Swirl and swivel...

I get beyond myself, sometimes.

Study and test. Test. Sometimes I dwell on the outside parameters of my life. Why I do what I do is often beyond my comprehension. Fit in to society's norm of the work-world. Where are my ideals, where is the work that I am good at, not just mediocre... I feel like I am paddling upstream, and my canoe leaks.

Restitution

Simplify.
Envision.
Deliver.

Find material.
Form the idea.
Make it visible.
Make it alive.

Restore the notion, the creation, the discovery of sculpture.
Give back the embedded knowledge.

Give it back to the universe.

Sick

Cough. Sniffle, blow.

Perspiration draws down the temple, neck, spotting upon the now damp nightgown. Hack. Drip. Nose is stuffed. Kleenex is not to be had. Roll of toilet paper is drawn by handfuls, over and over until an ample wad is released, quickly shoved under nose, and moistened... deposited in the waste.

Thirst. Juice. Water. Water, juice.

Have to get up - glasses are empty. Wobble to the sink. Draw water. Fridge is near. Pull out the jug of juice. Pour more. Carry two heavy glasses to the coffee table.

Drop to the make-shift bed on the floor in front of the TV. Take the remote to my chest, and let my thumb numbly, weakly skip between channels. Up and down. Commercials are always too loud. Find a movie. Don't remember it. Supposed to be funny. What was it? Decongestant never worked, except to impair my memory.

Pillows don't prevent clogged noses. Sit up, and scramble for more crumpled balls of white paper roll. Eyes are watering, blurry, need to close them. Where is that pillow?

Villa Sarabhai

http://www.kalleswork.net/projects/building/build_corb.html

http://www.interiordesign.net/article/CA278486.html

These sites refer to the house that I visited in 1997.

What I remember first is the sultry garden where I sat drinking thick, cool cane drinks under the canopy of nim trees, enveloped by the jasmine scented air on the 3rd level of grassed plateau intregal to the Villa Sarabhai.

The coveted invitation to dine came by submitting my portfolio to the biochemist, Anand Sarabhai. I had asked for an interview through the head of the architecture school in Ahmadabad.

Listening to monkeys cajoling each other in the invisible branches above the gravel drive to the house as the conveyance called a 'three wheeler' brought me to the sanctified entrance; I was encapsulated with the mystery and heightened awareness of this gift of opportunity. Admittance through armed guarded barbed gates beyond the stoned fortress surrounding the enclave began an enchantment, an evening of promise and beguile.

Cobusier had planted part of his soul here. I was entering a timeless homage to an exclusive lifestyle and home to 50's and 60's art.

My sculpture had let me enter. My writing about cultural phenomena in the west of India gave me the means to experience this Corbusier architecture and the owner's passion for modernism.

I am writing about this now, 6 and a half years later, because, although my thoughts were documented in a full-page article I wrote in the Times of India, I have no insight into how this momentous and other extraordinary Indian based experiences relate to my present life, and I need to find a means of finding the magic, regenerating the immediacy and discovery, the beauty and depth that occured at that time in my life.

I was blessed by many eminent events while in India. My work was accepted, and honoured. Since I returned to Canada, life has not been kind. I have been stripped of art and I struggle to remain free from resentment. Caring for loved ones during their crises was needed. Developing a rewarding relationship is decisive, but not enough to fulfill. I need self-fulfillment.

More later.

INEVITABLE

There are a few 'things' I need to address, occurring simultaneously, some trying and discouraging, others welcome and interesting.

Completing a payment to a school I attended this year that does not deserve the money is one task that requires attention. A stretch financially, and irritating, considering their (owners) false earnestness and smugly irresponsible persona's, as well as paying for supplies not supplied, instruction not given... Smarmy people will others into submission as they mirror our unease with evil. We can face the underworld we fear existing in our presence, thriving, and we can be lulled into inaction by the uncanny presence. They disguise calculation and contrivance with monetary stability, enabling false hope to satiate the senses. This is especially troublesome because I think that I am somehow endowed with a big label attached to my forehead that indicates that I am a target for these predators. The partners have written me, calling me disingenuous because I did not complain fast enough. Certainly, I am not quick enough to complain about problems, relying on others probity instead, which is not forthcoming. Complaining people get more for their money. I am considering paying them off in a truckload of pennies, which would be inconvenient for them. They wouldn't like pennies. I like this idea.

Secondly, I am curious about a sequence of circumstances that enabled a telephone conversation with someone from my distant past. This is especially abstruse as I cannot comprehend the meaning of this intersection of our lives. A website was found. "How did I find the website?", is a good question... " I find things" , was my reply. True. I can find information that seems impossible for others to discover. I can. This is not an ostensible fact. It is a demonstrated truth. However, there was an opportunity to reconnect with this person, many months after finding the site, and I liked reconnecting. Maybe there is no meaning, no purpose, just fun. Fun is fine.

Yet I do get muddled, unable to coherently speak; wavering words and strayed sentence structure force the conversation into stiltedness. There seemed to be more to say. He does not tell much, no personal stories, or even less private conversational reciprocation. Not now. Not for some time. I like to reveal. I love to impart stories. I enjoy communicating. There was a restless spirit met on the phone. He was not at ease. Yet... I loved the surprise I created. I need to address this event because he has twice previously - not exactly heralded, but symbolized a foreshadowing, a change in my life's direction. I like to think another transitional phase for me exists, and new beginnings are about to transpire. I need change, and I want to believe that a change is about to take place. Inevitable?

Time

Wandering between present and future allows me to evaluate the past. Funny how the timeline in one's life seems saturated with one of those three segregations. Past/ present... Present/ future. Past/ Future... and all the degrees between. Or just past, present and future. Strange.

Sometimes, just living doesn't necessarily have a desgination, until after the moment, the afternoon, or day... week - month - year... decade and suddenly, in retrospect, time becomes that period of wonderful achievement, the day where I became aware... the year when I struggled, those happy occasions, my querulous youth, my disconcerting thirties...

Future imaginings can be just as indubitable and clear as any memory, sometimes more distinct than the present. Preceding, previous, current, prospective, erst-while, foregoing, forthwith, now... define time. Instantly, momentarily, sometime... Ever! Shedding these segregation of experience seems important to progress, learn, yet the need to define time is satisfying, to ignore the delineations, disruptive. I need the comparison to thrive.

Al-u-min-ee-ummm

Yes, the 7 - 10 foot expanded mesh aluminium tetrahedrons created as a visual description of the segregation of the insular west coast has now been remembered in song. The Winks (thewinks.net) have just sent me a secret sample of the new song. I must say, the imortalization has been a little disconcerting, as they say I WAS a sculptor. A lesson in artistic life is in order, I believe.

