Erik
Impossible to discuss my greatest inspirations and influences without dedicating a page to my dear artistic loved one, Erik Berg. I tried to go about this one indirectly - just mentioning them (implicitly and explicitly) in other entries, or I thought I would just share a poem of theirs that has been with me since 2019, or talk about a book of their poems that I read this past year, but alas... the impact they have had on my life as an artist warrants its own page.
It is hard to distill a 17-year long relationship down to 250 words. What I will do, is offer some cole's notes, mention that impact, and share some of their writing.
We met at 15 years old, were part of an acting company together as teenagers, got into a bunch of shit as teenagers, shared in books, music, theatre and movies as teenagers, made plays together as we gained on our 20s, took university acting classes together, got into more shit as young adults, stayed connected in our own way when they went away to study at the National Theatre School in Montreal, more books, more music, more theatre, more movies and increasingly more poetry, visits between Winnipeg, Montreal and Toronto, more shit, there for transitions, life cycle events, post offices and weekly readings of their screenplays, and now most recently - have been collaborating on the development of my new play PEACHES.
You will meet few people with a greater passion for and dedication to art - yours, mine, theirs and theirs. Erik has been a constant reminder to me of what really is important. That we must get up every day and risk everything for our art. Because when we make art, we make soul, we make freedom, we make intelligence, we make beauty, we make form. That great art is what helps the human soul and our ideas of the human evolve. And that that art will be the art that lasts.
In April of 2019, a group of us were hanging in Erik's former partner's Annex living room in Toronto. Each of us took a turn sharing a moment of our art: Eliza played a song, Aria danced, Shayla performed a piece of her solo show, Ida showed us a video of her doing burlesque, I read a monologue and Erik shared a poem. This poem has stayed with me since. I think about it every time I write. I didn't know it then, but it was the sharp and clear images that had the greatest impact on me and that I hold onto to this day. I still think of laundry and the narrator putting "your face" on their face. (I've asked them to send it to me and will plug it in here once they do.) Here is a poem from Erik's book Anthony Returns:
Here is a poem from Erik's book Anthony Returns, written around 2014:
8
Rain bottle music. I wearblue in the morning, blue
in the afternoon.
Rain bottle music.Tapping at the
windows.
A white cloud
covers everything.
Theboots and roofs roar. Rain bottle music. The
trees scream. Rain bottle music.
The kitchen windows are open, thesmell of rain comes in, the days flood in.
Rain bottle musicwhimpers, brown-
skinned, lke wet
wood in the garden.
Coffee and text messages under theawnings. A mouthful of smoke
is pressed into the softest pages.
Rain bottle music.In a jungle of doors. The shingles
run wet. Rain bottle music.
Colder than flowers. Blackbirds and houses are beaten.
Cacophony.
The neighbours have no eavestroughs.
Things are screaming. Tortured birds
and sirens go up
like war. Rain bottle music.
Pounding. Here. Pounding.
Death is here.Not in metaphor.
In the air.
Rain bottle music.The poems are shredded
thin by the water. The storm
drowns everything. Rain
bottle music.
Extension cords. Lawn chairs. Barbecues.Wood porches. Green window casings.
Wire mesh. Tin roofs. Chimneys. Scrap
two by fours. Car seats. Fence scraps.
Garbage cans. Back doors. Laundry
lines. Bird nests. Pink plywood. Gas
meters. Red doors. Tarp backs.
White fans. White plastic tables. White
boards with KILLERS written in blue.
Shovels. Firepits. Yardsheds. Buckets.
Phone books. Black dirt. Sawdust.
Bark. Mulch. Ash. Masks. Soilbags.
Windowframes. Weedheads. Caution
tape. Mattresses. Chalk words. Alley
ways. Gravelpits. Paper bags. Applecores.
Cola cans. Bicycles. Garbage bags. Grocery
bags. Yellow plastic. Black sweaters. Wet wool.
The back of my shaved head andblue shoulders. Colder than flowers.
I am tapping on windows.
A man's arm hasn't moved. My
wet pages are rain bottle music.
We are mouthfuls of smoke
in this neighbourhood. I am
teaching you to dance.
Here's a poem they sent me via text the other day:
a hard walkers air
over side lit eves
and eyes as droopy
as melting candles
waits a wall and window
away while you sleep
it has been cleanedof european language
it strips english wordslike it's cracking chestnuts
open and leaves them
naked and hammered
into bits about yout bed
wake to the unassembleableand infinite pieces of life
which make up your life
a soft brushing of freshsilence on your lips
stretch with the humming
city the wires woven
under poured stone
and through flayed branches
step into the sharp completeday as pointed as a christmas
light shaking silver and playing
bells from phones and
buildings
aberrant buoys of claritylaunched markers in the flow
firm and anomalous
scuzzy with creature
bob in the stuff and fluff
of another new beginning
presented to you again
as always gawking like
a reminder come too late
Here is a photo of us as little baby idiots:
Here is a photo of us and the PEACHES workshop team in Lethbridge:
