hey peter, i can see your house from up here

I had no idea it was Easter until Monday afternoon, when I overheard two people talking about Easter. What are you doing for Easter? one of them burped.

Probably the strangest holiday. I wonder how many people have any real understanding of what it's (supposed to be) about. I mean, I think most people could offer up a basic famous-carpenter-on-the-cross scenario, but I bet a VAST MAJORITY could not tell you why it's called GOOD FRIDAY. And if you can think of ten people who will be in church this weekend (real people that you know, not the goddamn Pope) then please email me and call me Doubting Thomas.

* * * * *

proportional parts; inks on paper (math text book), for ARIEL.

* * * * *

Another drawing for my project with ARIEL, done from this poem:

How to Knit a Scarf

Your hand clamped gently

over his mouth. Your lifeline riding

his tongue.

*

Make fibre from the faintest

atmospheric pressure. From newsprint

and gasoline, from feathers and cellophane.

Oh and cankerworm silk.

*

An upturned collar and tucked-in chin

is a microclimate: pant

hot.

*

Turn all your finespun excuses

into fabric. Or measure and cut the strip

of machined night under street lights

all powdery moths and stupid

kisses.

*

Wind a ball of chunky yarn

like from an alpaca

around and around

and around your neck.

* * *

Take a seniors’ complex hostage.

Your demands simple,

woolen.

She writes something, I draw something back -- it's fun, and maybe we'll have something in the end, and along the way it's just another motivation to keep working. BECAUSE NO ONE'S GETTING RICH HERE.

If you don't know Ariel's work, I can recommend her book HUMP, which I keep on my bedside table, along with all my stuff on LOST EXPLORERS and CASTAWAYS and HELLISH SIEGES, as things to pick up and simply open and starting reading anywhere, which is the pretty much the best review a book can get.

glamour, by extension

C is friends with the fashion stylist Rebekah Roy (left in both pics above) ... one of those people who personify calm and smiling success. On her blog she presents glamour in this very sincere, straightforward way ... whether she's taking pictures of people on the street , talking about stain removers , her favourite videos , or attending some glittering party . One minute she's ruminating on hair extensions, and in the next she reveals how she's been featured on the Vogue UK site. A real disarmer and charmer (and this without meeting her yet, although I feel like I know her because we both did our time in Winnipeg). * * * * * Coming home from Russia, we did many bad things. ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. In my own life, the glamour is wholly imagined. * * * * * witches, smoke ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. My second go at this one, and for some reason I'm painting a lot of smoke lately (note to self: tell C that I want to be cremated). *

the indisputable weight of the ocean

People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m

Oona Balloona (doesn't care about new tables)

Well, it's Friday, and since I'm pretty depleted in the chit-chat department, I might as well put up some pictures of Ol' Giggles At Ghosts before Grandma starts sending me hate mail. Man, what a goofball. At this rate it's going to be, like, eighteen years before she has gainful employment and moves out of the house. I mean, come on . * * * * * C is especially crazy and frantic today. About two months ago she decided that she no longer liked our dining room table (take that, dining room table! no more BFF for you!). Since then she's switched the dining room and kitchen table (and all the rest of the furniture in the house -- about thirty times, but that's another story) as a provisional solution while she scoured area stores for an upgrade. And she thought she had found one, on Wednesday, at JYSK ( Whatever , I said). But when she ordered it, JYSK called back to say that they were really low on stock, and that the stock they did have was damaged, and

red-handed

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