Creation has a life that can endure without physically acting on a thought. It inhabits every encounter and action of daily life. Sometimes years pass without adding to the oeuvre. This dormancy can be misconstrued. There are many artists of note that the hiatus was considered abandonment. Perhaps sometimes this is true. However, miraculously as sunshine after a winter of inclement weather, the muse embodies the artist, and drives a renewed spirit to make something meaningful. One does not make for the sake of making. Art must be about something. And more. It must situate itself in the world for all to see, experience. The strength of the work reflects that disturbing, unspeakable, genuine notion that everyone is sensing, but cannot describe. Sometimes these intangibles take the guise of sculpture. Vancouver is notorious for being a photographic haven, a place where photographic and now digital input thrives. Three dimensional insight, configuration and delivery of precious intricacies of life possible to create only in sculpture do not belong in this part of the world. I doubt I will ever work as a sculptor here again. That doesn't mean I am no longer a sculptor. I just need to move elsewhere. Meanwhile, I gather.

Trial

This is a test. NO. This is not a test. Pick one. Real, not real. If every experience is a prelude to the next event in one's life, how can each encounter, every conscious act be purposeful and not ambiguous, be the ultimate action of its kind? Everything counts. Everything is a learning experience. Everything must be chosen well. Everything cannot be chosen. There is no choice, only destiny. There is always a choice to direct one's destiny. I am not convinced of any truism. I just keep moving, and sometimes not.


I want direction where I am utilized by the best possible environment. And I am not now. I fear the worst consequences as I am not a numbers person. I do not thrive where numbers are concerned. IF I can delegate that responsibility, I can concentrate on my strengths. Why not?! WHY should I have to numerate?! AND be responsible for other's money?! This makes no sense. I am ridiculously unprepared for this responsibility. I don't want to do it. I must challenge this, resist this power of confusion which draws me to a vortex of poor judgement and stress. I have the power to say no. I know I do. I must remember this simple syllable. NO.

Hurricane Warning

My aunt lives in Florida. Earlier, forecasts predicted an east coast disaster. Now the 'cane' seems to be on a western coast finish. Yikes! The CNN weather plotting shows that Frances will hover over Tampa tomorrow. All people affected by natural disasters have my sympathy. However, when the safety of one of my own seems to be threatened, emotions rise to the peak of concern.

I am a lover of severe weather. The tremendous tree shattering thunderstorms of my youth, pelting rain pinching my hair follicles, magnificent, blinding blizzards that blanketed the entire house with shelves of snow, golf ball sized hail stones pounding the terrain to smithereens, flooding river gulping the banks away in a night , a prairie brush fire devouring all grasses in a second, any tree in a minute... All these I have witnessed. I have found these acts of nature enthralling. High winds have been especially exciting to me. I enjoyed the sting of airborne dirt nip at my cheeks, the push of the force swaying me off balance. If I was in danger, I did not feel it. Yet the power and devastation of a hurricane has remained distant to me, an event that was read about, televised and confronted vicariously. Now, a loved one can be hurt, or worse. I find my senses numbed, my inability to act on her behalf upsetting. She has been a resourceful woman. Surely she will prevail. I need to believe this.

Sign

The computer at work was waiting for the opportunity to cease because I needed a major stress to re-evaluate my situation. Why, when I have just found steadier work, the proverbial rug gets pulled out from my complacency. I was again, yet again unaware of the riddles of work-life, where monetary needs override my artistic persuasions. AND the cosmos never leave me, always striving to make me see myself differently, always setting a trial to overcome. The lost clusters may mean a loss of a job, a job where I have only worked one day. My hope is that I may be dismissed without having to pay for a technician from my earnings.

Icelandic

Once, bilingual, I was the family translator, I am told. Our multi-cultured Canadian family needed me to relate the meanings of the words uttered by Ingebjorg and Thorvalder to those who spoke only English. Apparently, from the time I could talk until the age of 9 I was called upon for this role. As Ingebjorg became more articulate in English, my Icelandic waned. Thorvalder suddenly died, and my Icelandic grew less dominant, and eventually faded by lack of use. I am sorry that I cannot remember much of this beautiful, poetic language. The sagas Ingebjorg sang, the verses a-plenty are now only sounds of comfort. Yet, I did spend a few hours with her about eight years ago, a few years before she died and within those hours, I was nearly able to comprehend her scolding!!

However distant that usage is, the power of Icelandic still dominates my soul. I speak with a slight accent, I am told. The poetic sensibility of the language has never left me, and the harsh guttural contrasted with smooth, silky vowels twistable with the tongue drives my English pronunciation into foreign realms unknown to native speakers. I wish I could deliver more vocabulary without having to think. I need to visit Iceland, my heritage to revive this gift of my youth.

Snail Mail Delivery

Our landlord, love her, decided to install a mail slot in the front door of our building instead of allowing the postman access to our mailboxes. One likely reason, apparently a good reason, is to prevent incoming thieves from entering the building during postal delivery. Another theory is that keys were lost, and once lost, the key for a postbox cannot be replaced. There doesn't seem to be a master. Whatever the ambiguous raison etre, the post is fitted through this horizontal aluminum fitted break in the bottom of main door, and sits on the carpet until someone picks it up and places it in a plastic container on a table under the mailboxes. This allows anyone to rifle through all mail. The landlord, attempts delivery when she is available. Door to door she goes, up and down the 3 flights of stairs on each side of the building (elevators don't exist here) slipping letters under doorways, when it fits, or leaving the mail in front of tenant doors, when mail cannot be shoved between door and carpet on the other side.

Anonymous posties undoubtedly make their judgements about recipients of certain mail. Having landlords and fellow apartment residents know your business is entirely disconcerting. Having Aunt Bea's stickers flash before 3A while searching for an important document is less worrisome than having neighbours spot a collection notice. However, seeing any type of mail that remarks somehow on your public image, whether positively or negatively is embarrassing and an invasion of privacy.

To date, no mail, I believe has been stolen by a resident. The residents of this building are a docile bunch. Content to remain in the same place for up to 22 years, they obviously don't want to become confrontational. They simply accept the new process for mail delivery without so much as a blink of disapproval. When I am at home at 11ish in the morning, the urge to fly down the three flights upon the sound of mail being shoved through the mail slot is tempting(yes, you can hear everything in this building), and sometimes, a neighbour will have beaten me to the pile. This shows me that although they won't openly complain, the idea of me or anyone else seeing a certain item would mortify them, and to avoid the passing of judgement on their insular world, they choose to sort the delivery before the prying eyes of others will witness a part of their lives they would rather have private. I am relieved to know that they have some sense of independence, that they value their privacy and are just as confused by the new system of mail delivery as I am.

