weave little webs

she hovers

on silk

perhaps a smile

perhaps a dream or two

perhaps she sleeps

as the clouds drift overhead

what was she

before this

what will she be

afterwards

what little animal's life

will end

in her arms

what will that little animal become

and i

filling so much of her

world in this moment

when she feels my breath

as i sit near her

and watch

does she know i exist

the farther away i am

i wake up some mornings

keenly aware of the fragility

of my body

its impermanence

it is here

for such a relatively short amount of time

subject to all sorts of stress

demands and expectations

that aren't entirely physical

but which resolve in part

in the physical realm

i'm comfortable with flying away

really i am

although i wish

for enough time

to complete

what i hope to take care of

while i am here

that's a lot

to ask

and the mechanisms

by which the answer is driven

carry no guarantees

no warranties

just possibilities

~

in this mood of reflective wistfullness

i came across a song i have loved since it was first made available

ladies and gentlemen headphones on please!

the farther away i am

the farther away i am

is it just a cloud passing under

i don't want to lose you . . . .

words - daryl hall ~ frippertronics - robert fripp

if your sense of daryl hall has been irrevocably adjusted by this listening then you may wish to look for this disc

little lights

there have been times

when the world

has been available

to a means of experiencing itself

that asks the question

that has spoken from inside my self

for as long as i have known i am my self

and the question is -

can we find

within the expanse

of our lifetime

the will

and the wherewithal

to allow

a gracefulness of living

a simplicity

and a fullness

of being

in which the revelation

that is this place

is the elemental force

that guides our lives?

can we live with care despite all the distractions?

the house in the woods

in the house in the woods

there are no clocks

there's no one to tell the time

~

the colour of the leaves

the creaking of the floor

the abandoned nests

of winter mice

the sedimentary layers

of dust

the peeling paint

on the empty chest of drawers

there are stories here

of what once was

and will not be any more

the origin of the golden fish (redux)

three years ago i began writing this blog.

this is the fourteen hundred and seventh post.

~

this is the first blog i posted.

this begins where everything else left off to allow me to write and so i'll be drawn to whatever comes my way in the way of thinking - right now i'm thinking about the golden fish - the painting by paul klee that this blog takes its name from and i'll tell you the story of why i chose those three words to stand/ hide behind.

grade 10 - a new school for me - me: a not very well-to-do boy - at a very-well-to-do-school serving kids who had grown up together knowing success and happiness and money and all that that triumvirate - the holiest of holies at that time in western culture - brings to a person. i was an automatic outsider and so i began to forge a life of privacy, untempered insularity, thinking, to cultivate my sensitivity to both my inner and outer voices, and especially to seek out the obscure or different, the forgotten or simply overlooked.

i discovered that at the centre of the school was a large octagonal shaped library.

a treasure trove in and of itself but most amazingly, filled with catalogues from which students could independently order books, cassettes, films, records and audio visual equipment

for their own use in the library.

i skipped school completely for more than two months - well completely might not be fair because i was actually at school the entire time, i simply didn't attend classes.

incredibly enough, i wasn't caught!

as a teacher myself i find this amazing but there you go - clearly it was intended to be!

so, i ordered books and music and all sorts of stuff about the great architects, great writers, thinkers, artists, musicians . . . . . it was the most wonderful existence!!!

i literally spent my day sitting in a study carrel reading, watching filmstrips, listening to music from all over the world, and waiting for shipments to come in

from the school board's head office.

the librarian who handled all the orders and shipments said nothing!!

i can never thank him enough.

it's from this intense two months of self-education that a lot of what i know and from which so much of what i still pursue originates. it was as if i was being given the tools or the knowledge to begin to understand what i might be here for and what i might be able to do with my time and gifts.

the knowing that the difference i perceived in my self was actually alright - that it had a broader context was huge as i finally came to see that while i didn't fit into the school or world of which i was a part at that time, i would find a place or pass through other worlds in which i would be recognized and would recognize others like me and perhaps most importantly i would be able to share the difference - and let's call it creative energy - that flowed through me like a river.

my "crime" was eventually discovered of course, and there was an awkward meeting with the principal and my parents but the damage - or as i now prefer to see it, the creative force that flowed through me in those two months - was done. this in part explains why am i am writing this today.

the golden fish?

well, one day i was sitting in my study carrel looking through a beautiful book on "modern art"

and came across the painting by paul klee entitled "the golden fish".

it resonated deeply within me then as it does now.

artistic representations of fish have always resonated within me

and i can't say i understand why. i am aware of their symbology and yet none of the various meanings of the fish or uses of the fish as a symbol have ever actually spoken as "the one" that i can ascribe my self to.

i have had many dreams of my self as a fish

but that's for another time.

and another place.

