inside the emerging moment

let's

give this space

a moment

to emerge

to pull its pressed lips

apart

to loosen

its hold upon

the breathless containment

then

don't rush

this moment

let it

breathe in

let it step into this place

to find its fullness

and then

breathe out

feel the space

opening

like my eyes

i was travelling along highway 28 just south of peterborough when i saw this tree.

i was listening to "boy 1904" by riceboy sleeps when i wrote this

while the water rushes by

john singer sargent on his holidays

my waiting

pensive

somnolent

never tiring of the rush of life

always passing me by

with its outstretched fingers

reaching and

flicking little droplets of possibility

on the face of my self -

each so shockingly cold on this very hot day

each so entirely welcome

in their hopefulness

-

i was listening to ralph vaughan william's "serenade to music" when i wrote this

all the skies of today

all the clouds

crossing the skies

are flying southwards

like all the wings

i see

through the windows

of this day

i was listening to jimi hendrix "the wind cries mary" when i wrote this

now the great wheel

scenes from margaret's garden (i)

now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds
whirs and whirls in the heavens with dipping rim;
against the ice-white wall of light in the west
skeleton trees bow down in a stream of air.
leaves, black leaves and smoke, are blown on the wind;
mount upward past my window; swoop again;
in a sharp silence, loudly, loudly falls
the first cold drop, striking a shriveled leaf....

words excerpted from conraid aiken's poem "now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds"

i was listening to gil evans when i assembled this piece. something in the colours of the text and the colours of the music found a common voice in the basin of rain water and leaves.

"bilbao song"

light

on the surface

(the skin of this place)

it falls

in waves and packets

and forms

into lines and shadows

dividing the whole

into parts

and giving shape

to the shapeless

deeper yet

it emerges

from me

in hope

and wishes for a place

in those who define the terms of their presence here

as hopeless

a way of being

that seems reasonable

despite

its strange covenant

with the deliberately obscure

the seemingly unattainable

the unmeasurable

-

being

without form

it can't be directed

it simply is

like the air

like the water

like the earth

a process

i was listening to harold budd and brian eno - "flowered knife shadows" when i wrote this.

leaving the beginning behind

we wind

and then we unwind

our hands flinging first skyward

and then earthwards -

each lost in our own small dance

the music i listened to while writing these words is by omar faruk tekbilek: "whirling dervish"

on reflection

image lee friedlander, from "america by car" provided by tess at magpie tales

on reflection

his world

fell to pieces

when

standing at the window

she thought

she saw him

watching her

watching him

they were quickly

and easily

drawn together

then inseparable

mirror-images

of each other

destined

and designed

to shatter

rainy day commuting

this is the time of year for cold rainy day rides. i commute to and from the school i teach at and until recently - very recently in fact - i've been riding in shorts. temperatures are hovering around the single to low double-digits in celsius so it's been a manly character-building exercise in something that when asked to explain, i simply can't, not even to myself. i simple feel the need to do it.

however, those days are passing by as my hands now have gloves on them and my legs (no matter how hairy)

are also covered, by riding pants.

the bike looks out onto the driveway ."oh no. not again".....

yep! get your nose out there .....

it ain't gonna go away

and i've gotta ride.

every day, the road unfolds under my wheels. on these days when it's rainy and the roads are often slick with leaves, i read the road even more carefully than usual for anything that could make my ride -

and maybe even my life - less than pleasant . . . or worse!

but i'm careful and so (touch wood) nothing overly untoward happens.

i love the early morning streetlights reflecting in the rain on the streets.

they're the hidden gift of a rainy day ride for me.

i tell bicycle stories over at my other blog "cycles".

right now i'm wrapping up the day-by-day telling of my latest fundraising ride around lake ontario.

we rise

painting by daniel merriam

i cradle

in my arms

an idea

that was birthed

long ago

when i lived in a small room

that i called my own

the idea

that fell into my lap and my head and my heart

is that the world

is a good place

a very good and kind place

no matter what else

and of course i grew older

and learned

the terms of a parallel world

filled

with distractions

that exist to draw the goodness away

and replace it with easiness, suffering, unhappiness, stress -

not simplicity.

