New Title goes here

Why I Wrote

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Thu, 19 Nov 2015 13:50:00 -0500

http://www.amazon.com/Jackies-Not-Real-Girl-graphic-ebook/dp/B01268J1OY

Starting at midnight tonight, and for the next 5 days, I'll be giving away free copies of the ebook "Jackie's Not a Real Girl" - This has been a massive project that has spanned over 10 years and has demanded a lot personally (and a lot from my very patient friends)... I thought I'd share a bit of the "WHY" behind this epic poem...and what has turned into an epic process.

In Fall of 2004, I had hit rock-bottom. I was emaciated, filled with toxic levels of drugs and alcohol, living in poverty...broke in every sense of the word. On Saturday September 4th, I came into town for a conference and had somehow managed to cobble together a few days of sobriety.

It had been a tough week - Because of the lack of rehab facilities for trans women, I hadn't been able to go to a detox centre or hospital. Instead, I stayed home, double-locked the doors and hallucinated my way through the nightmares of DT's. Most of that week, I lived like a terrified animal. In the lucid moments in between episodes I was fully aware that death was a very real and very proximate possibility.

I was still very, very shaky on that Saturday afternoon. Which is when I saw the real-life "Jackie" who inspired much of the last 10 years' work.

I'd like to emphasize that JNRG is a work of fiction - The events are based on first hand and second hand experiences. But it's fictionalized.

However, one element that is a direct quote is the title of the piece.

The words, "Jackie's Not a Real Girl" were not voiced by a transphobic bystander, or a cop, or a teacher, or a bully, or a judge, or a jailer. They were said by Jackie herself.

When I heard Jackie say those words I knew that I had borne witness to a statement that was filled with almost unspeakable tragedy and despair.

Later, as I struggled with my own identity as a sober trans woman Jackie's words came back to haunt me again and again. I came to believe that these awful words were a "gift of desperation"...an insight that was both terrifying and sacred.

With that came an absolute certainty that this unique story needed to be told...And that I had to tell it.

Why did I write "Jackie's Not a Real Girl"? - Not because I wanted to... But because I had to...

I just had to.

Nx

Download directly from: http://www.amazon.com/Jackies-Not-Real-Girl-graphic-ebook/dp/B01268J1OY

Concision Version 2.0

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Thu, 6 Aug 2015 11:22:00 -0400

This version, although not animated, does have a certain flow to it. The line use and white space creates a subtle moiré effect so there is implied motion. The top-down ordering of "Concision Version 2.0" sends a different message to the circular animation of "Concision Version 1.0"

On balance, I don't know whether I prefer 1.0 or 2.0 , but I'm glad I engaged in the exercise and curious to see if any comments arise.

Concision Version 1.0

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Thu, 6 Aug 2015 11:09:00 -0400

As a poet, I like the idea of the concision that might be provided by animated GIFs - One can condense a large amount of information into a tiny space. One can edit the timing to create an organic punctuation.

Having experimented on social media, there are technical challenges in that the GIF doesn't automatically and consistently play on major platforms (Facebook and Twitter) ... This means that viewers have to click or otherwise interact with the piece before it reveals its meaning. Of course, there's an artistic virtue to that. However, the static "Concision Version 2.0" creates more engagement.

Tell Me About Your Shoes

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Tue, 5 Mar 2013 18:03:00 -0500

Naked Page @ Rhubarb

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Sun, 3 Mar 2013 12:36:00 -0500

The Box

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Fri, 2 Nov 2012 15:23:00 -0400

I'm in the box

Again

I'm trying not to say

Like always

But I can't remember the last time that I was not

It's been so long

I wonder if I imagined it

(Was there really a time

when I felt grass under my feet

or did I imagine it)

Is grass something that I read about

That's a clue for me

The colour

If I remember a thing

It's usually colour

I remember the colour of warmth under my feet

And the somehow dampness

And the light

...

