Those of you who follow this blog recognize my house in this picture on the vine side, the end of a Victorian row of 4 houses.
For the second night in a row, the noise next door grew louder until they added one of those South Africian horns that came out in the soccer matches. That was followed by the heavy beat of some heavy metal music. I have to work today. This wasn’t helping.
It was after midnight by then, party having gone on maybe an hour and a half and showing signs of increasing in strength. Our bedroom directly adjoins their kitchen & party room. Due to the heat, windows on both sides are open. I got up in the dark, groped for the phone, dialed the police, listened to a rota of helpful community messages, got somebody who sent me to dispatch, listened to the rota two more times and finally got a sympathetic voice who said they’d send someone promptly.

Replaced the receiver, went back to bed in the dark, stayed awake and listened to the thump of music and the venusuleza? (need to get the spelling) till suddenly there was a most welcome but startled silence and after that – nothing! So I’m gearing up tonight since it’s Labour Day weekend.
When your house is attached to the one next door, you can’t get away. I went online in the morning and googled ‘Queen Student parties’ a terrifying search on a far larger scale than our so far simple next door situation which we devoutly hope may be resolved by some one on one sober chat about being neighbours and how helpful we can and will be if they might think about reciprocating. Yawnnnn. I’m still tired.

UPDATE - Today Thursday, Facebook sent me this message: ‘on Sunday, there was a spamming incident on Facebook. During this time, photos (mostly of supposedly “free” iPhones) were posted to some people’s Walls, including yours. We’ve removed the photo from your Wall and fixed the issue that allowed spammers to do this. We’re sorry about the photo, but can assure you that this did not affect the security of your account in any way.’

Here’s how it went down: My sister called last Sunday, asking if I really was advising people they could get free ipads just by clicking on a link I’d put up on my homepage? My spiel started, ‘HEY!’ Right away I knew it couldn’t be me, starting a sentence with horse feed.
Being deep into getting the Poet Laureate blog right, I wanted to ignore it. Nothing much had happened other than someone had hacked into my account and sent an ungrammatical message, ostensibly from me. Which meant they’d probably gotten my password.
I went to the ‘Help’ site and told Facebook. “This only concerns ‘a very few members,’ Facebook said, barely supressing a yawn. What?? I wanted outrage! Vows to track down my account hackers and delete them back to their BONES! Whose side was FB on??
Several ‘friends’ immediately wrote saying they knew it wasn’t me, thank heavens. The hackers even had me saying, ‘gonna,’ in the message. Me?? Instead of ‘going to.’ What sort of education does THAT imply? I posted notices on my profile and home pages but other messages coming in rapidly moved them down to the bottom.
Several phone calls later, my sister made me promise to get a new e-mail address. Problem was, I’d just GOTTEN a new e-mail address the previous week.
Also I was probably ripe for it. I had been leaving my 3, 400 ‘friends’ just sitting around tapping their toes and drumming their fingers out of sheer boredom. I’d only know maybe 22 of them, all told, if I met them in the street or had to pick them out of a lineup. My nice plump juicy account was languishing.
So I am probably going to tell them all adios, sadly sweeps the raincloud ore the cliff and aloha ah! I set up another site with a sunflower, then went and friended myself. Facebook then said the two of me had one friend (me) in common.
Very glad to have shared the Facebook experience with my times. I’m not leaving, just moving, along with a few actual friends and some family (however they behave). Now I must tell the 3400 the sad news. Some I will be contacting for the very first time. For at least one friend, I am their only. Need to sort that.
In the meantime, The phishers are out there, trolling in the waters of our ignorance.