When the landlord slips the letters under the door, she has witnessed every cheque, knows our habits via all bills, has a comprehensive notion of our passions through mailers and magazines delivered. She is a kind and unobtrusive soul, but there is obviously a need for voyeurism that remains in her method for mail delivery that can't be ignored. I have to passively accept this and hope that my race for the pile at the foot of main door can be reached when and if I need my mail to be self delivered. I am exhausted by this concern for privacy every day. I love email.

Munching Lions

In reply to the lion fodder floating down the turbid waterway...
(See the only comment ever made on my blog under 'Spinning')


The idea of feeding the big cats your shredded remains
demands reflection and speculation about this food chain metaphor...

I would not knowingly detach your flesh from your corporealness,
and certainly not plate a meal for the the consumption of the wild forces embodied by your vision.
I am sorry you feel consumed.

Obfuscation in the clouded land could feel like an turning towards distress.

Watercourse, muddy or not, will lead you somewhere.
Lift up your head, and you can see the way.
Swimming can be useful.

I can assure you, I would never front-float in any water I could not drink!

Cranky

I do not understand the working world as it pertains to me. Temporary employment seems to be my niche at this point in time. A permanent Job seems too permanent, and maybe there lies the glitch. However, steady income is alluring and therefore a goal. I do want a regular paycheck, a dependable monetary source. Hire me! Perhaps too much eagerness is off-putting. Be nonchalant. Be approachable but not desperate. So much to demonstrate. All kinds of software to be 'familiar' with, so many words to type per minute - 60, without mistakes. 'Can-do!' attitude. Multi-task, organization par excellence. Be a 'people-person'. Yes, to all. There is always doubt about me until I start working. Then I become indispensable. Then I have to leave because a holiday has concluded, a sick-day has expired. Then I start all over again. A new job nearly every week. And yet no job at all, because I never stay long enough to be the one, the only, the very one needed to complete the office picture. I can wallow in self pity. Easy to do. Not productive. Pretend I am not worried. Find that job, just waiting for me.

Spinning

Tops, the toys painted with horizontal colours of red, ochre and green whir with speed to blur the edges of colours to form new ones. Pumping the top takes some skill because the top needs to remain straight to spin effectively. It needs to land straight, or the top will topple.

Sometimes 'life' has been compared to a spinning top. Right now, I feel I am whirring in one place, going nowhere. I seem to be mixing my sensibilities and cannot differentiate any segments of my understanding. I experience vertigo while I remain in the same space, spinning. The point? The point is to spin.

Waiting

Time is involved.

I watch movements of people walking, one foot proceeds another. Some walk with purpose. Others saunter or stroll. Clothing strides with the legs, arms swung. I watch them go somewhere else.

I breath. I am quiet, patient, simply calm.

The wind winds itself slowly around objects. A butterfly seems to be heard. A plastic bag drifts across the road.

My watch marks the hours without ticking. I look at the dial sometimes. The numbers are small and hard to distinguish. When I look again, the hands of the timepiece have changed to a different position. The hour seems irrelevant.

When nothing is expected, time becomes inconsequential. Waiting stops when something happens. Time becomes important again. Time becomes precious. Time is valued.

I can induce activity. Sometimes I need to wait.

Left out

Crush.

Forced into acceptance.
Altering my confidence, pressure on my soul.
Destruction of my ability to trust.
Suppression of my happiness, oppression of my certitude in my place, my relationship, my friendship.
Belief that I am not worthy, absence of support.
Embarrassment, diffidence...

I am the impediment. Distrustful.

Secretive rendezvous are arrogant questions, insolence.
Crushed.

Early Memories

I cannot remember the beginning of my life. I do not remember birth.

I remember a blue greyed fence placed in our living room, although at the time I could not differentiate the name of any rooms. It was the faded wood that surrounded my square playpen, apparently built by Avi, my grandfather, for my protection and freedom. All wood used was recycled from a farm house that used to stand where my parents' house now occupied. The house was built from this wood too. The boarder occupied enough space to allow an adult sized lounge position in the confines of this restrictive area. I remember my Avi, Thorvalder, leaning against the wooden wall beside me, his bristling, tobacco stained moustache forming a smile. I assume this memory was lodged in my brain before I could steadily walk.

Another of my early memories was in an October morning, hoisted skyward by my mother. She allowed me to view the golden and crispy leaves she was raking from the fork of a dark, damp oak. I felt the smack of autumn's brilliance enveloping me, the scent of yearning upon me that still wafts in my soul to this day. I can't have been more than 3, as we were still residing at my first residence.

I have held this image as being my earliest memory for some time, until I remembered the coarse boards of my playpen. Memory can be odd. It can dodge, avoiding placement, until suddenly images place themselves conspicuously in the mind of the rememberer. A memory game.

Some flower memories

Hollyhocks in my grandmother's garden wave in silence as their long stamens bob in the quiet afternoon oblivious to noisy bees darting, foraging in yellow stamens weighted for their benefit - my namesakes.

I remember the stupefying scent of lilacs in mid July, shrouding my mother's tears, as incense will penetrate, preserve thoughts in a church during a mass.

Nighttime nicotine, white star shapes, scenting the heavens, heralding the nightlights above.

Spring plenty, daffodils bursting through March grasses; park of child-pickers, armloads of pale yellow heads bobbing as they stooped for more, gleeful.

Yellow lilies, mournful blooms marking my inability to continue to conceive.

Red, the loving rose - a full dozen, baby's breath contrasting the abundance, and a smile of happiness for the unexpected thoughtfulness.

Play

Play was serious. "Let's play," was necessary to survival.

Jump. Hop. Skip. I was never very limber. Do the airplane. No.


Colour. Yes, Crayolas. The pack of 64 were the best. It had gold and silver. Bronze. Magenta. Crimson. So many greens. Hours and days and crayons. Sometimes when I was sick, my mother would buy a set of Paint by Numbers. I met those lines with trepidation. I could not easily follow the recommended colours. I tried. Jon Nagy showed my how to draw. His TV show was my favourite program. I ordered his drawing package, and it arrived, not like the free treasure chest I ordered with coupons from the Captain Crunch cereal boxtops. It arrived without disappointment at its contents.

