music is painting in the air

in the mid seventies music sometimes sounded like this . . . .

it went well with the very large moment that hovered from 1974 - 1977.

i was a part of that bubble

finishing high school

in 1976

and making a first attempt

to start university

that autumn

a moment

that eventually taught me everything

i needed to know

to begin

again

this was one piece of the soundtrack

of that emergence

(there've been some problems this morning linking blogger to youtube

so if the video doesn't play you can go directly to its page here!)

sensations fix

spatial depths

spatial depths of being survive

the birth to death recurrences

of feet dancing on earth of sand;

vibrations of the dance survive

the sand; the sand, elect, survives

the dancer.

he can find no source

of magic adequate to bind

the sand upon his feet, his feet

upon his dance, his dance upon

the diamond body of his being.

nathan jean toomer

their little faces

their little faces

pressed against

the glass of their knowing

a window onto a world

made of worlds

and what extraordinary

beautiful

extravagant

unlikely worlds

each an imagined place

richer

and more illusory

than the last

each little face

a window

see

see through

to the real world

a star without a name

a star without a name

when a baby is taken from the wet nurse,

it easily forgets her

and starts eating solid food.

seeds feed awhile on ground,

then lift up into the sun.

so you should taste the filtered light

and work your way toward wisdom

with no personal covering.

that's how you came here, like a star

without a name. move across the night sky

with those anonymous lights.

rumi

voices

i love voices

that are filled with life

not the life

you might think of immediately

you know;

the joyous

cheery bouncy voice

that guides you on your way to and from work

no no

i love the voice that speaks to me

from

the kind of worldly wisdom

i know through my mother

the kind of insight

i know from my father's sister margaret

when they speak

i listen

no matter how they speak

or what they are speaking about

they have already been there

they have already done it

and if they didn't bother

then i know better for their choice

you know what i mean?

so, i love voices

and when voices sing

with knowing

and understanding

and insight

well i am compelled

to pay attention

terry callier

has such a voice

opening and upward

i appreciate

memory

especially the memory

that returns unbidden

from the long unfolding

present moment

~

i saw this house

and knew it immediately

never having seen it

before

~

the stories i wrote

and lived

the work

the love

i remember her so well

ferdinand loyen du puigaudeau kervaudu, le jardin fleuri

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap

and to your (in my arms flowering so new)

self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

ee cummings

in close

i'm trying really hard

to make sense of an understanding

that guides my knowing of this place

for now

it is that the surface details of our existence

are like clues

to the deeper learnings

we come here for

"come here for"

see

i figure we're almost like visitors -

visitors with an investment

by learning what we can about the surface

we begin

to learn about the deeper maps

of our existence

our purpose -

maybe even

our reason for being here

before the next piece of our becoming

says "hey!"

in the way it does

so knowing that

or learning that

or getting inside that

is a big part of the journey

and i hear lots about "the journey"

and i've seen lots of distractions that people know as "the journey"

but i'm here now

knowing

that

a considered and thoughtful

available

approach to this world

leads to riches beyond my imagining

albert joseph moore study of an ash trunk

at the window

i came across these words of paul eluard and was captivated, as if walking by a mirror i saw myself and was caught for a moment in that lovely indecision over whether to stop and stare at my own reflection or to hurriedly move on, embarassed by the possibility of being seen admiring my appearance.

paul's insight is so gently and yet precisely expressed here that the effect is more that of walking through a door, or having a long stretch of dark weather suddenly move on allowing the light

to come streaming in through the windows.

white doors vilhelm hammershoi

i have not always had this certainty, this pessimism which reassures the best among us.

there was a time when my friends laughed at me.

i was not the master of my words.

a certain indifference, i have not always known well what I wanted to say,

but most often it was because i had nothing to say.

the necessity of speaking and the desire not to be heard.

my life hanging only by a thread.

there was a time when i seemed to understand nothing.

my chains floated on the water.

all my desires are born of my dreams. and i have proven my love with words.

to what fantastic creatures have i entrusted myself,

in what dolorous and ravishing world has my imagination enclosed me?

i am sure of having been loved in the most mysterious of domains, my own.

the language of my love does not belong to human language,

my human body does not touch the flesh of my love.

my amorous imagination has always been constant and high enough so that nothing

could attempt to convince me of error.

words from "at the window" paul eluard

sunbeams or sunshine. dust motes dancing in the sunbeams vilhelm hammershoi

amassakoul

maybe it's the hot weather

or just the need to move around to a tight groove

but tinariwen, the poet guitarists and rebels from the southern sahara,

have been filling the air here after a bit of an absence.

