This one is for

the non-conformers and the system buckers
it’s for the girly men and the lady truckers
the organic farmers, the local food growers
the old-school, mechanical, push lawn mowers
the two wheel riders, the trouble makers
the public-transportation-takers

it’s for the girls who cut their hair, and the ladies who refuse to shave
it’s for everyone who has ever been brave
it’s for the time you didn’t behave

it’s for those who remain hopeful when hope seems lost
it’s for my first year women studies prof
hell, all my patient first year professors, my true hearts,
my midnight confessors, for all the dressers
I’ve ever found at the curbside
and all the things that have saved my backside

it’s for the Michigan Womyn’s Festival founding foremothers
my tranny sisters and brothers
the straight-but-not-narrow
all my ex-lovers
the crunchy granola hippies who dance
aviators, horse back riders, gals who wore pants
before pants were something a proper lady should wear
it’s for the bleeding hearts, and the ones who care
and the ones that march and the ones that fight
the people who bother to write
a letter to the editor, who stand up to their managers
the union organizers, the city counsellors
it’s for everyone that dares and everyone that speaks
for those who listen, for those who can’t sleep
and those who can’t rest
for those who are trying their best
for the freaks and the punks, the misfits and the nerds
for everyone who ever contributed words
and meanings
to the Oxford English Dictionary
for those who know they will never marry
for the rebels and the genderqueers and polyamorous
for my grade 11 boyfriend who drove a VW bus
for the outlaws, and the in-laws who got over their misgivings
and attended their first same sex wedding
for everything with wings

it’s for the radical thinkers and the babies in incubators
for second-chancers, and the morris dancers
for those whom, given the choice, always chose “other”
it’s for Stephen Lewis and all the grandmothers
for the fearful who took to the streets anyway
for the artists who keep going even though it might never pay
for those who light the way
for those who made it through another day without a drink
for all those who think
for anyone who chooses to get things done
for the catholic priests who are handing out condoms
for the improvisers, and the bathhouse raid committee organizers
and the war tax resisters and the brave fighters
for those who go to serve in anyway they can
for the ones who were shot down and for those ran
for those who defied their orders, for the doctors without borders
the single mothers, the sperm donors and the Henry Morgentalers
the crisis phone line callers
for those who refuse to give up and refuse to give in
who won’t shut up
who know it’s not about whether you win
or you lose
but about the scope of your dream and your right to chose
an opinion and your right to change your mind
for those who are kind
it’s for those who hold fast
and for those who are outcast
or downcast, for those who can’t move very fast
for the flags at half mast
for the tired organizers and the ones who outlast
and all those who have already past
this one is for you

this one is for you

this one is for you

to

wield.

Parry v. revision : who will win?

PART A.  Introduction

Under this charter
We can still push farther
Under this charter
We can still push farther

And who do we honour, and what do we honour,
and in whose honour, Your Honour, my honour, our honour,
in whose honour should I address my thoughts today?

To the honour and dignity, for instance, say,
of any woman who has found that that the letter of the law
sometimes stands in the way:
that a decision that’s been written
doesn’t address what lies beneath
and needs to be re:dressed, put to the test, held up to the light, given a re-write to reconsider the honour and the dignity of a woman who has found that the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms is interpreted only as freely and righteously
as its interpreter wants it to be and so we find
we have to push further, in honour of every decision
that deserves to be re:written
we gather here tonight to hold court.

PART B.  re:invite

The Women’s Court of Canada is courting your vision.
This court is a court with a mission.
This court seeks to reach beyond the division
of what the ruling was or wasn’t, to suggest what it could be.
It’s an invitation to see how big justice can be
how far her arm can reach
seeking not only the facts but the deeper meanings
to create a new blueprint, blaze a new trail:
re:adjust justices’ scale.

This court is courting your dream, courting your re:vision
this court is courting all women to step up to the plate
to contemplate a vision for justice that actually includes us.
This court is courting your imagination
for a thorough examination of why no one is free until everyone is free and that means you and that means we and that means WCC
and that means Substantive Equality.

PART C.  re-definition
And what exactly is a court, I found myself asking
as I re:searched around, trying to lay some words down.
One of the definitions I found was:

COURT: an open space surrounded by walls;
a roofless area within a building

and I found this particular definition fitting,
surrounded as we are by preexisting legal structures, laws,
like buildings
and frustrated as we are with ceilings,
substantially unfair dealings.
We’re looking for that roofless area where we can see sky, appealing to the highest and wildest possibilities that lie beyond limitations and expectations, frustrations, all the letters and the laws and the flaws in the systems
and the assumptions, presumptions and historical conventions.

We want an open area into which things can grow.
Open space is where the imagination wants to go
and so under this charter
we commit to pushing farther.