Then there's blocks. Sometimes just tongue and groove wood scraps are a world of possibilities. Fitting, piling, criss-crossing; right angles rising to towers. I built cities and a giant fort to house my little sister. But she moved and the fort tumbled. She cried because the edges of wood scratched her as she climbed out of the wreck. I was angry because she ruined my efforts. I should have nailed her in.

And sand. A pile dumped from a half-ton, centered in a grove of venerable oak. From sand there's roads, and architecture. Winding treads where 'Dinky Toys' plough through to newly furrowed, honed to perfect depths and widths, made smooth with puddle water, creasing the sand with wheel turns, curving to the monoliths, stones piled to mark a destination between the lengths of road. Sticks stuck upright, devoid of leaves, and some with hunks of foliage for trees to shade the highways. As summers passed, the sand pile flattened. The country of origin simply changed.

Indoors, there was 'Post Office'. Deliberating over the plethora of junk mail my father received was a great incentive to engage in this occupation. The game was one of several played in sequence in our playroom, the kid's side of the basement. Dolls, School, complete with a real green chalk board and rows of desks purchased from a catholic school that transformed into a seniors' home allowed a surreal world to be investigated with abandon, spontaneously.

The play room was large, for a child. Approximately 10' by 20', we could enter from the left of the wrought iron stairwell, and enclose ourselves by the sliding mahogany doors. A double bed, and various doll beds were the features of the entrance; wooden table, chairs and dishes for dolls' entertainment completed the first play area. Next was the school area, where Post Office often took place in the north west corner atop a large square storage box covered in black and white plaid vinyl. Somehow, the opening lid for 'posting' made this furniture especially attractive.

We did not play 'House' in the basement. This activity was saved for summer, when we could use the playhouse our grandfather built, first for me, and eventually for my sister. It was a real house, complete with glass panes and a window box, a door that latched, and wooden furniture he had constructed that a 3-8 year old could utilize. The roof was peaked; my grandfather's bald head just fit inside. Every spring the entire house was given a coat of white paint with chocolate trim. Pink honeysuckles graced the doorway, sweeter than honey begun from this bush.

At one point, a swing was installed in the rafters, rope separated by a solid board strung through each side. This was a remarkable swing. Such boundaries were broken. Swinging INSIDE!!! I remember swinging high. How small was I?! Thin hemp ropes, pink dress, my grandfathers hands around my waist. Months, years, passed. Eventually, swinging would encourage kicking of the door, and the swing disappeared; furniture miraculously appeared. Everything was exactly my size.

Different swings. Swinging beside the sand pile in the neighbours yard, swings held by planks supported between the giant oaks made swinging a joy. I was old enough to hold on by myself. I loved smell and prickly stoutness of the rope, the speed and flaying sky as the wind pressed on my cheeks, my flapping skirt, free. Wheee.


Later, when neighbours - kids, congregated, we played more complex games. The Beatles, Ponderosa. I was either George or Hoss. I never liked these characters, but I was not assertive enough to be anyone else. But I got to play guitar and ride a horse. We flew all around the world as rock stars, and stabled our horses between the poplar rows. The neighbour kids got to camp out at night in the poplar wood. The imagination of childeren become especially involved when there is only imagination to play with. I was never allowed to stay out past 10. Who knew what may happen? Especially because there were no guitars or horses. Play may become reality. Innocence would be lost. 'They' were right.

Living Memory

I have taken my memory for granted. I like to remember. I can remember many precise details from the binging of my youth. My memory is my solace, my connection to the past and and a history lesson for my present endeavors. Not everyone remembers the same things, but collectively, memory can enhance all events, when shared.

I have a sister that does not remember her childhood. My father cannot remember past today. I have relatives that cannot remember significant actions. I have friends that do not remember anything negative. Others will not remember the positive component of a memory. Most bizarre are the memories that are constructed. People I known will draw on an event and develop a memory that never existed.

I feel estranged by those that were part of my memory and refuse to continue to keep the memory safe and alive. Living memory is vital to ensure a moment, a celebration, a pivotal transformation is never forfeited. Lost memory saddens me. I enjoy rekindling and renewing memories. I need my memory.

My grandmother had the best memory of anyone I have known. She could remember at least 20 stanzas of sagas that she sang until her death at 103. I aspire to develop my memory. I need to be part of her legacy.

August Splendor

Today is August. Charming, warm, lustful July seeps into August's hospitality. A grandiose month, my month. The peak of summertime. Everything is more. There is also too much wonder about what's next. A challenge is to remain swathed in the summer's glorious bounty and not dwell on the future - just embrace the present loveliness. There is generosity in the flourishing thoughts that develop in August; adventure can be luxuriant, but pensiveness prevails.

Leaning

Against trees, there is comfort
Wavy indent from the bark
Crease
Skin embedding skins between
tree and incliner.

Against people, there is opinion
Wavering divide from the brow
Inspiration
Mind infiltrating mind between
Cause and effect.

Find my newer (not newest) drawings (3 so far) here...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/48600079099@N01/?savedsettings=85205#photo85205

De-boraing

It's a crafty scenario.

Daughter and mother chat. Mother speaks. Daughter listens. Polite interchange. Conversation ends.

What volumes were not said. Another year to wait for the next quasi-conversation? Are all imagined evils white and motorized? Are all failures someone's fault? I can't imagine that any occurrence of monetary interchange can be all good or all bad. I can't believe all giving is for naught. I can't believe all resistance is formidable.

Selective memory is an astoundingly powerful tool to rearrange the past for one's self-preservation, supposedly. Privately, I have ascertained that weakness can be the dismissal of all familial ties, rearrangement of the facts to prevent the possibility of remembering the love, feeling the love.

This operation is a puzzle cube that only the angels can solve. The 'run-away bunny' hops, but will not be caught. Just found. Silent night and day, again and stored in the book of best forgotten moments. Life is too short to forget. I cannot pat the bunny, but I can keep the phone connected.

Woe

Unbelievably, eventually, all problems have a solution.

However, while one waits for the good stuff to happen, life happens. It is a strain and a pain. Forbearance is a trial. Remaining calm, a quality required required to endure the waiting time makes one's self-confidence susceptible to question.

Is the wait realistic? Compared to what? It has been my experience that if needs are waiting to be addressed, every possible opportunity for adversity or provocation, opposition, confusion and delay will manifest to prevent expediency.