The box is not as dark as you might think

The Handicapper

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Tue, 10 Jul 2012 11:44:00 -0400

My father was a gambling man

Filled with the wisdom of the track

Mottos of a practical nature

Never gamble more

Than you can afford to lose

He said with no trace of irony

As he spent his three score and ten

Among the company of smokey men

My father was a sometime cautious man

Metering out advice like a reluctant tipster

If you're at the table

And you don't know who the sucker is

It's you

He said

As we shared a quiet meal

Just he and I

My father was a calculating man

Who read the form and knew the odds

And at the track he said

He won more than he lost

But at what cost

Never gamble more

Than you can afford to lose

He said with no trace of irony

As he spent his three score and ten

Among the company of smokey men

Socrates' Golf Handicap

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Thu, 5 Jul 2012 12:52:00 -0400

I had a dream that I sent a message from my future self
To my present self
And I thought

How would I know if I was in the right place and time
To pick it up

My future self would know
Because at one time, it would have found it

And suddenly, it came to me
Now
Now would be a good time

Then I thought

What if the message was too specific
Like
"Don't by a parakeet on February 17th"
That would be no good
Because if I avoided the parakeet
Then the future would be different
And my future self wouldn't have to go to the trouble of warning me about the parakeet
and thus the message would be rendered meaningless

So what message could I send
That was specific enough to be helpful
But not so specific that it sets up
The parakeet paradox

And the answer is
Golf advice

The fact that I don't play golf
Means that my future self can safely
Give me advice or information pertaining to golf

And I will automatically understand
that this is a metaphor
And not an instruction

"Drive for show: Putt for dough" is a well-worn trope

And knowing this
My future self asks
the Socratic

Why not use your putter
as a driver?

My Emotional Toolkit

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 17:07:00 -0400

When I was young
I tried to learn life's lessons while I played
Gave tongue to simple questions
And listened hard to answers
With all the respect that could be paid

Hung on parent's sage advice
And even when repeated
Earnestly I listened twice

Now aged two score and more
I understand the reason
For all the messes that I made:

I learned almost nothing in that season
'cept how to sulk
And how to piss off friends in bulk

And though I am a child of fools
I merited
The harvest of my un-society

Of all the living tools that I inherited
The only social ones
With which
I regularly played

Were a pair of tweezers
And a hand grenade

Building a Box

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Tue, 5 Jun 2012 13:04:00 -0400

Boxes always make me think of four

So when I made a flower box
Those are all the sides I used
A back a front
Both long
A side another side
Both short

All fourness nailed together at the corners
It looked a proper box

I filled it with soil
Ready for seeds

This would have all been fine
Except the box was in the wrong place

And when I moved the box
The earth stuck to the ground
Instead of the box
Because earth prefers sticking to the ground more than anything
Which is why that is where you usually find it

And this may be
Why gravity is

And boxes are not four

Hidden

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Wed, 23 May 2012 11:15:00 -0400

I play among
the kindly ones
the sparing ones
the caring ones

I am a thimble
and a lamb
A dull rock to sit on
and a sharpener of scissors

The sometime child
the listener of tales

The unintended
The spilled drink
The incidental fart

The happy accident

The Redemption of Mrs. Bishop

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Thu, 3 May 2012 18:16:00 -0400

Villanelle for Those Who Sail

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 13:36:00 -0400

Villanelle for Those Who Sail

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 09:28:00 -0400

Light heart the passage ease

Through storm from storm, from calm to calm

For there are seas, and there are seas, and there are seas

And in those fearful times when tempests seize

Grand winds of compass and alarm

Light heart the passage ease

Let fates great currents guide us as they please

Yet peace protect us from soul's harm

For there are seas, and there are seas, and there are seas

In stillness-grace reveal the best of lifes great keys

Unlocking this: A casting charm

Light heart the passage ease

Cats paw and gale are of the self same breeze

We hold all worlds in our own palm

For there are seas, and there are seas, and there are seas

This will not be our last and best reprise

Truth-proven by a life-lived psalm

Light heart the passage ease

For there are seas, and there are seas, and there are seas

Poetry is measured madness

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Sun, 1 Jan 2012 14:05:00 -0500

