next day.

for the cooks, in the back

for the table side visits

for the man in the chair

and the window shadows.

swaddled feet

plants push through the cracks.

11:30 am. yaletown vancouver. same skyrise.

so this is good, knowing. i love the fight, i am open with weakness.

unnaturally high, and i could fall now, which would be a beautiful feeling, its a part of flying.

but, up here, where i should be wearing wings, my legs seem to stretch all the way to the ground.

shaking with strength, they are sturdy.

if you look up at your sky

you will see him, with his legs like trees

arms outstretched.

that is an honest smile, where his mouth used to be.

its good to hug trees, they've been standing a long time and appreciate the support.

please walk on the grass.

7 am. yale town vancouver. skyrise.

where i woke up, on the couch

here in the sky

hoping, i guess, to clear the mind.

hmm. not a possibility, for i am alive.

so this is it, this is me.

here in the sky

ok, so i will admit, i drank whiskey last night

today i am softer for it.

in the clouds

softer and softer.

why i became hard.

because, i suppose, i was turned

on

and off

and on

off.

softer yet.

fighting for purpose in the natural cause

that is animal, almost human.

being here, doing this, that is only human.

creatures created by a creator for creating creation

creationists.

tell me, teach me.

refuse, that's how i learn.

this is not for you, not for you, not for you. its for me.

this is mine.

this is the perfect line that is life.

tell me you understand and i will call you a liar.

help yourself, i'm helping mine.

the morning glory creeps out of the once hard ground, towards the sun towards the sea.

here comes the tide.

here, i go.

stepping razor.

this is jody.

he's my cousin, brother, friend.

today he celebrates his birth.

he wears his seatbelt.

he's traveling safely into the future.

rev. dr. d.g.l

here they are.

Irwen and Erwin, If I recall the spelling correctly.

wooping it up in a usual way.

through this blurry image, they are aging.

aging well, I presume.

you are at least, handsome devil.

 I think the frequent hair cuts help.

my boy, we have tattered many sails,

flown low over heavy fire.

you've given me inspiration a plenty my friend.

pushed me to write and to pursue confidence.

and the stories, OOF!

I'm afraid the majority of our stories are not safe to publish,

so we will rewrite them, for some other guys.

like I&E, if I recall the correct spelling.

happy you are alive and free my friend.

may the gods of night and day and sea and sky bless your soul.

the only rusty tumble weed

the cold salty winters have eaten you up

people point and laugh

why

because you are ugly?

not to me

despite your aches

you love to breath out on the winding hillside.

and the sleek young, smart ones passing you, smugly.

you glance out to sea, and a calm smiles stretches across your hood

and your windshield reflects the warmth of the sun.

hot grapefruit, a surrealist movie review.

we were outside in the cold, grasping onto ice particles of breath as we sniffled over the strait of juan de fuca.

the sun sprayed through the sky, staining us with its lemon hue.

the deafening crack of freedom snapped at us like a cat of nine tails.

our eyes and ears had been filled in favor of this new movie, like pastels melted into a warm smelling honey pot.

it was such a beautiful day, even with the shrill cold sticking into us like glass.

we had coffee, numerous coffee's, tubs full, and we swam in them, trying to warm up.

we even went into the theatre and stomached the majority of that pastel thick cloud of grapefruit rain that sprayed into our eyes, burning any ambition to object and eject ourselves from its spraining effects. though after turning my head to see the citrus ape sitting on cody's eyeballs, I knew something had to be done.

though the fear of ridicule for not enjoying, or understanding this movie wanted me to stay in my seat, my better judgement reminded me that if I left the theatre, perhaps someone would spit on me or I would see an old couple being cute and I would feel better about myself in that experience, at least.

freebird.

feb 1st

eagles perched high on an crooked, dead cedar off the old island.

so stern. looking, powerful, mighty.

***

i was walking along a path , it followed the shoreline but was tucked under the high canopy of the forest.

a small wren flew in and about the brush, often swoopin past my legs, in front and behind me.

i've stopped and watched a chic- a- dee as it hopped along a branch and curiously approached me, cocking its head from side to side, an arms length away.

walking out onto the rocks, i hear the chirp of an eagle high in the trees, i walk toward it hoping to get a closer look, but it sees me and drops from the treetop, spreading its grand wingspan and flying opposite my direction, to another tree higher, further away.

so easily startled, this mighty bird of prey.

yet the smallest of song birds, will consider eating seeds from my palm.

getting home

through the long story of text message, we have spots of poetry.

yesterday 15:54.