I shudder at the thought of waiting another month for remuneration expected 5 months ago. Explaining the delay, expecting others to honour commitments when your ability to meet agreements, when means are not forthcoming, again, is frustrating and exhausting. If the complaints begin, nothing will change. Steadfastness may seem ridiculous. Nothing changes if opposition prevails. Communication must contain promises, again.

Bearing the reality of waiting a month, 2 months, is an incredulous scenario. But its true. Dilemmas are not hastily resolved when changes are expected and not ensured. At least, not within a predetermined timeline.

Willingness to comply doesn't always work. I need money now!

An adjunct to Twinkle...

I need to remember. Every day, a living memory must remain. No telling when memory will fail. If I don't tell, my memories will vanish. They are mine to remember.

Memories are a wonder, zealous and a confounding phenomena. I like mine. I remember when others don't. Others remember, but my memories are mine. I cherish my memories.

There was a time, summer time, perhaps July, around 11, after the sun had reverted to a sky of miraculous colour cascading between magenta, orange and cerulean oscillations, the depth of the frog bleating subsided to allow the stars to divert my concentration. I snuggled up to the grass on the south facing lawn. Facing skyward, I could barely see sky for stars. I would always seek out the 'Big Dipper', "Little Dipper'. I began to stare at the throbbing dazzle. The enchantment of the heavens was overpowering. No streetlight in this country garden. Just vistas of the other worlds' diamonds twinkling in my eyes.

I remember the length of the grass, stark growth between my fingers, the blades stroking my toes, dewed and delicate. I needed the deep, weighted heat of the earth beneath my skirt, the scent of the nicotine from the sequestered flowerbed, white fragrance stirring the night's sensations to calm grounding, sensations preventing my heart from exploding with confusion. I knew nothing of astronomy. I don't understand completely why that wasn't important. I needed to look, to absorb the vision before me, not analyse it.

The evening star shone for me.

Twinkle

When he said the word, I remembered the nursery rhyme.

"Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky."
~ Jane Taylor

There are many more verses, which escape my memory, but not my imagination. I remember my recitation, verse after verse, not as memorable as this verse, tucked somewhere in the middle. Odd.

Today, someone said my eyes still twinkle (after 30+ years!).

Do I scintillate? Do I sparkle? Do I emit dancing fun with my glittering, bashful glance? Do I flutter sympathetic brilliance? Most people do not see me at all. Invisibility has been a dominant force in my social domain. This poetic description of my eyes has made me brighten.

Dichotomy

I live in disparate worlds.

The working tangent entails thinking, functioning, operating in an organized, precise world, structuring other lives while attended to by physicians. I organize patients' and doctor's documents. I am the swinging door where private concerns get maximum follow-up through referrals and lab tests. I temporarily enter an office where I must adapt immediately to the office culture and function methodically, directly and efficiently. Stress makes mess. When the order exists, calm prevails. When the doctors' expectations are not explicit, disaster ensues. I seldom know where or when I work next. I like the opportunity to meet new challenges. I miss the continuity of my own organization. I don't need to stay in one place. I think I would be too bored, fast.

My creative world, currently on hiatus, is a gaping vortex of time waiting to be bridged. Still and quiet, my attention towards creation of sculpture, although not waning, is not waxing. As the space between action and inaction widens, I will eventually fall into the act of creating or be drowned by my own inattentiveness.

Creating demands content. Content demands new experiences. My work world brings me to the diversity of lives without emotional participation in their intricacies. I love the opportunity of being involved yet separate, solemnizing and respecting, while segregating my psyche from these other lives.

Am I able to completely divide myself? Can I disassociate myself from the immediacy of pain and suffering of these people? Can I create while I disunite myself from these healing rituals? Will propitious omens soon wake me into understanding how these world will draw me into art creation. I am still wondering where the sculpture is.

BIFURCATION; I am divided. I am being divided.

Backyard Hour

This evening, having no real place to hang out outside (living in a balcony-less apartment), I ventured into the next door neighbours' backyard where the rooming house landlord, also owner of my building, had cemented a patio recently, complete with wobbly plastic lawn chairs. Three were grouped invitingly around a chipped, circular white plastic table. A green and white striped umbrella, secured in place with a cinder block and braced against the grey-green of the wall shingles completed this inviting spot for a read. Book in hand, I wedged myself against the building, a forest green plastic chair for a seat, and the surface of the unpopulated table served to support my novel.

This is an odd little place. Facing morning sun and shaded in the late afternoon, created adjacent to a rare urban vegetable garden flanked by cobalt blue fencing, a collection of 10 patio chairs lean against the wooden boarder wait for occupants. Often the rooming house residents will eat outside at this enclave, usually after six. I was able to have an hour of relative solace in this communal patio before any intruders decided to join me.

The eastern rear of this house is a gravel driveway. The corner of the drive, between the garden and a walkway on the north side of the house is the nexus of this spare space. People do walk through, entering or exiting the residence, or just to conveniently access the alley beyond. A few such meanderers did pass by, nodding hello. I was grateful the usual week-end 'garage sale' was not taking place today. The drive serves as a stall space for neighbours to sell used wares most weekends. The lack of merchandise was strange, but welcome.

The alley is well travelled. Garbage and recycling containers inhabit the edge of a 10 meter laurel hedge on the south boarder of the yard, which allows easy access for the souls that make a few cents per bottle, when rummaging through the debris. No bottle seekers came today while I was reading. Quiet for an hour.

The cedar across the alley, rusty above its top third, was the loud harbinger of the sun's relentlessness of the past weeks. This observation was a slight diversion of thought as I momentarily looked up from my book. No wind blew. The inner city chatter on the streets was a peaceful din.

A treasured hour.

People

People I know and like, and like me generally can be considered my family.

These people are not necessarily blood relatives, although some of my relations are very close to me. Friends, if they stick around, eventually become related. Few stick.

Acquaintances can be more annoying than strangers. Sometimes strangers will interact with me more honestly than acquaintances. Those people that think I am their friend because I think and do things they admire or wish they could do are deceiving themselves because if I acknowledge their persistent attention with cordiality; they mistake this for friendship.

I choose friends with great discretion. I will hold back a relationship for years, waiting for the hole from which the blood will flow. You have to be tough on yourself to be my friend. You have to have undivided concern and care, enough to share. You have to be willing to take risks, defy conventionality, and be interested in the unknown, a kind of explorer.

And you have to be able to laugh; cosmic laughter, belly laughs at themselves, their inanity, at the beauty of existence, at the misdirection of life's well planned impossibilities. They must love well. They must believe in dreams and live their own, integral to a creative, intelligent life and precious newness - this especially warms my heart .