PART D.  re: word
What power does a word hold?
The power of the stories told or untold, assumptions
we continue to uphold, the roles we assign, the words
that re:inforce the dominant paradigm, where there is not enough language to adequately define us
the way gender is poured into one of only two molds
and who is bold enough to speak up and say:
It is not enough.
Sure, we’ve come a long way, baby; we’ve got Section 15 and maybe things are better now than they were, but it is still not enough.
We can choose a bold re:tort and call ourselves a court
a nice turn of phrase, a rhetorical device,
a place where we offer our own advice
and consider ourselves worthy of taking it.
We are re: writing and re: wording,
looking for bigger meanings, word-smithing, volunteering, building new support structures with our phrases,
pouring new foundations out upon our pages,
creating new acoustic buildings where justice can be heard, re:verb
Our words hold court: they define, re:fine and re:veal, unpeel
the layers, re:shape, re:drape, infiltrate, re:verberate, substantiate, litigate, decision-make, legislate.
One case in point: define the word “person”.
Circa 1929, half the human race given a new definition re:cognition
now it seems almost absurd, but that’s all in a word.
Consider what assumptions we might still hold, the stories
still told that could be overturned; what lingering definitions need to be unlearned.

Please be advised: continue to re:vise.

PART E.  re:vision

In this section we consider that re:writes and re:visions are known by any author, writer or artist worth their salt
to be both the most painful and the most critically important part of the creative process that you will engage in, during the creation of a work being made ready for publication.

But do you know what I mean when I say that as a woman,
sometimes I just get a little bit sick of the idea of re:visions? When it’s as if in history, that’s our only viable inclusion. When it as if every surface that I see offers another solution for my personal re:vision: redefinition: complexion perfection, immaculate re:flection, make-up, make-over, relentless, Oprah-sized self-improvement.
And it’s as if by virtue of my gender,
constant self-revision is an never ender,
a life long quest wherein my worth as a good, consuming citizen rests on my constant dissatisfaction.
And sometimes I do feel so dissatisfied.
And I have to remind myself that this feeling inside
is real:  I am dissatisfied, but there’s a reason why
which is not just about outside forces telling me
I am never enough:
it is my outrage at a world that can make so much stuff,
and yet can’t seem to make change fast enough.
A world where injustice and inequality still fester and grow
like aggressive cancers that haven’t been put into re:mission
and so we have to keep proposing new answers.
And so we’re here, not to complain, but to pick the bone:
pick it clean and take it home: to improve the lives of others, and not just our own.
To change laws, not our bodies; to re:own.
To re:write the words which define us,
the images that still bind us: re:vise and unpack and unwind:
to change minds and laws.
To become wise.
To re:vise.

PART F. re: judgement
In this penultimate section, we consider for a moment the wider implications of a judgement. And no wonder, since women
are no strangers to judging each other.
If I had a quarter or a dime for every time
I’ve judged another, like book by its cover:

Why doesn’t she’s stop her kid from crying
I can’t believe that food she’s buying
Well, SHE’S trying too hard
She’s talking too loud
That sort of outfit shouldn’t be allowed
She’s lost weight, she looks terrible, she looks great
God she’s pushy, why can’t she wait
like the rest of us, why make such a fuss,
She should eat something a little more substantial
Well just because she’s so financially successful…
Personally, I wouldn’t be caught dead
being so goddamn judgemental.

Re:inforcing the roles, re:inforcing our gender
pitting one against the other: history
hands us a legacy of judging each other through the ages
holding the keys to each others cages
we keep each other well in line, encouraged to stand
in judgement of each other all the time.

And so now, today, tonight, it’s a fine time
to break the code, to make inroads, to re:claim judging,
become decision-makers and decision-writers
to re:make judgement as an act of radical freedom fighters

PART G: Conclusion
in the case of substantive equality v. the world,
in which the plaintiff unfortunately has not yet prevailed,
to which more detailed attention must still be paid,
where more consideration is still deserved,
wherein justice has not yet be served
I return to my original question:

in the case of Parry v. revision, who will win?

But now I consider if that’s really the question, since,
while each of our lives plays a part,
it’s revisions that are the true art:
the way we each stand on the shoulders of our ancestors,
the way we build on each other,
a balancing act, where what was once considered fact,
like the world being flat,
gets proven wrong and re:opened wide
and with each re:vision we get closer
to the inside of the world:
to the place where every act of compassion
and every decision and every piece of legislation
and every piece of art
is offered as a gift from the heart:
a gift that is given, opened and re:opened again

in revision.

© evalyn parry, March 8, 2008 all rights reserved.
commissioned by The Women’s Court of Canada, Rewriting Equality Symposium, Toronto, 2008.

Open letter to Pope Jean Paul II

upon his visit to Toronto in 2002 for World Youth Day

Dear Pope
I hope
you enjoyed your stay in Toronto for
World Youth Day
and for the pleasure of your company, the city paid
7 million dollars, but hey! That’s okay!
‘Cause he’s the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope!

Yeah we pulled out all the stops,
we put on extra cops,
the charities all donated,
the garbage was evacuated,
the workers were legislated back to work
‘cause he’s the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope!

And for the pleasure of his company, the city paid
7 million dollars and as of May,
the Toronto Social Housing Connection
had nearly 70 thousand applications
for affordable housing
and only 227 homes available for those in need of a place to live.
And as of July 25 there were 150 thousand pilgrims
who came to Toronto to visit with him:
well, at least the public transportation situation
was under control: you could buy your “Papal Mass Pass” for only $4!
Yeah, the TTC never misses a marketing opportunity,
and he’s the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope.
Yeah he’s the Pope, no joke, he’s so clean he doesn’t need soap,
he is the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope.

