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Showing posts from January, 2013

laugh

High winds in winter always make me think of ghosts. A Bannockburn for garbage cans this morning, strewn across the road. Last night no wind at all, just the kind of rain you only see in movies, teeming sheets in depth of field. Man at the crosswalk, waiting waiting, didn't think to press the button. I'm unemployed these days, he said, while I waited for the other shoe to drop. Two clerks at the liquor store: (1) This guy over here's so nice, he bought his wife a trip to every one of the Thousand Islands, (2) Yeah that's right, and she has to go to each one consecutively, all in a row . People always trying to talk to me, even when I'm only pretending to laugh .

the upside downside, all upside down

and these were the doom maidens * * * * * A fellow on the street gave me a brochure about God's road map this morning, but when I looked inside there was no map at all, just a pile of riddles about some magical but narrow gate. Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is broad that leads to destruction, and there are many who enter through it. For the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to life and there are few who find it. Okay. In the meantime, I have an audio blog about the flawed fantastic here .

alpha / bestiary

Second image in an alpha-bestiary series I'm making with Ariel . The first one is here . * * * * * Snowing all day, actually looking like winter outside. Proofing book galleys for Dark All Day . Is there any job sleepier, more overcast than proofreading? Your own words have a way of drifting, they've buried you so many times before.

g h o s t s (or the best commercial in the world)

It's the best commercial in world. (Warning: some of these ghosts have arms and legs.)

not idling at all

hunter killer *  *  *  *  * strange things around, even at 6:45 on a Sunday morning. like the SUV that sat idling dead centre at the intersection of Cherry and Pine, with all its lights on. they must be waiting for someone , I thought, walking up from a block away. just a quick stop . but it just sat there, all dead-centre-ish. i walked right up to it, not wanting (terribly not wanting, in that sighing sick way) to find a guy slumped over the steering wheel. there was a person in there alright, and moving, but (he? she? the silhouette was iffy) stared straight ahead, stroking his/her chin. thinking or waiting or waiting for some thinking to start. i stood there for a few seconds, making myself known. look, i'm a shadow . look, this is how you get shot . so i moved on. at the corner of Cherry and York (about three blocks away) i looked back; it was still sitting there. *  *  *  *  * leaving my studio Sunday afternoon, having spent the morning looking up to the wind

the death of ajax

cigar-tin #142 contains the short story "The Death of Ajax" in the shop ... that Ajax killed himself by jumping onto his own sword, or then tore out his own heart, which burst into flame, while others say the Trojans attacked him as a swarm, en masse, hurling lumps of clay at him, until he was covered completely, and could not move, and was suffocated as it hardened.

not believing in individuals

long-eared owl (not believing in individuals) pencil and acrylic inks on paper paper is a page torn from Early Theories of the Universe , by James A. Coleman (from the Signet Science Library series, 1967) 4.25 x 7 inches in the shop

little things

tawny owl (it's the little things) pencil and acrylic inks on paper paper is a page torn from Early Theories of the Universe , by James A. Coleman (from the Signet Science Library series, 1967) 4.25 x 7 inches in the shop I have some audio on little things here .

it's fine

Well of course we were behind in the recycling from over the holidays , three trips out to the garage last night just to get started and then a stinking-cat-food-tin miasma of sorting and re-shifting and then the last semi-hopeless stuffings into the garbage, followed by four more trips up the forty metres of lane, in the dark, when suddenly the wind came up, and the rain started in that determined half-sideways manner, and it was during a retrieval trip around the corner ('retrieval' in the sense of rescuing some scrubbed plastic that had blown all over the alley) that I suddenly found myself face down in a wet snowbank, my glasses skidding away for good comic measure. O Dignity. I once had such feelings for you, and attached so many hopes. Still. I retrieved and sorted my own self as best I could, as one learns to do after so many minor collapses, the way they add up, in that negative fashion, trying to mean something more, and found my feet back to the house just in time t

letter #26, broken hill

Canadian Notes and Queries always does a special feature for subscribers wherein they insert a limited printed collectible keepsake, such as bookmarks, broadsides, chapbooks and prints. In the current issue subscribers will find -- tucked in at the back -- one of two kinds of dispatches: a letter that has been folded (by hand) into its own envelope, and an envelope that has *most* of the letter written on the outsides, even swirling around the address, but then finishes with a note on the inside. Both are illustrated. And both were done by me. CNQ also gave me the back page to rave away on, but instead I just explained the nature of the letter, the story it came from and then some thoughts about creativity in general -- how writing and drawing behave around each other, or at least why I insist they should do so. Letter #26 is from an illustrated novella called Broken Hill . While it is unpublished, I have some handmade art-book versions in my shop .

fit for a king

cigar-tin story #141; in the shop * * * * * This one reminds me of Biblical illustrations, for some reason. That kind of overwrought quality. Or maybe I just have Bibles on my mind .

the importance of not being earnest

Had one of those intransigent arguments with a friend the other day. It came out of a conversation where I tried to explain my feelings about writing, how they had evolved. Honestly I thought I was describing a kind of obvious progress. I talked about how there was something strangely liberating about coming to understand one's own place or station in the grand scheme of things, and that my own place was decidedly coach class, in that I was only ever going to have a certain amount of success (meaning: no money) and enjoy very specific kinds of victories (meaning: limited, sporadic publication). And that the writing itself was changing into something detached, something that had its own internal logic, and while it remains a complete pain in the ass, it's still an exercise that I'm drawn to, and I know that is good for me, in that it gives me certain things in return, at the very least a better understanding of the world, and of myself. At the same time though there is t

happy holidays

cigar-tin story #140 in the shop * * * * * So ... how were your … holidays? Are we calling them holidays, or *the* holidays, or 'the holiday season'? It seems most people say "Happy Holidays" now. The emphasis is definitely on the holiday aspect, on the escaping from regular life, and spending time with our families. It's a whole month of out-of-the-ordinary *stuff*. None of which seems to include Jesus. The fat man in the red suit gets more play but that's just because he's a convenient motif for all the merchandising ... and because people need to say something about the subject, so they say things like, "Was Santa good to you this year?" or "I bet that little one of yours is pretty excited about Santa." Which is fine. I guess if we don't really understand what we're celebrating anymore, then Santa is as good as anything. The board of Coca Cola should be pleased. You know, for years I said that Christmas shou