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Showing posts from January, 2012

you bring the rack, i'll bring the ruin

Sometimes I think the whole thing is too rotten to stand. Because what do we have? 350 million North Americans with almost 90% of the world's wealth (don't talk to me about Mexico -- that's like purgatory with piñatas). An entire culture predicated on everybody wanting everything all the time. And no idea about dessert, other than I deserve it . We live in the most privileged society that has ever existed and yet all the (dying) bookstores are spilling with self-help titles, all because the (dying) middle class can't manage its own money. Or stop eating. And all our debates are about our neighbours getting away with something, or getting something for nothing, while the various star chambers use hundred dollar bills to stuff their pillows and dream only the sweetest dreams that only the born rich can know.

cleaning out the fridge

Cleaning out the fridge on a Saturday morning is like holding a referendum on the food you eat: was it worth it to make an entire 13x9 baking dish of string pie? (1) why do I keep buying yoghurt for my wife's 'healthy' smoothies only to end up throwing half of it away, unopened and past the due date? (2) why does celery have to come in such big bunches? (3) what good is it to buy perogies if my wife's just going to eat all the sour cream anyway? (4) does jam ever go bad? (5) I'm constantly trying to course correct with my grocery decisions, because I hate making big batches of things only to see them become garbage a week later. * * * * * (1) Yes and no ... about three-quarters got eaten from the original supper plus taking it to work for lunch a few times. (2) Because my wife likes to view her eating habits *optimistically*. (3) Seriously -- I can *never* use it all. (4) With ripple chips. (5) It takes about a year (in the fridge).

contrapositive

contrapositive ; acrylic inks on paper, 8.75 x 6.25 inches. In the shop . * * * * * Working on some new things. Having given up on " good daddy ", I've started to share with Oona the idea of "poor daddy". Poor daddy. Always trudging through the snow, taking Oona to daycare, or taking her home, and struggling with groceries, while carefree mommy drives around town, although mostly to the liquor store. Poor daddy. Carrying his coffee and lunch to work, while mommy goes through the drive-thru, and throws her trash in the baby seat. Poor daddy. Never any cash in his wallet because mommy takes it to go out with her friends, or buy jewellery. Also: the idea that "mommy" is a ghost (to be honest, I have no evidence that she isn't a ghost). "Who's that coming in so late?" I'll ask Oona, as I'm getting her ready for bed. "Mommy here! Mommy here!" Oona will say. "Are you sure? Because it could be a ghost," I'

amazing

amazing ; pencil and crayon on Moleskine watercolour paper, 5.25 x 3.5 inches. An old favourite that has seen its summer day. In the shop .

ruined

ruined ; red acrylic ink on paper, 4.25 x 6.25 inches, page taken from an old English text book. In the shop . JULY IN THE JARDIN DES PLANTES The summer days moved with the pace of a caged lion. To stroll through crowds by the parkgates at dusk was a game: O could we snatch out of that dusk a moment That memory might, as food or whip-lash, tame. To take what shape of cloud or smile was given Was to stroll no longer the lost one's eyes Upon us except obliquely, like next Autumn, Last Spring that peered at Summer now through bars. Mist rising up from the morning-warmed grass was a spector That muffled the noise of nurses and nursed by sand. Sycamore branches stuck outside the nightmare. I traced them like the lines in the palm of my hand Thinking someday under a sycamore I shall watch summers Remembering with pride, with shame, the streets of Youth, The cities that hummed with the din of their ruined lovers, Traffic lights that shattered the dreaming dusk. Truth that we look for in l

the tomboy

the tomboy ; acrylic inks on paper, 4.25 x 6.25 inches. In the shop . THE TOMBOY The tomboy, unhelmeted, a blow-locks hero, aimed into bluebonnets, intent to bee-bee an imaginary monster ... ~ William Burford

song

i can't be talkin' of love, dear ; red acrylic ink on paper, page taken from an old English text book, 4.25 x 6.25 inches. In the shop . S O N G I can't be talkin' of love, dear, I can't be talkin' of love. If there be one thing I can't talk of That one thing do be love. But that's not sayin' that I'm not lovin' – Still water, you know, runs deep, An' I do be lovin' so deep, dear, I be lovin' you in my sleep. But I can't be talkin' of love, dear, I can't be talkin' of love. If there be one thing I can't talk of That one thing do be love. ~ Esther Mathews

