The missing post

Jay,

Please don’t read this. Send it directly to Ariel after your Saturday post appears. It would be a big help if you could. Thanks.

Your Friend, Jay

(Ed. Note : followed by three blank pages)

Well guys, it looks like the end is near. I just spent the last hour in the very same room I saw George Elliot Clarke and all I feel is warm fuzzies. No resentment, no hatred. Just a warm fuzzy feeling towards the young writers of Juice magazine getting their starts in the very same place I got mine. The drugs are taking over.

From this point forward please don’t believe anything I write. Especially Saturday.
Saturday is the Poetry Bash. I have two weaknesses in this world; poetry and room temperature cheese. The Poetry Bash will have both. The drugs will take over between a clever line and the gouda. I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger. You need to be.

While listening to those young writers I saw the most tragic part of the festival’s tyranny. It’s the kids. You have to keep fighting for the children. Today I had to watch these poor kids believe the festivals biggest lie; that being a writer is a good thing. That this kind of life is something to strive for, but it isn’t.

The pay sucks and the hours are long. You never get to sleep. You have to try and say something that hasn’t been said before, better. Have you ever tried that? Do you know how many things have been said perfectly by this point in our history? A hell of a lot. The whole point of your job as a writer is to do the near impossible. If you don’t, you have to work in a warehouse. And don’t think warehouses are cool just because they have forklifts. They’re usually cold and crass. You wouldn’t like it if you were heading there having previously wanted to be a poet. Trust me. And you know what the worst part is, the worst part is how everybody thinks you’re lazy. I’m thinking for crying out loud. Do you think things think themselves into existence? Ha!! Overall, being a writer is pretty brutal life’s work (however, if you marry someone with a good job you can take care of the kids and write for quite a while before anyone gets really pissed off).

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can barely think straight. I think this is the end.

As my last act of defiance I’m going to hide this from myself. I want this post to appear after the Saturday night column. This way the last you hear from me will not be the festival’s propaganda, but instead, a message of solidarity and resilience against this Evil Empire. Stay fast my friends and let your unity buoy you. Together you can defeat them. And always remember, that somewhere, behind my glazed eyes, I applaud you.

J

* * *

Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.

Thanks + also poetry

I was supposed to publish a piece on the Juice launch, but it seems I can’t find it. It was the big finish. Funny thing is...I can’t really remember what it was about. I hope that doesn’t mean it will fall flat.

It had something to do with how the room the launch was in was the same room I saw George Elliot Clarke and that the festival was suckering more kids into this life of misery. Giving them false hope or whatever. But I don’t really remember so we’ll both have to wait until I find it to see how it all ends. It shouldn’t be hard to find. I think I might have saved it in my wife’s files. She was using the computer before me and I forgot to check if she changed the “save to” destination when I saved Friday’s blog. I should find it tonight and get it up by Monday.

Anyway, this week has been great. I actually got to go to the Winnipeg International Writer’s Festival for free because that was my payment for having to write for their official blog. How cool is that. This has honestly been one of the best experiences of my life. It was like vocational school for writers. I had my theory in the reading and book chats, and the practice in writing for the blog. What more could a guy who just quit his job to give being a writer one more chance ask for. I got a crash course in what I need to do. It’s been great.

I’ll get on to telling you about Saturday’s Poetry Bash in a minute, but first I want to say some thank yous.

The first one is to my family. Thank you for understanding Dad had to work. You boys were awesome. I love you.

Thank you Annette, for letting me try this craziness one more time. And for not being mad about me missing this Saturday night. I love you.

I’d like to thank Chandra for telling Ariel about me. You’ve always helped me, right from the beginning. From helping me get published the first time, to taking me to readings I needed to hear, you’ve kept me connected when I couldn’t write. Thanks.

I’d also really like to thank Ariel for letting me do this and always giving me enough rope to hang myself. It’s nice having a boss who will let you try new things and not get mad at you for being silly (though I’m pretty sure she’s the kind of lady who would have thrown me under the bus if it had become necessary). But really, thanks Ariel. And good luck with your launch on Wednesday at Aqua Books. Everybody go. It’s Ariel and Kerry Ryan. Yea, Manitoba writers.

I’d also like to thank everybody I made fun of at the festival. Everyone was a great sport and didn’t give me a hard time about anything I wrote. They all have great senses of humor. You guys are great.