"I got lost in the trees.

it was green and infinite in there.

I met a woman and her dog, Lynda and chipper,

she a fabric forming artist, he a golden retriever.

they showed me a path.

she was tired.

I met a german man in his yard.

johann.

he was carrying a ladder and let me use his driveway to find my way home.

I still feel lost, its a soft high."

it's been nice sharing with you, friend.

kaput---->.12

I've pushing my toes into soft mud

I've been drinking the sap

I've been smoking

"cough'' "cough",

fish.

licking my lips and sucking my teeth

I've been standing on top of short buildings

with trees that stand tall around me , their cousins keeping me warm.

I've been in the tub, drinking coffee

eating cake in bed.

I've been running,

stumbling, my fingers through hair.

I've been dancing with the light coming through my window, sent from stars that don't exist

I've been naked on the road and sitting in the garden with the dead leaves.

I've been so close to the bottom of the earth, where the air is cold and pure

planting trees on the ice fields, where they don't grow or die.

I've been embalmed with love, and it keeps me warm.

the dead animals, and memories of the dead.

who shall i say is calling?

I can taste your breath

through the telephone

I can hear your cough

in my back room

I see your eyelids closing

and your boot prints

on my bed.

the knife for my bread

cuts into the surface

and ripples lap against my bow.

today

today is a perfect day.

the morning is past

but ever present

now midday

I found a sunny spot on the café patio

the sun which was warming me

has tucked into the trees

sip hot cider

sniffle

cooling now.

I love this slow simplicity.

eckville.

my brother sent me some lyrics from neil young's "music arcade" today

it instantly spurred memories of childhood in eckville a.b.

to me that song is about eckville.

"I was walking down main street

not the sidewalk but main street

dodging traffic with flying feet

that's how good I felt"

when I lived there, the population was roughly 900

and traffic was an occasional thing.

we would walk in the middle of the road,

mainly because a lot of the streets had no sidewalks,

but even downtown, we would often walk on the road.

"took a spin in the laundromat

played a game in the music arcade

kept winning while the band played

that's how good I felt"

the laundry mat was attached to the turbo gas station and you could walk through the back of turbo into

the back of the laundromat.

I remember walking around downtown looking for change in the gutters, or cans that we could turn in

for 5 cents a piece at turbo, and when we had enough money

we would go in and buy ketchup chips, or 5 cent candies.

then go into the laundry mat and eat them.

my friend kris grzech and I would go into the large dryers and spin each other or ourselves around.

there was an arcade on the north side of town called "franks arcade"

I was really young when it was running but I recall frank having a coin vending belt

which would spit out quarters for the games.

I think he sold single cigarettes to teenagers too, my dad liked him.

years later I would see frank riding his bike around rural central alberta.

I suppose I could write a book on my memories of eckville

it was really special growing up in a town of that size in that time.

we had very little rules and we used our imaginations to their full potential.

friends from eckville, listen to "music arcade"

see where it takes you.

neil young was always so present in my youth, when I hear him I see my dad,

I see my brother and I see my childhood.

borders

this is a picture of canada

this is a picture of the united states

a picture of america

it is a picture of freedom

this is a picture of limitations

this is a picture of independence

this is a picture of guidance

this is a picture of barriers

this is a picture of evolution

this is a picture of creation

it is a picture of good and evil

this is a picture of height

this is a picture of depth

this is a painting

this is a portrait

a self portrait

a party scene

a landscape

this is a picture of hope

this is a picture of fear

this is a picture of family

of companionship

friendship

this is a picture of love

and one of heartbreak

this is a picture of floating

a picture of drowning

this is the greatest picture you have ever seen in your life

it is dull and of no use

this is not a picture but an event that is still happening.

this is the feeling of soft tissue.

running my hand along the curved railing of the staircase

my feet follow one another without worry

my fingers want only to be running

and as i put both feet on the floor

I'm set against that moving sky

the movement in winter

the cold air on skin

and heat, which is momentary

a blanket of warmth

the heartbeat in the palm

the tingle of words

a soft forest seeking sunlight

the rainfall keeps us here.

magnets and postcards.

there is some food in it too, but really, not much.