eat popcorn and dream

So many movies I've been meaning to write about. And then life happens. And winter! Fucking winter. So here's some mini-reviews. Never Let Me Go The class act of the bunch, like someone carefully folding a sweater and placing it across the back of a chair. A chair in gorgeous sunlight, and the saddest sweater you've ever worn. Let Me In The original Swedish version had excellent main characters and awfully weak secondary characters. This American remake fixes that, albeit with just slightly less charm (and a lot more 80's nostalgia). Kid A Do we deserve to escape our pasts? Maybe. Not. The Headless Woman C **loved** this movie, which is Argentinian with subtitles. I fell asleep. Source Code A watchable science fiction movie! It has Jake whats-his-face in it, and was directed by David Bowie's kid. After Dark My Sweet A noir movie where Bruce Dern is singularly creepy and Jason Patric is actually good. With Rachel Ward in wine-soaked decline. The Ghost Writer The real

parachute man

A few weeks ago some media-savvy degenerates I know took a reading/recording of mine and, amazingly, added a soundtrack and video to it. It's now on YouTube. Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing, and the original recording was on a $19 mp3 player, so this has come a long, long way. Many thanks to Nathan for the ambient sound and Leah for the art-house video. * * * * * Also: check out my friend Jill's site today, as she explains why the "sleep-aid tapes" she gave me for Christmas are really nothing more than her telling me to do endless projects for her. Or at least she calls them "projects".

it's nice and sweet

Delivered a triptych (three paintings than can hang together as one image) to friends of ours the other night. They have a new/remodelled home that is all big space and clean lines -- so I hope this textured, rough-and-ready painting is a good fit by way of contrast (as I worked on it, I had in mind the kind of worn-away mural you would find at a seaside). The place names on the bather's caps are some of the cities that our friends have lived in. it's nice and sweet , mixed media on cradled wood panel; 60 x 40 x 1.5 inches; triptych; the string series continues. * * * * * While I'm here: artstream studios still has paintings of mine for sale and, as always with my work, they really are priced to *sell*. Also: the proprietor of the gallery, Susan Schwake, has a wonderful art-instruction book coming out soon, called Art Lab for Kids , and I'll have more on that later.

everybody talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it

This weekend felt, finally, like the first days of winter: a good foot of snow and that stinging crispness on your face. Saturday morning Oona and C helped me shovel the yard (not really). Later, I had a hot bath and a nap, and pretended to be a Finnish millionaire. Walking to the studio early Sunday and it was cold enough, despite longjohns and heavy pants, to make my legs stiff. * * * * * Will someone pleasepleaseplease phone the head honcho at CBC radio and let him know that jazz is dead. I mean, maybe he honestly doesn't know. Maybe nobody told him. Maybe he thinks that jazz is being played all over the country, right now, and people are calling into radio stations and requesting their favourite jazz songs, and that many of these radio stations are entirely dedicated to the jazz format, and that people are lining up outside jazz clubs, and buying jazz albums, and reading jazz magazines, and thinking serious thoughts about the nature and future of jazz. Jazz! Maybe he thin

glitter

More Oona art, and your guess is as good as mine. Exploding rainbow? Music sheet for March of the Spastics ? Bird-shit storm? Back-alley seizure? I haven't reviewed the daycare's activity sheet lately, but I'll have to check if Unsupervised Model Building With Let's-Get-High Glue is on there. * * * * * Oona and C are going through some weird Kirk-Spock thing right now, where it's all negotiations, ultimatums, grievances, demands and mind-melds. Last night C slept on the couch because Oona kept calling for her ( Mommy here, mommy here ). Meanwhile, I was fast asleep. Why didn't you just tell her to shut the hell up? I wanted to ask, but didn't, because I wanted to get out the door in one piece. * * * * * Recently I told a friend of mine that fear is an essential parenting tool and she just looked at me the way suburban girls look at homeless people in front of Target -- that screwed-up face, I wish the world was just glitter kind of way.

fun weather storm days

Stupid crazy wet-on-wet weather the last two days, although yesterday was clearly the puncher of the class: sticky rain that turned into ice and then built on the ice already there and the sidewalks tunnels of hidden slickness or just puddles thick with broken ice churning and all it soaking heavy and dark. Burning tractor trailers on the 401. Then warmer throughout the day, and walking home from the studio late last night I was startled by the random crashing all around, slabs of ice sliding off roofs or tree branches just giving up, everything either bent or cracking. I took Oona to daycare in the rain this morning, but when I came out of her building it was suddenly big snow, like shredded paper. I need to buy some proper rain pants.

itch

Illo for a story of the same name, acrylic ink on letraset paper. * * * * * Sending out a ton of work right now, just trying to get ahead of the February let's-kill-ourselves.

