About Rocco

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Rocco is based in Toronto. He has been published in over 30 magazines and literary journals in Canada and abroad, including Descant, Queens Quarterly, Event and Canadian Literature. He has appeared on radio specials in Toronto, Vancouver, Halifax and New York City and has been commissioned to write poetry by the CBC. He is currently the editor-in-chief of the arts ezine, Latchkey.net, and is working on his third collection of poetry, "Everything is Still Burning: 20 Travel Poems." Another collection, published by Fooliar Press, is expected in the fall of 2005 Rocco has travelled much throughout Europe and Asia and Canada and all the places and experiences reflect in his writing. He has worked as a garbage man, a research reporter, a rickshaw driver, a hard labourer, and presently an English instructor for new Canadian immigrants. He has launched his website not only to promote his own poetry and art, but also to open an online venue for other artists like himself, struggling for an audience and a stake in a little immortality.

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Heading home from the Rock

Well, it’s over. Nothing left to do but kick my feet up, take some heavy sedatives, and prepare myself for the long trip home. The fifteen-hour ferry ride from St. John’s, Newfoundland to North Sydney, Cape Breton – which I am presently on – is just the beginning. From there, it’s about a 30-hour bus ride home to TO.

It’s not looking good.

I just spent the night twisting and contorting myself in a lounge chair and trying to ignore the midnight wails of infants, the sugar-induced yelps of chubby adolescents, and the infernal crackle of pop of coke cans being opened by an ensemble of caffeine addicted adults. Regardless of what family sitcoms and social optimists are trying to ignore, little Canadian children are irritating, and older Canadian children are fat. If you don’t agree, just ask the pudgy 12 year old sitting beside me, hand-stuffing bits of bacon and sausage down his gullet, or ask his parents sitting beside him giggling and dropping more fried pork on his plate. In fact, I can’t help but observe that as a people, we are steadily looking more and more like a herd of overfed Buffalonians, fresh off the Greyhound from Cheektowaga.

OK, I am in a bad mood, and at this point, I’m already getting to jump ship. But, as much as the process of leaving St. John’s is proving to be quite an ordeal, the process of getting there and experiencing the city and its arts scene has been one of the many high points of my tour.

If you just want to find out the goods on St. John’s, skip my diatribe and head to the bottom of the entry.

There are two ways to get to and from St. John’s without flying: a fifteen-hour ferry ride to Argentia and a two-hour drive, or a six-hour ferry ride to Port Aux Basques followed by a ten-hour drive.

Take your pick.

Either way, you’ll soon find out that Newfoundland is an enormous island and that you can’t get further east in Canada than St. John’s. The landscape of Newfoundland is unlike anything I have seen. One of the guys I hitched a ride from, Terry, told me that the tectonic plates that make up the island have drifted together from all parts of the world. Whether this is true or not, it might help explain the diversity in land formations across the island.

On getting off at Port Aux Basques, on the western point of The Rock, as it’s called, my first impression was that of a lunar creator, covered by a thin amount of grass. Then came the mountains, which reminded me of the range of older mountains around Chilliwack, BC. Then came the lakes and seacoasts, which reminded me of Muskoka and Georgian Bay in Ontario. And then finally came the vast expanse of trees and forest, which somehow reminded me of the Australian outback, but green. It was at this point, that I, only a tiny collection of senses in a great emptiness, experience the size of the place. The green, the trees, went on and on for hours, out of sight in all directions. Never had the vehicle I was in, felt so important. All the while I kept on thinking, “if I’m let out here, I am done for.”

But I wasn’t let out, and despite the feeling of emptiness I got from the place, people kept on popping up along the highway. Children, old men, and women would periodically appear from the bushes, walk in the wilderness with the cadence of walking to a corner store, and then vanish into the brush from where they came. I was informed by both guys who drove me that despite the vast look of the terrain, Newfoundland was dotted with communities and roads all along the Trans-Canada highway. It seemed hard for me to believe that somewhere hidden behind the endless veil of trees, towns and villages existed.

Having missed my chance to get on the overnight ferry to The Rock, and spent my bus money on a motel room, I had little choice but to get a ride with someone on the morning ferry. As luck would have it, the second set of people I asked, a couple of Newfoundland boys coming from Edmonton were heading where I wanted to go. Both Terry and Bryan were driving their cars down home for the winter months, having finished a summer construction contract in Alberta. I drove with Terry most of the way to St. John’s. He was the quieter one of the two, and seemed to have a preoccupation with moose.

“I sure hope we don’t run into any moose,” he’d say with a healthy Newfoundland accent. In fact, the whole island seemed to have a preoccupation with moose. On the ferry ride over, several announcements were made to remind drivers to be careful driving at night because already this year several serious accidents have occurred. Given that it no longer has any natural enemies on the island, it is said the moose has infested Newfoundland. Both Terry and Bryan knew people who’ve had run-ins with moose on night roads, and both could tell you about the strength of the beast, the hardness of its bones, and the thick toughness of its skin. Thick enough, Bryan mentioned, that you’d be lucky to stab a sharp knife through it. I think part of the reason Terry and Bryan gave me a lift was to be a second set of eyes for them both.