PAUL WEBSTER LYRICS LINKED TO MAYAN CALENDAR – DID HE KNOW?
Fifties hitster, lyricist Paul Webster, agonized over whether to panic the known world with his sudden but brilliant insight into our future. What to do?
With his covert but phenomenal psychic powers, way back in 1957, Webster was writing lyrics to a Jerry Livingston tune, saying clearly that our world would end in 2012. Of course he could abandon the simple lyrics and exploit his knowledge to make millions (or be labeled as a nutcase and persecuted). Still he owed it to our world to leave some clues as to our fate so that we might set our affairs in order
Finally, this tuneful genius, using the skills that served him so well in hit after hit, decided to stuff what he knew into a simple but ultimately annoying song: The Twelfth of Never: Genetic Engineering, Pesticides, Acid Rain, Demise Of The Book, they are all in there with a unforgettable worm of a tune, even the title a clear warning for what was to come. He never worried whether or not it would become a hit. That’s just the kind of guy he was.
“I’ll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom
I’ll love you till the clover has lost its perfume
I’ll love you till the poets run out of rhyme
Until the twelfth of never and that’s a *long, long time.”
(*55 years and then, BLOOEY!’ he thought in 1957 as he penned prophetic words).
ANALYSIS
Many people think the ending of the Mayan calendar in 2012 signifies the Mayans somehow knew the world ends then, less than two years away. Now it turns out they weren’t alone. There are little signs all over but perhaps the strangest is the prophecy stuffed into that beloved 50’s tune, once popular at engagement parties and weddings, The Twelfth of Never,
You wouldn’t think Paul Webster knew anything about the Mayan calendar when he wrote this song in 1957. Nor when he reached for what must’ve seemed eternal verities to express just how long his love would last. How could he have known all these forever things could vanish, simple things of nature without which we can’t imagine our world?
But the first line of his chorus promises to love, “till the bluebells forget to bloom.” Garden writer, Helen Yemm, warned recently in the Telegraph, “Trample with care – loss of habitat and poaching are destroying our bluebells.’ Not coming up in the spring can surely be classed as ‘forgetting.’

Then he promises to stop loving when, ‘the clover has lost its perfume.’ Like the Spanish Inquisition, nobody expected genetic engineering to go to work taking the scent out of such flowers as it continues to do.
As a clincher, he promises to love, ‘till the poets run out of rhyme.” Anyone in the fifties would feel safe in thinking this could never happen. Yet a recent Six Chix cartoon has Mother Goose being told by an English department: “No one will take you seriously as a poet if you rhyme.’ Just ask poets whether anyone publishes rhyme anymore.
The world was a different place back in 1957 when Webster chose bluebells, the scent of clover and rhyming couplets to prove eternal love, as they’d been around as long as human memory.
I heard the Twelfth of Never on the radio when it first came out, sitting on a blanket to admire the buttercups which seemed to button down our dry Okanogan soil like a vast tweed coat. It was spring and nature seemed a pretty solid thing in those days. Wild flowers came up reliably, year after year.
Nobody fiddled with nature then except for a little light testing of the atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico, just twelve years before Webster sat down to write. Is it significant, this twelve year gap? Is it yet another indicator that he meant the song to convey a hidden message? Given the declining bluebell, the genetically altered clover and poetry now a series of anagramic slams, was The Twelfth of Never meant to predict our doom now less than two years away? Listen to Webster.

I need more sleep than most. 8 hours doesn’t cut it. 10 hrs is more likely. BUT with my deviated septum, I need a mask, called CPAP, so I can keep breathing while I sleep. (That’s the little demonically-possessed item in the picture. It fits around your nose). This is a Fisher & Paykel CPAP, Thermosmart & heated Serial # 091204033412 Part #HC60rMJHu The mask is a ResMed
Yes, it’s the best mask in my 12 year history. Sleep apnea science is progressing. This one is flexible, fits snugly, gives lots of air BUT it wails and moans unexpectedly during the night. Exorcism? Mistreatment? I’ve all but stood on my head to make it shut up.
Finally I’ve narrowed it down to one tiny component of all the bits of moveable and immobile plastic that make up this little triangular dictator.
It’s this tiny tooth-edged plastic circle on top that lets out the air. Here’s the view from inside. There are some rocks like this in the Alaskan cliffs of Lost River where the wind howls and the aboriginal legends say the souls of their ancestors cry out there in pain. That’s the kind of noise I hear from this #%!! mask in the middle of the night.
I’ve tried water levels, attempting to hold the hose rigid as I sleep, duct tape, fiddling with the connections but the only thing that works (and often for only a short time) is thumbing the air holes around the circle in a strangulation movement. But why would this work?
Obviously I don’t understand apnea engineering. There it sits, the llittle circle on top. Can you see it leering?

(Disclaimer: This is an attempt at an objective overview of whom to choose for Kingston Poet Laureate. Though a sometime poet, I am not a candidate, being primarily a writer of Creative Non-fiction.
NOTE- EXPECTING CORRECTIONS/UPDATES This site will be CONSTANTLY UPDATED as information flows in. Some of these poets may be up for Putlizers. Write & say so. No intention of slighting ANYONE, okay?? (Perhaps I’ll maintain this area of my blog after we have our laureate, just in terms of ongoing good poems.)