Well once there was a Pope, and her name was Joan.
Then she had a baby, and the church disowned her, Joan.
They named a bar in her honour on Toronto’s Parliament Street,
now that’s where all the lesbians meet for a drink.
Isn’t history full of mystery?
Isn’t the Papacy full of irony!
And maybe
if that Catholic Church wasn’t so dead set against contraception
then Joan wouldn’t have got herself knocked up,
and she could have kept her chosen gender identity intact.
She was the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope.

But Pope, did you hear? Here in Ontario being queer
has taken on a whole new dimension, now the court has made it clear
we can marry each other, woman to woman, man to man:
well I know some Christian’s who’d think that puts a wrench in the holy plan,
but Pope, you came to speak for World Youth Day, so you must
be aware that there are kids here who are gay,
who are going to the Prom, and who are getting their way,
yeah Marc took his boyfriend to the high school dance
and his Catholic High School to the court of law,
and he won!

And in this multi-faith city you are planning to speak
of Jesus as the one and only salvation,
the universal healer for our nation.
But maybe World Youth Day should be called Catholic Youth Day,
since there is more than one way
to be a believer.

And one thing i know is that Jesus was a social revolutionary,
a utopic visionary, a man who believed in equality,
and we sure could use some leadership like this around here now,
here in this crisis of civilization, this population explosion, this corporate corruption

Dear Pope, I hope you enjoyed your stay here,
though the religion of the masses is clear:
rich is what we pray to be,
money is our deity,
the exalted arches of malls are where we
listen to our top ten hymns on the radio
we believe sales are what will save us.
And maybe that is our original sin,
but Pope, if there is a heaven, well I don’t think anyone’s getting in,
‘cause the Papacy is as full of hypocracy as the city of Toronto
who will pay for a celebrity visitor but not take care of it’s own,
yeah how many homeless and poor
are knocking right at our door
and we won’t let them in.

© evalyn parry 2002 (SOCAN) all rights reserved

14 (for December 6)

December 6th is Canada’s National Day of Rememberance and Action on Violence against Women: it commemorates the date of the “Montreal Massacre” in 1989, where 14 female engineering students were killed by a man screaming he hated feminists, at L’ecole Polytechnique at the University of Montreal.

14 reasons to remember:
14 reasons to mourn
14 reasons to be strong and proud you were born
a woman

December 6th is a dark building that haunts me

a number I can’t erase from my memory

with every year that passes, still a difficult day
a painful reminder:
it’s hard to know what to say that hasn’t already been said
about 14 women murdered
14 women dead

and it was three years after December 6, 1989
when I laid eyes for the very first time
on L’Ecole Polytechnique:
I was in my first year of university, it was “frosh” week
and my bus drove by the University of Montreal

I suddenly noticed the sign
and my skin began to crawl

As if suddenly, fear had a location
even though I knew that was just an illusion
because what happened that day, and that Marc Lepin-rage
is not limited to one location, or one particular page in a history book.
It is not a news-item locked back in time: it’s a wall to be scaled
it serves to remind
us of what it still means
to be a women in this world
where things may appear equal
but sisters,
don’t be fooled.
Because somehow
things just don’t quite seem to be evening out

somehow, as a gender, it looks like we’re still down and out
you can read the statistics for yourself:
hundreds of women dying at the hands of their boyfriend or spouse each year:
womens bodies farmed out, used up, disappeared
meanwhile waves of feminism
have come crashing in to shore
and you’d like to think by now we wouldn’t be fighting
anymore

But on December 6, 1989,
there was an f-word stand-off

the men were ordered outside

14 women gave their lives
they hadn’t signed up to be soldiers
they weren’t trying to take sides
they just wanted to be engineers.

And I know violence can be random
and no life can be made safe
no matter how much national defence you muster or how much money you make
but among the world’s poor, women are on the lowest rung
our work still under-valued, under-paid and never-done
around the world, our wages still reflecting less respect
earning a modest fraction of every male dollar
economically we’re still “the weaker sex”

and you look around the world at the leaders of state
you’ll notice only 15 percent of politicians are female
and you’ll think you made a mistake:
you were under the impression that things were equal now
hasn’t it been almost 100 years since women became “persons”
and got the vote in this nation?
But look around the world and you find
anti-abortion legislation
exploding rates of female HIV infection
you find genital mutilation:
135 million girls and women who’ve undergone this violation
and governments trying to stop over-population
making laws which encourage female infanticide:
don’t tell me he was just a madman,
‘cause this violence is still coming from the inside of our world:
it is sanctioned
it continues
our work is not done
and there is still not enough control over who can buy a gun.

14 reasons to remember:
14 reasons to mourn
14 reasons to be strong and proud you were born a woman

One: You are smart
Two: You are tough
Three: You can organize
Four: You are enough
Five: You can listen
Six: You are loud
Seven: You can build a world where women are allowed
to be unafraid of who they are and what they do
Eight: Your sense of humour will carry you through
Nine: You can learn whatever you set your mind to
Ten: Your confidence is what makes you look great
Eleven: You’re beautiful at every age, at any weight
Twelve: Your capacity to love is infinite
Thirteen: You know how to cry
Fourteen: You don’t need a list to tell you why

so many reasons to remember
so many reasons to mourn
there are so many reasons to be strong and proud
you were born a woman

In memory of
Geneviève Bergeron, 21 Hélène Colgan, 23 Nathalie Croteau, 23
Barbara Daigneault, 22 Anne-Marie Edward, 21 Maud Haviernick, 29
Barbara Maria Klucznik, 31Maryse Laganière, 25 Maryse Leclair, 23
Anne-Marie Lemay, 27 Sonia Pelletier, 23Michèle Richard, 21
Annie St-Arneault, 23 Annie Turcotte, 21

all rights reserved, evalyn parry (2006)

Weed-free

There’s this crazy debate that’s going on out there
about what to do about chemical lawn care.

