Fathers and Sons

July 23, 2013

Third DegreeThe first time I read Fathers and Sons I thought I was reading about myself. Myself and my relationship to my father. That was a long time ago. There is a silence between fathers and sons. A lot they don’t say. Perhaps that is in the nature of males. My father was not a hero to me. But he was a model of what it meant to be an individual. He was himself. He didn’t pretend to be anything else.


Tumble weed

August 18, 2012

I have another sight on tumbler where you can have a look at most of my visual work. Its tasty.

Power of h

A brace around my neck

October 20, 2011

The original scene where the alien bursts out of John Hurt’s chest. That was taken from my birth. My head was enormous. They had to cut into my mother’s bones. When I arrived I was all head. With five little appendages. Sticking out. After my mother recovered from my birth, the doctor’s suggested that I might need a brace around my neck. They were afraid that might head might fall to one side and snap it. When I was two or three I could wear my father’s hat. Well, the stories go on…








I was born

in an orphanage.

it was most embarrassing for my parents.

I pop’d up all naked and rouge.

Mama screamed:

“His heads too big!”

Daddy sat there and booed.

Calendar Girls

August 13, 2011

We measure our lives in years, months, days, seconds. Time does not move. All measurement is a memory. Some memories are true. April made up her own story. I was there. I know she’s telling the truth.

Is it true? Is it a fabrication? You decide. Check out this new book from David Halliday.

Calendar Girls

Love thy neighbour

July 11, 2011

Listening to Randy Bachman. On CBC. Talking about influences in Rock’n’Roll. Influences. Who knows what really affects one’s life? It could be as simple as where you are born. But there is a book that has affected me. Still does.

I’m going to simplify history. (Forgive me.) There were two major themes when I was growing up in the 50s and 60s.. One was American and one was Canadian.

‘We can be better.’ The theme of the Kennedy years. The soul of a whole generation of Americans. Young Americans in the 60s. Who strove for excellence.

‘Let’s help each other.’ The gospel of a man who rose out of the wheat fields in Western Canada. Tommy Douglas. (The grandfather of Kiefer Sutherland.) The call that brought national medicare to all Canadians. Love thy neighbour.

The book I was telling you about. The book that contains both of these themes. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The story of a young boy. A racist. Raised in a racist society. Who grows to love a black man. As older brother. As his father. What appeals to me about the book is that Huck Finn thinks he is damned. He sees no other alternative. If he protects Jim, than he will go to Hell. If he turns Jim in, then Huck will be saved. Huck chooses Jim. It is a sobering choice.

All I see on the TV, newspapers, net, are stories about. Kate and what’s his name. The royals. Its making me ill. My wife says whats wrong with appealing to the natural urge to fantasize. So much of our lives are meshed in fantasy. Romance novels. Pornography. Some would say religion. Some would say politics. Is culture a fantasy? Is it the kind of mesh that both orders and defines our experience? Is culture different than reality? Is the human experience relevant to anything larger than human beings? Kant would say that we can not know reality. Many scientists would say that the only vista into reality is through mathematics. I think what’s his name is going bald.

Renovations complete

June 29, 2011

A new room has been built in my gallery. iAMaGALLERY.

I’m getting grouchy. We are going to have an election in Ontario. And it looks like the conservatives will win. They won the federal election. They won the city election. And now the provincial. And I’m a democrat. But sometimes its hard. You have to hold your nose when the populous elects boobs. So many terrible things have happened in this area but hardly anyone seems upset. Recently Toronto has been exposed to the stories of what happened during the Group of 20. One demonstrator had his wooden leg torn off him by the police. They said it could have been used as a weapon. Another man who had come down a few days before the demonstration and said something about the G20 found himself naked, in jail. The charges against him were later dropped. How can people defend this type of behaviour? Some policemen are out of control. And their superiors are cowards. A man is beaten by a cop and none of the police around him can identify him. If you are an American and are thinking of coming to Toronto this summer… don’t. You’re safer at home.

power of h

June 27, 2011

I have another blog. Which runs parallel to this one. It is more an appraisal or a discovery of other artists. It is called ‘the power of h’ and can be found at


The S—- Word

June 18, 2011

This thought is of no importance. It just flitted through my mind. I knew a girl once named Debbie. Actually I knew 2. And her name wasn’t Debbie. She was generous with her favours. And always there was some guy hanging around her. Like a vulcher circling in the sky. Looking for road kill. Looking for those favours. Debbie was beautiful in an unconventional sort of way. She had a beautiful body, lovely face, nice eyes. But she smiled out of the side of her face. Odd that. Except that it fit her cynicism. She expected men to let her down. And of course they did. Because those were the kind of guys she preferred. It made her cynical about a lot of things. Especially about happiness. So she partied. I’m not sure how many abortions she had. But she seemed to be picking up quite a head of steam as she plowed into her 30s. For a short period of time I fell in love with her. Not for the obvious reasons. You didn’t have to fall for her for her to fall for you. In fact it was a disadvantage. What I loved about her was that she kept trying. She was fearless. With her body. And her emotions. People like to use the S— word about girls like Debbie. I never did. I just knew she was dangerous. To herself. And you.

%d bloggers like this: