'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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Saturday, June 26, 2004
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
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?
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.
The sleeper
decisive
Making a call
change direction
Reading thoughts
simplicity
Making a way - away
loving
Positive change
Awake.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
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...
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...
Friday, June 04, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Delete
Whence comes the lies?
Memory gets fuddled; incisive
Deleting goes far...
Recoverable to a point; trenchant
Deleted and found
Disturbing.
Memory gets fuddled; incisive
Deleting goes far...
Recoverable to a point; trenchant
Deleted and found
Disturbing.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2003
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.
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.
Saturday, August 02, 2003
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."
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."
Thursday, July 31, 2003
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!
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!
Thursday, July 24, 2003
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!
"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!
Monday, July 14, 2003
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.
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.
Saturday, July 12, 2003
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.
Wash.
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
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.
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, July 06, 2003
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
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.
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, June 11, 2003
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.
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.
Saturday, June 07, 2003
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)