Thursday, September 28, 2006
"He hesitated for a moment at the edge of the stage. He wished he were back in Nebraska with his students, to warn them: it is too dangerous for everyone to have the same story. The same things do not happen to everyone.
..."Everthing is held together with stories" he thought."That is all that is holding us together, stories and compassion".
From Winter Count. By Barry Lopez.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
here's some late summer pictures from the blue frog - a property mat's family bought which is exceptionally beautiful... in the back woods of the ottawa valley... the cabin has a new porch, fresh with cedar logs. it's a magical place. known for the blue frogs of the region.
and, also, sometimes, known for its ghosts.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
i have tonnes of old diaries that look like this. these are a few pages i scanned. my writing is really tiny. i would cram every inch of the book with something. i was a compulsive recorder. everything i read, saw, dreamt or felt, had to, in some way, get recorded. flowers, poems, drawings... it's all in there. sometimes (most times) if i look at them i get that creepy "old me" feeling. a lot of the writing i don't like at all, ofcourse. the dreams are interesting. i used to record every dream i had right when i woke up. this particular part is from april 1992. i was in europe for a few months with school, so there are many overly romantic, embellished poems about european cities. ecck. example: "Budapest held all the power and sadness of a summer night, a night inwhich one feels lost in their own backyard and the sweet humidity reminds of old lusts...... wander the labyrinth in cruel enigma.... blah blah blah.... smile in the ectasy of experience, ....the pure pleasure of having been loved, for here, outside the maze all that's left is miss and sorrow, a deep longing like that of a boy for his heroic father." yes it's cringe-worthy. and Incoherent. why can't teens make sense? There are also quotes I'd come upon. "Some day all art will be light" Henry Matisse.
Now I write very little and when I do I try to be concise. Fewer the words the better, more efficient. Brevity is the sister of talent... someone said that. I can't find it in my screwy diaries because they are a MESS.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
I like motels. i like taking motel pictures. i like walking around the room and finding evidence of the things that happened there before.... the smashed in doors and the blood stains that weren't removeable. i like old tiled bathrooms and sixties bathroom fixtures, bleached towels and crisp sheets.
sometimes i like fancy expensive new hotels too, with their "service" and their soaps, but sometimes an old crummy motel is just fine by me.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Cat Power live was excellent. she surely has all the talent you'd expect from her recordings and more. Her voice was even more interesting live and the fact that it was just her on stage was very brave.
i was a bit surprised it was hard to find some pals to go with me ... but luckily Andrea and Sean pulled through. They like depressing music too. And it was fun to see my old friend Moris there. Yeah for moris.
Much drama as someone broke into her room backstage while she was preforming and she had to call security. That took too long and then the idiot started to ruff up her friend. awkward.
Drama continued when, an hour or so later, a woman fainted. Chan herself, went down into the crowd to help out the woman and there was about a 20 minute delay.
she's so caring.
She made mention of her new clean and sober ways as she drank Earl Grey tea. As she sang "Lived in Bars" she managed to wag her finger at the audience - as if scolding us. And she changed the lyrics in one song - where she used to sing "I hate myself and I want to die" she now sings "I don't hate myself and I don't want to die." Go positivity!
She refused adamantly to play "Werewolf" which people kept asking for. She said it had to be a song she likes.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Ryan attributes her penchant for brief poems to "a short attention span. Actually, the way I write is to melt all the materials in my brain at once, like those cyclotrons in which they get atomic matter really hot and get it to do weird things. I have so many things that I like to do at once, that I can't do very long poems. It's hard to sustain. And I seem to be able to say what I want to. I'm very satisfied with short poems."
Kay Ryan. Poet.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
From "The Bronte Project" By Jennifer Vandever.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
my aunt barbara is one of my favourite people in the world. she is funny and sweet and wonderfully eccentric. she collects a great many antique curiousities. she tells stories like no one else i know. this is when we went to see her in vancouver. she has a new bird. his name is baby chown.
when i was little my mother and aunt barbie would take us on road trips and we'd stay in cheap motels and stop at every thrift store and buy silly elaborate frilly 50's nightgowns. we would then lie around our motel rooms in our extravagant undergarments and talk like movie stars, and tell stories about our dramatic and utterly luxurious lives.