all

propped up,

and contained within

this other world

that exists inside

the one i love

oh, and by the way

the terms of this sad parallel world (simply put)

are that it is easier

to ignore the truth,

easier to look away

and much more desirable

to achieve or hold in your possession

that which others hold as worthy

whether it be a person

an object

an idea

or even

and maybe even most especially

that which contradicts the insight

that marks the signpost

for anyone

wishing to move beyond the surface of this world

because i want to remind you

that there is

beneath the material,

beneath the allegory, the metaphor, the simile,

beneath the parables held in place by angels,

and then beneath the lives

of the many

who have seen and see beyond everything

to nothing

this knowing

- this very simple knowing

that is the beginning

of unknowing -

that we can rise

so like the sun

so like the moon

so like the sound

of bells

above what is simple

or easy

and work

to welcome the goodness

of the real world

that holds all other worlds

like pearls

in mirrors

reflecting each other

into endlessness

and forever

and evermore

late october

the sun

is sleeping

in the leaves

so much

is being

held

so much is being prepared

for its return to the earth

i hold

their thin cold bodies

and feel something

of their reluctance

and their acceptance

in my own thin body

it's a dance

a slow moving dance

that embraces the moment

and holds it for evermore

thin line of colour (ii)

i fall

in a thin line

of colour

days

tumble

like leaves

down the fence

of myself

until i am

gone to earth

----------

-------

---

this piece was written with david sylvian's "gone to earth" in my mind and ears ...

and in my eyes, david's lyrics, still strong and fresh after all these years:

with a burning candle

a book of holy things

they'll throw you up against the wall

bind your hands with string

caught in this sudden shower

our host of heavenly kings

they're all victims of circumstance

of ancient bells that bring

all the fear in the world, naked and shy

down upon our heads, with no reason why

and though voices may holler

for all they're worth

the rabbits have fled their burrows

gone to earth

david sylvian

flail

i find myself

(like the shadows of a plant

in the breeze

of an open window)

sometimes

flailing

within a wave

using my eyes

for arms

and hope

for a whistle

watching

the surface

bubble above me -

its pale green foam

ribbons

wrapping around

my body

like so many wishes

"take me with you"

ruth

this is a special day for me. more special even than most. you see my mum - ruth - is celebrating her eightieth birthday today.

she doesn't quite match the image of eighty that i and perhaps you might see in your mind's eye.

she's just returned from a couple of weeks in england visiting friends and travelling

around to see some special places.

what she'll return to is her role as a walker at the local dog shelter, a supporter of the local donkey sanctuary, a preparer of gift baskets used to raise money for the huntington's foundation, loving tenderer of her garden, bottler of all sorts of awesome preserves (especially pickled beets which i could eat 'till i was sick) friend to many, sister in law to her closest friend margaret, gramma to alan, dawson and lexie, and of course mum to myself and my brother david.

she'll be heading off to cuba in the early part of next year for some r and r. books by the ocean, that sort of thing.

my mum is (among many other things) well read, well movied, well musicked,

thoughtful, reflective, sensitive, and i would underscore several times - driven!

there's lots more about her but really, you get my drift. she's not sitting around any more than she has to.

actually i don't think she knows how!

i'm very grateful for my mum - she brought me into this world at great personal effort - a couple of days of work . . . . . and stuck with me from then on, through thick and thin.

have you had a "difficult" child? then you know what ruth dealt with while pursuing a career, and managing the rest of her not entirely easy life!!!

nope, it's not been easy but then i think that my mum would ask "why should it be?" and then go after whatever's next in her line of sight.

much of what i value in myself has its roots in my mum. either she showed me how to be or i figured it out by standing on her shoulders and having a look-see.

i love you mum, no more this day than any other but this is special!

down from above

each

day

i rise

in search of a

chance shaft

of light

falling down

from above

i wrote this while listening to vetiver "down from above"

forever and ever

i live very near the countryside.

my bicycle and i love to ride there whenever we can.

the roads extend a great distance in a more-or-less straight line.

they make no accommodations for hills or valleys.

which is fine with me.

i'd like them to feel free to go on forever.

thin line of colour (i)

i move

in a thin line

of colour

the starting point

"to let the eye stray over a palette, splashed with many colours, produces a dual result. in the first place one receives a purely physical impression, one of pleasure and contentment at the varied and beautiful colours. the eye is either warmed or else soothed and cooled. but these physical sensations can only be of short duration. they are merely superficial and leave no lasting impression, for the soul is unaffected. but although the effect of the colours is forgotten when the eye is turned away, the superficial impression of varied colour may be the starting point of a whole chain of related sensations."

wassily kandinsky "concerning the spiritual in art"

fallen leaf

beneath the surface

of your fading skin

the slow pulse

of a year's stories

dawnfast at tess's house

"the morning's not my best time but it's all the time i have my sweet".

this brief note on the back of this lovely photograph was left on my windowsill and i see from the arcing calligraphy of the writer that it's from my date for the ball at willow manor.

