The Irrepressible Travel Agent

This is my definition of God.

The Great Canadian Poet Eminating

It has seemed to me over the years that becoming a successful artist in Canada is like applying for a position in the civil service. Art grants are a gauntlet of ass kissing. And then there are the teaching positions available in our academic institutions. More ass kissing. When I was a student at the University of Windsor, Morley Callaghan was teaching a creative writing class. He asked everyone in the class who was interested in learning to become a writer to put up their hands. Then he suggested that they drop the course, and go out into the real world and listen.

And The Meaning Of The Word Was Lost On The Fire

We need a God. All the great works of art. War – the conquest of one group over another. The sacrifices.  The accumulation of wealth. Valor. Honour. The pledges of love. The waste. Time lost. For everything. If our civilization disappears. As it will. Like so many before it. And everything returns to dust.  We need to feel that someone noticed we were here.

Down on the farm under the apple tree

My grandfather had a farm on Prince Edward Island. It lay in the folds of a small valley. (There are no hills on the island.) There were four girls in my mother’s family with similar laughs. Their laughter was contagious. When one would laugh the other three would join in. Their laughter echoed throughout the vale. It was like music.

Doug Webb

Very amusing and clever work by Doug Webb

The Quiet of Horses Drinking

If you’ve ever stood next to a horse, you are struck by both how large an animal they are and how noble. My grandfather had three horses, King, Queen and I’ll say Prince (I’m not sure of his name). They were mere working horses. No thoroughbreds here. But they moved with such nobility and grace. And I can still here the clap of their hoffs on the cement as they stepped out of their barn. (The horses were kept in a separate barn from the cattle and pigs.) My grandfather was a smith and I had watched him shoe many a horse. And always he spoke to them with firmness and kindness which relaxed them as he fitted their shoes. And then he took out those nails. The horses never flinched.

mischief and permanent bliss.

I ran across this exciting sight run by a young lady named Cathey in Texas. Its called mischief and permanent bliss. Her sight is packed with offbeat material, everything from skateboarding to Picasso. Go to the sight. You’ll fall in love with this young lady’s enthusiasm.

She describes herself as ‘Thirty-something office peon by day but writer and artist at heart. Mom to an amazing little boy. Stuck in South Texas but loves to travel. Mac lover. Soccer and martial arts fiend. Dog lover. Photography addict. Fascinated by languages. Lover of anything unconventional, activist, global, and silly. Writing and music keep me sane more than anyone can imagine…‘

An Afternoon Amongst The Meadows Of June

I had a vision of God as a kind of workman. Decent, honest. Never overdoes it. But always shows up on time. And never cuts corners. Even if the boss isn’t around which in God’s terms was never. I figure he wakes up about 4:40, just before sunlight, puts a little time on the treadmill (God is concerned about his weight). Then showers. Has a substantial breakfast. (Tries to minimize his intake of butter and bacon.) Dresses in modest but clean clothes. Gives the honey a kiss on her forehead (she is still asleep or doesn’t exist yet) and then he is off. God is workmanlike. He doesn’t have an axe to grind. Isn’t malicious or vengeful. He just does  his job. And maybe he has a partner. To help. And maybe that partner is a guy. We shouldn’t judge God. He might get pissed.

Street Dance

One of my best friends fits the description of a street dancer. That’s the way he lives his life. He is that rare combination of hedonist and intellectual (although he would never see himself as an intellectual). He lives his life honestly. But with fun. He’s a grumpy old man who loves to get up and swing some young thing around the dance floor. No matter her age. Victor would easily fit into the Leonard Cohen song, Closing Time. And he’d love it.

I should have rip’d his heart out!

A close friend of mine was having a passionate relationship with a young man. I did not know the young man but I was glad my friend was involved with someone. She had been a lost soul for a long time, estranged from her family, in poor health, and in a large city far from  home. I was one of her lone friends. She met Harvey. (I can’t remember his name.) I’m tempted to say that his name was Glen because he resembled the country singer Glen Campbell (Campbell as a young man.) Bernice called me. I could feel the joy in her voice. Nothing made me so happy as to hear that lovely lilt in her laugh. Harvey and Bernice (I’ll call her Bernice) spent almost every hour with each other. In bed. Finally, after weeks of trying, I got a hold of Bernice. She was a mess. Not suicidal but profoundly sad. I asked what had happened. Harvey had told her that on the next long weekend he was getting married. That’s when Bernice told me that she should have rip’d his heart out. If he had one.