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Showing posts from April, 2005

Shadows On The Wall

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"Shadows On The Wall": A photo from this morning, a poem from this evening, both together in the image...


Lighthouse Park

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Maybe I'm on a kid blog binge: the red tulip was a gift from my son; the apple blossoms for my daughter; so I said to them, I'm going , I need trees. Get on the phone & on the NET, get us out of the house, on the sky train, and on the #250 bus to Horseshoe Bay.

The bus driver forgot to let us off, but I jumped up when I saw Beacon Lane, and he apologized as he let us off at the next stop, and back we walked. So we went hiking, there's nothing much to tell, or maybe another post tomorrow, but here's some pics. Yup: that's the trail; aren't those rocks something; and the lighthouse after which the park is named. It took us only an hour to get there, on a scenic bus ride over Lion's Gate Bridge, along the glistening rim of the Pacific ocean...

O, sorry, Spring out here in British Columbia was 2 months ago, now it's hot like Summer...

Woman of the Sun & Blossoms

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Two disparate images today, one on a walk to the park in the hours just after dawn, the other a sketch I did lying in a hammock.

My daughter's the model, though she doesn't look like that, it's not a portrait, but inspired by her. Before she was born, I pulled a Tarot card for her, and it was the major arcana card, The Sun.

I'm calling it, "Woman of the Sun & Blossoms"...

It's just a bit of fun for the day...


The Red Tulip

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Solidifying Into Light

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If you'd like to listen to a poetry reading, there is a 3 minute recording of this piece at my site at Sound Click: MP3 Recording of "Solidifying Into Light"

I like to work with multi-media approaches, the writing, an image, a reading...

Writing the words of a prose poem in an image is a time-consuming process, as I found when I photomontaged Horizon After Horizon of Singing Bowls. In "Solidifying Into Light" there is perhaps too much text, yet with much tweaking it can 'work,' if barely.

Creating an image to embed the writing in? It's always a challenge. Today, a photograph, of my amber pendant, my hand beneath the prose poem...

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This prose poem arose out of a rather large case of plagiarism at a blog site that has now been closed down.





Pensive Woman

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It is crucial to NEVER forget...

Let us never, never forget: Liberation of Belsen.
I haven't been able to stop crying since watching this. Let us NEVER forget. Each generation must remember. NEVER LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN. EVER.

A tree of birdhouses...

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The way the branches form patterns, and that blue sky, and those birdhouses are incredible ~ from a master dollhouse maker's studio surely, the detail alone worth admiring. Photos from a walk an hour ago. (If you can't see it, go here: http://img38.echo.cx/img38/8194/birdhousesbc7og.jpg)


Red Breast...

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Sky Tangos...

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The birth of stars amidst colliding galaxies with their deathly black holes fascinates me...

Collisions of galaxies in the young universe caused prodigious star production even while the black holes at their centres increased exponentially.

Matter suctioned by the dense gravity of black holes flew at massive speeds inwards as gases were blasted to the outer fringes creating the luminescent edges of the merging galaxies.

The light pouring out of such ancient crucibles of creation and destruction creating the very memories we see emblazoned in the night sky through our telescopes.

In such collisions, a thousand more solar masses of stars formed each year than in our slower star-creating counterparts in the modern galaxies we exist in.

But when I look at simulations of colliding galaxies, I see only tangos and hot passion, sangrias and lust, sex and creating babies, the madness of merging amidst looming black holes and bright bursting stardust across the heavenly skies, an explosive terrain o…

A sweaty butterfly...

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I've been languishing since I've found myself, once again, on the temp office work circuit. Which is work in a strange office, then stress a lot in the days between, work a bit in another strange office, stress more, you get the routine. I don't want to buy my monthly gym pass. I can't seem to make it to the park where jogging is free. Dance is too far away, mostly everything takes about 2 or more hours of transit for about 2 hours of dance, and again I don't want to spend the money. So lapse into lax muscles and the only cardio is considering my job prospects. O so lazy...

There is much mention of exercise in Blogland these days. Must be the Spring...

