Sunday, October 22, 2006

Deception's Wake

Le songe d'un promeneur (The dream of a wanderer).

Awakening to the dream
Of convolution,
The wanderer in me sings.

An aria?
It’s not revelry
Or recitative.
My song stills.

Where is time thwarted?
On my journey
Wandering resolute
To candour’s concord.

Captivated by presumption
By reverie
I form a vast rapport
Of deception’s wake.

Simply wandering
Between forms
Between terrain’s contour and firmament
I dream of impossibilities.

Neither up nor down
Junctures of meanderings
Create new beginnings.
Simply, there is a caress.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Stressing the Weak - Loss of Consciousness

Noun 1. syncope - a spontaneous loss of consciousness caused by insufficient blood to the brain
deliquium, faint, swoon
loss of consciousness - the occurrence of a loss of the ability to perceive and respond

2. syncope - (phonology) the loss of sounds in the interior of a word (as in `fo'c'sle' for `forecastle')


phonemics, phonology - the study of the sound system of a given language and the analysis and classification of its phonemes
articulation - the aspect of pronunciation that involves bringing articulatory organs together so as to shape the sounds of speech

syn·co·pa·tion (sngk-pshn, sn-)

1. Music A shift of accent in a passage or composition that occurs when a normally weak beat is stressed.
2. Something, such as rhythm, that is syncopated.
3. Grammar Syncope.
from Mozart's Symphony no. 25

Sunday, October 15, 2006


I am ever awake for you.
Ever wakeful
Ever awakening.

Even as your voice betrays
Your doubt
Your reticence
Your confusion
I am, for you awakened
To your need
Your call
Your need for me.

I am aching in your agony
Your ecstasy
Your rancour
Your resolve.

I am awake
And you remember me.

I mourn for you, my beloved
A body I do not see.

I am a widow
That had no husband
But a husband you were to me.

I bury my grief, my lover.

I want no one to see
My desolation.

Your friends are now your family,
But not one friend did I see.

I was a wife without secrets,
But secrets you kept from me.

I was not prized -A shame in your life.

I was the best kept secret
I was a source of your strife.
Those years of growth and compassion
Of intimacy
Is now fear.

Forgotten promises
Are plans we held so dear?

The price of misunderstanding
Is grave shadows haunting the day.

Your cherished darkness
Is my shadowed life -

Your darkness was enlightening.
Your solace was as near
As 'never', a word I hate to hear.

Our laughter, love and dreams
Were all dissolved away.

For your needs, my beloved
A price was paid.

I mourn for you;
You were a husband to me.

I mourn for my lover -
That memory
Shadows my life.

My heart aches for your touch -
Not that knife that
Sliced morality...
Not ambiguity.

You are dead to me.

a poem is in your eyes
when I see your face
in your picture.

It stares me down with
kaliadascope colours,
enlightened space.

Eternity is in your candid grace.

Your pure heart
has sung
a guarded tune.

That song is a spell
drowns my hope
dry -
compels me to cry.

Your longing,
burning desires
determined parting.

A cavern dark
a retreat, yours alone
and not alone
left me lonely -
emptied my soul.

Like a slow drip
water falling
drop by drop
dropping from that cloud
slowly love's light
seems replenished
with every word
you speak to me.

I want you to sing
a contented air
breath lightly,
abandon dispair.

Here is my song,
for you.


Today, after weeks of sun, the rain pours. Its a day when the deceit of the past is getting washed away from my soul. A day of reflection. A day of decisions about the future. A day of mourning. A day to beleive in myself. A day to replenish my joy in living. Rain, cleans my heart.


For my own part, I don't believe in a partial liar--this art does not deal in veneer; a liar is a liar right through.
The Lair of the White Worm by Stoker, Bram View in context
A liar will not be believed, even when he speaks the truth.
Fables by Aesop View in context
This fellow is either a lunatic or merely a liar--just a plain, every-day liar whom Yountsey has no call to kill.
Can Such Things Be? by Bierce, Ambrose View in context

More results

Monday, October 09, 2006


Somewhere in Burnaby, BC, a family lives. Home to each other's spirits, they love and thrive on the untold peace of quietude. There is trust and friendship, understanding and joy.

