Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
plans change with the leaves
I had set myself several tasks for this afternoon, but instead I'm thinking about Amsterdam. People like to write songs about Amsterdam (Three come instantly to mind: Peter, Bjorn and John; Coldplay; Van Halen). And I am thinking about Spain. Vines crawling across white walls so bright under the sun I have to close my eyes. Walking through cobbly courtyards beside old churches. And I'm thinking about China, oddly ennough. I haven't thought of that for a while.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Fault-lines and E-texts
Discontented but confined anyway
Child of resistance caught in the net
Of complex intersecting lines of lineage.
Where truth is sugared to meet gilded
Cages of necessity and guilty pleasures.
Where the tapestry of identity and complex
Social stratification is matched
Simple statements to provide answers
Instead of questions.
[The proud young warrior dresses in borrowed feathers]
The language of facts formed from fissures,
Laughable claims of spider-queens,
Pushing postures and frameworks with sticky strands
Of gentle-gesturing and motherly prodding.
If those who came before could see,
What wisdom would we wish with?
What wishes we would want for nothing.
The kind of nothing that invades,
The senses of comfortable drones,
In the first rays of sunlight.
[Weapons are equally blunted with both tongues of fire and water, they say]
Head-spaces are cookies cut from the same mould.
There they’re playing with their primitive definitions.
Fixing
Changing,
Our understanding
To suit the ever-evolving insecurities of who and what we are.
This works in the friendliest fawning smiles
This works in the most dower bulbous flower buds
The most condescending tender peddles
The most apologetic venomous fangs of creature comforts
[We are cardboard knights in the paper-cut crisis of faith]
Statuesque stature
Peaceful peace-pipe of resting elders
Firm familial foundation formerly from foolish freaks
[Silly rabbit. Big skies, I guess, are just big skies]
Going, going, gone
Lost on the fringe of sight
Sounds as dull-distant drumbeats,
Caught in the inner-ear,
Buzzing in the back,
too deep to be removed.
[We are the weird step-children]
I see you clearly now.
Moving at different speeds,
Back and forth to back and forth,
From the peripherals to the techno-coloured real.
There is a place in my existence that is without doubt.
It is here.
It is now.
[We are the maladjusted fiction-glue that is pasted upside-down]
Child of resistance caught in the net
Of complex intersecting lines of lineage.
Where truth is sugared to meet gilded
Cages of necessity and guilty pleasures.
Where the tapestry of identity and complex
Social stratification is matched
Simple statements to provide answers
Instead of questions.
[The proud young warrior dresses in borrowed feathers]
The language of facts formed from fissures,
Laughable claims of spider-queens,
Pushing postures and frameworks with sticky strands
Of gentle-gesturing and motherly prodding.
If those who came before could see,
What wisdom would we wish with?
What wishes we would want for nothing.
The kind of nothing that invades,
The senses of comfortable drones,
In the first rays of sunlight.
[Weapons are equally blunted with both tongues of fire and water, they say]
Head-spaces are cookies cut from the same mould.
There they’re playing with their primitive definitions.
Fixing
Changing,
Our understanding
To suit the ever-evolving insecurities of who and what we are.
This works in the friendliest fawning smiles
This works in the most dower bulbous flower buds
The most condescending tender peddles
The most apologetic venomous fangs of creature comforts
[We are cardboard knights in the paper-cut crisis of faith]
Statuesque stature
Peaceful peace-pipe of resting elders
Firm familial foundation formerly from foolish freaks
[Silly rabbit. Big skies, I guess, are just big skies]
Going, going, gone
Lost on the fringe of sight
Sounds as dull-distant drumbeats,
Caught in the inner-ear,
Buzzing in the back,
too deep to be removed.
[We are the weird step-children]
I see you clearly now.
Moving at different speeds,
Back and forth to back and forth,
From the peripherals to the techno-coloured real.
There is a place in my existence that is without doubt.
It is here.
It is now.
[We are the maladjusted fiction-glue that is pasted upside-down]
Leon Baptiste-Crowchild
Discontented but confined anyway
Child of resistance caught in the net
Of complex intersecting lines of lineage.
Where truth is sugared to meet gilded
Cages of necessity and guilty pleasures.
Where the tapestry of identity and complex
Social stratification is matched
Simple statements to provide answers
Instead of questions.
[The proud young warrior dressed in feathers]
The language of facts formed from fissures,
Laughable claims of spider-queens,
Pushing postures and frameworks with sticky strands
Of gentle-gesturing and motherly prodding.
If those who came before could see,
What wisdom would we wish with?
What wishes we would want for nothing.
The kind of nothing that invades,
The senses of comfortable drones,
In the first rays of sunlight.
[Weapons are equally blunted with both tongues of fire and fire-water]
Head-spaces are cookies cut from the same mould.
There they’re playing with their primitive definitions.
Fixing
Changing,
Our understanding
To suit the ever-evolving insecurities of whom we are.
This works in the friendliest smiles
This works in the most dower bulbous flower buds
The most condescending bulbous flower-buds
The most apologetic venomous fangs of creature comforts
[We are knights in the crisis of faith]
Statuesque stature
Peaceful peace-pipe of resting elders
Firm familial foundation formerly from foolish freaks
[Big skies, I guess, are just big skies]
Going, going, gone
Lost on the fringe of sight
Sounds as dull-distant drumbeats,
Caught in the inner-ear,
Buzzing in the back,
too deep to be removed.
[We are the weird step-children]
I see you clearly now.
Moving at different speeds,
Back and forth to back and forth,
From the peripherals to the techno-coloured real.
There is a place in my existence that is without doubt.
It is here.
It is now.
[We are the maladjusted]
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Rafting the Elk River
We were down in Fernie for Scott Gordon's bachelor weekend. We shot some incredible rapids through some of the most beautiful country!
Whitewater Rafting on the Elk River May 16th
As part of Scott Gordon's bachelor weekend, we went down to Fernie and whitewater rafted. There were some incredible waves through some tight canyons!
The Past is a Synapse
Time is fickle
When one watches
It stands still
When one is distracted
It is a thief in the shadows
The past is us together in moonlight
We were a whispered breath
Touching the finger’s tip of our minds
Touching the moment of flight
We were the connective tissues
Of collective memories
Forever haunting light and shadows
Of winding country lanes
Soft warm soil
In the first rain of late daylight
The past is there in awkwardness
There
Invisible tendrils of humid residue
Sorry sight of the chaotic
Oppressed intellect of caressed senses
Invested in the fortune of heightened belief
Taut realization of wearily guarded obstruction
The past is present when we never touch
Poplars and birch bark
Shimmering water and suppressed
Rays of light coupling with pockets of shadow
Nearing the solemn dusk of patterned rhythmic recollection
Lost pained expressions falter in the wake of shaking leaves
This is faint recourse for dusty crossroads
At the failing vision of vague circumstance
In quiet wooded daylight
Never to return
But always at the point of synapse
The past sits on a flower pedal in your sheltered eyes
Consciousness is the breath of the breeze
Like space between loosely clasped fingers
Of hunger for admission
Contact that drifts slowly on the wind
We stare at the sunset
Conscious of the fabrics that smother the impetus of action
Softly, whispers sway the boughs of bright balsams
Intermingling with pale evenings of autumn understanding
Regret is a dewdrop of cool clarity in mossy groves
The past is the fibre of decomposition imprinted on soothingly swaying simplicity
Monday, February 08, 2010
Winter Wonderings
There has been some heavy fog lately in Calgary. It's creating some wonderful frosts!
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