Moose paranoia, by the end of the ride, finally got to me. Once, upon nearing St. John’s, I switched cars to ride with Bryan, and shortly after that Terry fell behind. Bryan pulled to the side of the Trans-Canada, and there we waited in the dark, both of us watching car after car drift passed that wasn?t Terry?s and both of us dreading the possibility that so close to home, a moose had at last got him.

As it turned out, Terry had just stopped to get a coffee, and Bryan was kind enough to drive me an hour out of his way to drop me off in downtown St. John’s. Not only that, showing exceptional courtesy, especially after driving for five straight days, he gave me a tour of the oldest harbour in Canada, pointing out the different kinds of boats and how far they went out to sea to make their catch. If you are reading this Bryan, you have a place to stay when you come to TO.

St. John’s was awesome. There I stayed with fellow poet and writer Kevin Hehir. He not only put me up for a few days, but organized a couple of readings for me as well. He lives with his girlfriend, Cara, in the old part of the side, in the “bowl” of the harbour. His neighbourhood, like most in the bowl, is comprised of wooden townhouses, old and crooked and leaning into one another with their slanted walls and floors. Most are painted with different colours or covered with different kinds of vinyl siding. To compensate for having no front yards, the back yards of the townhouses are cluttered jungles of trees and fences and gardens. In other words, the place has a charm about it that I already miss.

In St. John’s, it was my first time to be labeled CFA, or “come from away.” You could always tell the locals from the CFA’s as soon as they open their mouths. The locals speak with the stereotypical accent, which is to me, a combination of Irish, French, and Australian. Outside Newfoundland to hear the accent is usually a cause for a joke, but to hear that accent on the island, and all the idioms that come along with it, evokes in me a sense of age and untouchability and remoteness. And once I climbed up out of the bowl and onto the rocky cliffs above the harbour, and had a look at the vast expanse of land, it became evident to me timelessness of the place, a city kept and held away from the world in a pocket of stone.

If that isn?t enough for you, downtown St. John’s doesn’t even have a Starbucks.

Even Beijing has a Starbucks.

The art scene in St. John’s is phenomenal. For place of about 300,000 people, what I was shown in the three days I was there, could very well rival Toronto with its energy. While the Toronto arts and writing scene is large and it feeds off a more competitive nature, the St. John’s scene is only a fraction of the size but thrives on supportiveness and cooperation. While in the city, I took part in a reading at a 24 hour art marathon in a factory-turned-studio down by the water where artists, musicians, and poets alike worked together to produce and exhibit their art from 2:00 in the afternoon Friday, to 2:00 in the afternoon the next day. The next day, those who had manage to discern our flyers from the cluttered mosaic of flyers posted throughout the city, turned up for my reading at the Ship’s Inn, a venue that Kevin Hehir had been running up until a few months ago. He revived it for the visit, and I hope that he will continue it again on a monthly basis. Even if he doesn’t, there is no worry. I hate to speak for him, but just contact him if you are going to make a visit, and Kevin will be happy to set something up for you. So will the rest of the St. John’s art and poetry lovers. Though they have more than enough potential to stand on their own, they are also hungry to watch and listen to someone who has come from away.

See you in TO, folks. The Latchkey poetry feature for September is J Dennie, and the photography feature will soon be announced. So give the site a look and a few comments.

Also, as for the Latchkey National Word Calendar, myself and Kevin Hehir will be combining forces to produce a calendar that will provide information about spoken word and poetry events from more that a dozen Canadian cities! The calendar will be released a few weeks from now.

Hailfax Literary Events

I’m sitting the Backpacker’s Halifax Hostel typing this. I’ve been in Halifax since last Monday, and I am slowly preparing myself for the long voyage out to St. John’s, Newfoundland. Getting to the rocky western shores of the island will be easy enough, but it’s the 500 mile trip across the island that’s going to be a problem. Here’s a little tip for anyone who’s thinking about buying Greyhound’s Canada Pass: the title is misleading in that the “Canada” Greyhound is talking about doesn’t include Newfoundland. Damn Yanks. Since I can’t afford the $100 bus trip there, I’m gonna hafta hitch a ride.

Hitching is not such a big deal. The standing-on-the-side-of-the-road-for-hours-looking-glum-thing is do-able, as long as I have a book. It’s the getting-stuck-in-a-car-with-(a)-psychopath(s)-thing that worries me. It’s those stories, those urban legends that always come up in a converstion about hitch-hiking, usually just before I hitchhike, that always instill me with a touch of dread and foreboding. The feeling lingers until I get to my destination. It’s impossible to not think or talk about the dreadful possibilities of hitchhiking as much as it impossible to not think or talk about a social taboo. Worst is when the topic of ill-fated hitchhiking comes up when your in a car with someone who just picked you up:

“Yeah, you don’t see to many people hitchhiking any more since that young feller got killed here last year.”

Note to drivers: saying something like that will make a hitchhiker very nervous.

Note to hitchhikers: the best way to avoid dwelling on the subject of dismembered hitchers is to subtly change the topic:

“Nice weather today, eh?” is a good topic changer that any timid hitcher can use.