this is pure summer music

in the golden fish definition of summer music.

groovalicious, soulful, feel-it-in-your-hips music.

never heard of them?

perhaps you didn't know me when i posted this.

i can listen to this group without understanding their songs

but their words, which come from their touareg heritage - born out of the desert -

are worth reading:

so here are the words for the song you can choose to listen to

or shake your ass to:

amassakoul

i am a traveler in the lone desert

it's nothing special

i can stand the wind

i can stand the thirst

and the sun

i know how to go and walk

until the setting of the sun

in the desert, flat and empty,

where nothing is given

my head is alert, awake

i have climbed up and climbed down

the mountains where I was born

i know in which caves the water is hidden

these worries are my friends

i'm always on familiar

terms with them and that

gives birth to the stories of my life

you who are organized

assembled, walking together

hand in hand, you're living

a path which is empty of meaning

in truth, you're all alone.

headphones out ladies and gentlemen! blinkers off!!

walk away

giovanni fattori on the beach or grey day

life:

the boat sails.

then it's docked.

sometimes

it's dragged up onto the beach

and abandoned

landlocked

that's when you

walk away

and

scour the beach for small lovelies

sea glass

shells

mermaid combs

dreams

little rocks

that shine and almost glow

until they dry out later on

becoming simply

and most especially

themselves

walk away

let the waves wash

over your toes

each night

even ulving vid vattenbrynet

each night

i row my way

home

- a small

riverside home -

a hut really

small, damp, quiet

but for the hissing flame of a small stove

the rustling of the pages

as i turn them

when all is quiet inside

i can hear the water lapping

gurgling

wending its way

through the city

on its way to the ocean

sometimes emerald

sometimes slate

always

moving

past my little home

my world

within this world

hold thy lips ready to speak

the dusty road

that winds before

and behind me

is full of the speakable

and the unspeakable

stories

that are the doing of my life

the being of me

~

i have to believe

the stories

were intended

for me

either to walk into

to read

or to write

that's why i've lived them

and yet

i find that people

want to know

some even suggest

they need to know

those very same stories

indeed i feel much of that

myself

and perhaps that's

one of the great mysteries

of this place

for me

if we are each

matrix maps

of energy clusters

emerging like flowers

or starry accretions

from the one great

cluster

which i know as love

how is it

that we have this

overwhelming urge

to share our vantage point

our knowing

of our state of being

when ultimately

we are all describing

something

that comes from the same place

is it our work here

to create and experience

the journey

and then to share our variant

is that it

federico zandomeneghi la strada

i asked a gypsy pal

to imitate an old image

and speak old wisdom.

she drew in her chin,

made her neck and head

the top piece of a nile obelisk

and said:

snatch off the gag from thy mouth, child,

and be free to keep silence.

tell no man anything for no man listens,

yet hold thy lips ready to speak.

carl sandburg

i sail in a ship of my own design

i sail in a ship of my own design

the gift of the wind -

makes for a life of sorts

the surface of the sea -

provides tantalizing glimpses

of the riches that lie beneath

and harbours

are places of contentment

and simple wonder

my sails are stories

that hold the wind of my life

pulling me across

the sea

of my becoming

and

each day

the sun and the moon

glide across my skies

full soft and silent

all artwork by vladimir kush

if lives were raindrops

if lives were raindrops

the tale

of your birth

would be told in the air

your flight

from cloud

to earth

a rite of passage

before melding

with this world

where just as suddenly

as you were born

your existence

might resolve as a ripple

sometimes quiet

sometimes subdued

perhaps

a silvery globule

of water on a leaf

or

an unlikely

sculpture

momentarily

hovering above the flow

of a vast river

or perhaps

a moment

of elegant and absolute presence

in which your unlikely

and unexpected nature

is subsumed

into some soft lagoon

each ripple an echo

a liquid tracery

telling

of your arrival

and then also

of your passing

water flowers

you could sing

if you were the wind

sing

with your fingers

as they wove

tiny filaments

in and around

the cotton threads

of the sails

and your song

would be wordless

filled only

with the knowing

of the sky

the gurgling

of the noonday river

swirling in water flowers

the thick wash of the sun

glazing

the soft warm bricks

vanilla yellow

and not so very far away

the hollow

passing

of an oarless

rowboat

cos cob john henry twachtman

i arrived in canada - an immigrant child from england - forty four years ago today.