thank goodness, i thought i might have to travel solo!!

my date - lee - (lee miller for fans of surrealist photography) and i, became close friends after meeting at a performance piece i performed on berlin's kurfurstendamm during a similar dawn escapade a few years ago.

here's the little picture my friend man ray took of lee right afterwards.

when we are in the same place and time,

lee and i spend much of our time together in bakeries and sitting alongside rivers or small pools writing poetry and playing endless games of exquisite corpse.

if you're awake just before dawn, you'll see us arriving at the manor

on our identical english touring bicycles

(lights on of course!)

here's a picture of us last summer much of which we spent at my house.

anyhow,

i've spent the last little while assembling several breakfast baskets.

each has a bottle of veuve-clicquot, a fresh-baked bagette, unsalted butter, a garden tomato, a lovely little tub of caviar, some wensleydale, dark chocolate and of course smoked salmon.

samovars of hot water will be brought down to us at the appropriate juncture to help with the coffee-making - preferably as soon as our eyes open!

smoked salmon and dark chocolate. oh my goodness!!!!

please come and join us down by the little stream at the back of tess's property for some dawnfast!

this blue

this blue

this very soft and beautiful blue

hides in the very quiet places

the river trees

because they receive so much

from the water

they pour their light

back in

the fitful tracing

a season's fallen bounty still ripe with colour

beauty is momentary in the mind

the fitful tracing of a portal

words excerpted from "peter quince at the clavier" by wallace stevens

this day

this day began

and ended

with strength

and real presence

tangible

physical

glowing

full

presence

that filled me

with desire -

simple and complex desires

that whirled

in small eddies

and pools

sometimes

stopping long enough

to admire their echo in the sky

and then pulling me onward

deeper into the day

blue room

it's just the only

clearest place there

where ever 'there' was

a home now

simply cast

as tumbledown

in the unforgiving eyes

that fall beside

then drag across

its sorry fallen emptiness

life dances

in the soft fall

of sunbeams

dry motes

flaked paint

fibres and feathers

all formless

abandoned

to their fates

perhaps a wish

or a shield of hope

will be

raised high above the heads

of those who feel its past

as keenly

as its presence

as purely

and directly

as i do

i was listening to "your blue room" by passengers (brian eno and u2) when i wrote this

this empty vessel

there's an emptiness

about this hollow vessel

it's carefully filled each morning

a clean ladle is hung over its side

a notebook

and a pencil

are left for the stories of passersby

through the day

it's tipped

this way and that

held by warm and cold hands

eyes of all colours and shapes

look into its depths

depths that feel

the breath of the passersby

the travellers

depths that darken

through the day

as the level of water

and the sun

meet at the cool

empty

horizon

almost

i hide myself within my flower,
that fading from your vase,
you, unsuspecting, feel for me -
almost a loneliness.

emily dickinson

the mere presence of rain at night

i'm listening to the sound of rain

a heavy rain

characterized by the dense pattering of water falling onto the deck

accompanied by the lighter dripping

from the eaves

the night is entirely black

the moon

and the stars

lost behind the clouds

from which this rain is falling

i'm so grateful for all of this

its completeness

its necessity

its place in the whole of everything

the castle

edward ingram taylor lambert castle

a wall

like so many other walls

now a mound

of brickdust

crumbled down through time

and framed

in the windblown

space

briefly birthed

between two branches

on a distant hill

madrigal sky

it appears, with considered judgement, bears the light beneath the rifted clouds

the indivisible shared out in endless abundance

words excerpted from "bearing the light" by denise levertov

passage

edward brian seago fishing boats - honfleur

we sail

through the each of us

the despite and the otherness.

cause brings small effect

and so we stay -

waking each morning

to the shallow indents

left in each other's pillows.

time washes over us

callow and carefree

as driftwood

carried here and there -

each wave a measure of our becoming

and our leaving behind.

you and i

and the boat of we

between us

breaking

edward brian seago the white kitchen

when we wake

will you

hold my hand

and tell me all the stories

will you tell me what

we held of ourselves

inside

each other's thoughts

will you say my name

as if you've known me before

and will you sing every song

you've held in check -

especially -

the songs

that rhyme

with why

and now

and will you hear your own voice

crossing the lines

of your creation

breaking past the vastness

of your heart

and your mind

because then

and only then

can you put time

gently back up on the mantlepiece

and let your eyes

and mouth go quiet

enough to hear the words of your soul

speaking rough and pure

because

none

will tell

the story better