Exasperation and deviation from this kind of life is my experience at this time. I trudge in a wilderness where walking in heaving footsteps, clouds of doubt destroys companionship. Restrictions are suspect. There is foreboding in the dreariness of a decayed relationship. I wish there was someone that might fix this hole in my heart, as a dentist extracts the action of tooth decomposition and can fill the gap with solidity. Would my wounded heart be my rotting teeth.

Friday, September 15, 2006


Jericho Park, Vancouver, BC
Used to be a wonderous place, for me.

Now, I am driven to despise
this playground for the
enterprising liars
that populate that shore.

They feign morality.

The lies are as numerous
as the grains of mutilated rock
shipped to the beachside.

I hate lies. They are sand in my eyes.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Atelier Silex and beyond

Its been almost 2 weeks since I completed my residency at the Atelier Silex. I spent four weeks creating 6 sculptures, with the intention of digitizing this work.

Through multiple layers of contacts, I was able to spend a few hours in the FormLab and the University of Montreal. However, at this time I am still searching for a means to this end. My intention is to digitize this work, and create stereolithographs that can be then utilized as molds for sculptural embellishment for architectural use. Here are two views of the same work.

The 3D digitizing studio at the Concordia University (Hexagram C) uses equipment that cannot have any metal in the original object. My work has a metal armature. I would need to make a polymer mould to facilitate any digitizing of this work. Every step taken away from the original will compromise the final outcome of the work.

This work has other challenges, which I intentionally created after previously digitizing work at Cyberware. Voids are not read by digitizing software that I have used. A trial run at the FormLab indicated that the voids or holes in the work would need to be covered by paper to be read, and the file later edited to recreate the voids. Also, a limit of 12 inches for any digitized object to be sent to a stereolithograph machine would mean most of theses pieces, which are just a little over that dimension, would be scanned in separate entities and each stereolithograph would later have to be reconnected into the work as a whole.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Cates Park

There's a place where daffodils catch the wind in their faces, where they grow wild in abundance in the months of March or April, depending on the temperature that spring will present. Children clad in candy pinks and turquoise will greedily gather armfuls, cooing with glee at their bounty. There were once were tailored beds to display the bobbing canary heads, grassy mounds produce a multitude of yellowed trumpets with egg-yoke centres that dance playfully when the mischievous gusts caresses the slopes where the jaunty jonquils burgeon. Over time, the transition from vivid blooms to narcissus-like paleness has evolved in these flaunting, friendly flushes of seemingly sun-bleached colour that hold fast to the ground when the wind would have them fly away.

The grassy mounds are a meandering distance from the ocean's brine. The ocean is barely in view, and the salty air may have contributed to the erosion of colour. This is a non-scientific hypothesis. Walking towards the shore, a strengthening breeze can be felt and in spring, the rush of callous air is chilling. A treed protection can be found if a bar-b-que is desired. Quiet and solitude is still possible in April.

As May and June erupt into summer's sultry intoxication, the rocky shore becomes populated with a frenzy of watersports, sunbathers, families and couples, even solitary worshipers, meandering or splayed on blankets and mats for the hour or two or day to picnic and create sandcastles in the meagre display of sand, collect the shore's bounty, or play games with balls or rackets. Some will swim, although the effluent from industry is ever-present, and well known to this cove.

There is a singular group, more interested in being on the water than watching it or swimming in it, who will launch a boat for more aggressive entertainment. The boaters will hoist a motored ship into the slapping waves, pile coolers of drinks and snacks, lotion-glistening bodies into the crafts, and geared with hats or not, will charge into the oceanic abyss. Motor boats will flap on the water crests, with or without water-skiers in tow. Speed is always involved, and the faster the boat can skim and the higher it will bounce, the more the passengers are enthralled.