My contribution to the Blogosphere Gym is cheap: a $5.00 skipping rope. Yesterday I set a timer for half an hour and skipped on a board thrown on the scrub called grass out back. I stopped constantly to retie my hair or catch my breath or because I can't manage the simple mechanics of turning a rope over my head a…

Stained Glass light...

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As far as stained glass goes, the pattern is not sublime. I bought this glass in 1982 at a small stained glass store on Queen Street in Toronto, back before it became an upscale fashionista district, when there were cafes and used book stores galore. I lived in a condo in a renovated Victorian house near the Art Gallery. All my windows looked out onto brick walls or a parking lot. I missed the sky and wanted to hide the impenetrability of brick, the way I felt cemented in.

My fatherwas dying, my life changing irrevocably; I was in a wild and passionate relationship with an intellectual poet. I surrounded myself with stained glass, some pieces more sublime than others.
After my father died, I bought a house with huge windows and privacy a few blocks away. I could see the sun and the moon in the sky. The stained glass went into the attic for almost two decades.
I moved it with me to Vancouver, finding it bringing back a time I had forgotten, and hung it myself with my power drill.

During th…
It is impossible for me to believe that I am entirely my body, that everything that I am is contained here in the cafe in which I sit, looking out the floor to ceiling full wall of windows at the rain gently pooling drop by drop into puddles or wetting the street with a sheen only rainwater can give. The world revolves around me, the musac with its forgettable music and chatter, the scrape of chairs of people arriving or leaving, the muted tones of conversation, someone who has a cold blowing their nose, the sounds of food being eaten off plates, knives and forks scraping, the clacking of a dishwasher being stacked in the back, tables being cleared and wiped, and all types of people who are quietly sitting except for one table of loud laughers. My feet are cold. The street is busy with trucks and cars and pedestrians. Umbrellas float everywhere like dark flowers

How can everything I am be contained here in this remote and anonymous spot? Located here in this curve of space and time, at…

Fragments towards a Meditation on the Body...

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MP3 of this post at Sound Click: "Fragments Towards a Meditation on the Body...", which I'm not sure about, but it's there now...
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On our blogs we post, barely editing, always planning to come back at some future point to edit, only the posts fly by like days...

Anyway, I just put this montage together, the writing moves over small line drawings of dancers I did maybe a year ago...the words shaping themselves are nothing conclusive or that I would want to rest my weight on, barely touching the surface of this subject, the body, but leaning into the writing coming soon on the body where all bodies are created...

This is just a miniscule meditation on what tells me I am alive. A sort of Descartian I Am, or even Buddhist recognition of the. most. basic.

The ground of being, the body, where I begin...



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When do you finally come to dwell in a residence so that it begins to feel like "home"? It happened today when I moved our large wooden rocking horse out of my room - the 'clothes horse' literally, where I flung my clothes to pile up - and put in a 'captain's chair' that I recovered years ago in another lifetime. Now I can take out one of the stained glass windows and look at the street and houses and foothills while I read. I know I'm not making sense, especially as I now am in the process of turning a red painted milking bench into a foot stool by stretching an upholstery fabric over a cushion and stapling it. And I can't explain this, and shall take some sort of photo shortly, but as I sit in my 'new' corner and read under the clamp lamp I clipped onto an ancient metal stand, looking at my room, which I quite like actually, in this old and rather dumpy rented house, I feel like I've finally "moved in." And I've been he…
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I'm here because I'm wired to you all by telluric forces. In the midst of the angles of light everywhere. Bliss pouring in the edges of the world. Way too much inner light. I want to spend the day meditating or lying in bed doing nothing. What luxury. But my kids need me, so I watch the Supersize movie with them, gross, really gross, and this just after 8mm last night, nightmares, and then make myself a pure ground sirloin burger with cheddar cheese on a whole wheat bun, sigh. I snatch a 2 hour nap. Luxury. Then dinner for my kids, not me, I only eat once a day, although I snack on & off too. Finely chop celery, onions, mushrooms, garlic, slice the chicken into small strips, put on water for the pasta, butter in the wok, melting and sizzling, then onions and garlic, watch the tiny bits cook, twirling with a wooden spoon, then the chicken, stirring, brown everything, add the mushrooms and celery, and just before its ready, the sliced spinach leaves, oh, and make a simple Be…