Mercy, a music video for Petunia

One day the Dancing Plague was a vague idea for a music video I had, and the next day it was this.


No shit

A ghost of a man

Conducting our days with cold dead hands
Coming alive at night with the help of some tonic

Singing love songs
But just moving his lips

He had mastered the art of not breathing too deeply
Giving himself all day then taking it back secretly

A stand-in in a one-act play

I lingered in the hallway
He sat in the dark
Come with me, I begged
I know he didn't know yet
I will not he muttered

You'll be sorry
I was sorry
It was the end

I found my reason
or he found me
I'm a metaphor

No shit

Walking to get the car we left in Mission last night.

"I've been drinking
and it's morning
but you know he loves you

"I don't know why I said that"
as we got into the car


C.S. Lewis on loss

There is one place where her absence comes locally home to me, and it is a place I can't avoid. I mean my own body. It had such a different importance while it was the body of H.'s lover. Now it's like an empty house.



Daniel's Harbour, Newfoundland. 

The rocky terrain; the violent wind wreaking havoc on everyone's hair; the cemetery in the middle of town way up on the hill; the ambulance parked in Rick's driveway Monday through Thursday, and Terry's driveway Friday through Sunday. 

The earth and the sky felt different than any place I'd been. 

We buried my Nan's ashes next to her parents. Her husband was way across the cemetery, the weeds grown over his grave like some sort of movie villain. “Oh Grandfather, what in the hell is going on here, somebody's got to clean you up”. My cousin Heather gardened his plot with her bare hands until it looked almost acceptable. I remember saying the wrong thing, a few times, to relatives I hadn't seen in years. I never know what to do or say at funerals; where to put my hands. We went to a dinner thing, and then each to our respectable lodging. 

Ours was a an old motel with a smoking room. My dad told a story about breaking into the winter house of his aunt Hannah's in Daniel's Harbour and filling his pockets with chicken feed. When he saw her later that day she was onto him, but he couldn't figure out how. He later noticed a hole in his pants, a chicken feed trail following him wherever he went.

What's a winter house?
It's a house set back from the ocean so the storms aren't so bad. It's smaller than your summer house.

April 2016

This weekend I naively spent time in a possible bordello with a terrible man that combed his eyebrows up. Usually intrigued by st...