Some people I like fit this criteria, but think that being with me is too much work. They don't know how happy I am that their perception is revealed. Their resistance is the beginning of the blood flow.

I see it spilling like spilt water from an overturned glass. And I am relieved. I am not that thirsty.

Heartburn

Stuck in my throat, the gastric juices force their way into my upper palate. Tepid tap water from a heavy crystal goblet seems to taste better than just tap water. The mediocre temperature will swish down the troublesome hydrochloric acid until I start thinking again. The surge is unpredictable.

How can one control the thought process? One recalcitrant consideration, a simple idea veering towards my emotional self, and the esophageal burn forces itself upward. The body betrays my privacy.

There is no lock that can contain my feelings. They erupt outward, protruding out of my skin, and now they drive digestion into a confused process. I digest food and ideas in the same organ. I simplify the break down of transcendental concepts into a metabolic regurgitation. How absurd.

Yet, my heart burns.

NO PHONE

Ringing. None.

No interruptions. No missed calls. No connection. Trundle to the payphone? With a broken leg, I cannot roll down the stairs. I would if I could.

It takes much thought, planning to make a call. And there are quarters, dimes and nickles to be had to proceed. And the sticky mouthpiece must be kept at bay. Answering machines eat money.

Messages cannot be returned; only more calls can be made. Mind cannot be changed as there are no means to rearrange schedules. Make an appointment. Keep it. Hope that the other party will honour the time.

'They' may not be near their phone, or their cell phones are turned off. Or they just don't want to talk.

Sometimes phones are excuses to create barriers. Sometimes phones are turned off. Often people screen calls. 'They' listen to the caller and decide if they want to talk to the call maker. Call waiting give the speaker the sense that their call is less important than the next one waiting to be heard when the recipient says, can you please hold a sec. Holding for any reason is estrangement.

Time to call is time spent waiting on hold when communication is pending.

Sometimes people won't call. Sometimes people wait for calls that will never be made. Sometimes calling is not appropriate. Sometimes people call too much. Sometimes some don't call enough, or at the appropriate times, the needed times. Some like to be called everyday. Some ask too much.

People don't understand 'no phone'. People think there is something wrong with your world. Many people world-wide are phoneless. 'They' use 'phone boxes. Or neighbour's phones. Few have cell phones. More are getting those technology gluttons. Other people use phones only when necessary. They meet, instead of calling. Or write. Sometimes, home phones can take years to obtain. Sometimes never. Sometimes people don't want phones. Any phone is an extravagance. Any phone is an imposition.

I had a cell phone. I was constantly answering. I couldn't walk or drive or do the dishes without the phone ringing. My tones. I discontinued the cell. Yet, emergency situations make me pine for my cell. And night sojourns. Sometimes, more now since payphones are being removed, a cell is handy.

These past 3 days without a phone ringing have been odd. Have I eschewed telephoning? Reconnection is imminent.

Tomorrow the phone will ring.

Some birds

Summer's a vengeful time, ravaging the landscape and its inhabitants with sun. The force of this brilliance is tolerable in the early morning.

Out of the assorted urban trees a meadowlark awakens me. Every day I remember the meadowlark that sang in a large oak at dawn during my youth. There are some songs that will endure. I love to respectfully listen to this morning glory.

There are some birds "(Ceryle alcyon syn. Megaceryle alcyon) that is slate blue above and white below with a slate blue breast band and an additional chestnut-colored band in the female - and the any of numerous small shorebirds (family Scolopacidae) distinguished from the related plovers chiefly by the longer and soft-tipped bill" (Merrium Webster) that I remember jostling for prey on the clay river bend of my shore of the Icelandic River. I would sit in the sun, mesmerized by the agile swoops of the belted kingfishers, cobalt triangulations, glistening feathers spread devastatingly sharp against the stark blueness of the mid-day sky. Sandpipers trotting in the muck, bills diving into the watery edges to plunge into water saturated, clay-borne bait foolish enough to harbour themselves within the depth of the bird's elongated reach. The flying birds dove for fish at the water's ebb, and were no competition to the sandpipers. Yet they seemed to reel, weave around the sky, fighting off their imagined competitors, squawking, antagonizing the silence of the sand driven travellers. They were probably fighting for fish amongst themselves, but the sandpipers did not seem to realize this. I would be mesmerized for hours in this contradiction of species.

Now, I can occasionally glimpse the stoic stance of a blue heron on my English Bay shore. Gulls meander the horizon, and fuss, I miss the intrinsic antics of my river birds.

New Horizon

Dry is the river where secrets tread
Dark is the limb where fears are led
Bristle when the words are spared

Know well the impression...

Know what?
I don't know
How I know what I know

I know without telling
I know without sound

Sometimes the eyes crease and colour the news
Sometimes the skin will reveal the deed
Sometimes the message just lingers like scent
I know the message and dread the clues.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Crypticness has never been my strength.
I am not mysterious or secretive.
I have difficulty lying.
I appreciate private conversations, if I am privy to the information.

I like defined shadows, if I create the distinct forms that deliver the interception of light. I like to play with the visibility, the light on material... creation of sensations that arise from the juxtaposition of different light on surface and form.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Yank the sky forward... Oh how I miss the expanse of a prairie sky... Full, unobstructed vision. I am always looking around corners to see the light.

Minatures are not me...

Wearily, I put away the plastic clay.

Deliberating over the form I produced in a few minutes, I came to the conclusion, which is a conclusion that I have had previously, but was reconsidering, that I must work large. I need to define space, not model. I need to confront space, conflict with it, restructure the environment, redress the landscape. This will be the way I will work and can work without producing trite and formal nick-knacks. I must sustain my patience, believe that I will again utilize material to sculpt the ideas that are waiting to manifest.

Meanwhile, I blog.

Working world

The Addiction office was a week of sleepless nights, the images of 20 something girls, trying not to look stoned, waiting for their methadone 'scripts... Somehow, they chose drugs over living through their nemesis. Heart wrenching. One week of being especially cheerful and accommodating is over.

I must find another way to make a living.

New prospects next week. Friendlier and more diverse. I am still stunned, wondering how those near and dear will skirt that frightful, intoxication of the drug induced euphoria, remaining true to their enchanting selves.

Here are some drawings:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/embellish4art/sets/72157605667281192/

Twist my arm

I saw an 'employment facilitator' today. Now, people are hired to ease one into an employable state, including resume review, interview technique critique, assessment of dress etc. According to Greg, my facilitator, my resume did not reveal my nature.