CRITERIA - First, goes without saying, they need to be permanent IN KINGSTON. Not occasional visitors trailing clouds of glory from their REAL homebase. Then the important questions (Though no poet will have them all): Is the poet: an ongoing mentor? Regularly billets? Has more than one non-self-published book of poetry? Won grants, awards, honours? appointments? Paid paid poetry dues: (membership in League of Poets, starting magazine or reading series, volunteered for national poetry week, etc?) Known particularly for Poetry rather than other arts areas?
Will their election help heal the illusion/delusion/(some say reality) that poetry lives only at the university? Walt Whitman helped disperse that in his lifetime but not in Kingston. For a long while, readings were held ONLY at Queens. (the academic paradigm?) The appointment of a working poet, unaffliliated, would go a long way towards changing that unfortunate perception.

Poetry these days is a hard sell. If you truly hunger after precise, moving use of language, there’s a lot to choose from in Kingston. Some good poets are also better at the marketing and promoting side.

Others write, publish and slough through the poetry trenches, mentoring, supporting and welcoming new poets to the ranks while remaining relatively unknown to the population at large.

Poet Laureate selection time should be an opportunity to recognize the hard work of those behind the scenes as well as selecting one of them to recognize the importance of poetry to this community.

While there’s still time, let me suggest some names that might otherwise be overlooked, along with what little I know about each of them. Of course I’ll miss a lot, those writing and publishing quietly, likely for many years and fully as deserving. Remind me. I have an aging memory.

While Gender MUST NOT enter into the selection of the Laureate, we know – There Are More Women Poets But Men Tend To Publish More Easily. And Finally: It Never Hurts To Have Queen’s In Your Corner.

Obvious Candidates: (No One Would Be Surprised If They Got It: Prominence, Position, Publications, Profile. The Laureate will probably come from here. Short List:

Helen Humphries - Honours, Awards. Publications. Canada Council. Former Poet in Residence appointment Queen’s.

Steve Heighton-Honours. Awards. Canada Council. former Poet In Residence positions

Elizabeth Greene – Publications. Works for Poetry. Former Poetry Prof some student mentoring Former Queens.

Eric Folsom-Former poetry publisher/editor, (Next Exit Quarterly), former League of Poets Rep, CBC poetry shortlist, Many publications/anthologies/chapbooks, Poetry Prof, (St Lawrence & School system), Workshops, frequent reader/organizer/poetry promoter. 30 yr history as billeter/feeder/driver of out of town poets, down on their luck poets

Carolyn Smart- Publications.Plays. Poetry Prof. Canada Council Poet? Queen’s.

Michael Hurley- Performer/Reader. Many publications. Canada Council Poet? Poetry Prof (RMC) Mentor Royal Military College English Prof

Joanne Page – 3 books of poetry, finalist for Trillium Award, anthologies, workshops, teaching.

Mary Cameron Publications, League of Poets,

Others who MUST be considered:

Laurie Lewis – Publisher. Years on Poetry Scene. League of Poets, Probably Canada Council Poet. Publications.
David Daniel Moses – Poet/Playwright. Publications. Queen’s. Better known outside town. Queen’s.
Diane Dawber- first poet to establish/host monthly reading series in town, unconnected with Queen’s, (Poetry & Company). 7 books of poetry. Billets & hosts poets on regular basis. Countless school workshops. Canada Council Poet. League of Poets.
Bruce Kaufman- started & hosts monthly reading series (Artel Reading Series). Published?
Bob MacKenzie – started/hosted 2 poetry reading series (Chamolean Nation & Gallery Series ). 45 yr writing career. OAC grant. Combines poetry with music & visual art. League of Poets. Press Published?
Pat Andruchuck-Honours. lengthy publishing record. Awards.Better known outside Kingston. Canada Council Reader
Sister Peggy Flanagan - Uplifting poems part of community activism
Jennifer Londry- Moving, unusual writing. Frequent reader. Publications.
Jason Heroux- Witty stuff. Regular publications. Canada Council Poet.
Doug Roy-Publications. Inspires/edits anthologies. poetry group leader, 2 books, League of Poets member
Bonita Summers- press published? Active in poetry scene.
Hugh Barclay- Beautiful presentations. Work behind the scenes. press published?
Erin Foley - Poetry promos. Press published?
Mary Ellen Csamer – League of Poets including Ontario rep. Publications. Long history of work
Leah Browning, Publications, readings, League of Poets
Cory Mayhew, Several anthologies. Press published?
Jan Allen – Writer, Visual Artist, Curator, Poet. Publications.
Clive Robertson
Rielly Stares - anthologies, readings. Press published?
Lorne Shirinian
Others – (some may be Ottawa – please let me know): Armand Ruffo, Shane Rhodes, Terry Ann Carter, Ronnie Brown, Nicola Vulpe, Colin Morton, Blaine Marchand, Anne Le Dressary, John Rivers and Robert Colman.