It’s about the citizens who object

It’s about the trickle-down effect

That is, the trickling down of what
you put on your lawn
into the earth we share
and from there
into the groundwater

and it’s about
where the children are supposed to play
when the lawns are toxic
and the companies say
“please don’t shut us down! Just give us more time!
Sure, we know it’s poison, but isn’t it fine
to give the people what they want?”

But I’m wondering if what the people want
isn’t just what they’ve been sold?
We’ve got this nation full of people
just doing what they’re told:
believing that a weed-free lawn
is really what matters
and that truly, our tummies need to be flatter!
We’re so concerned with the outside package
we’re paying to turn our features into plastic
under a surgeon’s knife
because we’ve bought what they’ve sold us:
that looking nice is worth any price.

And then we wonder why we’re all getting cancer?
Well, ChemLawn, I have one answer.
And maybe it’s not the one you were looking for
but I am not sure
that your war
against dandelions
is really worth dying for

because when the state of our lawns matters more than our health
well
then we’ve got a society
with too much wealth
on its hands.

We’ve got a culture full of women
hooked on magazines
comparing their bodies
to those air-brushed beach scenes
filled with the eight percent of women
who actually look like that
and then the rest of us feel like we’re too fat
so they create a diet industry to take care of that
so we can spend all our time
and our money
trying to lose weight
when the fact is ladies, your body looks great
it’s society that’s got the problem

If we could just start liking
what it is we’ve got
we could change the world
we could change a lot
more important things
than the size
of our thighs
but the demand for implants
is still on the rise
even though silicon doesn’t belong
on the inside

that shit’s about as good for you as
drinking down pesticides

But our clean, green, chemically enhanced
lawns hide
the fact that we don’t know our neighbours
and our cities are not safe
‘cause as long as everything looks good
well then everything’s great
but
my finding seem to indicate
that this so called “market- driven economy”
is built on lies
and the free market isn’t really free
it’s about getting people to spend more money
meanwhile
there’s an epidemic of mastectomies
and one in eight women
like you and me
will get breast cancer
before anyone finds an answer
and then they’ll hand out chemo
like some kind of solution
while the pharmaceutical companies
profit
off pollution

Supply and demand.
Cause and effect.
Hasn’t anyone clued in yet?
There is a link here, and if it’s not clear
I would just ask you to look at your lawn outside
as one example of how we can each decide
whether our choices will lead
to our nation’s suicide

© evalyn parry (SOCAN) 2007 , all rights reserved

Once in a blue moon

Once in a Blue Moon: Minneapolis, Minnesota.

With my book
and my pen
and behind the counter
a girl with blue hair serves the java
and Ani Difranco provides the backdrop
of yet another alternative coffee shop
just like the one I worked at way back when

we had her first album then

the one with
both hands, now use both hands, oh no don’t close your eyes
I am writing graffiti on your body, i am drawing the story of how hard we…

I find myself tight inside, a seatbelt of anxiety across my chest:
it’s this perpetual drive to be the best
but what can I say
it’s been an insecure day
I’m feeling unsure of my edges
I’m feeling unsure of what my own edge is
I’m feeling blunt and dull
more of a spoon than a knife, more nap than nightlife
and what kind of artist wants to be a ladle?
what kind of artist wants to be asleep at the table?
Not me of course
I want to be the one splitting the silence with my words
chopping convention with my axe

I don’t sleep well these days, I never seem to relax

we’re all trying so hard
me and my friends
for those small pieces of pie, these minor dividends
our face in the paper
the end of being a waiter

the girl with the blue hair who is serving the coffee
is talking to a girl with orange hair about Ani

orange hair says i love this album
yes, says blue hair, i think it’s her best one
orange hair says have you heard “reveling, reckoning”?
blue hair says no
orange hair says oh, you should come over this weekend, and I’ll play it for you

outside the snow falling on the eves
inside, I sip my fairly traded tea-leaves
as orange hair and blue hair start talking about gender
outside the window, two cars collide in a fender-bender
the icy roads a slippery surprise
a reminder of how fast we can slide, collide

and it’s funny but it doesn’t feel like that long since Ani arrived
on the scene
but what is this now, album number seventeen?
I think I lost track
sometime back in the late 90’s
after I heard her siren call
and I started writing my own songs
and now look at us all
a movement of girls with our own guitars
criss-crossing the continent in our little cars
hoping not to be compared
and today maybe I’m just scared
that the world doesn’t need me, or any of my friends
and we’ll all wind up working in a coffee shop again
listening to someone else’s songs on the radio
instead of driving through the snow
to another gig
hoping this will be our big
break, hoping ours
will be the once in a blue moon star
to skyrocket to the top

