Delete

Whence comes the lies?
Memory gets fuddled; incisive
Deleting goes far...
Recoverable to a point; trenchant
Deleted and found
Disturbing.

Whistle while you .... WORK

Witt and wiles
Wrestle spitefully
Wiggling away to the
Cape of restitution


La de da.

Sunday envelopes the numbness.
The distance holds a journey?
The present is "not found".
Find the ordinary to create a path.
Mundane organization is the ultimate mantra.
Do and keep doing or die.

Moronic Monday

A PRAYER FOR A TORTURED SOUL

Twisting a yarn, a willy ditty -
Answering anonymity
with precise dictums...
The seeker seeks and sights the nasty.
Nervous, she sloppily speaks.

Waking to a mirror of indecision -
Leading to the slaughtered dreams
with precise doldrums...
Fostering lives; she know so little.
Wounded, she recklessly hides.

Grant that the nocturnal wrestler -
Fandango is thwarted and found
with precise justice...
Friendly cavorting saves her make up
Leaving the pain to memory.

August Webs

Without being told, I know that the month of August is present when the spiders' silk fills the open eastern window. I watch the fine filament tracing the outline of the aperture asymmetrically, creating the mystery of a web. Traversing the space with steadfast strands of precision, the creature and many like it begin a place to lay their offspring every August. The August webs are more striking, whiter, more luminescent. They glitter with dew in the early dawn, and glimmer through the daylight hours, radiate with the moonlight. I look out the kitchen window, admiring the spider spin and I know August has begun.

At one time I thought that the webs caught the spirit of midsummer, hovering and distinct from each other in their design, a splendid metaphor for catching the bounty of summer's thoughts, the web of fulfillment, the intricacies of life's peculiarities ordered into a useful mode of expression. Now I just envy the spider's relentless power to know what and when to produce - its life's oeuvre. Driven to make what is required to fulfill its destiny, the web is profound sanctity, the embodiment of spiders' purpose in nature. Doing is knowing.

Oh, for a web to weave.
Not to practice to deceive
Place me in the azure sky
Let me know what to defy
this lifetime.

Here's acknowledging Sir Walter Scott (Marmion, 1808)
"Oh what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive."

Rendezvous

West coast summers tend to produce confusion due to our fierce resistance to heat, which challenges our ability to think. Those migrants to the ocean side forgo all caution to sun induced melanoma, allowing bronzing of bodies to seduce the bathers into unconscious pheromone production, thus greatly reducing their use of common sense.

Those of us that must work during the day endure un-air conditioned workplaces, unless the workplace is fortified by foreign thinking owners and landlords that install the cooling systems appropriate to their original heat producing climates. I know some people that enter and remain in malls just for the pleasure of walking in the artificially cooled facility. Shopping is optional.

Whether it is the leisurely beach site or to the work-a-world, driving to and from a destination is a test of any nemesis' retribution. We speed and weave to reach a light, hovering at intersections with elevated pulses, brows dripping while we bake from direct exposure. No matter how fast we navigate to the next red, it takes the same time as our speedy counterparts. We catch up with them in a block or so, or advance while the rear becomes annoyingly close to our bumpers. While we survey the start of the light race, windows circulate fume infused air, saturated with the perspiration from the adjacent car's occupants. We whisk on the the next light, deftly avoiding the stunned and delirious drivers that can alter our lifestyle between point A & B with an altercation produced by smidgen of road rage. Honking away the stupidity will not reduce the heat induced anger. No matter how cleverly polite or gracious our driving, no matter how disturbed our road mates, or how feverish the air we all breath, we always share the same dilemma. It takes as long as it takes to get where we are going. Summer or not, the distances will not alter. We cannot control the weather. We can cool down our freakish need to speed between those pesky lights. Let the rendezvous take place!

Woa! BE GONE ye of little IMAGINATION!!!

Yep.

"The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things.
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. And tho the sea be boiling hot and ..."

I wish I could remember the entire Lewis Carol poem, but the spirit this line evokes is so power producing. Speaking up, letting go of fortunes' follies. Challenge the known and make the unlikely possible. Rivers of surging ideas. Must learn to wait. All previous presumptions to be abandoned. 'let's go 'xploring', as my daughters' said as children when looking for adventure.