I’d also like to give a big shout out to the rest of the blogging team. I loved reading all of your posts. It was awesome to have such a talented group of writers to share this stage with. And let me tell you, I looked into what the bloggers from last year went on to do and think the trend of “great things to come” will continue with this group.

Last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank Charlene Diehl. She is a great lady. It was either the first or second time I met her, but she said to me that I should give it to her “with both barrels”. Charlene, I did my best. I think this city is lucky to have someone like Charlene running this festival. She seems to be everywhere. It’s amazing this woman gets through the week constantly moving at the speed of light. Charlene, thank you for all you do for this festival.

Oh wait, I almost forgot Perry. Perry is also the guy you see everywhere, but with him you never really get to see what he does. He’s the guy behind the scenes. He’s the guy who makes the festival go. And on top of everything else he does, he’s always there to sell you a raffle ticket if you are not a contracted employee of the writer’s festival. Thanks Perry.

Well that does it for the thank yous, on to the Poetry Bash.

Since I am poet by trade, the Poetry Bash is always my favorite event. Every year I have gone something amazing happens. Every year I am reminded of what poetry can do. This year was no different.

As soon as I walked in I headed straight for the McNally table. I knew my friend Ryan was working and I was excited he was there. I’ve known Ryan since I was a kid. He’s one of my best friends even though he doesn’t really like poetry. He reads a lot and is really smart, but he’s just never connected with poetry. Who can blame him, sometimes poetry is odd. I was just glad he was there; things happen here.

When I got to the table I saw that my friend Erin was also helping out. She works at McNally too. Actually, if it hadn’t been for Erin, I probably wouldn’t be doing this. I don’t remember what she said exactly, but a few months ago Erin reminded me why I write and why it is still important. She’s also a terrific poet herself. Having both Erin and Ryan here led me to believe that tonight was going to be special.

The reading opened, as always, with Charlene. She was wearing a flashy red top...that looked great. Her intro was brief and before long the poets were on.

Now for me, poetry has always been a hit or miss thing. Some poets blow my mind. Some poets don’t. That’s just the way it is. It doesn’t mean other poets aren’t good, it just means I couldn’t find a thread to grab onto. Poetry is like that.

On this night, I found two threads.

The first to lasso me was Douglas Burnet Smith. His book Sister Prometheus is awesome. Smith’s delicate descriptions of a soldier’s war wounds reminded me of the power of poetry. The language was as sticky as the soldier’s wounds. I could see, hear and smell every detail of Currie’s visit with the dying man. It was incredible.

The second strand came from JonArno Lawson. I can’t really explain to you how amazing this guy is. The only way I can describe it is to say this; what he does is the best use of the English language in a long time. That’s it. That’s all I can say. Read his books and you’ll know what I mean.

So that was it. I had once again found some amazing poets to read thanks to the Poetry Bash. Overall it was a great night, but not really as life altering as I had hoped. But I figured given the radical changes in my writing life in the last few months, maybe it was time for a little peaceful joy instead.

With the set over, I went to see what Erin and Ryan thought of things. As I got behind the table something amazing did happen. I leaned down and asked,

“What’d ya think”?

“I think I’m starting to get it.”

“Jay, he’s coming over to our side, yea.”

“I’m buying this one and this one.”

And with that Ryan pointed to one book by Douglas Burnet Smith and one by JonArno Lawson.

I was right; things do happen here.

I guess that’s why I keep coming back.

Anyway, that’s it. I hope you all had a good time, I know I did. I promise I’ll get that Friday Juice piece over to Ariel as soon as I find it. In the meantime, why don’t you guys throw up some comments on the blog? We’ve been giving our thoughts on the festival all week, let’s hear yours. I think we only have like three comments.

Come on, you can do better than that.

Take care all.

J

* * *

Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.

Sex on Thursday

Last night I attended the mainstage reading entitled “Me Sexy.” It wasn’t because I had to (my festival addiction had been satiated earlier in the day using an Austin Clarke reading), but instead, because I wanted to.

I know what you’re thinking, “My God, they finally broke him. How will we ever know what’s really going on?”

But please allow me to put your fears to rest, neither have they broken me, nor will I cease providing you with the truth about this festival.

I was merely attending “Me Sexy” in an investigative capacity. I needed to find out why the writer’s festival deemed it necessary to turn the main stage into a wanton display of sexuality. It takes place at Manitoba Theatre for Young People for crying out loud. There were delicate ears in the building. Have these people no decency? Oh, wait, they’re drugging us, they have no decency.