Somehow, I doubt that my employability in my chosen niche would be possible if I was truly honest about my strengths. I am attempting to be a chameleon. Obviously, my persona does not match my resume. The job counselor repeatedly asked me what I wanted. He urged me to ask for what I want, to divulge my wants; my successes must be revealed in my resume. This 'sales pitch' is supposed to reap an interview, cultivate a match between employer and me. I have doubts.

I am supposed to type. I can type, except when I have carpal tension. I type what others say; perhaps this is the reason for my growing resistance to this 'skill'. This is indeed a dilemma.


For some reason, I am becoming nostalgic.

I remember writing on top of my parents roof. I would climb the television tower erected to the east side of the house. The country village where I grew up was not within the appropriate range for a signal to allow multiple channels without this construction. I remember the excitement of climbing the metal ladder up the tower level to the middle of the roof peak. I held my notebook and pen in my mouth as I endured vertigo. I had to swing to the roof leaving one foot on the ladder, reach to the gritty shingles, and push off from the ascent with the tip of my toes of my left foot while reaching the edge of the precipice with my left, corduroyed knee. A forced roll into the hot ,sticky surface, scrunching my 'scribbler' completed this deft acrobatic technique. I loved writing from this perch, which gave me an expansive view of our acres.

I also have a vivid memory of writing on the river's edge I 'discovered' a short walk from our home.

Our street was a gravel road. Walking east to the far end near the bridge to Main Street, I veered to the dirt trail that took me to the railway crossing that transversed the Icelandic River. The village had dumped huge slabs of concrete, discarded sidewalk broken into chunks to fortify the river's edge. Beautifying the waterfront entailed ripping out all the willows that had secured the flow of the river. As a make-shift solution, these masses lined the area that held the trestles supporting the railway. I would sit in this secluded spot, dismayed at the corruption, the dissemination of the beauty that once enlivened the water's edge. Here, I wrote poetry.

Now I write using a word processor. Yet, poetry is best when writing by hand.

Procrastination

Delay. Do something else to intentionally hinder the action from taking place. Yes. I am finding a way to prevent the voluntary commitment to searching (and finding) a job.

The phone rings. The dreaded interview is booked. I am completely surprised by this response to my half-hearted fax the week before. Agencies do read resumes. Who would have believed it? I feel weakened by this event. Will my resolve to continue to defer my job search be thwarted? Money is a powerful enticement. Hope for monetary gain is a temptress to be acknowledged. Yet I fear the job; I am repulsed by my base lure to financial contentment through work.

I am not a lazy person. I wish fulfillment. I am guarded in my presumption to endeavor to become a filer of documents, responder of phone queries, the administrator of physicians' orders. What am I doing?! Procrastination seems much more eventful. I am worried.

Art seems so far away.

The spell of morning light

Somehow, I was remembering a bowl of oranges that were placed on a wholly wooden table, a table bought at the Salvation Army store, an expandable, rectangular, scarred, yellowing table. The oranges were large, and the morning light bathed those oranges, suffused them with a pale intensity, marking the beginning or an end or a transition.

Even now, 30 years later, I am not sure what to call that mark. The initiation into adulthood seems an appropriate designation of this distinguished realization. The window was never able to emit more than a glimpse of morning, and light never shone in except at early mid-day. The table was handsome in this caress of sunshine, made comforting by the roundness and purity of the hue of that copious pile of fruit.

I had walked into the frail apartment, alone. The scratched, phalo-green tiles surrounding the electric grill of the dormant fire-place to my left was a reminder of the attempt at remodelling that had taken place in this home.

We had conducted an alteration of our spirit, of sensation, of cognition - awareness and judgement of ourselves that had passed now to another phase in our lives. We had created independent pathways to our existence.

What was most startling in my new sensible awareness was the absence of presence; the gift of interaction was gone. The impelling forces we experienced, the moral poise, the emissions of fundamental physical forces between our bodies had affected us, made us part of each other's existent whole. There was seldom tranquility between us. I experience freedom from turmoil, of discomposure that morning.

The fruit had been a gift. Giving someone fruit, a product of growth, the maturing of a consequence of nature's productivity seems portentous now. Then, I just wondered, "Why oranges?". I remember asking myself the question as I stared at the present. I was confused by the beauty of the enchanted daylight.

My oranges compelled me to peel.

Sultry Vancouver

Here in Vancouver, any temperature above 20 degrees C seems to cause its residents a sweltering discomfort. We are perturbed by the elevated temperatures. We are disquieted, by the disorder the heat creates.

Drive, and you encounter profanity, rage, and speeding annoyances railing about their discomfiture; these course, brash, insolent people are peevish, affecting my hope for august tranquility. Perhaps I attempt this stability prematurely.

Brash as the public heat-sufferers become, this is no match for the intensity of turmoil that my actuating forces endure. Platitudes of misunderstandings dominate my intellect; emotions are vanquished, being consumed by the consequence of a choice where my best interests were not considered... by me.

Evening is lovely. Renewed vigor seems as close as the fan blowing at my calves.

Leave it to me...!?!

Somehow, I have been delegated 'the one' who can...

I seem to be 'the one' who oversees conundrums. I can find out information that eludes others. I can create 'win-win' scenarios where confusion once reined. What do you need? I can find ways to make positive events evolve effectively , rectify misunderstandings.

I have challenged financial institutions to remedy their greedy practices, influenced the change in laws to be inclusive... Somehow, I can. I have the fortitude to forge changes to alleviate pain and enable calm and productivity. However... There is a wide gulf between my active mentoring and financial recompense. Why?! This remains to be a mystery I need to solve... And change.

I never resent the recipients of my work. Yet, I do need to support myself, especially if I am going to continue to assist those that need my help. Charging doesn't work. Kind, cosmos... I need direction! What do I need to do to effect a financial positioning that generates enough money to meet my needs?! Yikes!

What I want

'They' say, "Ask to receive", "If you don't ask, you won't 'get'. "Be careful of what you wish for... You might get it!".

The premise is - if you don't articulate your wishes, needs, desires, if the cosmos doesn't hear your soul's preferences, you won't allow the delivery/experience of your most cherished wishes to occur. Speak to be heard. Seems simple.

Here's what I want: (my prayer begins here...)

1. I want to write for money, earning enough to make my travel and all my dreams and family's dreams come true; I want this to endure for at least 3 decades.

a. I want to write for people that appreciate my gifts without having to submit a resume.

b. I want to travel and write. I want to write and travel. I want to write about what I discover on my travels.