I do miss the girls, now firmly embedded in life's mysterious curiosities, their own paths established. I miss the wonder of their first discoveries and the joy of their embrace of newness I was privy to during their youth. Now they have meandered from me, throwing back occasional shouts of 'eureka!' so I can vicariously warm myself with their lovely fulfillment. One remains silent and I continue to wait.

I think about the girls' youth and my mind immediately becomes riddled with ditties of play songs. 'Skidamringkydink', 'Baby Beluga in the deep blue Sea', 'Buckle Shoes, Bow Shoes, Pretty Pointed Toes, Like Some, So would I!', Zoon zoon, cuddle and croon, over the wrinkling sea', ... oh so many. And I dream, lusting for the past closeness, but understanding that without that past knittedness, their bold journeys would not have been possible. Hooray!

Birth of a Girl

She was a blue light, nay a haze
Hovering above a Toronto cross-section
Before she was conceived.

There were tendrils of her need to be in this world
Saturating the space between
Wisps of knowingness
Urging the collaborators to parent her body.

At birth she was observant of her lust for survival,
A spirited gusto for life.
Guzzle and sleep, she saw all, listened well and
Stored the memories for future burgeoning.

Frighteningly early she spoke her name.
She could enjoy the mirth of the ages,
Laughing well, she exploded with the joy of the small,
Largely a wondrous gift to behold.

Walking was a necessity, not an interesting activity.
Her pleasure was the poetry of the Rhyme Time,
Colours and the taste.
Music concentrated her concentric mind.

Within a year of life, she insisted
On sitting on laps...
To see sewing,
To hear reading,
To feel sounds of talking.

And now, in the second decade of her life,
The opera continues,
Moving herself to the foray of sensational places
Where sights, sounds and sensations are plentiful
Where new memories are possible
And pink is passion transitionalized,
Azure sublimates carefulness,
Emerald secures the growth and
Nary is there a day
When the buds do not bloom
Into a canopy of wonder.

Rain

A downpour is the exhilarating means to renew the passive, sun drenched earth. I love the euphoria of the concentrated force the rain spills from the sky. Trees' dust form rivulets below. The clouds disperse and a ionized air modifies our spirit.

Wash.

Leave it till Monday

Nearness
and dearness
is a dive
into the brink
change.

Wandering
the minstrel
sings low
traffic drowning
sorrows.

Echos
enchanted foraging
rescues the craft.
Oblivion.

Not until
sunrise
will a new day
deliver.
Restitution.

Sunday Fissure

Weak week. Weal, waddle, wane. Sun slips into a crafted abyss and tickles memories wished to be dissipated. Dreams of past moments to be rekindled into nightmares. Sifting quietly into nuances of structure. Form still unknown.

WHAT DO I WANT? A question harder than granite. Soapstone ideals rest reluctantly on posed problem solving soliloquies.

Waves of known possibilities safely guarded by the passing moments, but time is a trickster. Acting, involving oneself in new ventures is the only way to live.

Living is limestone, buttery soft to the point; it acknowledges gently, revealing great and universal truths. What act will spin into adventure, resolving, solving and solidifying the stagnation into amoebic life, eventually evolving into satisfaction of living?

Spin a bottle, flip a coin, pick a card - there is no easy way to know what is best, especially when the beginning is vague. Get a job, take a course, find a new horizon. Platitudes of grace.

Begin with a colour. Orange is action and speed. Green is contemplation. Gold, organization. Blue feels and holds empathy, often strangling strategy. I need to resurrect my Orange tendencies as Blue is a hindrance to change.

I like action, but speed is not my forte. I like to think and incise, but dislike the organization that inevitably is associated with the outcome of research. I don't want to wallow in the piteous self-riotousness which restrains action.

This is nowhere and somewhere. Where is the event that will develop a path? ... A stone's through away... and where is the stone?

La DE Da

Once, upon a time...

