I
do not have a room of one’s own. I usually write in an ambulance.
I
have worked as a paramedic in Toronto for more than 13 years. I sometimes write
in between calls, sometimes I knit instead. I’m trying to aimlessly scroll less
on my phone. If I’m writing it might be
in a quiet corner at 45 station. Here my
partner and I have scavenged a mint green card table, a single wooden chair and
small floral upholstered footstool from the curbsides of Rosedale. Admittedly
there is not much ‘in station’ time for medics downtown. So, more often, I
write in the passenger seat of the ambulance,
after I have disinfected the stretcher and restocked our equipment for
the next call, while my partner finishes up the documentation.
I
try to always carry a hardcover 5”x 8.25” journal- this is where I accumulate
all the poem ‘fodder’. I scribble overheard bits of conversation, signage,
questions that graffiti asks, a phrase from whatever book I might be reading,
or ideas that have come to me more organically.
On days where I feel I might be lucky enough to compose some new writing I bring a soft cover 8.5”x11” cahier. These larger pages are where first drafts of poems are pieced together and hashed out. It’s then easier to flip back though the various clusters of notes in the journal for ideas. I use the pen that is in my uniform pocket, the same one that is utilized for vital signs and medication lists. I am working on a manuscript of ‘work’ poems. Writing during the down time at work seems like a good way to keep the material authentic.
On days where I feel I might be lucky enough to compose some new writing I bring a soft cover 8.5”x11” cahier. These larger pages are where first drafts of poems are pieced together and hashed out. It’s then easier to flip back though the various clusters of notes in the journal for ideas. I use the pen that is in my uniform pocket, the same one that is utilized for vital signs and medication lists. I am working on a manuscript of ‘work’ poems. Writing during the down time at work seems like a good way to keep the material authentic.
The
city is vast as is the variety and pace of the people. Their spaces and their
stories exist in such close quarters and are always bumping and mixing with one
another. A lot of my own narrative is listening the stories that people want to
share, and entering thousands of spaces that most other people will never see.
From the private homes of every demographic, to bank vaults, bath houses,
shelters, prisons, places of worship, back stages, even the undersides of
subway cars. Everybody gets sick, injured or dies eventually. I do not wish to
exploit other people’s histories, or claim them as my own. I do think I have a
very unique privilege in being invited into these spaces while in an act of
service to others. Helping might mean
defibrillation and CPR in one instance and making sure your cat is fed and you
have shoes and a coat and your house keys for when you return from the hospital
in another case.
I
want to share my story, not unlike most writers. Though I have trouble writing
myself into poems. They often come off as too surreal, abstract, a jumbled mix
of source text and voices- just like Toronto. I’m working to get inside of more
of my poems.
Candace
de Taeye: Lives in Guelph where her home life is the
all-encompassing chaos of life with two small children, an array of aging pets
underfoot, the detritus of toys, fur and mystery stickiness. She has had poetry
most recently published in Arc, BAD NUDES, Carousel, CNQ, CV2, Grain,
JoyPuke, Meat for Tea and Vallum. She has a chapbook Roe by PSGuelph, and a chapbook The Ambulance Act forthcoming from Frog Hollow Press.
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