Anyway, I was there to figure out why.

At first I thought this reckless presentation of human carnality was for shock value. As any celebrity can tell you, the best way to increase interest in you is to do something controversial. But was the festival really playing the Paris Hilton of the local arts community? After careful consideration, I thought no.

If there is one thing I’ve learned about these people, it’s that the easy answer is never the truth. There was something underhanded going on and I was going find out what it was.

As always, the evening began with Charlene. She went on and on with her writer’s fest propaganda as usual. It was writer’s fest this, and books are good that, and do you like my shoes and so on and so forth. While I tried to ignore most of it, some things did catch my ear.

Near the end of her speech, Charlene began to rant and rave about how if people checked out the blog they shouldn’t believe any of it. She said it was called Hot Air for a reason. She said everyone should just consider it irreverent commentary.

Irreverent my butt. Every word I have written has been carefully researched. I’m not one of those writers who goes around making stuff up. I only deal in the truth (or possibly shades thereof).

Anyway, once Charlene had finished her blathering, the writers began to read. That’s when something strange began to happen.

All of a sudden, somewhere between Drew Hayden Taylor’s harlequinian introduction (wasn’t he in that wine tasting movie) and Rosanna Deerchild’s saucy new shoes (now those were nice shoes), I noticed a TWITTER in my stomach and an aching in my loins. All I could think about was getting home to my wife. I couldn’t help myself. So as soon as intermission came, I hit the road.

The drive was excruciating. I don’t live all that far from the Forks, but I’ll tell you it felt like I was coming back from Headingly. I think I hit 80 down St. Mary Avenue. I needed to get to my wife; the Spanish in me was awakened.

I must have made it home in five minutes flat. Within seconds I was in the house and had my arms wrapped around my wife. I leaned her back and kissed her like the war was over.

She slapped me.

“What are you doing, it’s not Saturday.”

She was right. It wasn’t Saturday. I don’t have sex on Thursdays. It’s only for Saturdays and every second Wednesday. How could I lose my head?

Then, it hit me (the reason why, not my wife). It was the festival. They read me dirty poems so I’d get all wound up and try to have sex. Why? Because if I have sex, I could make a baby. And why does the festival want me to make a baby? Because babies of addicts are addicts too. The festival would have a self-replicating fan base. This madness could go on forever.

So there you have it. That’s why they had erotica on the main stage. It’s just a ploy to get you to have sex and make festival-addicted babies. I was lucky my wife helped me stop before it was too late. I implore you, don’t count on luck.

Do the only responsible thing; don’t ever have sex again (please disregard if you have a same sex partner, you guys are fine).


* * *

Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.

I’ve been hacked!!!!!!!!

I know the internet is a dangerous place, but it seems to me that the timing of this attack is awfully suspicious. I just let the festival’s dirty little secret out of the bag and the next thing you know, I can’t publish to the web. Hmmm, I wonder who could be responsible? Could it be.....the writer’s festival? You bet it is.

You see, yesterday afternoon I took in the 2:30 book chat at McNally Robinson. Well, “took in” makes it sound like I had a choice. I assure you I didn’t. The drugs made me do it. The need to be at the festival has gotten worse. I actually risked getting fired just to hear Pasha Malla and Rebecca Rosenblum read. This festival has turned a hard working, dedicated family man into just another junkie looking for a fix.

Instead of doing my job, shelving books, answering questions, avoiding management, I found myself doing everything I could to get to that events alcove. First I begged them to let me set up chairs for the reading, hoping they might let me stay and watch.

They said I could setup the chairs.

Then I pleaded with poor little Rebecca to relieve me at cash a little early so I could sneak over and watch. And like the enabler I knew she could be, she did. Even though that meant a 4 hour cash shift for her, God bless her.

But I digress; the point is I was there.

As I entered the alcove, I was struck by the most startling image. There, between Pasha Malla and Rebecca Rosenbloom was the perpetrator of my drug-induced madness, Charlene Diehl.

While seeing Charlene at a festival event is by no means shocking, what was, was the way she seemed to tower over the other two writers. It was as if she was lording over her minions. It was as if her stool was just a little bit taller. But I knew that was impossible. I set them up. The only explanation was that she switched stools before the event. It was narcissism at its worst.