Remembrances of new moon... They say in Turkmenistan that if you show money to the new moon it will mean that you will have money in the month to come ( at least). My friend took out her last $13 American dollars and flashed it at the crescent moon last night in twilight, the last of the money she had earned to come to Canada, in anticipation of this prophecy.

The Chef was cooking sauces last night. A cream tarragon and red wine sauce for the miniature bar-b-ques. Caramel with Grande Marnier and the secret Chocolate sauces ( orgasmic) for the strawberry and cookie dipping. A feast with panache. Starters were a double cream Brie baked with roasted walnuts and a vine ripened tomato salad with fresh basil, olive oil, lemon, balsamic vinaigrette, topped with shaved red onion. Fresh baguette, cold butter and straight up Stoly. Kosher pickles to nibble with the Vodka. (Russian tradition)

The smoke alarm only resounded once. The plastic bag was adjusted to prevent the fire brigade's entrance, and tongs were readied to braise the smorgasbord of morsels of meat. Beef heart, veal, pork tenderloin, chicken marinated in tarragon. Freshly ground pepper sanctified every course. Sauces were readied for immersion. Red wine and conversation about the comparisons of Turkmen/Russian/French and Canadian culture fortified the evening. The dessert was consumed intermittently throughout the meal.

Yum. A new Canada Day tradition was forged.

Wednesday Morning

Somehow, I have written this before.

Coffee and a view out the window to the neighbourhood is a ritual. News reports revolve around a 15 minute schedule and are never what I want to hear.

Yesterday's conversations repeat in my memory like a newscast. Resolves for the day, week, lifetime occur with healiners to remember, and disolve to clouded dreams.

People to call, appointments to make, employment to secure. All of the new ventures of contact enable a fresh perspective into what I want to do. I am awakening and the sun is not likely to shine today.

Publishing

Seeing my words in print on the web is humbling. Craving acuity, I meander in my word bank with a hungry anticipation, and traffic noise is all that come to mind. A wisp of cold morning air from between trees enters a slight aperture to the towering cedars outside the window and caressess my cheek, lingering with the presumption that a day will be lived with some smiles.

I think of the piano lesson I will teach this afternoon to the cellist of 'THE WINKS'. A furtive act of obtaining a studio in the Academy will compel the student and myself to relish the hour or so of musical collaberation. Timing, titilations and brash key crashing will forge a new level of understanding of the instruments' requirements, and redress the need for parental and filial bonding. Memories are bound to infiltrate, reminding us of the kinder experiences we share. The meeting can be a trial of frustrated technique and yet there has always been a yearning for new discovery. I look forward to this event.

Breathing in the background was a subject of a story sequence I once wrote: While He Was Sleeping. The bound leather booklet has been hiding from me. The stored volume was dispersed with other books from my library, and this book was not found. I know it exists. Perhaps there will be a need for its return when I have it again in hand. I miss this place of description.

June 7th

Good Morning, World.

This post originates from the west coast of Canada. This place is a conundrum to me, and I am marooned here for the time being. As I have something to say, usually, I want to share these thoughts with you.

Today is a sunny scorcher. Hot numbness, as today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I awoke with the memories of the last look, the pale blueness, inarticulate acknowledgement of camaraderie dwelling in a shocked awakening, knowing that I am still hearing what couldn't be said those years ago. I am driven to remember the sweat and stillness of a life fulfilled by loving. A rare gift.

Today is a waxy wane. Facing myself, the nub of my search to rekindle the art in me has brought me to this public revelation. And this act is much more frightening than solo travelling in a country far away, or exhibiting work to the cloister of the art aficionados. Organs are pressed into upright alignment, poised for the keyboard to flow. I walk away (mentally) as I would from a work in progress on the bench, tool in hand, and expecting to know how to proceed.

There is a 'leap of faith' that occurs with the greatest of joy when the muse guides and all is proceeding. Yet writing has been a latent development.

Poetry was the first love, and a discarded love. Prose revived itself from necessity. Art critic became a title, and a means of propelling myself into the nebulous intricacies of other's creative forces. This was mode endured an abrupt conclusion. Recently, writing for others has been the form of need. I want to rekindle the gentle art of self expression.