Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Cindy S. St. Onge
Writer & Pilgrim

Do any of us know anything about ourselves that we weren't told by other people?

I made a fuss months ago when my boss printed business cards for me. I'm the receptionist, I told him, what do I need cards for? He couldn't understand, I mean really couldn't understand my hangup with wasting paper and ink for business cards for the receptionist. I told him that everyone's cards have my number on them. Do clients need my card to call me in order to make an appointment with me so that they can then schedule an appointment with a practitioner? How fucking roundabout is that?

Besides the redunancy and uselessness of my card--and what I didn't tell him, was that business cards are like little headstones, tiny gravemarkers we give away to strangers and new acquaintences in a gesture which says, "I want you to remember me this way." A thick stock retangle that sums our lives up to that moment. An embossed snapshot of accomplishment and accreditation.

I'm not a receptionist. It's what I do, not who I am.

Back in the day, when one had to hire out the design and printing of business cards, it was a big deal to have them. And believe you me, receptionists and their ilk didn't have them. Calling cards were proof of prestige, position, bearing the names, titles, and numbers of people with careers, not the peasantry who were just holding down jobs. Now, in this age of desktop publishing, calling cards have achieved a fecund ordinariness, like driver's licences and social security numbers.

But at the end of the day, they're still little tombstones, summing us up and declaring our own separate plots in this world.

Claiming the sweet spot under the giant oak,


Tuesday, April 25, 2006

What's Worse Than Jesus Marts?

...local poetry readings.

I hate crappy poets. I hate crappy poetry, being read by crappy poets crappily.

They're awful. Horrible. Pornographic. Indulgent...and not even two glasses of wine can make these fucking poetasters tolerable.

You wouldn't believe what I had to sit through tonight. Swearing isn't poetry--that's blogging. Using words like pussy and dick--not poetry. Ending every line in a pretentious upward inflection-- still not poetry. Singing your fucking lame verse out of tune--still not anywhere close to poetry.

People, if you're not going to write about death or god, or at least write about sex using clever metaphors, then don't bother writing poems. Just don't.

Of course, I'll be signing up next week for Alberta Street Pub's Broken Word poetry reading. Somebody's got to raise the standard. Yes, I'm arrogant, but I'm good enough of a poet to be arrogant.

So. Tuesday at 7:30 sharp for you hecklers, and those of you interested in knowing the difference between what is and what isn't poetry.



Sunday, April 16, 2006

Hard As Nails

My brother and his fiancee invited me to Easter service this morning. A sucker for entertainment--any kind of entertainment, even saturated with religiosity, I accepted the invitation. Joe and his girlfriend are members of one of those big Foursquare Jesus Marts. And it was in one of these arena-sized arenas I witnessed this year's Resurrection Weekend production,

Glossy, slick, dripping with melodrama, this year's show dramatized a modern death row story, the set looking curiously like Jail House Rock. Replete with appropriate measures of guilt, angst, redemption, and a fog machine, the miracle of the resurrection played out in Jesus Marts all over the land this morning--the off, off Broadway extravaganza for the faith ridden.

And speaking of miracles--the fellow portraying the risen Lord at East Hill wasn't of the blond, blown-dry, blue-eyed variety, but a darker, more authentic representation of the Hebrew messiah.

Yeah, I shed tears. I always cry at the theater. But I regained my composure well before the pastor invited any and all souls moved to open their hearts to Jesus and raise their hands. I steeled myself--hard as nails, in my seat, journaling throughout. The broken were asked to raise their hands in a show of capitulation of reason and self-sovereignty. This would be the worst possible time for my head to itch, so of course it did. I resisted, keeping my hand down, and would eventually exit the arena just as I enetered--agnostic and rightfully superior. I did, howver, put two bucks in the offering basket.

"You're tithing?" Joe asked, surprised.

"Nope. I'm tipping.

Happy Easter,


Tuesday, April 11, 2006

A Work In Progress

...is better than no work or no progress.

Waxing poetic and wanting tweezers,



This is Winter,
my uninterrupted dream.
Black on silver,
a bladelike season
poised to drain
my very life if
I even for a moment

Should Spring call
before I wake--
her lovely daffodils-
their dragon heads atrumpeting,
rouse me from these leafless trees
into that greener, gilded morning.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Happy Birthday To Wordlust : Paperfetish!

One year ago today I posted my first entry onto WLPF, and I must say it's been one of the most rewarding ventures I've ever undertaken.

Thank you to Joe, Kathleen, Betty, Heidi, Rock, Brad, Aunt B, Princess Cranky Pants, Hannah, Vince, Annush, Nanilator, A Mere Mortal, Rhein, Kris, and all the lurkers--both the twisted and the random clickers, for visiting my blog and enabling my self-indulgence. Thank you for reading, for commenting, and for entertaining me in turn with your own posts. Also, a big thank you to Jade Smith for the glowing review of WLPF at The Weblog Review.

With no further ado, let's eat some of that cake.

Celebratorily & wearing a pointy paper hat,


Monday, April 03, 2006

If I Had Your Number

...I'd be drunk dialing.

I enjoyed two glasses of a Willamette Valley Vineyards pinot noir called "Chainsaw." As the lovely waitress at Springwater Grill tells it, the wine got its name from the grafting process involving a chainsaw. She coyly left out the part about the teenagers who's van ran out of gas.
What van? What teenagers?

I didn't press; just enjoyed my dinner and drink.

I miss writing. Not enough to actually write anything, but just enough to feel sorry for myself and my bygone talent. Ambition; who has energy and time to see this thing through? Not me. Not these days.

Wanna know what's in my day planner? I'm going to tell you anyway. I've jotted all the TV shows I watch on their respective days. The Apprentice on Mondays, American Idol on Tuesdays, American Idol and America's Next Top Model on Wednesdays, My Name is Earl and The Office on Thursdays. I don't have to write Cops on my Saturday page, because the 8:00 timeslot has been engrained in my brain since the show's pilot a decade or more ago.

Gotta go--The Apprentice is on in 6 minutes.

Chainsaw buzzed,

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