bear weekend

So yeah: Oona and I were on our own this weekend, while C was away at a Toastmasters jamboree ( can you imagine? ). Oona and I were fine. We made bears out of plasticine. We made the computer talk to us. We tortured Dora. We ate our weight in butter. C came home on Sunday afternoon. That night, even though we were both exhausted and low-key (she watched tv while I read), I tried to stick close, ask her about her weekend -- you know, be *present*. Why are you talking so much? C asked. Could you just shut up for awhile? Tonight she's going to be late getting home, as she has a manicure/pedicure appointment. But I'll be home in time for supper , she said. Although I don't what you're going to make because there's fuck all in the fridge. When are you going to do the grocery shopping? Then tomorrow night I can't attend my writer's group because she has another Toastmaster's gig (she's the area governor, whatever that hell that means). On Thursday I mi

daddy 1, magnum 0

Just went up to put Oona down for her nap (a girl can only eat so much pizza and butter tarts before she gets sleepy) when we were confronted with Magnum, the sleazy Siamese, sitting (arrogantly) in her crib. Fucking cat. So I shook the crib (it's on wheels) to let it know I/we wanted it out. NOW. But it wouldn't get out. All right , I said, taking Oona back downstairs to get the spray bottle (because the only one who can pick up this cat is C, and she's gone for the weekend). Well. About the best way to describe what followed would be something along the lines of what the Christians must have looked like in the Coliseum. At first, stoic with faith (or in this case, obstinate with stupidity) followed by brain-collapsing panic as the lions came bounding in (or one is repeatedly hit with aimed streams of cold water). He suddenly forgot how to get out, even jamming his head through the bars. Finally, he must have remembered -- Oh yeah, I actually performed a *bigger* leap to g

like (insane) chanting, only with exclamation marks

Right now Oona is going through a repeating phase, as in baby coat! baby coat! baby coat! baby coat! or two babies! two babies! two babies! two babies! or daddy coat! daddy coat! daddy coat! daddy coat! and so on. And almost always followed by the incomprehensible, such as no baba puh! no baba puh! no baba puh! no baba puh! a danny! and the only thing you can do -- if you want it to stop, if you want your brain to stop bleeding, and not go crazy, and set yourself on fire -- is to say, Yes, no baba puh, a danny, excellent, thank you for telling me that. Now if you'll excuse me, *someone* just had a poo so egregious (and lingering) that I need to walk around with a lit match for awhile.

anna, snow

anna ; black acrylic ink on letraset paper, 8.25 x 11.5 inches. Used with permission, the original is here . * * * * * Walked home from the studio in a little snowstorm last night. Writers reach for all sorts of analogous descriptions for snow, but there really is nothing like that closed-in, cloaked feeling of a darkness enveloped with it. Soft and muted and lovely. The snow ploughs bumble by, like twitching rambly bots. Two big girls were having a fight outside a poutine shop, with a smaller girl hopping around them both. As I went by, the smaller girl said, Good luck getting laid without me! , and then the big girls started pushing each other. I guess Christmas must be over. I passed another person about two blocks from home, a guy wearing a hood and a ski mask even though it was the warmest it's been all week. Why are you wearing a ski mask? I wondered, until I was about half a block past him, and the thought finally came in.

blindekuh

blindekuh ; black acrylic ink on letraset paper, illo for a story (an old one now, but updated for a new collection). * * * * * First cold of the year, of the season. Actually snuck it in at the tail end of the 2011, a cough that started up from nowhere. You know: suddenly you're coughing. Taking NyQuil before bed and getting some sleep but trouble waking up in the morning and when I do wake up it's all slow legs and thoughts like rubber cement. I told this to C this morning and she asked me So, do you feel foggy in the morning? Me: Yeah, that's what I just said. C: But do you feel foggy in the morning? Me: Yeah. I do. Like I said. When I said that. C does interviews for Profile Kingston and I always wonder if they go like this: C: So, what are the ideas that you're most proud of? Interview Subject: Well, it was my idea to invade Poland. C: Anything else? Like, invading Poland, for example? Whose idea was that, anyway? A doctor recently warned me against taking too

some parting thoughts

First and foremost (mom), I've uploaded a whack of Oona Christmas-parcel-opening videos here . She is only slightly mental in this batch, although the cookie-eating one is a pretty egregious. * * * * * So how were your holidays? I went into work for a few days in the middle of mine, and they were still entirely too long. I think this might be my *working* time in life. Meaning: right now, it seems the only thing I want to do is finish certain things. I have projects. I have stories I want to write, and others I need to complete, and things I want to draw and others I want to paint. And all of this is pretty much disengaged from notions of accomplishment, or achievement, because I fully understand the way failure stalks every creative enterprise. For me, finishing a story and seeing it in print is the whole thing. I never expect any kind of reward or prize beyond that. It's just seeing it through, seeing the idea fully realized. Most people go through this kind of working ph