You know it’s funny, but I’ve seen these two girls before somewhere
with their funky glasses and their chunky hair
and their bell hooks books
if I’ve seen them once, I’ve seen them a thousand times
heard this conversation that runs along the same lines:

orange hair holds forth
about how she herself doesn’t want to be filed on a shelf
gender is fluid: she doesn’t really feel a need to identify either way
gender is just a construct, and being gay
is so much more than being a boi or a grrrl, being a woman or man
and if Ani can get married, well then anyone can
surprise us: all that matters is what’s inside us
gender is fluid, they agree with authority
as though this is the first time these things have ever been said
like these are concepts they’re inventing, not something they recently read

fluid, like liquid
like the tea that’s in my cup
and i look down and I think:
well for god’s sake, drink up!
this is identity you’re consuming
this is the smell of gender, brewing
the water that flows inside me
my fluid, watery humanity

and I could tell blue hair, lately, I’ve taken to crying into my cup
just crying gently, just to watch the cup fill back up
art giving no points for imitation
leaving no choice but re-invention
and yes, Ms. Difranco, all your innovation is an inspiration
but now your album’s over
I can drink my tea
with no further challenge to my own artistic identity

thank god I never wanted to do the big band thing
or I’d never have another peaceful cup of coffee again

A phone rings: it’s mine. I take it out of my bag
you say how are you darling?
I say rung out like a wet rag

you say oh, how did it go? How was the show?
I say I don’t know some days why I persist
in pursuing
it seems all I’m doing is reheating
not brewing.
Well it’s good to keep warm, you say, ‘cause it’s starting to snow
and here at home, it’s 29 degrees below
I say, I’m on my way
I’ll be home soon
I’m just on my way now
out of
Once in a Blue Moon.

© evalyn parry (SOCAN) 2007 all rights reserved

Lost in the library

Lost in the library

This poem was written and recorded live for the CBC Radio event Chapter & Verse, at the National Library of Canada in 2004. The theme we were given to write on was “Lost in the library”. Here’s what I came up with….

I was beginning to wonder
why you were never coming home
it was dinner time again,
and I found myself alone
so I called you on your phone

when you answered you whispered,
“just a sec, I’ve gotta step outside”
and I started to wonder
what it was you had to hide

you said, “sorry baby,
I’m just on my way,
I got a call from my friend earlier today
and she told me my books were in,
so I had to stop by
you know how i can get lost in this place -
but everything’s fine, I’ll be home in no time”

well, I know frequenting the library
can’t be called a crime
(not when you’re expanding your mind
in this exemplary fashion, informing yourself,
taking inspiration from every shelf)
but it’s making me feel selfish
for wanting you home –
it’s really not about the hours that I’m spending alone,
it’s about the fact that the phone’s always ringing,
and it’s always for you, and it’s always the same person you’re talking to.
You never say much, she does most of the talking
And you just stand gawking. Then you hang up,
with shortness of breath,
“bye!” You say, leaving the kitchen all in a mess,
“I’m off to the library, I’ll be back soon…”
“But honey,” I say, “there’s no more room
on the shelves for more library books,
they’re all over flowing, so’s every cranny and nook,
and you’ve got fines outstanding…”
but you’re not listening, you’re gone
I watch you sprint across the lawn…
and this is when I begin to suspect
the affair.
But when I ask you what’s going on, you deny anything’s there.
When I ask where you’ve been
all these evenings you say
“Babe, it’s okay! I’ve been lost in the library,
I’ve been looking at books.”

“Really”, I say, and I give you a look.

“Yes”, you say, “really! you have nothing to fear”

“But your friend has been calling”, I say, “and she’s weird!
She really should learn a more pleasant phone manner.
For god’s sake, her voice sounds like a jack hammer,
no inflection or pause, no matter what I say,
it’s as if she’d like to keeping talking all day,
listing all the books which are on hold for you
at the library…” and as if on cue, the phone rings again

“Don’t answer!” I say.

“But I have to see what else has come in today!
it could be Ondaatji, Humphries or Lane,
I don’t even remember, my list is insane!”

“Oka”, I say, “but your “friend” doesn’t even seem to know your whole name,
She just says your initials, like it’s some kind of game.”

“Relax” you say,
and you pick up the phone.
You listen intently,; then I hear you moan
and before I know it, you’re gone.

I hate to admit it, but I took to spying.
Well, I was convinced that you must be lying.
I hid behind a newspaper, near the magazine racks,
watching you ransack the shelves with feverish glee,
you were lost in new fiction,
you didn’t see me.
Where was this vixin? This voice on the phone,
this Library Lucy who’s making my baby moan?
But you never spoke to anyone, never gave anyone a glace,
like hard covers novels were your only romance.

So I returned home,
the phone rang, and who else
would it be but old Automated Mary,
your so-called friend, the loser at the library.

In desperation, I call you on your cell,
you whisper “hello?” And I say,
“What the hell — I’m begging you baby, please just come home.
And while you’re at it, can you tell your friend not to phone?
Come home for dinner, and give your lust a rest,
lest
in the library
I get lost on your list
which is grasped in your fist,
like the money for your fine,”
I say”baby, stop reading for a moment,
and say you’ll be mine.”

© evalyn parry 2004 all rights reserved

The Anne in my mind

This piece was written for a CBC songwriting event at Hugh’s Room in Toronto, 2005,
as a response to the theme “My Favorite Book”.

