Italy... Residency

The Venetian light was slow in appearing. Rain soaked bags up and down campos, after a ferry ride to Rialto, lugging heavy luggage up and down stairs, nearly into a canal, up narrow dead-ends and back over cobbled streets, finding 'Planet Bar', a rendezvous for the landlord... finally.


The 10 hours of travel from Casole d'Elsa

with 3 transfers prior to setting foot in this watery city proved to be eventful.

Trains changed platforms of departure continuously - while waiting for one train at #5 - it was changed to #3 and #1 within 15 minutes. One station - Pisa - had elevators. Florence, and the station on the mainland before Venice did not. Kind strangers felt inclined to assist with hoisting the heavy suitcases with me some of the time - up & down stairs, and onto and off trains, sometimes. Being a working artist, and carrying garments for 2-3 season and tools is a daunting journey, especially when there is any distance to be made en route to the destination.


The crisp autumnal air pervades, and sitting with an espresso dopio and vino rosso, there is some solace knowing where my designation is. After a 3 hr. search or the address, I found the gallery/residency/workspace, SPIAZZI.





Situated near Campo San Martino, at the end of a bridge on an estuary of a canal, it is an inauspicious doorway, signified by a fading print of its name on the side of the ancient door. The door number refers to a whole area of the Arsenale district.

Large felt curtains greet the visitor before entering the gallery.
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Sitting in a plaza opposite a naval museum, one cannot help wondering if the patio this cafe is situated on was reclaimed from the canal. Porticoes seem eroded by the former waterways. A water taxi passes under a re-articulated bridge made of wood and metal steps, easing to the plaza with rounded stone steps. Cafe dwellers shoe away the birds, which seem to b uninhibited enough to light on tables and would perch on glasses, if allowed. Vegetation is scarce in Venice. A sad tree, some pots of flowers is all that is seen of any natural foliage, and habitation for the flying creatures.

Corroded and encrusted doorways, the smell of stagnation, giant lions and shlepers of boxes, creates, pictures and bags jostle between tourists hoisting cameras and knapsacks.

A parade of people looking upward - onward, staring unabashedly, drinking in history - the marvel that this place exists at all - and I am one of these.

Verrocchio show

Verrocchio Art Centre - Casole d'Elsa, Italy

Looking through the wisteria aperture to the hills of Tuscany from Casole d'Elsa's Verrocchio Art Centre.

Restless Night

This is a view of what I see as I drive towards my studio. The Vancouver docks are a bustling place, and trains, seagulls, vehicular traffic create the cacophonous night. Sometimes there are people heard, but not to the extent heard in the 'West End', otherwise known as downtown Vancouver. This is an industrial zone, as opposed to a residential and commerical area.

But it is not the sound of the streetscape or dockside that keeps me awake. It is the dread, regret and projection of future confrontation, unresolved issues and deceit - most of all deceit, that keeps me from sleeping.

Listless

When I returned to Vancouver, just 6 weeks ago, sitting on this waterway seemed an appropriate reacquainting act. The restlessness of hands occupied with the tasks of everyday living are not yet finding materials that make this artist functional.

A studio is secured, and is currently housing remnants of other's lives; sorting, discarding and repacking are the daily activities. I can see the floor, now, and am hopeful that by months' end I shall resume my work.

Beginnings and endings. Begin again.

End with a new beginning.

Mediteranian Musings

This is a picture of a rumsteak dinner with truffles that I had in the neighbourhood restaurant a few days ago. I thought my
computer 'ate' the photo.


I have a few snaps of scenic jaunts around where my residency takes place I thought I would share.





To the left is a close-up of a cork tree. As I have been consuming wine with the stoppers primarily made from this tree, it seems appropriate to include this picture, taken en route to a quest for sculpture materials and tools. The harvesting of the cork bark may or may not be bad for the tree. I broke off a piece, as a memento - I doubt the tree will miss the bit I would like to bring back with me. Maybe customs will prevent that?


Departing from the harbour at Cannes...




A passenger on the boat to the L'isle de Lerins...



















On the edge of the Mediterranean Sea... off the L'isle de Lerins



A few picture of the Fort Royal - Saint Marguerite...

















En route to the rampart...

A view of Cannes from the gun-hold...



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Raku my World

Inserting ceramics

Creating fire bed

Ceramics ready for the fire

Firing up the bed

Water cooled ceramic

Removing burnt sawdust

This is was Raku day...

A.I.R. Vallauris - The beginning of the residency

Seems like another world has embraced me - a time where plagues were rampant, Napoleon landed, a time where tampanade and truffles are ordinary fare. Only the olive spread and dark aromatic culinary delight are the norm, as is the well-worn architecture.

A labyrinth-like geography, this town has four corners, a plaza on each. Cloistered in one of the towering houses, I share an Ikea furnished living space with two other artists, one American, another Irish. We each have a separate studio, and mine is shown above (exterior). I have only visited my converted donkey stable, and wonder what kind of work will be produced in this stone chamber.

Extreme sensory perceptions are rampant as I walk up the cobbled, steep hill to the place where I can concentrate on sculpture again. The heavy stones calm me from my mysterious angst. History presses on this West Coast inhabitant. I need to dig deep into my ancestral past to find the sculpture within me.
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Deception's Wake

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

Awakening to the dream
Of convolution,
Responding
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.

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')

syncopation

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-)
n.