I shook my head and quickly moved to the position of security I had scouted out earlier. There between mythology and maps, I could see and hear everything, without limiting my ability to escape unnoticed. You see, I have come to believe that this festival would not be above using thuggery to silence a whistleblower such as myself. I have to take precautions now. So, with my three exits in place, I listened.

Now I’ll have to say the reading was a delightful affair. Each writer read a story from their respective books and then answered questions from the audience. This led to a very interesting discussion about the writing process. I found it informative both as a writer and as a fan. I also enjoyed...wait a minute...I...sorry, that was the drugs talking. Overall, the chat was fine. The real moment of interest came after the event was over.

As the place cleared out, I saw Ariel over by a table near the front. Being a suck up, I made a bee line straight for her. We chatted for a bit and everything seemed fine, until Ariel looked at me with this wicked look and said “Have you met Charlene yet?

And then out of nowhere, as if by some dark magic, She was there. I couldn’t speak. Charlene could see my fear and smiled, “oh hello. Yes, we met on Sunday.” I might have nodded.

This was not good. I was face to face with the mastermind of this whole operation and I was trapped. They were on both sides of me and home field advantage meant nothing. Suddenly, things got worse.

“Jay thinks the festival is like an infection.” If I hadn’t known better I would have thought it was my sister ratting me out.

“Oh really.”

I don’t really know where my resolve came from, but just like all righteous men before me, I made a decision to speak the truth, no matter what the cost.

“Actually, I said you guys were using addictive psychotropic drugs to make people keep coming back.”

“Yeah, so. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No...I...umm...I guess not.”

And they both laughed. They thought they had won. They thought they had shut me up. But they didn’t.

You see, I’m really just a fantastic actor who possesses the ability to stammer on command. Just like crying on command, it can get you out of many sticky situations. By stammering uncontrollably, I made them think I was not a threat. I made them believe their strong arm tactics were working. Never! It was clearly a strategic withdrawal.

I swear to you dear readers, I will never bend to their will. I will never stop seeking the truth. And no matter what obstacles this festival throws in my way, be it limited connectivity or other, I will get that truth to you. I am a writer, I will write.

* * *

Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.

Consider yourself warned

I have made a horrible discovery. The Winnipeg International Writer’s Festival uses addictive psychotropic drugs to lure people into a life of literacy. I know this because I can feel them working their heinous magic this very second. I would have told you sooner, but I showed no signs of infection until today.

I suspect I’m feeling their effects faster than you because they got to me early (I knew I shouldn’t have taken Ariel’s lunch recommendation at that blogger meeting. The drugs were in the chicken).

I first noticed something was wrong around 8:00 pm last night. I was minding my own business, enjoying a quite a family gathering that had taken me away from the festival, when all of a sudden I started to get this funny feeling in my stomach. It was like there was a 5lb rock playing trampoline on my diaphragm. Within a few minutes I was having heart palpitations and difficulty breathing. I considered calling an ambulance, but it was too late, I was chasing the dragon.

Before I knew what was happening I was lost in a wash of memories. Soon the rock in my stomach and the flutter in my chest seemed familiar. In one brief moment I saw every party I wasn’t invited to and every school dance I couldn’t attend. I was feeling the regret of missing something that could be special. I was feeling it like I was sixteen. I was feeling it about the festival.

Luckily, I had enough of a grasp on reality left to remember that special moments at the writer’s festival only happen once in a life time. And since I had already seen one of those moments in my lifetime (my good friend George’s reading way back when), I knew that there was no way one could’ve happened tonight. I knew I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I knew it was impossible. I knew I must have been drugged. It was the only possible explanation.

At first I was frantic. Should I go to the hospital, should I try to vomit, should I call Chandra and yell at her for getting me into this mess? What should I do?
And then it came to me...warn as many people as you can.

So here it is:

They’ve got the drugs, they’ve got the writers and eventually, if you keep coming around, they’ll get you too.

Consider yourself warned.

* * *

Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.

The big confrontation

I’ll have to be honest with you; I thought it’d take me longer to figure out who ruined my life. I thought I could stretch it out all week long and have a really cool detective-type thing going on, but unfortunately the festival screwed me again.

Turns out the person in charge of booking the festival is also in charge of introducing everyone on opening night. So that’s it. I’ve already solved the mystery. All the festival has left me with is “the big confrontation”.

And let me tell you, if this Charlene woman keeps wearing pant suits like she did tonight, that’s definitely not going to happen. It was a very powerful pant suit. She topped it with a shiny blazer. It had a nice line.