I’m afraid my choice is not very original
I searched my bookshelf, trying to be intellectual
obscure, unique, a book that no one else would find,
I searched my heart and the far reaches of my mind
but in truth, for me, no other book compares
and it all comes down to the colour of hair…we are a small percentage of the population, we red-heads.
Our options for role models limited.
L’il orphan Annie never quite made the cut,
since comic strips and movies never quite filled me up
like the pages of a novel, so I find myself stuck
when it comes to my favourite, no one else quite measures up

to LM Montgomery’s famous creation
Anne of Green Gables, my literary heroine.
Favourite means I’ve read it over and over
it stands up to the test of time, I own the hard cover
and I’ve worn it thin,
I know how it ends and I know how it all begins:

with Mrs. Rachel Lynde,
sitting on her porch in Avonlea,
watching Matthew Cuthbert driving the horse and buggy
He’s going to the train station, down at White Sands
He thinks he’s getting a boy, but instead, he gets Anne
Anne of Green Gables, Anne with an E
Anne of Green Gables, who was a little bit like me.

Well she was a writer
she had a bad temper
She believed in kindred spirits:
Anne and Diana were just like me and Norah;
Freckles, we both have freckles
she loved pink frilly dresses but no one would ever give her one,
she was an orphan,
well, alright, I was never an orphan
but some days I wished I was one,
it would have been so romantic to be like
The Anne in my mind,
The Anne in my mind,
The Anne in my mind,
The Anne in my mind

And maybe you saw the TV movie
Sullivan Entertainment auditioned me for the role you know,
it’s true
(…no seriously, it’s true)
Well, Megan Follows was great,
but no actor can replicate
the Anne in my mind.
The Anne in my mind.
The Anne in my mind.
The Anne in my mind.

And once, in University,
I was in the musical; the casting a mystery
i played Marilla,
I guess they didn’t see
that I was just like Anne,
and Anne was just like me
Anne of Green Gables,
Anne with an E

The Anne in my mind
The Anne in my mind
The Anne in my mind
The Anne in my mind

© evalyn parry (SOCAN) 2007 , all rights reserved

Orange alert!

Who ever thought this little Canadian girl
would sing a song about a Texas sunrise?

Well it wasn’t as romantic as it sounds, I can tell you that much:
I was at a motel 6 and it was still dark outside

I can tell you, I was tired: I’d been traveling for days,
all the way from Toronto to Amarillo,
and it was 5 in the morning, I was seeing highways in my mind,
couldn’t keep my head on my pillow

so I got outta bed, shirt over my head,
stepped into my shoes and started running
I ran thru the dark, through Amarillo suburbs and parks
I ran back to my motel humming

there were soldiers in the lobby, sucking back coffee
and donuts, yeah the breakfast complimentary
to their all-American wear, their green suits and black boots and crew cut hair
who can blame me for thinking it’s a little scary

to see soldiers in the lobby of your Motel 6
when it’s 6 am in America,
and there’s a television on, it’s singing that same old song
beware, beware, beware
of terror

it’s an orange alert
orange alert! orange alert!
in the corner of the CNN cable
it’s orange alert next to the weather report
and it’s orange alert next to the traffic report
and it’s orange alert next to the stock market report
yeah we could all die at any minute
yeah any minute you could die,
we take this risk, this risk, this great risk of being alive,
and there are so many people so much braver than I,
all I risked this morning
was to run before sunrise.

But any minute you could die,
any minute you could die
you could die in the air
you could die on the road
the night club you are dancing in could explode

but this is not why
it’s orange alert! orange alert! orange alert!
going out to the nation
in the name of god, in the name of righteous salvation
while AIDS kills off the African population
please, America, stop with your threats:
there is already enough death
but we’ll sit by
watching Africa die
Spending hundreds of billions of dollars dropping bombs on Iraq
a measly few billion contributed to the far more insidious attack
of a virus, spreading with terrifying speed….
is a war on “terror” really what we need?
with 8000 Africans succumbing each day to this terrible disease

but they say beware, beware, beware
terror could be anywhere
we take this risk, this risk, this great risk of being alive:
the struggle of so many just to survive

What about a war on injustice?
What about a war on poverty?
What about a war on the morons
Who cut funding to education, propagate misinformation?
But instead it’s orange alert! Orange alert!
Any minute you could die! Any minute you could die!

and there is not one bomb dropped that ever brought peace,
there is not one bomb dropped that ever brought peace

But back here at the motel 6,
it’s just another day on the rise,
I’ve gotta pack my bags, I’ve got miles to drive,
I’ll put more gas in the car, I’ll fuel that economy
I’ll leave the army watching the TV
in defense of America the free
CNN’s war of justice,
a war on the wrong by the right,
an end to all terror,
but George –
I’m afraid of heights!
I have a fear of spaces to tight,
I have reason to be terrified to walk alone at night –
do you intend to put an end
to these terrors, too, with your show of might?
I wish you could end my terror, I wish you could end my terror!
But there is not one bomb dropped that ever brought peace!
I wish you could end my terror, I wish you could end my terror
’cause I’m terrified that your media is all manufactured,
I’m afraid of why we’re all getting cancer,
I’m afraid of leaders who don’t make grammatical sense,
I’m afraid of illegally elected presidents,
I’m afraid of this drive through your country filled to the teeth with terrified people:
buying up all Wal-Mart’s duct tape so they can escape, seal themselves off
from biological warfare, they don’t want to hold up a mirror
and see what it is really there:
a country living rich off the backs of the poor,
a dependence on oil: an unjustified war
and a president does whatever he wants anyway,
no matter what the people of his country or the people of the world say:
now, that’s the kind of terror
I’m afraid of
these days.

