red-handed

can your song be heard? ; inks on paper * * * * * Halloween was the cat's ass when I was a kid. Of course this was small-town Saskatchewan in the late 70's and early 80's, a time when kids could still run wild, and the nearest police station was some twenty miles away. The trick-or-treating years were good -- the costume mattered but didn't matter, warmth trumped style, there was no sense of competition about it (where the fuck were you going to get a fancy costume, anyway? in the city? yeah right), because all the kids were so completely focused on going to *every* house (well, you skipped the widower drunks, and most of the old folks' home) in town, and getting as much candy as they could carry -- but the older kids had more fun, buying eggs by the flat, and carrying whole sackfuls of water balloons, and toilet paper, and bars of soap in their pockets, and having a kind of running battle with any other teenagers they saw, and even a few parents,

My friend Jeannette has, like most superheroes who flee to Japan, some highly specialized skills (illustration, fine art, sarcasm) that leave her completely vulnerable to even the weakest economic winds that currently ravage America (everyone loves creative talent -- until they have to pay for it). And yet she persists, and breathes, and draws, and breathes again, and even wants to come home. So why not encourage her otiose (new thesaurus!), tilting-at-windmills talents and hire her to draw you something. TODAY .

i bet that would sell tons 8.5 x 11 acrylic inks on paper

I found this note on the sidewalk a few months ago, stuffed into a back pocket of my bag, forgot it there, then rediscovered it recently. Basically, the note writer is asking Mireille to do ... EVERYTHING. * * * * * Yesterday, as I made dinner in the real kitchen and Oona made her version of dinner in her 'kitchen', she asked me for a knife. Uh, no, I said, picturing how boring the hospital would be. You don't get a knife. Ever. Use your foam one. It's in your kitchen somewhere, you just have to look for it. Is this a knife? Oona asked. Uh ... no , I said. That's a spoon. Is this a knife? Oona asked. Uh ... no , I said. That's a phone.

Cigar-tin story #137. In the shop . * * * * * Story on the radio this morning, some book about how Tim Horton's has seized and exploited a privileged parcel of cultural territory on the Canadian middle-class landscape, which is pretty extraordinary for a coffee franchise. (I do apologize for not knowing the name of the book, but I didn't write it down at the time, and there's no way to look it up on the CBC website. Of course.) Very recently I promised myself that I wouldn't go into Tim Horton's anymore. The reasons were multiple and obvious: • the ones downtown are usually crowded with the kind of people who yell at their kids not to hit each other with bottles • the ones downtown are usually dirty • the ones in the suburbs are swarming with cars, seemingly crazed, as if the drive-thru led into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory • and then the military shows up, not caring if they stand there forever, ordering entire meals in vast trays • w

Tiny Anteater Dancer ; acrylic on paper, 11 x 14 inches. * * * * * The artist Sheri Larsen can be such a surprise; just when you think you have a grasp of her work, this very grounded series of nudes and still lifes, in an Expressionist style, she'll come up with something like this. Strange, sinister, compelling -- what exactly is the nature of this creature, and its hood? The title alone is a poetry prompt. Have a boo at her shop . Not only is it full of art, but Sheri also crafts lovely warm things for winter.

In support of her new print at The Working Proof (15% of the proceeds of which goes to Médecins Sans Frontières), my friend Susan recently gave an interview where she talks -- intelligently, which is no easy feat, believe me -- about her work and, in particular, the inspiration for this piece. Go have a boo .

just you wait , inks on paper, 4 x 7 inches. For Ariel .

Are Sundays the gloomiest of days? Everything seems descended, and down, and sunken away. Sunday mornings, in particular, always have that pall, that end-of-story feeling. Grim and talking to yourself to get up first thing, in the darkness and rain, to walk somewhere and climb some stairs and go around turning on lights. As if that could change anything. But this is the time you have, and at least with the quiet you can hear yourself talk about everything you have to do. Melancholia is one of the Four Temperaments , apparently. But I think the Greeks were overreaching here, and some days just press themselves, insisting on quiet and a kind of grave incubation, where there's really nothing wrong, not really.

Oona's handiwork. It's called my thanksgiving weekend, filled as it was with turkey, cranberries and cold sunshine, while all the time those certain specific (very specific) fires continued to rage, unabated, deep inside, and in their way sustained me , which is a fine title, I guess, although I'm not crazy about the precious e.e. cummings no-capitalization bit. I mean, enough already. * * * * * Anyway: some photographs from our Thanksgiving Monday, when we went on two giant walks, one around our neighbourhood and one around Jones Falls Dam , neither of which produced the desired effect of napping. Walking backwards. Swinging stones. I'll have to dock you for this. The long and winding road. Bridges, but not Jeff Bridges. Getting high. Locked up. Love canal. Dam. Olde-timey pipe laying. You're only caught if you're guilty.

Oona is three years old today. What a Chuckleupicus. Lately I've been ambushing her, Cato-style, when she's done drying her hands and face on the towel I'm holding out to her, suddenly throwing the towel over her head and picking her up and wrapping her in it, all the time exclaiming things like, O no! Why is this happening to me? I'm innocent until proven guilty! and so on. Often she'll repeat the lines in a wailing fashion while she struggles to break free, and last night it was more than amusing to hear her mimic, O no, I want my life back! before rolling out of it and running squealing to her mother.

How did that happen? Summer's imperial war machine melting away into this nearly forgiving fall, days warm and kind yet slipping into cooling nights, and then that shift, when suddenly it's strange again, with each day trying to tell its own story, some mostly grim and filtered grey with others still showing off some sun, and each one with all this promise and capacity for change, bolting cold in the morning but maybe even hot by afternoon, you never know until you're dragging your heavy coat around. And now all the holidays will start issuing their various orders, and all the roads are marked until well into the new year.