These motorized vehicles are operated by and carry a different mentality than the sail boaters, who wrestle with wind's whim and the cajoling of the water's inconsistency. The beach dwellers will have these graceful multilateral wind-shifters blow across the view, slipping silently throughout the broad wake made by the speed-demons that circle. A gull may caw, the wind will howl while sand whips granules into the potato salad, but the grace of these triangulations that heave over the waterway will entrance the watcher into admiration for the majestic display.

Sometimes, instead of traditionally white sails, billows will form in stark yellow canvas. These brightly clad hoists are seldom without a party of sailboats, sailing in an event. Bouncing and bobbing under a watery sky, there is a chance to think of brazen daffodils, petals enlarged and released to a watery frenzy. Gathering these blooms cannot not take place, but a bouquet of joy's abundance is found in this windy platitude, watching the antics of wind's revelry in that wind... in Cates Park... also known as Whey-Ah-Whichen, which means 'faces the wind'.

Saturday, May 27, 2006


John reaches a carrefour, a crossroad in his life. He cocks his head, pivots and peers to see where there may be concealed harm - or receptive faces. He comes to a place, like a wide, cobblestoned plaza or forest clearing; there may be ambient sounds. Slowly, there is silence and precise action taken.

John is of an age where he can be suspicious of the innocuous. His slight and muscular build is accentuated by a well-shaved head. There is no affectation here. Eyes betray distress and consequences of choices made, of regret, but glisten with mirth. This agile mind dwells on incongruity. He can engineer witticisms because of adroit insight, presenting the world with a jeu d'esprit to divert himself from the possibility of consternation. His grace displays the joy of bizarre outcomes. Life designs askew, John can dwell on precise descriptions of space and time to meliorate pain. A gifted speaker, his rubicund stories punctuate the air as an opera delving into wistful ideas that disrupts mundane existences with arias.

John shrouds infliction with insightful jocularity and a passion for discovery. Mock, he does. He can make rascally caricatures of heroes. Playful derision creates a game of hide and seek with observations and conclusions that can frighten and entertain. John's vocalizations are succinct and mischievous, bursting with impish gusto. The ambiguity between story, storyteller and frustration will bring those that participate to tears of laughter.

Now, John is choosing a direction, devising a new approach to his life. Expediency...? Will his future be a cambered road and can pinnacles of friendly havens be found? Will craggy, impetuous storms continue to saturate his existence with cacophonous improbability? Or will he dwell on the past that he fights to reinvent in spite of well-planned changes? Which way? What choices will he make, can he make?

Looking up and around - there are signs. A call to the universe produces much. All the guideposts are clear, direct, if you can understand the language of those concepts. Some signs may be noble rules. Others may direct a path of folly. The opportune moment usually enjoins decision.

Beware. The light of any moment can be overridden by a wakefulness that has been born of the understanding of one's own nature, natural desires, longings that are riddled with nature's laws and quirks. Will destiny elect the path incised with vexatious cataclysm? Can John practically solve universal enigmas that colour the mystery of his existence? Does he want to? Does he need to?

One only hopes his scintillating joie de vivre will prevail.



Eyes averted, he spoke in vague, one syllable statements. Sometimes the shrug was enough to rotate the unspoken scenario into a new view of his situation. Unseen and unheard, but as visible and loud as a drummer beating fury on the street, the heart pounds while absorbing the selected, untold responses with the heat of the unknown memory burning through her quietude.

Tear this tear from these eyes. A soul has been peppered with secrecy and the blast of degradation. Where can a drop of loves fluidity be found? What use are the sobs where the bark of that isolation echos this night?

These sinking rebukes will loosen the skin to age.


Creamy gray skies infuse the temperate understanding. While wishing for wind, a gust tosses the cedar boughs like a slap. Cars drone but no sirens just now; wailing is presently a memory.

Washing dishes has to be done in stages. Every few minutes, as the Dawn gets squeezed, what might be thoughts become an emotional swell as water spills over the plates and splashes the dish rack. Scrubbing initializes the sadness and fear that seemed to be stuck, as stubborn as dried soup around the pot rims.