Tag Archives: amy vaillancourt
did you know that alligators live in the nyc subway system?
joyce hackett knew and so did amy vaillancourt.
vaillancourt made her way to new york.
she bought a ticket into the subway.
she began the waiting game.
new shoes? new pet?
few are ever sure of the intentions of amy until they have already become fruitful realizations.
rattle snake alley
lined with thistles
where feet had tread
to the edge of cliffs
soon the leaves will fall
then the snow will follow
in gusts of swirling silence
“um no, not really.”
he hands us a small sized bag from within his bag, identical to the one covering his tall boy of cours light.
“uh thank you,” i respond, covering up the same labeled can in my hand.
“you know that it is a 25 dollar ticket if you get stopped by the police with open beer?”
“wow that is like a deal where we come from.” jessica and i look at each other and nod in agreement.
we all sit on our benches and take a few sips looking out over the water. taking in its horizon.
“you know if you want to find an interesting time you could go down to the public court house. there is always a lot of action there. you don’t even need the ticket.”
“oh ya. i guess that is an idea,” i reply, looking over my shoulder at the tattooed russian hoodlums playing hand ball in cages, glistening with sweat. we sat there and finished our beers as night fell around us. i was quite happy where i was, this place was nutty enough for me.
uncle denis is a celebrity in a certain part of the world. his eccentric lifestyle and dangerous sense of thrills have earned him many an article in the local news. but there are many other stories ones that no one hears, ones that warm your heart.
this pool in his backyard is hidden, lying dormant like a childhood dream. the water so thick with tadpoles and frogs that it hums and croaks with life. a creation inspired by both the savage and myth.
fallen camera rises again
when i found these piles of abandoned junk tagged up with these motivational words i was so impressed that i was tempted to make a counter comment just to egg them on but i only got this far;
‘it may or may not happen’
‘do more or less sometimes’
arrival of the salted summer month
in this wind and wake
on this beaming bow
on this life to take
in the last warm month
you salt excess fish
you’re brown and restless
keen to any wish
it’s the sought out height
oh the hearts thunder
you capture your light
for winter’s plunder
this is a scene that does not fit the ‘script’.
this is filmed in super 8.
this is the slowest runner in all the world playing their instruments.
this is a bus graveyard.
this is a beautiful frenzy.
this is guts and glory.
this is thank you.
somewhere in mid-northern michigan while taking a supposed short cut we came across this lovely setting. it could be described as a road side mud clearing dotted with army trucks and about as many half bred buffalo/cattle (also known as either beefalo or cattalo) . i have only my little shreds of evidence and some theories as to what kind operation or militia might be gathering here. though admitably it did have a sort of futuristic apocalypse feel to it that i kind of liked, but also found disturbing. i would warn you to steer clear of it, but in reality i have no idea where it was or how to get back there.
in the midst of a journey it is easy to forgets where exactly you are going or where in fact home is. the world becomes a fantastical place filled with unbounded possibilities and newness. we collect souvenirs along the way in hopes of keeping a reminder of beauty that was discovered. sometimes these treasures are tokens such as rocks or feathers. sometimes they are memories of places or of kindness and sometimes they are artistic inspiration, an image or an idea. in this case it was an image to frame an idea;
‘homeless hottie, on the corner next to you.’
If there is one thing that is a common sighting in Detroit, it is the ‘party store’. They are typically peppered into the landscape along clusters of abandoned commercial areas on larger roads. They are open from 7am until 2am, save a few exceptions; January 1st: open until 4am, December 24th: closed at midnight and Sundays they do not open until 12pm, as a consideration for church goers. You can often cash checks, buy liquor, cigarettes, lotto tickets and a variety of pops and junk food. They use an elaborate sign campaign to advertise their products, which I liked because many of them date back to the fifties.
The French Canadian version of a ‘party store’ (a term mostly used in the mid-west of the U.S.) is called a Depanneur. The translation of this word to English is “a repairer of breakdowns” or “troubleshoot.”
if you seek a body a water
to cool your feathers,
you may run into amy
and her pet duck, toes.
they never leave each others side.
often, in pursuit of a sitting pond,
they must resort to hoping fences
and illegally quenching their thirsts.
and find out it has been replaced by a condo
don’t cry in the rain
climb walls that outline a distant castle
a castle so far it is only in your mind
you can hide in the grass
romp in dandelion dander
loiter by highways
and all this will make you feel as grand as any ruined castle ruins
a fissure-like crack into a cavern of construction.
manipulations hold time and rule only to a test.
the tame and tribulations coincide in ennui.
playful interactions lend themselves purely.
1 broken neck
1 excellent photographer
1 piece of translucent plastic
1 vanessa visit
moments fluttering with contemplation, self-reflection
images of escaping reality.
an attempt at being grounded
left as shadows cast upon the horizontal.
now a layered picture
the opposite of a mountain
with a reservoir at its pinnacle,
collecting gravity’s treasures
I always wanted to be a geologist
depths of layered reality, somewhere between shadowed pasts and ghostly futures.
haunted we are by glimmers of far off white.
even the stars are dying every second.
their light may pass us eventually but it continues and expands the universe further.
montreal girls hit the rooftop for cool breezes.
either way it was way too hot to stay inside.
good times new york until our paths cross again.
my heart, your junk
and then across the farm point bridge.
Frankie lays watch on an eerie untouched hill
each rusting souvenir, chest forward, head strong,
remains unmovable, proud and lost, in Alcove.
on the fourth of july
the excitement of wax-accelerated combustion
will impact your memory
with thick heat, blasted eyebrow, the glory of faces across flame
but eventually all the box fires melt into each other
and you remember each less distinctly
except that one, mysterious night
with independence on the line
when there was a heap of coated cardboard
that revealed in glorious bursts