© all rights reserved SOCAN evalyn parry 2006

Bottle this!

Bottle This!

Just hold on before we go any farther –
I want to take a moment to talk about water.

That liquid that you’re holding, that bottle in your hand,
you though it was water you were drinking, not a corporate brand.
You thought it was cleaner and safer, and better for your health,
but were you thinking about who profits from the wealth
of the public water that’s been taken for free
and sold back to you for an exorbitant fee?
Listen my friends, listen up folks:
Aquafina is Pepsi. Dansani is Coke.
They’re selling filtered tap water and this is not a joke.
These corporate giants buy tap water
at a tax-free-super-discount,
filter it five times, then sell it back to you
for five thousand times the amount
you pay for running water from your tap,
and when I start thinking about that,
my blood starts to boil, my head starts to spin
as I try to understand where to begin.

That H20, the bottle you just tossed,
it represents garbage, safety and cost,
and water table depletion, which is all our of loss.
Let’s talk about land-fill:
plastic bottles piled high
slowly decomposing, leaching toxins back into our water supply.
Furthermore, the more water bottles we buy,
the more we send a signal to the powers that be
that we believe the fear that they’re selling us about water safety.
We’re swallowing the idea that good water isn’t free,
that of course one must pay for water of quality.
Meanwhile, beyond the periphery of our rich country
(where, incidentally, tap water is actually tested far more stringently and regularly
than bottled water) women walk farther and farther
to find water for their families,
a desert spreading rapidly,
while we sit sipping on a billion dollar industry.

They say “water is the new oil!”
Water is the new oil!
And Canada’s got it, so this war will come to our soil.
But oil is a luxury; water a necessity.
We’re fighting over oil ‘cause we like to drive cars,
‘cause trucks must deliver, ‘cause we want to fly to mars.
But a body can only live without water for so long.
Water should not belong to anyone.
Water belongs to everyone.
Water must be public,
water must be free,
clean water should not be a commodity
to be bought and sold on the open market,
which pits those who can afford it against those in need.
Water is a human right, not a luxury.
Water is a human right, not a luxury.
You gotta think
about what you drink.
Think! Think about what you drink.

Let’s talk about India, let’s talk about Africa
let’s talk about China…or right here, in North America.
Let’s talk about the watersheds and aquafirs,
let’s talk about Walkerton and Native reserves.
This matter is urgent, it requires our attention,
it demands immediate public intervention.
If we’re going to be paying, it should be for water from our tap,
ensuring it remains reliable, clean and safe, so that
we can take a container, fill it again and again,
fill our bodies with the water we need and then
leave enough for our neighbours, enough for the farmers
enough for the future, our sons and our daughters.
It’s the blood of the earth in that bottle right there,
a resource we have no choice but to share.
Before you buy another bottle and down what’s in there
Think
about what you drink.
Think! Think about what you drink.

Maybe I’m preaching to the choir, to the converted masses,
the concerned and the conscious, the educated classes.
But even you out there, who already know everything I’ve said,
how many times does convenience win out instead
of what we know is right, and what we know we should do?
You know ignoring the facts doesn’t make them less true.
Think about what you drink.
Think! Think about what you drink

Tell your friend, tell your neighbour, write a letter to your leader
it is never true that there is nothing you can do:
you can think
about what you drink.
Think! Think about what you drink.

Water must be public, water must be free,
clean water is a human right, not a luxury.
Think about what you drink.
Think! Think about what you drink.
© evalyn parry (SOCAN) 2007, all rights reserved

You can find the recorded version of Bottle This! on evalyn’s CD Small Theatres

Love in the greater Toronto area takes public transportation

i. The Yonge/University Line

We begin our journey at Mount Pleasant and Eglinton:
walking from school to the subway station
me and my grade ten crush, circa 1987
he was in grade 11
and his name was Mason.

As we walk and we talk
I feel my words start to flutter
like my language is melting, my sentences butter
I wish he would slip a word my way
I wish I had something smart to say
or if he would
or if I could
or if I knew
where this might be going,
where is my love going….
looks like it’s going underground
cause we’ve reached Young and Eglington.
And this is where I go down,
To get on the train
to ride
downtown

ii. Southbound Platform

There are still landmarks I ride by everyday
that remind me who I used to be:
Davisville Subway.
Now this is the stop that remains in my memory
the place I would always get off to go and see
my grade nine heart throb, Tom,
with whom eventually
I became good friends
and the crush kinda died away
and several years later in grade 12,
he came out as gay.
He was the first, and he must have thought he set a trend
‘Cause later all the girls he ever dated became lesbians
including me
but that’s another story
and anyway

iii. We’re not there yet.

We’re only at St. Clair station
which was the location of the first time
I went out with Mason
It was a grade ten movie
at Yonge and St.Clair
couldn’t tell you what the film was, all I remember about being there
is gathering the courage
to slip my hand (which held my heart, bared)
into his hand, which lay on the arm rest we shared.

After the movie our hands go their separate ways
Back into pockets, leaving me perplexed about what to say
even though every day, after school we rehearse a play
where we are in love and we kiss on stage
tonight we have no script printed on a page.

iv. To get to Roselawn Avenue, take the Avenue Road Bus several stops past Eglinton

I went to Mason’s house once: he lived in North Toronto
with his super-nice parents and a big white poodle
his mom was really sweet to me, like she thought we were together.
I wondered secretly what he had told her,
since he never told me anything.
He showed me his guitar, and I tried to act normal,
like I wasn’t dying inside to be his date to the formal
but he never asked, and I didn’t either
so I took the bus home, and that night I lay there
imagining all the conversations
we should have had

v. Today in therapy we talk about my dad

vi. The heart of the city

It smells like hotdogs
at the corner of Bloor and Yonge.
We’ve been waiting half an hour
for the night bus to come

when I last stood here on the corner of three am
I think was sixteen, but here we are again,
now we’re nearly thirty and Mason stands beside me
clean cut and good looking as if he’d never
tied me up in knots, made my knees quiver
But tonight it’s just the cold that makes me shiver.
Sure, we’ve been drinking, though I only had two beers
it’s enough to make me honest tonight, it appears.

Let me tell you, I say
how I felt all those years ago,
when we were in high school
and had to kiss in that show
we were acting in,
oh god, do you even know
how much I liked you,
how I longed for you to tell me
you liked me too.
Oh, he says, yeah, well sure, I really liked you –
I guess I just never really knew what to do.

A man asks me for change
and we both turn to him hastily,
relieved, perhaps, that he can look away from me.

vii. The Night Bus

When it finally comes, we let it drive by,
we’re eating hot dogs from the vendor
and we’re still talking about why.

He says I guess you were
the first in what’s become a long line of
me trying to find
my way
in that relationship landmine:
it’s full of self-doubt and
mis-communications and
look, I’m still single,
and you’re a part of the lesbian nation.
What is it with all the girls we went to school with, anyway?
was it something in the air or in the water fountains?
I know I have a tendency to turn molehill’s into mountains,
but tell me as my friend now, tell me honestly,
it is something that I said or did –
was it me?

No, it wasn’t you.
All I know is, Mason,
we never seemed to be able to have this conversation.
And I didn’t yet know that much about love
and I was waiting to find out who I was
and I wished someone would answer
a few of my questions,
like would anyone ever like me as “more than a friend”?
and it’s not that I’m no longer attracted to men
it’s just that true love found me
and she is a woman.

iix. The Bloor Danforth Line, above ground, westbound.

When the night bus comes again,
he gets on and I get on my bike,
the bus lurches away, and I ride into the night.
I live at Bloor and Dufferin, which isn’t very close by,
but the streets are dead, I don’t stop for red and the blocks fly by.

There is a light on in the bedroom
which tells me maybe she’s still up

the light in my heart tells me
tonight
maybe I’ve grown up.

© evalyn parry (SOCAN) 2007 all rights reserved

My Swedish roommates

My tribute to everyone’s favorite DIY, Scandanavian furniture empire… hear it on Small Theatres,

Ivar and Sten, Ivar and Sten:
I feel like I’m living with big Swedish men
in my bedroom and bathroom and kitchen and den:
my burly companions, Ivar and Sten.

Klinga and Omar, Duktig and Benn,
My home is so organized since they moved in,
and I never get lonely because I’ve got them,
they’re quiet and stable, old Duktig and Benn.

Maybe you’ve had a roommate that make your life rough,
who doesn’t pay phone bills or messes your stuff,
or plays heavy metal and parades in the buff,
who finally drives you to say, “that’s enough!”

What you need is a Billy, a Joel or a Snigg,
A responsible roomie who isn’t a pig,
a Blista, a Klinte, a Kimbo, a Vink,
who don’t dirty dishes or block up the sink.

There’s a place you can get them, wherever you are,
whatever your standards, they’ll raise the bar:
all you need is some cash, some muscles, a car
(since getting there’s always a little bit far).

The fellows you’ll find there are all pretty tame,
“common sense” is their motto and though they are plain,
and all of them look kind of the same,
you have to admit, they have marvellous names!

Antonius, Fennomen, Skrissel and Gotte,
Angby and Grillby and Bonde and Sot,
Narvik and Almivik, Timra and Smolt,
Agam and Anton and Bertby and Boalt.

Abo and Eneby, Oslo and Chadde:
they are the best room mates that I’ve ever had!
They don’t tie up the phone lines, or mess up the pad,
they just stand where I set them, my Oslo and Chadde.

Well, sure they’ve got problems, just like me and you,
on rare occasions, they’re missing a screw.
So you go back to the store, and then what you do
is wait in a line for an hour or two.

Well, alright, so it’s not just ONE line up: first you have to fill in a form, then line up to order the missing screw, and then you wait in line to pick up the screw and then you wait in another line to pay for it, and THEN you have to try and find your car in the parking lot the size of 7 football fields….but that’s the system that keeps the prices so low, don’tcha know? And anyway, let’s face it, what would you rather spend your time doing: combing the classifieds, hoping to find that perfect roommate, or eating Swedish meatballs while you pick out your new friends from a catalogue?

Jutis and Slugis and Sacha and Pax,
Sure with regular roommates, you don’t pay a tax
But these roommate come with instructional facts,
and if you don’t like them, you just take them back!

© evalyn parry (SOCAN) 2007 , all rights reserved