Metered out
Rhymed out
And yes
of course
it's timed out

And there were times
when madness was all that I could speak
And that was poetry

And there were times
when madness was all that I could hear
And that
again
was poetry

The insane
obsession
for the word

THE word
Not a good word
nor even the best word
but...
The perfect word

Poetry is measured madness
and it is the measuring that has made the difference

Best Friend

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 18:54:00 -0500

Which friend

Best for your career
Best for your self-esteem
Or humility

Best for Fridays
Or weddings
Or divorces

Best for you

Or best for me
Best for inspiration
Best as an example
Of what not to do

Best as only
Best as crowd

Best as someone
Who follows dreams
Or is pursued by
Demons and debtors

Best owed
Or owned
Or old

I am none of these
To you
Or from you
Or of you

I refuse to be a custodian of your masks
I’m tired of your estrangement
I remain as your reflection
But I am not your friend

First Crack

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 02:02:00 -0500

Cracked plaster is compelling

It is the locus of all wisdom

It is the dwelling of the infinite

This is the focus point that I am drawn to

When the mind

Caught in re-boot

Needs to start again

Re-Set

This is a crack in a wall

It is shallow by human standards

Deep as a canyon if one were very

Small

A dry gulch connected to others

Sisters and brothers

Who have shifted great tectonic plates

That are smaller than my hand

Blink

Trying to re-think

To find

A Mind mulched

By Real

This isn’t real

This is one of those things

You read about or see

And marvel at how nobly

They cope with their adversity

And find their faith

Crack

What lives inside the cracks

Behind the plates

Sandwiched in the warmth and dark

Between the wall and paint

The mortar

Mort d’art

More Dar

Now

Please let there be now

The Truth About Teapots

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Wed, 7 Dec 2011 11:48:00 -0500

Teapots are known to be somewhat pretentious
C'est vrai
They say

Teapots are known to be somewhat morose
Tea ducts
Tear ducts

Teapots are known to be somewhat contentious
Slake thirst?
Milk first!

Teapots are known to be somewhat grandiose
Tea cups
Mere cups

Least civil of all the cupboard's crockery
They frequently resort to mockery

But some of us

Less easily awed
Can see that they
Are deeply flawed

It isn't just the one who pours
Do not forget
The teacup
Saucer or the spoon
They too are dreamers

Submitted:
Most respectfully yours,

Signed

Your humble creamer

The Graphic Novel: Performed

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 11:08:00 -0500

Jackie's Not a Real Girl: A Play for Voices by Nichola (Nicki) Ward

Wednesday November 23rd 2011
Doors Open @ 7:30pm - Curtain at 8pm - Symposium after the performance

Buddies in Bad Times Theatre
12 Alexander St 416.975.855

The (true) story of a transwoman who is sent to a men's prison. She survives … Almost

Based on a true story, Jackie's not a Real Girl traces the events surrounding the life, imprisonment and death of a transgendered sex trade worker. The narrative is developed by using the testimony of the people around her. These witnesses to her last days include a best friend, a barfly, a cop, a prison warden, a social worker and a John.

The performance lasts 1hour 15 minutes and is performed using minimal staging and back projections from the graphic novel. It's a fantastic performance space (absolutely perfect)... But it is fairly small... so it's probably a good idea to reserve your spot(s) in advance

Tickets are $10 and are available from Buddies' box office 416.975.8555 http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=190969797624067