my father was waiting for us in the terminal in toronto.

i hadn't seen him for a year.

i thought it was a long time.

in the year he was gone

i had a recurring nightmare.

a man entered the bedroom in which i was sleeping

picked me up and threw me through the floor,

then i passed through the first floor

and then through into the cellar.

this is about being compelled to view,

become aware of,

and deal with my subconscious.

perhaps with my shadow.

here i am.

much more for the experience.

the skies that hover

the skies

that hover

between

the warning

of a bruised blue-purple

and cloud scattered summer depths

alfred sisley small meadows in spring

are the skies

i love to see mirrored

in the flow of a river

in the rich contrast

of leaves and flower petals

in the deep shadow

of a passing friend

rivers

if a river

spoke in a music

other than that of its own making

what might it sound like

if that music

described the passing

of all the moments

of the river's experiencing?

the water i drink

was once in the ganges

flowed down the side

of an english cliff

was nestled under a rock

on the siberian tundra

what if

i were to learn all of its stories

as i drank it

into my body?

~

here is a piece of music

featuring the work of vernon reid

and the extraordinary voice

of marta sebestyen

rivers

unveil! arise!

i can feel

lost

sometimes

in those moments of doubt

where experience

seems to be of little relevance

in fact

where i wish

i had no experience to draw on

i can feel lost

~

desolate and lone

all night long on the lake

where fog trails and mist creeps,

the whistle of a boat

calls and cries unendingly,

like some lost child

in tears and trouble

hunting the harbor's breast

and the harbor's eyes.

carl sandburg

henry moore queen of the night unveil! arise!

puddle

in the night

a downpour

torrential

sliced by lightning

a morning walk

alone

rain brings the sky and the earth together

so they can look at each other's reflections

m.c. escher puddle

after the rain

it's been some time

some time

since rain fell

in this

the most hopeful of seasons

rainfall:

well, it carries the weight of hope

in its soft silvery fingers

gustave caillebot the yerres, rain

the monotone of the rain is beautiful,

and the sudden rise and slow relapse

of the long multitudinous rain.

the sun on the hills is beautiful,

or a captured sunset sea-flung,

bannered with fire and gold.

a face i know is beautiful

with fire and gold of sky and sea,

and the peace of long warm rain.

carl sandburg

in the fog, alone

through the fog

the gently defined edges

of a fence

a tree hovers

arms gently flailing

alfred sisley a foggy morning, voisins

a silent figure

hunched over her work

her work

to gather

to gather

mint, lavender, sage

and flowers

for the table

silent work

but for the birds

(their voices like small muffled bells)

colourless work

but for the flowers

(their faces shrouded in fog-lace)

the scent of water

and blossoms

hangs

as unlikely as light

in the heavy air

begin here at the end of the story

here is

the night sky

scratched

and scrawled

in pale grey ennui

what little light there is

contained in its

butter yellow

mouth of a moon

~

as they sail away

their awareness

travels with them

on the receding tide

by the shore

stands

a solitary figure

in her hands

a small piece of greyed paper

on which are scrawled the words:

"light the lamp within you,

but do not hide your lamp beneath a basket

for when you come to know yourself

you will be known.

say then from the heart

that you are the perfect day

and dwell in the light

that does not fail."

(source of italicized words)

moonlight flanders john twachtman

transported

i saw with my eyes

what i will tell you

my eyes wanted to close

but i couldn’t let them

i felt with my body

what i cannot forget

a silence so heavy

the weight of the moment

pressed on my chest

like a fist

and that silence

was broken by the footsteps of a man

walking his dog down the cobbled street

the dog stopped short

as a pot of flowers fell from a small ledge

and smashed to the ground

in a kaleidoscope

of white porcelain fragments

scattered black dirt

and red geranium petals

at his barking

a flock of starlings

burst

from the fullness

of an ancient tree

scattering across the sky as one swirling black cloud

and in that moment

from somewhere deep in the earth

there was a rumbling

as if boulders

were being tumbled against each other

above me the tower of the church

began to sway

in giddy calligraphy

pencilling drunken prophesies

onto the darkening sky

just as suddenly

it gave way under its own weight

and the air was filled with debris

that smashed to the ground

rising back into the sky

on powdery thermals

as the walls fell down

i could see

the splintered pews

and shattered glass

the great grey bricks

laying like so many bones

on the ground

later

the rain

in clouds bruised purple and dark grey

sullen and dour

fell slowly at first

then hard and with purpose

leaving

a rich emptiness

people wandered in from the surrounding streets

slowly picking their way across the fluttering pages

the rubble and shards

sometimes stumbling

sometimes stopping and catching their breath

their clothes dark with rain

the scarred edges

of the church walls

were the backdrop

against which one of them

a boy

stooped down to pick up a dust-covered gold candlestick

feeling its improbable smoothness

against the work-roughened palm of his hand

then carefully replacing it

he saw me

picking me up

in both hands

he stared tenderly into my eyes

a look of wonder

crossed his face

as clutching me close to his chest

he turned

and ran home

to read more writing in response to the image above please visit magpie tales for links