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Probably my favorite childhood picture of my husband. He is having a bath in what they called ‘the washshed.’ Stubborn as always. But here is this little square image, taken some seventy years ago – and what to do with it now?
Here he is again, usually with a dog. Most family pics also included the car for pride of ownership. The camera was trotted out only on special occasions: visitors, events (like the catching of a big fish) These are the hardscrabble poor Montana Higgins, grandfather with his first two grandsons. And, of course, the fish.
On my side the camera comes out one rare Christmas, uniting sisters. The one in the foreground has decided to quit speaking to me anymore but our closeness is still evident in childhood.
Or digging out from a snowfall in Nome at my grandmother’s house. None of this sparse collection was in colour. You had to send them in an envelope marked, ‘Photos. Do Not Bend.’ stamped and carefully addressed, hoping the recipient might still be at that address since you hadn’t heard in awhile. How the world has changed while human nature has stayed exactly the same.

Quarreled with this biog throughout the read. Great to have it so soon after John Matteson’s study. The two books complement each other though I kept returning to Matteson as the definitive final say. Too many attempts to psychoanalyze Bronson and family members, including a discussion of whether or not he has a ‘homo-erotic relationship with Charles Lane!!’ Perhaps that sensationalizing was for press purposes but manufactured out of what they used to call ‘wholecloth,’ it does real disservice to the reader.
Kept seeing the writer interpreting (quarreling with earlier biogs as academics are wont to do while their readers stamp their feet impatiently in the cold), her sighing behind the scenes, expressing her dissatisfaction that all the materials available to earlier writers are not to her, how dismal it is to be writing yet another Alcott biog, even a feeling of her disengagement from the subject towards the end, as though she were giving a series of lectures on a subject about which she had once cared.
Lots more to say on this, though not here. I’ll look up the PBS doc with trepidation, even though it would be good to see Orchard House and perhaps the annual reenactments of the Pratt wedding.
Sometimes you get the feeling around certain literary figures that their biographers set out to completely ‘own’ them and dictate to the world how they are to be seen, with strong opinions. That seems to be Reisen, at least what I’ve managed to read and see from bits of the documentary. Wish I could feel there was no bias here but so far it keeps turning up.
Harriet does do well in some areas by noting the things women are more likely to care about, which Matteson could not help but miss, but her interpretations seem forced. Haven’t found an Alcott biog I can really trust yet and I’ve read quite a few.
Finally, you can’t help but see how delighted Louisa would’ve been with the advances of this century, especially: running clothes, especially SPANDEX!, Washer-driers, jets, the possibilities of teleportation (her love of travel), women permanently wearing pants (and much less), no-iron fabrics, video cameras (though not cell phones), money transfers by e-mail, supermarkets that pick out and deliver – nearly all of the outward hardness of her times resolved in ours, leaving only the spiritual to be rescued from its current position at the bottom of our deep well of culture.

Okay, it isn’t lying flat and I’ve creased it. The title is: ORIGAMI FOR BEGINNERS. It show the origami paper lying flat (rug), straight up & down (door) and lying tilted (ramp). This cartoonist is always consistently funny. Now I’ll go remind myself of his name and put it in here. Aha! DAN PIRARO. I knew that. Great stuff on his blog. Gotta link.

/> Hadn’t tried to take pictures before in a crowded room (75 people with a sign missing that probably said,’ room holds 40) – They move about so quickly and my camera seemed to get slower and slower. I have no idea whose trousers these are but the photo is truly an accident, nice butt not included.
No idea whose ear this is. Some simply don’t want their pictures taken. Others are just busy making the rounds. Good thing there isn’t film wastage involed!
Not that I ever claimed to be an experienced photographer, but was I going for the blank wall and the maroon shoulder and the brunette pouf blocked the shot?
Don’t hire me as the roving photog at YOUR function, eh?

There’s also Morning Has Broken and all the other songs praising the start of a new day, a new chance at getting it right this time, all that potential we call ‘time’ that doesn’t actually exist.

“Whatta ya doin’? Standin’ in the middle of the street at THIS hour?’ my tenant calls to me, startled as she opens her door. “Photographing the morning,” I say, and being an artist, she sees this is worthwhile and comes out to talk in the morning dark that is more palpable than twilight.