All in all though, a little sense of dread or foreboding can really help you feel more alive. Mortal fear has been known to shake off the tired sense of safety and routine that clings to us in our daily lives.

Enough senseless dead hitchhiker babble. Here are the goods on Halifax:

It’s an awesome city. It has all the amenities of a metropolis: a harbourfront, a historic/cosmopolitan centre, a beautiful oceanside park, and an artists’ ghetto. It also has lakes you can swim in which are only a 45-minute walk from downtown.

And of course, it has a Word scene that is on the upswing. Apparently, a few months ago the Word scene was pretty dismal: one venue, with one reader and an audience size ranging between 3 and 10 people. This is not to say that there weren’t other venues around, but if they were, there were too far below the radar to be accesible to newcomers and passers-by. But with the advent a powerful poet from New York, Clive Wray, establishing himself in Halifax last June, and a sudden surge in audience interest, things are looking good:

A Poet’s Word, is a new venue taking place at The Dearby Lounge at 2215 Gottingen Street (902) 422-9608. It’s more a less a well-lit pool hall in the artists’ ghetto. Sign-up time is 8:00 pm, and the warning signs at the entrance to the lounge – “No Fighting,” “No Loitering” and “No Selling Drugs of Any Kind” – would encourage poets to be on time: not too early and definitely not too late.

The Shoestring Reading Series happens at the Economy Shoe Shop on Argyle Street in the historical centre of the city. Any one who’s frequented The Tales of Ordinary Madness reading series in Vancouver will feel quite at home here. It’s hosted by David Rimmington, and the sign-up time is 8:30 pm.

Dave Rimmington also hosts The Poetry Show on CKDU, 97.5 FM, from 10:00 – 10:30 pm Wednesday night. You can contact Dave for more info at 902-488-9643. You can also tune in via internet at ckdu.dal.ca (no “www”) if you want to give a listen.

Word Iz BOND Spoken Word Artists’ Collective iz what it says it is in the title. They meet and set up spoken word events throughout the city. For more info email: wordizbon@mail.com

Maxwell hosts The Drive-BY Suicide Transmission Drop from 2:00 – 6:00 am every second Friday on CKDU, 97.5 FM. Via internet: ckdu.dal.ca (no “www”). For more info, contact Maxwell: haligonia@hotmail.com. Maxwell takes submissions, so send anything that might sound good on audio.

That’s all for now folks. Next stop, St. John’s.

Montreal and the Latchkey National Word Calender

Patios. The one thing I have to say about Montreal is the cafe and bar patios. There’s a lot of them, and they are given a lot of space, not like the little fenced-in drinking pens there are in TO and a lot of other puritan, Canadian cities more concerned with drinking by-laws then with culture and aesthetics. All it takes is one too many uptight busy-bodies to prevent a good thing from happening, like what they’ve got in Montreal. You can sit at the corner of Saint-Laurent and Prince Arthur for hours, reclined and stretched out, just watching the people strolling past laughing and smoking and socializing and shaking hands and flirting, just like there was nothing else in the world to do but just that. I may be a bit naive about the place, but the patio thing really lends to the European feel of the city. Patios, and the notion that every person living in the city has the right to a balcony, no matter if they are living in a run down apartment or a single floor of a townhouse. Everyone gets to have one. And everyone gets to sit on their balcony, put their feet up on the railings, smoke an cigarette and drink a glass of wine.

Man, have I ever missed out.

I think this commentary also comes from a lot of guilt. I’ve been to Montreal before, but this is the first time I’ve been in the city sober. All the other times I’ve been here I really can’t remember much, except for a few things like the peepshows and the inside of Churchhill’s. There’s also me stumbling into a Burger King at three in the morning yelling: FIRE! FIRE! Oh yeah, and me getting trapped in a building at McGill and urinating on the floor of one the classrooms.

Yes, I was the stereotypical, binge drinking, no-tipping Ontarian and I owe it to the city to say something nice.

As for spoken word, first off, I gotta say that although the spoken word scene is on the small side in the city, the audience is way better than in TO or Vancouver. They’re attentive, they’re quiet and they’re earnest. This might have something to do with the fact that unlike in Toronto and Van, less than 80 percent of the people listening aren’t poets simply waiting to get on stage.

I visited two venues during my stay, both of which will be appearing online in The Latchkey National Word Calendar coming out next month. There’s the Chameleon Cove Open Stage, which is a mix of music and poetry happening every Tuesday night at McKibbin’s Pub, at 1426 Bishop (514-288-1580). You should be there at around 9:15 pm to sign up. There is also a venue right across the street from McKibbin’s on Wednesdays. It has been listed as Wednesday’s Child, but the new name is soon to be Fantastic Fred’s Fabulous Funtime Variety Show. It’s a great show, don’t worry. FFFFVS is both music and poetry and it happens at a place called Kafein, at 1429 Bishop, every Wednesday (514-904-6969). Be there around 9:00 pm to sign up.

That about wraps it up, folks. Next stop, Fredericton.