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.
syncopation
from Mozart's Symphony no. 25

Past

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,
Comfort,
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 -
Betrayed.

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.


***********************************
Somehow
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
that
drowns my hope
dry -
compels me to cry.

Your longing,
yearning
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.
_________________________________

Rain

http://vancouver.weatherpage.ca/


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Vancouver-westend.jpg

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.

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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 resultshttp://www.thefreedictionary.com/liar

Cariboo

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.

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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.

Tiresome

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.

http://www.jericho.bc.ca/webcam/webcam.html

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.

Cates Park

http://www.deepcovebc.com/parkscatespark.html

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'.

John

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.

Hugs.

Secret

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.

Simplicity

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.

Brain Function

Your Brain's Pattern

Your mind is a firestorm - full of intensity and drama. Your thoughts may seem scattered to you most of the time... But they often seem strong and passionate to those around you. You are a natural influencer. The thoughts you share are very powerful and persuading.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

Paper Doll

This duo creates - with multiple notions; a multiplex of messages, transmitted simultaneously; multitudinous elements, including, jostling and melodious sound; coincident fabric; startling paint; superposed make-up... using enamored actors; winking models; fascinated and compliant audiences; noisy machines... This design of congruence - all aspects of theatre jumbled and sculpted into performance... Numerous continuities; countless values - worthiness, strength, utility, importance - frivolity as an estimable trait; innumerable calculations; uncountable diversions, untold degrees of intensity; several speculations about life, learning and paths of delight; mixed media, where mixing results in various projected plays of enormous proportions; divers proclamations that result in multifarious perceptions, which extol toleration and glory; manifold operations that combine expertise of their natural ability to invent and present. Truly, Paperdoll is a myriad of presentations, made generously, offered without expectation, a tribute to largess - simply, variations of complexities that reward us with the Paperdoll oeuvre.

Using the premise that their real and imagined experience is a resource, forming an inspired and fertile world where their impression can transform, they seek to develop an opinion that seriously but playfully dances through stability into invention, where envisaging becomes reality. The result is fabrication, imbued with archetypal concepts, which are chaotic, and as messy as reality; charged emotionally, somewhat humbling as the confidence from the colour and pageantry erupt with a maelstrom of activity - the centre of conception is spared to allow the participant, viewer, creator space to contemplate in awe.

Wakening

I imagine myself as an impression on a column, an inverse mold impressed into a cylinder. My arms are meager portions, traces from my shoulders. My face is pressed into the centre and the groin of my body is revealed in reverse. I am tall and erect as the pillar.

Tonight, I cannot sleep. For several nights I have been able to release myself to slumber at unusually early times. 9 pm or earlier. Too tired to think. Not wanting to dwell on anything, allowing sleep to resurrect thought.

Tonight, I am restless, dwelling on the past and future; 30 years ago... 30 years from now... The present intertwined by memory. This act of remembering and projecting awakens desire and despair. I conclude and discard, evaluate and rethink the day, the week, the year... Milestones of past events are clouds of memories. This recreates a humidity that is not discomforting but saturated with emotion that has been leisurely ignored for some time.

Tooth ache

For years I have been nursing the promise of a healed tooth. A dentist botched a filling, allowing a chip of the newly hardened material covering a back molar to catch every food particle pressing into the space between my two back teeth until floss broke the nuisance off. However, by this time, a cavity had developed between the crevice, and spread to the bone under my gum. I thought that the little bit of sharp protrusion of filling that finally disappeared would let me floss properly. How was I to know that all those days of insufficient flossing had corroded my tooth. I am devoted to my dental hygiene, and loosing a molar is disturbing. I will get the crumbling tooth pulled, but not without mourning its loss.

Locked

There are few days when I don't feel that I am under-utilizing my potential. I expect that the more I live the less I think that I have done enough. Days are not filled with the best use of time. This realization disturbs me. My 'day job' has only one redeeming factor - I am allowed a window into the intimacy of human frailty. I find this informs my art and I store these experiences in a memory vault, waiting for the release.

I especially have a great respect for the human demise, and I witness this process in a small way every week. I am especially moved by the change in colouration, physique modulations, the temperament alterations. People that face their death with courage or fear and all combinations in between are a source of inspiration. We all have this journey. From my artistic sensibility, I acknowledge that the visualization of these beings can bring universal truths to be experienced.

Many may not have the opportunity to face this presence where I can assimilate and relate these journeys for others. I am grateful... I believe a studio is near at hand to finally materialize the art that will result from these insights.

Backward to face front

10 years of re-directing my energy, taking a hiatus from my work has allowed me the insight and power to re-initiate my professional goals. Yes. I no longer look at the mirrored imaginings. I can face myself.

Sunnyside

Voyeuristic, I note that the sun shines today, yesterday, last week and in recent memory... a phenomenon in Vancouver.

I say voyeuristic because I have trapped myself into the cloister of my dwelling, working towards a goal, to 'proofread' assignments, not my own, while life and sun continue outside my blinded windows. I peer through the slats, allowing my eyes to enjoy glimpses of the phosphorous green of the glowing cedars, wishing I was a part of the life that encompasses sunshiny days.

Meanwhile I continue to labour over the thousands of pages, where anatomy meets physiology, wondering when my corporeal self will emerge into the daylight, thinking that by the time I finish, rains will permanently be my solace, my existence.

Sun, will you shine for me some day?

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.