What's over there?

I went whale watching yesterday, and on the drive home I thought about poetry. I thought about the Romantic poets and their sublime vision of nature. I thought about grown men and women who discovered the magestic cliffs and mountains, fields of flowers and brilliant moonlight for the first time, over and over, with pen and ink. They were like children, fascinated and thrilled by the petal of a flower or the flutter of a bird's wings.

I watched two massive humpback whales let out their breath in spontaneous gysers and peek their gracefully arched backs out of the surface of the ocean, then disappear again into their private world. I have lived on this island for three years, and it felt like I was spying on an eccentric neighbour peeking out her curtains. Undoubtedly she knew I was there. I was nature's paparazzi.

So I was like a child too yesterday. My cell phone was out of service, I couldn't smoke, I'd brought a giant bag of junk food to keep me happy during the 3 hour boat ride. I innocently let a grown-up drive me around and show me the sights. And yet, though I experienced new sights over and over that afternoon, I missed those butterflies ever-present in my young belly. Why? When I saw tremendous sea lions sunning themselves on a tiny rocky island, covering its entire surface with their bulky mass I was thrilled, but not fluttery. When I took pictures of a bald eagle taking flight off a barren tree next to three seals who sat casually as though they'd just had a visitor for afternoon tea, I was smiling, but I didn't want to jump and shreak like I did when I was small and saw a puppy. Why?

On the drive back I watched the thick treeline whiz by like I did on trips from long ago. Suddenly a thought came to me. I was missing imagination. I used to stare through those trees and imagine all the bears and deer and secret forest tribes too smart to be discovered. When I was on that boat, I didn't imagine where that whale went or what she saw once she dipped under the surface. I didn't imagine where that eagle took flight to, or what conversation he had with those seals before he left. I didn't imagine the family structures of those sea lions so lazy on the surface, but most likely so exciting beneath their flabby disposition. Imagination is the food of belly butterflies.

So in order to get those feelings mastered by the Romantic poets, driving their creativity to create sublime poetry, I need to reclaim my imagination. I need to break through the thick green line of that fantastical forest whizzing by and rediscover what is lurking within. Where does the whale go? Wherever the writer's belly butterflies lead it.

Don't tell me you're too old for me!

Don't tell my husband, but when I was in England for four months I had an affair. It just happened to be with a dead guy. 600 years dead.

I did an exchange through my university at the University of Hertfordshire in England for four months. It was one of the best experiences of my life. I experienced history, surprising cultural differences, and most importantly I got to grovel in the footsteps of authorial giants. People like Thomas Hardy, Phillip Sidney, Francis Bacon, and yes, my main literary squeeze, Chaucer (sigh, giggle).

I have to admit, while I was there, away from my husband, family and friends, I got a little lonely. Well, one thing led to another and I found myself alone and vulnerable in Westminster Abbey. The first time I visited that grand building, I was there for four hours!! The security guys started thinking I was scoping the place out. I was a literary pilgrim following faithfully behind my host, the man who wrote about The Hoste, Geoffrey Chaucer.

As I stood in front of his Tomb at the head of Poet's Corner I tried to breathe in his genius. If I could inhale even a speck of dust containing the memory of his poetic brilliance I'd be a thousand times better a writer than I am right now. So I stared at the slab of stone that housed the actual bones of the grandpappy of English Literature, and I admired.

Soon a little girl came by and started scratching at the tomb with her fingernail. I glared at her like a jealous lover. Some hussy eight year old trying to steal my man! But at the same time I thought, how interesting that this little girl who probably has no idea whose tomb she's trying to scratch a mark into, chose this very tomb. Is it poignant that she was attempting to make a permanent mark in the tomb of the man who made a permanent mark in the history of the English canon? Most likely she was just wondering why this crazy lady had been staring at this block of marble for half an hour.

After she left I ran my finger over the spot where she tried to scratch. Was I trying to wipe her off my literary lover? I don't think so. To be honest, I think I was hoping she had released some dust from the tomb and I might be able to collect it in my fingerprint, as though it would settle into the cracks of the print that identifies me.

I went back many times. I visited Chaucer over and over, eventually not even stopping to admire the beautiful building where he rests. There are so many important figures that lie in that one building. Queen Elizabeth the first, and Mary Queen of Scots right next door to her. Hardy, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Bronte, Wollstonecraft and on and on and on. But it's Chaucer who I went to see; the one who sits at the head of Poet's Corner, as though in Grandpa's chair at the head of the table.

I've always had a thing for older men.

Can a feminist like fighting?

Last year I had the privilege of interviewing Canadian poet, Daphne Marlatt. She is a feminist, proprioceptive, limitless poet who challenges the reader to question, is there such a thing as a feminine epic?

Now, I always thought an epic was an "adventure" that called the hero to face challenges which reflected his inner archetypal "demons" resulting in a change - often tragic - which renders the hero a better person, but all too often out-casted from the society he or she calls home. The bad-ass swords and storms were added bonuses of awesomeness. Kind of like medieval car chases.

So I asked Marlatt, how does a feminine epic differ from a traditional patriarchal epic. She answered that the heroine's journey is inward, and we must cut out the violence. There is too much violence in the world.

Well, I think that an inward journey of change is not a gendered convention. I think growth and bettering oneself is not something constrained to feminism. It's poetry. Poetry is masculine and feminine, and the epic is the alpha-poem - masculine, feminine or whatnot.

And, cutting out the violence? While I agree that there is too much unnecessary violence in the world - senseless crimes, profitless wars and misdirected rage, violence has its place in the world. Am I not a feminist if I enjoy fighting? When Lyoto Machida knocked Rashad Evans flat out and I screamed and shouted and punched the air, was I taking a step back for woman-kind? Can't we all be equal in our love of a well placed punch?

Aren't mother animals the most viscious? They know how to kick some serious ass! I don't think that being feminine requires one to cut out the aggression. Look at Gina Carano!

So when Daphne Marlatt told me that a feminine epic was all about peaceful inner reflection I thought, ya, but what about when Beowulf rips off Grendels arm and beats him to death with it! That was way cooler than thinking about "who am I?".

After our interview I drank some beer, changed a flat tire, went home and baked a pie in a frilly apron, watched some UFC and felt comfortable having breasts...which I may or may not have called tits.

So, am I a feminist if I like fighting? I think so. But I think I'm more of a bitchin momma bear kind of feminist than a passive poetical kind.

Something profound... yup, mmm hmm...

Last night I attended a staff meeting. More importantly, after the staff meeting I wallowed in a free gin and tonic supplied by a great friend and co-worker, while she proceeded to verbally kick and then light a fire under my ass.

Therefore, in an attempt to take some great advice and begin my career way before I am tangibly qualified, I'm attempting to here and now become a writer. Is tangibly even an appropriate word? Why do I suddenly feel like the douchebag in a second year class of mine who quoted Finnigan's Wake and used the word "conundrum" seriously?

Nevertheless, my promise to myself is to enter into a committed relationship with this here trendy bit of web-iverse. I hereby submit myself to the voyeuristic, relentless masses of those who are much more talented than me, and the throngs of those who think they are more talented than me. Follow along as I ramble self-consciously through countless posts which will have me cringing weeks later and attempt to sift through all the silt of suck for a few nuggets of something worth reading.

Sometimes I'll quibble, sometimes I'll ponder, sometimes I'll tell you about the incredible place where I live. I'll probably post a short story or two, and maybe an article here and there. Mostly I'll just marvel to myself at how fast I can type and see what happens. I wish us all good luck.