much fun was had exploring tidal pools around salt spring island - where we stayed for a week with our friends. they are both artists and have a huge barn/loft/studio there where they work with a view of the ocean. here (top photo) you can see their dog ruby surveying the view.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
everyday i walk the same way to work. i have tried different routes but the one i use now works the best. it utilizes the side streets most effectively and that is essential, because walking along in a cloud of exhaust, on never-ending concrete with a view of ashpault, to a symphony of honks, is just too sad. now, i take a route diagonially across from home to work, past various houses and their pets and their home owners. there are the houses i like best and the little ones you wonder about everyday - apart from the ones you just want, like the giant cathedral that's been converted into a home. complete with covered courtyard.
second favourite to that one, is a tiny, one floor, semi-attached that has the most beautiful garden. the homeowner has planted every kind of wild flower and peonies, bleeding hearts, daisies and a giant rose bush. in the middle of all that glorious blooming beauty stands a small stone sculpture of a stone woman holding the scales of good and evil, the woman stands with her head down.
each day this garden makes me smile as i pass it and makes me feel better about things. i was thinking the other day if i ever see her i will thank her. i pictured her spritely and smiley, jovial and communicative." it's good that people beautify" i thought." there should be more beautification". everywhere. always.
three weeks later i final saw her. it was late and i was walking home from an outing, not from work. i walked by her house, the dark of the street was lit only by occasional streetlights, still her little garden glowed and the smell was bounding and magnificent as i got closer. one light was on inside the house and it bled out through a tiny window, blue light, frightening at first, perhaps because of the contrast with the myriad of oranges, reds and pinks from the garden.
i stopped and looked in, but only for a second. her grey hair rest on a pillow, wiry and knotted up like a bird's nest, she was spread on a couch, feet up in slippers. her shape highlighted by the light of the t.v. coming from somewhere just outside of my range of vision. blue flickering light. i had a wash of melancholy roll through me and looked away. i trotted off, feeling i had invaded her privacy far too much.
something in the angle of her head, the way she was lying, the unkind blue light of the t.v., the look of her slippers, made me unbearably sad for her.
her loneliness there, laid bare.
the feeling, the awareness, that she had her garden but little else.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Saturday, July 08, 2006
although most people would probably wonder how he lost his face... so maybe he's just helping us out by answering the questions before they are awkwardly attempted.
Friday, July 07, 2006
This is a piece from a zine by Rose White. It is excellent. I was always fascinated by Detroit. We'd drive through it on our way, to and from Ann Arbor, and a few times we went to bizarre underground parties there. What a city! With it's giant ruined abandoned mansions and creepy crack houses... it has quite a feel.
You can get her zine here.
Dead Dog on Avenue
by Rose White
Last night was spent dealing with a dead dog. At dusk, a happy dog with its tongue hanging out emerged from a sidestreet and began trotting blissfully down Michigan Avenue. I knew what would happen next, and couldn’t not watch: a car, making no real attempt to avoid the dg, hit it and drove off.
They drive off when they hit humans, too: I remember picking Randy up at the hospital with his blood-soaked clothes in a plastic bag, and picking Drew up at the hospital with his hair caked to one side with blood, a row of fresh staples in his head.
So the dog: I had to fix it. I put my finger on its neck where I thought its pulse should be, and, finding that inconclusive, carefully touched a boot tip to its furry stomach.
Then I noticed that its neck was twisted around in a strange way, and a perfectly shaped pool of blood was forming on the concrete behind its head. No, definitely dead.
A lady drove up and got out.
“Did you do this?”
“Got a shovel?”
“Well, I got some boxes.”
We use them as tools to push the dog out of the road, but the dog is heavy and limp, so now it’s harder than we thought; we leverage ourselves by kneeling down to push, oblivious to the cars now swerving around us, and then, of course, blood starts smearing everywhere and gets on me; I realize that I can’t get blood on jeans that aren’t mine; this requires even more delicacy.
Finally, the dog is out of the road, asleep next to the curb, and she arranges its paws so that they aren’t so grotesquely pointed in the wrong directions.
“You know,” she says, “I just wanted to, you know, get it out of the.. you know, I couldn’t.. got a cigarette?”
“I just wanted to.. you know what I mean?”
excerpted from Old Weird America #1
Saturday, June 24, 2006
these are photos from a fun sunny walk, xedar showed paul how to play wildlife explorer in the trees, (a game she learned from real life explorer aunty ingrid), xochitl wears sunglasses, photo of me taken by xedar who is only 3 years old - but already a fine photographer.
the last photo is of my mom's dog winston, the bulldog. that's his bum.