a life well-lived

each morning

as the sun rose

above the low hills to the east

he left his cottage

and made his way along the river path

christen købke autumn morning on lake sortedam

each day

in the course of this walk

he reflected on the improbabilities

so apparent in his daily

experiencing of life

work

in a world

in which work is a commodity

marriage

in a world

in which the conditional

defines the terms of a sacred trust

and then

after some time

he would

round a corner

and embrace

in his imagining

an impossibly beautiful

gloriously simple

representation

of all that he held

most sacred

and truthful

he knew it as

"the little space"

in the winter

it was a place of simple wonders

seemingly barren

and yet

filled with riches beyond any man's

reasonable expectation

camille pissaro brouillard à l’hermitage, pontoise

in the summer it became a place of exuberant wealth -

the fortune that nature bestows

upon a person who has lived their life well

a person who has made

kindness

and gentleness

their closest friends

camille pissaro l'hermitage pontoise

on the grand canal

i've long dreamed of living

in other places

friesland, iceland,

amsterdam,

and venice

have hovered

in my imagining

if it was venice

i could live in this house

with my friends

the artists

and the poets

the thinkers

and the musicians of my life

those people

who have featured in stories

and who have told their stories

sung their songs

played their music

been played by music

lived their visions

and turned their visions into life

john ruskin and john wharlton bunney palazzo manzoni on the grand canal, venice

where the wave of moonlight glosses -

weaving olden dances

'till the moon has taken flight

and whispering in their ears

gives them unquiet dreams

away with us he's going,

the solemn-eyed:

for he comes, the human child,

to the waters and the wild

with a faery, hand in hand . . . .

words excerpted from "the stolen child" william butler yeats

my twenties

gustave caillebot a young man at his window

as a young man

i wished my way

into a sort of privilege

and then stood back

in shocked recognition

as i saw myself

enveloped

in the ways of the world

well

one face of the world

everett shinn on the streets of new york

i learned about work

and patience

and remembered something

of what i had forgotten

but in a new context

and somehow

fortune

or grace

(i've found that they can be as close as sisters)

allowed me to forget

what i wished to forget

and without really noticing

my unfolding presence

becoming

i began

to become

who i was intended to be

to do what i was intended to do

and all the while

the real work

of my being

waited

as it was nurtured

and brought gently forth

into a world

entirely

and understandably

unaware

of my presence

the wind of existence

gustave caillebotte boats moored on the seine

the wind

of existence

continues

without end

passing through all points

of the experiential compass

and finding no end

so resting

moored

and

contemplating the flow

of life's river

is something

of a necessary luxury

an act of kindness

really

simply so

the hug

i dreamt last night

my father hugged me

we looked into each other's eyes

his wrinkled like mine

both of us smiling

appraising

"how are you?"

i asked him

"i'm well actually" he answered in his soft english accent, a sort of bemused smile

carrying the words into the realm of much more than sounds.

"you look tired", i added

"yes, it's hard work!"

i cried in my sleep

on the river

nature needs for this small part

of the world

to move quickly past spring

into summer

in some places

the air

was soft

with the perfumed songs of trees

dreaming their way

through an afternoon

many of those blooms

have now withered

and faded

frederick carl frieseke on the river

each piece of flying blossom leaves spring the less,

i grieve as myriad points float in the wind.

i watch the last ones move before my eyes,

and cannot have enough wine pass my lips.

from "winding river" du fu

islands

i've dreamed enough dreams

of my self

floating

drifting

being carried

down a river

i've swum up them and down them

been pulled to the bottom

and come up gasping for air

i know the metaphor

but being dealt a metaphor

and becoming it

is another thing altogether

~

for me the richest feature

of the living metaphor

are the islands

make your way out to them

and islands

become

vantage points

places to stop

and consider

what has gone before

and what might be becoming