We Question the Utility of Humility

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 10:00:00 -0400

Even when we almost

Have that taste of grace

Even then we cling to faith

That place of no-face

Numbed by all we’ve done

Scared of standing still

And yet too scared to run

Thought

Humble is for losers

Who have no sense of purpose

Who have no strength of character

Who ought to make demands

Not doing everything the world commands

Of course these are just the lies we need

And this so-called honesty

Provides a basis for security

It’s out of necessity we believe

This painful paradox

All power

Is ours

But suffering

Is brought to us by others

Not bought

With bitter fruit of false desires

See

We needed all of our denials

To hide us from the trials of our truth

To provide ourselves permission

For commission and omission

We heeded

Defects

The broken glass of shattered dreams

Reflects

Solutions that now become the problem

Old tools of wars that now

In peace

Are flaws

To be at peace

Demands a different strength

To be happy

To be human

To be whole

Is not a role

It’s real

The Gorgon Rose

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Thu, 6 Oct 2011 18:10:00 -0400

I cannot see the coin but I can feel its heft
Blessings be upon you, your grace and excellence
Each modest tribute of a few small pence
Is great to me
But a florin or a crown as alms!
I am bereft of words
As I am of sight

Yet I would be the more so in your debt
If you could also briefly lend me eyes
I seek a statue in this grand square
It is my place of usual and humble work
But in the bustle of this day
I am lost - Misplaced
Of course, I would not touch your hand
Nor dare to touch your sleeve
But my ears can hear the velvet of your cloak
And I would follow that
If you allow

A thousand thanks again
How foolish I
Far-roaming
Lost
Am found by you
A stranger guiding me to my
Sometime familiar place:
To the South West of this galleried Piazza
To be shielded from the Tuscan sun

Do you see it there?
Shaded in the square
Raised slightly from the ground
An open stage
Do you see the graceful columns?
Holding up the heavens

Look up
They say the portico is gracious no?
And see above
The gabled female virtues carved on high
Facaded fabled:
Fortitude
Temperance
Justice
Prudence

Below
Do you see the theatre filled with frozen testament?
Statues
The witnesses of lanced and stolen love
The raped Sabine
The dead rejected Patroclus
The violated Polyxena
The beaten horseman Nessus
A chorus
Of stories
I am companion to these ancient marbles
Thankful for your accompaniment
To be among them

I can tell by the smell of dust and masonry
We are among them
Do they seem titanic?
Heroic
Not mortal like you?
They are both

Mortal in fact - since they
Were killed most surely dead
Heroic in the way
That they were murder'ed

Let me with my guttered

Bronze noble
Fallen slain

The Gorgon Rose

The Living Testament of Roy Antonio Jones III: A Eulogy

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 17:48:00 -0400

To my brothers and my sisters and my cousins in-between
To those of us who are tired of being ghosts
Unheard … unseen
Listen close and be uplifted
We have been …sifted
By the gods
We are… the gender…gifted

But lest I go astray - Let me just say
…Just for today (that)
This is my intention
To engage you in an intervention

To do so let me tell you ‘bout a case beyond prevention

Roy Antonio Jones the Third was killed
On August First
This year - The birth
Certificate said that he was born a boy
And I don’t know if that is true or not
Trans or not… that’s not
The point
That’s not my joint

South Hampton in New York - On a reserve
This child got more than anyone deserves

Sometimes the force from a back hand
Takes a year or two or more to land
Sometimes twenty years or more have passed
Before we feel the full force of that blast
Sometimes we face a damn-near fatal bullet
Long since we saw the trigger finger pull it

(But)
Roy Antonio Jones the Third did not have to wait so long
Roy Antonio Jones the Third
Born of the Shinnecock Indian Nation

Was being cared for by a certain
Pedro Jones (a man of no relation)

On August First - Late afternoon
Pedro grabbed the child by the neck
Strangled and
Then beat the child to death
“I was trying to make him act more like a boy…
The murderer said

“Instead … of like a little girl…”
That’s what the perpetrator told
The cops
As to why he didn’t stop…

Why he killed a child
Who was barely
Six… teen … Months …Old
A toddler who was less than two

For heaven’s sake
You can’t lay claim to any guilt or gender
At that tiny… tender age
A life so brief