I figure I could survive off of corn meal and rice.

but I desire excitement.

so in my fridge

there are many books,

i don't have a shelf

and the space is there

for a cool read.

think twice, its not alright

brothers

because we've been led to

we've been wrong

question your motives

question your heart

question the way you look at a woman.

i'm sorry i have been a poor example

i'm sorry that we accept our behaviour

there is a sickness that smothers our minds

yes it's natural to have sexual desire,

but is it not natural to have respect?

understanding?

for women and ourselves?

those with someone in your life,

be true to them.

those without,

be true to them.

be careful with your eyes

be careful with your thoughts

it's a hard realisation,

question what you hear, what you read,

our heroes

our influences

practice love.

change is good.

i want my new little niece to grow up in a safer and better world.

i want her to know equality as a norm.

i want her to know of fear but not live in it.

because the madness prevails.

not everything should be shared, but some things will be...

henry's mother came into the room and found her six year old son bashing away at his fathers typewriter.

"what are you writing henry?" she asked.

to which he replied, simply,

"everything."

-dec 5th 2011. some airport between san jose costa rica and vancouver.

I had a bad desire, it was unhealthy, I've curbed it, but it was....

journal entry: nov 24th 2011, hatillo, costa rica.

 (I don't know why I wrote this, underlined at that---->) titled "the busky venus?"

"another rainy day. posted up once again. my calluses have almost all shed from my feet and hands. my love for rum has become disgusting. I become a slobbering fool at the sight of it. my hands shake in anticipation as I unscrew the cap and pour a glass, then to torture myself further, I smell it and make the ice cubes dance for a while, I put it down, light a cigarette, then pretend it's not there, slyly glancing back at it ever so often. I wait until the glass becomes wet with perspiration then I rim the glass with a slice of lime that I have precut, I then stir the concoction with my finger and not until I have licked my fingers do I lift the cup to my lips and take a sip. this is not alcoholism, no this is alcohol-lust."

followed up with a quick...

"this chicken has taken refuge in the front yard, tired of being pummeled by the feisty cock out back. I suppose i'll take it home to Canada, and she'll shower me with eggs."

(she mysteriously died on the front porch, tipped with her beak to the ground, body upright)

know yore new ye'r.

I suppose it all started with a desire to share the vagabond's scrambled approach to self centred journalism.

is that not a blog?

I was writing a lot in little note books, and enjoyed reading it,  mostly for myself, but enjoyed sharing the odd scribble as well.

now I only write on here, or in texts and the odd postcard. even when I have desire to write down some thoughts I save them for here. now I'm addicted to sharing my thoughts. so here are a bunch more.

I am feeling some withdrawal symptoms of travel, movement.

I moved in and unpacked. i relaxed, then drew flame to my desires, I huddled around my burning thoughts. I missed the public wandering. the library living room and ocean side kitchen. I missed waiting for rides and uncomfortable new interactions.

i had wanted to settle down and have a place to stretch my fingers and spread paint around in a room. now i have it and feel more disconnected from the painter i had been smothering and hoped to set free, i had so many faces that were passing through my mind, smeared with bold colours, disproportioned ears, eyes and noses. now those faces are bland dried figures, crumbling and dissolving.

so now i walk around in the forest and sit on rocks and stare out at the thrashing sea. rain is soaking through my jacket and i can feel a trickle running down my arm to my elbow as i raise my hands in praise of the perfect creation surrounding me. i follow the hast in the clouds, with my eyes, as they sweep over the spotted islands, hills and mountains sitting on the horizon, i careen my neck to see an adolescent eagle flap through the underbrush of the ravaged trees screaming along the shoreline behind me.

i have been admiring so much landscape and so many artists who have found and fulfilled the desire to translate it all.

i have never wanted to be a landscape painter, nor i do feel i have the right to be one.

but something twisted in my person seems to think i should be. seems to think that i am capable. i could stick to taking photographs of it all, but i have all this paint in my home, and it was intended as an investment as well as a means for fulfilling some tragic desire.

i am nearly thirty, and every year, every month i realise that as much as i have figured out, i have that much more to learn, or to just accept.

looking back on the past, only for a moment, looking forward, for a fright, living now, for lack of an ability to do otherwise.

may this "new" year be as tragic and beautiful as the last.