Floundering [Not Dead]
The First Time | It’s not depression, though it appears so at times. It’s closer to poverty. Depletion. Loss. More associated with the loss of familiarity, of character. A lack of presence.
“People have been tellin’ me the Toronto Lit Scene is dead.”
About two dozen of us make it out to a poet’s book launch in the Junction. A good showing. For many in Toronto, this is viewed as a distance too far, when it’s actually a pretty direct route just off the subway line, swift express buses from both Dundas West, Keele stations.
But, much like the city itself (off the skids), transit hasn’t been altogether pleasant let alone safe these days. I can’t last recall when it’s been timely, or uninterrupted, without altercation. Tired stretched passengers, just trying to get to where they’re going, eyes closed/buds on, sketched out people, sheltering, fights erupting, tall boy cans, meth smoked on platforms.
The day a person rushed onto the streetcar trying to escape their pursuers, blood gushing from their skull all over everyone who couldn’t exit fast enough, was the day I decided to close down our East and West KFB locations.
Toronto’s always been… cold. Primarily an SM scene (Stand & Model). Looking for [but not] the party for a long time now.
They used to be called readings. There used to be exhibits. Interactive simply meant there was a live audience, those in attendance. You thought nothing of going to places of interest.
Now, there’s just designated spots to take Instagram photos. An exhibition? A reading? It’s either a “must,” a “to be seen” [or streamed] event, or it’s not on Google maps. Or anyones.
I’m hard pressed to think of a single place I have a desire to go to. Or even want to. Sure, New York, Berlin, the East Coast, Iceland. A girl can dream. But not in this city.
I live here, so I muster, make the effort.
Attend another reading, made it there, a bit too crowded for me to stay, but glad to show up/support. Buy books I can’t afford (so?). Relished Polish food on Roncy with Jim Johnstone. A treat.
It’s not depression, though it appears so at times. It’s closer to poverty. Depletion. Loss. More associated with the loss of familiarity, of character. A lack of presence. Days have ceased to accumulate. Each day is simply something to manage. Get thru. Hope you didn’t forget anything.
Is it real if it doesn’t scroll?
Sunday, I go to the opening of the Brian Dedora, Michael Dean Contact Photography show at The Secret Handshake on College. Almost gave up on the streetcar, 30 min wait both ways in the rain, but the show was great and got to sit with the artists and meet a few new folks, chew the chaw with likes in real life.
Made my way down Augusta in Kensington Market where KFB used to be (so much of my life, this street) to hang with my besties, Joseph and Leo at Orbital Arts Gallery. They’ve been together for 30 years now. I’m always amazed they can still make a go (in business), I guess, like me, the answer lies in the making, and making do.
We plant seeds for a new joint project, share a sip of single malt. Cheer to my own belated on C.P. Cavafy’s birthday (also the day of his death at 70). I didn’t know we were but a week apart. Smoky. Peaty. Perfect.
Thank god for distractions. They insist. Bring/keep me present [break here to fold laundry. A bit peckish…What’s for lunch?]
Fresh T-shirts! [not off the clothesline, but…]
I used the last of the dryer sheets Suzanne gave me (“who’s going to look after Kirby when I’m gone?”).
“What's wrong? You can tell me. Do you need anything?”
As master printer Andrew Steeves pointed out on my pilgrimage to Gaspereau Press earlier this month (our meeting, such good fortune), “Have you had a meal today?”
Tuna w/capers and red onion on a brioche bun. Fancy.
Such passion, creators/artists who make things with their hands, with what they have, daily. Eek out a living.
It’s pains me to see so many struggle. That’s what it is. There’s little room for ease these days.
All energies all to incur an income to try to make ends meet. Make work. Trying to make something matter when the whole world seems at best on hold.
My gay bestie texts: “We could be in Palm Springs blowing pensioners for doubles CHER!!!”
Fuck, how many times must they test the fire alarm at my residence?
Gay Bestie: “With witty banter like… ‘GIRL your shirt’s on backwards and you smell like balls’.”
Sweet baby jesus thank the gods I’m gay.
“I’m feeling so invisible,” a poet shares, and I’m surprised, because they’re not invisible to me. I'm seated right here, we both made a point of doing so, “Invisible? Really?!”
“I don’t feel a part of [name a community you think exists].”
“O, darlin’ bless your heart, there is no poetry community. Nip that one right in the bud.” We laugh.
“There are poets, mostly pleasantly unto themselves, some wondering if anybody notices, or reads them, or gives a fuck either way. The gossips, those who they agree with, tear people down. Or they may belong to a writer’s group (a context, not a community), or they’ve cultivated a circle of select friends over the years. Cherished relationships you share your work with, or not.”
“Women tend to show up for each other. Various peoples with a shared common. A few intimates/confidants, rare. Those you play with, also rare. The good fortune of likes crossing differences.”
“I mean, it’s still relatively recent history when it wasn’t completely SWMD*” (and its current patriarchal backlash).
Who hasn’t thought. “What if nobody shows up?” It happens.
Like you, I’m tired. Days shouldn’t be this hard and they shouldn’t suck and it sucks when everything is so costly with holes in your pockets. When, like many including myself, you live in [financial] poverty which compounds/impacts daily uncertainties.
But, once that poverty reaches the imagination. Now, there’s a K-hole. Game stopper.
Clean those plugs darlin’ Time to rest, reimagine. Open a window if not a door.
Never forget, it’s all about good lighting (not a phone charger). I can’t read Henri Cole’s sonnets off the page without a decent lamp.
O, Kirby, once a mama, always. Suzanne taught me well. “Will they be okay?”
My freezer is full. I haven’t lost my apartment. Made the sandwich you used to fix for me.
Time for my walk. She gets out when she can. Even when she’s broke/n. Not entirely up for it.
And she’s writing. And reading you. And my badass sister CA arrives this weekend.
And darlin’s, we’re the party. The shift. Let’s not just sit around bitch’n and complaining how much things suck here. They do. Everybody already knows that. Let’s change it beyond all recognition.
*Straight White Male Dominated
Kirby’s Poetry Is Queer is out now from Palimpsest Press.
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