, hellos and goodbyes. I felt a little weird being back here, but planning on making good on my resolution to use my time for art when I can, I brought my keyboard back with me and moved it into my room today. For some reason, with it all set up in the corner, waiting for a melody makes me feel more at home. A fridge stocked with veggies and music were what it took to make me feel alright again.
It's the little things, I guess.
I feel like I'm losing my steam as I'm typing this. Additional resolution: re-locate my blogging voice and drag it back here kicking and screaming.
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