DETAILS: I want to meet people and tell their stories. I want to get paid for this privilege. I want compensation that will perpetuate this cycle, without financial hardship, with financial comfort, with enough money to support my family's/loved ones' needs and my dreams. (I have restated these dreams to make sure that this is heard, and that nothing of the complete wish is omitted.)

Also, and importantly integral to the above 'wish list'...

A. I want to be healthy, with all the energy, drive and integrity and more to spare to make all my dreams happen, and continue for decades.

B. I want a home to come back to after traveling; I want to share this home with my loved one, as we have discussed - dual studios on the ocean, surrounded by nature, to perpetuate our need for discovery of his science, technology and my art.

C. I want to always continue my education, perpetuate my art practice, and live without fear of poverty, infidelity, inadequacies and ignorance.

D. I want my loved ones to be healthy, happy, and be fulfilled, utilizing their gifts; I want to continue to be active in their lives.

E. I want to continue to laugh, be happy in my activities and pursuits, enjoy my loved ones, friends and family with humility, dignity and joy.

Chapter Two

The clock was not striking. It slid silently between three and four in the afternoon.

The western window's heat began waking her from the medicated nap she took to suffer the pain. A back sprain drove the slumber, and dreams. She saw herself in a mirror, pigtailed, as in her youth, wearing a zipper on her mouth, eyes shut, hands bound by barbed twine. Too many 'B' movies, undoubtedly.

Giotto was displaying his colours in the background. Azure and gold, the shimmer drove the mood of the vision, which became a painting? a sculpture? To be made... future travels.

The door opened and shut. And opened and slammed closed. She strove to rise from the black corduroy, pressing her wrists deep into the foam of the chesterfield (couch, for those unacquainted with Canadianisms). Marooned on the worn object, the door of her perceived beginnings became locked in the presence of muscle analgesia.

The early 14th C. paintings loomed before her; salivating, she tasted the ingenuity of non-representation. And the archways! What a solution to the conundrum. Get rid of the doors, and everything will be accessible!

Chapter One

The door was locked from the inside.

Her door did not require a key to open it from the interior of her space. All she had to do was to want to turn the locking device counter clock-wise, and the door would open to her.

Would she find a reason to go out?

Wednesday is wily

Sun wakes
The sleeper
decisive
Making a call
change direction
Reading thoughts
simplicity
Making a way - away
loving
Positive change
Awake.

Sleepy people

Shutting my eyes at 2am and 2pm... Inbetween there are daydreams and nightmares... Finding a rhythm is a puzzle not found. The rut-tut-snoze of daily living is festering my equilibrium.

Doc's offices are not for me. Can do. Will do... Shall I forever be booking referrals, billing, cleaning speculums, ushering the patients, asking personal questions that is not my business to ask...? and an interview on Friday for a 'real job', not just practical slave labour... How shall I convince myself I am the best for the world I do not want to participate in... Begin with the end in mind, so says the self-help books. I am not a self-help aficionado, but I do occasionally flip those self-motivating pages in a browse of mega stores... This line comes from Covey himself, guru of the 7 steps to effectiveness in one's life. So far, his steps have not lead me to the best possible scenario of my dream life. Maybe I need to write the book that addresses my own needs.

So many people to thank...

My dear 'graces' are so patient. My friends and networking contacts have accessed worlds beyond my ability to do so. (I am still trying to understand why and how I fit into these milieus.) My grenouille, a pet.

Still, my groggyness prohibits liveliness and this I must disect. When I know, I can act...

Drill

Somebody once said that the way to your heart is through your mind. There is another thought... It is through your stomach? That I could never condone. Somehow, when I heard a true story tonight of loss of a life, the stomach pitched and the mind cornered itself into my heartbeat rhythm.

The story has been told in various ways...

He was on his way to work

It was 5 am

It was a '53 Ausin with a 'death trap' door

He worked as a meat packer or he worked on the railroad

He was a medical student

He had just passed his exams

He was alone

He was with friends

The friends were on the water tower

It was a snow storm

The train was coming

He saw the train and drove into it

He saw the train and jumped out of the car

He saw the train and rolled under it

The train decapitated him

He had a wife

His wife was buying a dress for a party

He was going to celebrate

They had just finished celebrating

His wife had to see the body

His ring was scored with scratches

He had a baby

His baby was 7 months old

He was 32

He was celebrating

He passed his medical exams

It was March 5

He was drunk

He was hangover

He was late

He was dead

He died in the morning

He died on the way to the to work

He died after the party

He died and the world changed

Love is everything?

Love won't cork the bottle

Love won't keep me from not knowing



Heart and mind need to stay together.

Whence

Goodness. So many eons since I blogged. And as it was a day of serendipity, it seems appropriate to blog it out...

Leave it to me to stumble upon the past with such clarity that I forgot how to keep searching for the present tense. The net of the succinct numbers were the key. 1530. How could one have guessed the trump. And yet it was the magic number. Perhaps not magic, just a thrust in a future direction that circumvents the past... the circular universal transition where the arcs pass but don't touch. It was a surprise to see the distant future pass before my eyes; it smacked of oddness. No newness, just wonder. Could this be a direction? - I am doubting my direction, as always. I am a curious as the proverbial lioness. I love to explore.

The 3 muses are circling my imagination these days. They are the gifts of a dream where I was bestowed with life and gratitude. The harmonies they offer their worlds are remarkable to me. East, more East and farther East they live. Still, they circle my heart, tho the silence is often a tumult of vibration in my soul. I steady myself with lovingness at their accomplished lives. So much done, and will be done by them. Da la de. The trick is to desire nothing. All stays calm.

And so will the valiant charger hold the staff of the snake?! The province may think so, but will the nation?! And will the taming of the serpent be enough to fortify the melancholy boredom? Metal plates in hand these days, and torches to melt them doesn't seem the likely means to forging a medical practice. Stranger things have happened, I know, but telling it like it is will be and is unbelievable to most. It make me laugh. I am happy to be the witness to such contradiction. I enjoy the disbelief. People are so set on the norm. How bored they must be to need normality.

I seem to have fallen into my need for contrariness also. The practical. The expected necessity. The bizarre inability to be placed by society. I do not fit. I don't appear to not be able to fit. The reality is much different. Lakes fit into large dips in the earth. The oceans fit between continents. The sky does not fall. Mountains erode rather than move. I am definitely more like lava, spilling all over new terrain without the sea to cool me into place; the air will make me solid one day, but not before I have redefined the space I move through. And money is never to be found. Only those that discover the power of the fresh, the potential for re-development or evolved territory can cash in. I am a mystery to myself.