…Such grief
That … I couldn’t even feel my outrage
I’ve seen too much of this to be surprised
Not least of which
Through my own ears and eyes

I’ve heard those words thrown at poor Roy
Why can’t you be - More like a boy?
Don’t you know
That those are not your toys?
It is perverse
For you to love
The things the other sex enjoys

Of course, today I know that those were lies
But they leave marks
All those punches that were thrown
I still own the bruises and the scars

Sometimes the force from a back hand
Took a year or two or more to land
Sometimes twenty years or more had passed
Before I felt the full force of that blast
Sometimes I faced a damn-near fatal bullet
Long since I saw the trigger finger pull it

And though my old abusers were long gone
Insanely I became accomplice to a prior act
Aided and abetted
Vainly brought old harms… into present fact

Discovered that
For me
…There is no difference between attempted homicide
And a suicide… Besides a slight delay in timing
…Nothing much
They’re just the same excepting who’s assigned the blame.

But, I survived the echoed pain I heaped upon myself
Somehow escaped that circular and pointless game
And lived my pride
…I’m never going there again

And then I hear the fateful news
That Roy Antonio Jones the Third
A Child: Has died

And inside my sadness – I struggle to remember to be grateful
I’m alive
And search for sense in innocent and senseless death

…Yet
– In time I search and find
A truth
This truth - and my true aim

I must not bear the burden of a perpetrators’ shame
I must share the absolute foundation of reality
That murder is perverse profanity
That they
Not us are clinically insane

And though they try to get me to confess
That I am mad – By definition of transgendered-ness
I must not buy their crazed mythology
That I am a victim of some strange pathology

Thank you Roy for reminding me to honor our humanity
To value what it means to be humane
Thank you too for reminding me just who is sane
And who is guilty of insanity

And finally for forcing me to face the truth of our own duty
To negate the ugliness of hate
We must embrace the truth of our own beauty

Oddly Woken

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 14:55:00 -0400

A phone call

Did I catch you sleeping?
They Say

Just my morning meditation
I lie

The phone call ended
Now I doze

And
dream of gods

The Music of the Spheres

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 00:39:00 -0400

Someone gave you a book
The Music of the Spheres
You passed it on to me
Here
You said
This is more your cup of tea

You died
And I tried and tried
To read the bloody thing
I only understood
That I was thick
That it had something to do with Pythagoras
And chromatic intervals
And music

I checked the edges
Of the pages
You’d only read the first part
You crafty bugger

Every now and again
I’d pick it up
For a little while
And even in my frustration
Before I set it down again
I’d smile

One day I came upon a bookmark in it
Just a small scrap of paper in it
Your handwriting on it
A single word upon it
Writ clear

My name

A name that I had never heard escape your lips
(You never… ever … said my name)
But you wrote it on a little slip
And left it in a book

Music to my eyes
If not my ears
Perhaps this was the music of the spheres

Bohemian Dry Cleaners

nicholaward@nicholaward.com (Nichola Ward) — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 01:06:00 -0400

The streets are too well-swept to be considered squalid
Perhaps it tries too hard to be
Bohemian

This clapboard ghetto sat behind
Spadina’s downtown – Chinatown

And it’s sad testament
That recent refugees
Disregard its cardboard seediness
And live elsewhere

Though old, old immigrants
Mainland Portuguese and Azores
Owners of cheese stores
Seem to live
Seamlessly
With new age wiccans, cyber punks
Under-performing performance artists
Under shopping at the
Butchers
Next to Reggae historians
Fishmongers
Milliners
Compassionate cannabis clubs
Hats

Too many bookstores
Too many strident coffee shops
Too many vegetarians
Of the proper sort
The punks who
Are too too polite
So all the grunge looks like it has been dry-cleaned

And if Toronto is New York
Designed by someone Swiss
Then Kensington Market
Is Amsterdam
Without the hookers and the water

Despite its smugness and its neatness
Its well preserved graffiti and its too too tidy soul
And even though it isn’t ugly
I love it anyway