_______________________________________________________

dear golden fish visitors:

on the occasion of my third anniversary as a blogger i'd like to tell you

something of the experience in this moment.

firstly and most importantly,

i've enjoyed the changes i've experienced as a result of writing and sharing images here.

my writing and my photography have evolved as a direct result

of the opportunity this somewhat public forum has offered.

for that i am deeply grateful.

i have created two other blogs to allow for research and development to take place

("flow" and "gone to earth")

as well as one other blog to allow the special place that bicycle riding has in my life to have a forum.

i am very grateful to those who have chosen for however brief or lengthy a period to "follow" this blog and especially to those who have left comments that have either supported or challenged me.

visiting the blogs i have come across by chance and then developed closer relationships with has been an extraordinary privilege usually accorded only the most intimate of friends.

i'm heartened that despite the dire prognostications of many futurists, a quality of intimacy is available in a digital medium without condition among clever, creative, insightful, compassionate,

and generous people such as yourselves.

in closing then,

thankyou!

steven

life-lesson

the waves roll in

water

and air

combine to make millions of little bubbles

the bubbles burst

one-by-one

as the water

recedes

leaving

shiny water-polished pebbles

in their wake

it is so much

like a life well-lived

playing with street art

if you put your hand

to the ground

you'll feel the warmth

of the rain

and then

the deeper warmth of the pavement

take your shoes off

and feel that wet warmth

through the soles of your feet

draw your feet slowly

through the puddles

feel the rainwater

catching between your toes

its all so very simple

one little place

water tumbles out of a cliff face

gathers in a pool

and then trickles along a smooth stone path

before falling over a waterworn edge

into another pool

this is happening even as i write this

even as you read this

one very tiny portion of the face of this world

(by the way,

the vertical drop on this waterfall

is about the length of your hand from wrist to fingertip)

waterworn (ii)

over time

even the hardest rock

becomes

supple and lithe

on the outside

waterworn (i)

the waves work against the shoreline and gradually shape it to suit their form

a fluid, soft-edged, image of a wave

- a wave expressed millions

possibly billions of times over

as above, so below

worn away

by the morning light

life holds not an hour that is better to live in: the past is a tale that is told

the future a sun-flecked shadow, alive and asleep, with a blessing in store

our souls and the bodies they wield at their will are absorbed in the life they adore -

in the measureless music of things, in the fervour of forces that rest or that roam

by the evening light

italicized words excerpted from "in the water" by a.c. swinburne

sea-marsh

beautiful-braided and woven

virginal shy lights

beautiful glooms

like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream

by a world of marsh that borders a world of sea

words excerpted from "the marshes of glynn" by sidney lanier

clouds

summer for me

is a time of turning inwards

and outwards

at the same time

slow and sometimes

even deliberate

turning

a time of doing

and undoing

creating and recreating

invoking

and revoking

and in the quiet times

we meet

(my self and i)

in the clouds

that pass overhead

and we talk

and listen

about all that is and was

and even what might be

laughter

yes there's plenty

wistfulness

yes some

as we turn

inside and out

within and without

shine in softness

our motion on the soft still misty river

is like rest in the liquid gloom

in silence is your stillness in the streaming

of light-whispered laughter all around

shine in softness to no waiting friend

(words excerpted from "coming to port")

max eastman

what do they long for?

people that build their houses inland,

people that buy a plot of ground

shaped like a house, and build a house there,

far from the sea-board, far from the sound

of water sucking the hollow ledges,

tons of water striking the shore--

what do they long for, as i long for

one salt smell of the sea once more?

edna st. vincent millay

sun sets

there is no more wonderful way

in which to say goodnight to the world

than to share in the silent celebration

that is a sunset

the map is not the thing named

shadowy waves

wash across

the seabound fields

they dance in unison -

a million golden feathers

each telling the story

of the passage of the wind

when the well is full

when you shout into the well

and there is no echo

when the trees

spread their silvered arms

into

the mirrored blue

arc of the sky

stay one moment

longer

let yourself

fill with the memories

of moments

that are no more

but which

are entirely present

in the well

of your self

across time

this building

held me closer

each time i passed it

haunted my imaginings

whispered softly to me

across fields of gold

sleep and distance

come closer

know me

hold me

as if i were your own

for once i was

yes, you knew me as your home

you walked through me

leaned on me

called me

in your darkest moments

the place you would always return to

and

now you have

azure

like so many

little fingers

pointing

rooted all the same

reaching past the sibilant wind

for the cloud-filled

azure sky

shells

so close to the water's edge

the wind

wraps sand

into little dunes

around their ridged forms

a grain of sand

entirely extraordinary and entirely improbable

have you seen them up close?

they are each

(like snowflakes when i think about it)

unique

and comprised of the colours

contained

in the shell

or rock

or bone

from which they were birthed

in this way

they're so like people

flotsam

the ebb and flow of the tide

- like anything that comes and goes -

leaves behind little forms

of such vulnerability

of such fragility and fineness

that their very presence

seems entirely unlikely

and yet

there they are

cast in gentle filagrees

softly spread across a field of sand

in this way

they are

so much like people

washed up on the shore of this world