But enough about her smart outfit. What it all boils down to is that because of this festival, my big shot at being a real writer is in the toilet. I don’t have an angle. Without an angle I’m a reporter and who wants to be that?

Anyway, what am I going to write about now? I guess I could write about the authors, but why would anyone want to hear about them. In my experience, they’re kind of boring. Mostly they just sit around and write. Sometimes they throw things, but that’s about it. I figure most of them live their lives in the twenty foot radius around their desks and that’s not exactly the stuff that’s going to keep people glued to their computer screens. As of opening night, this gig sucks.

Ah whatever, I have to write something so here is a rundown on opening night.
The thing starts up with this Charlene women saying hi. It was pleasant enough. She thanked some people and tried to hock some raffle tickets. I was not thanked, nor did I buy a raffle ticket. If I had an expense account I probably would have bought one, but I don’t. Once she was done, we move onto the politicians.

Normally politicians annoy me, but I’ll have to say, today they didn’t. I think it had to do with two things. First, without the government the arts don’t happen. They give us creative types the money necessary to do what we do. But more importantly, they didn’t “eat the microphone,” so you couldn’t really hear them.

Next, one of the festival’s board of directors spoke. I can’t really tell you what she said either cause I wasn’t really listening, but she seemed like a cool lady. I caught her bobbing her head, slapping her lap and grooving to the rhythm of the spoken word guy. That lady’s got beat.

When she finished, the formalities came to an end and the writers finally started reading.

They were all commissioned to write something about Winnipeg. All of them did except one guy, but he was from St. Boniface. You know about them.

The first guy, Wheeler I think his name was, he was great. He took a risk and led off with the tough side of this city. He painted the picture we don’t like to share. I liked it. You have to be tough to live here. Al Purdy tough.

I think Carol Matas was next. She talked about how no matter how hard you try, this city always pulls you back. To that I say, sing it sister. The place is a black hole, not even light can escape.

After Carol came a guy with a jaunty hat. Him I liked a lot. Not only was he dressed to kill, but he almost sold a painting and had the best gimmick ever. He wrote his piece about Winnipeg on what was presumably a map of Winnipeg. I need to start thinking like him. I need a better gimmick. Cranky just doesn’t sell anymore. Oh yeah, his poem was good too.

Chandra Mayor was up next. She looked fabulous. She got caught on her chair, but she looked great doing it. She read about places in this city that no longer exist. It was kind of sad.

Actually, come to think of it, everybody was making me feel sad. Is there anything about this place that doesn’t involve loss, heartache and the desire to run?
Oh yeah, there was the guy with the hat.

The last person to read was the guy from St. Boniface. Like I said, he didn’t really write about Winnipeg, but what he did write was a lot like here. He talked about the kiss to end all kisses. How it is the best and the worst, the up and the down, the everything and the nothing. To me that’s a pretty good description of here. It’s everything I wanted, but not.

Well, I guess that’s all I really saw tonight. I’m sure it wasn’t as exciting or riveting as a detective story, but what can you do when you’re being persecuted by an entire festival. Bye for now.

* * *

Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.

Intro: Jay Diaz

George Elliot Clarke got me into this mess. He’s not at this year’s writer’s festival, but if he was you can bet I would be doing some fist shaking in his general direction.

Until I heard George read at the festival, I wanted to be a teacher. Wouldn’t that have been the life? Good pay. Summers off. Good pension. Benefits.

And then he had to go and read that poem about his mother’s kitchen and all hell broke loose. Somewhere in that kitchen (probably near the stove, I think there might have been a bready smell), I got this ridiculous notion I wanted to be a writer.

And where has this got me?

8.75 an hour is not good pay.

4% per check is not a vacation.

Smoking more does not reduce the need for a pension.

And I need a root canal.

Damn you George Elliot Clarke.

But, wait a minute...if the organizers hadn’t brought him here in the first place, none of this would have ever happened. All these years my fist shaking has been misplaced.

It’s not George’s fault (how could poetry really make that big a difference in someone’s life), it’s the festival’s. How could I have been so blind? The cause of my misfortune has been staring me in the face every September and I have done nothing.

But that ends today. No longer will I allow my fist to tremble with flaccid impotence. No longer will the guilty escape my wrath. I will find the culprits responsible for George’s appearance and...

Well, I’m not really sure what will happen, but you can bet there will be some heavy duty fist shaking involved.

* * *

Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.