Must be something in the air...

September is traditionally the month for getting back to work, whether that means school or just plain more thoughtful pursuits. This month has been no exception.

The last week has been filled with events pointing us in the direction of thinking and creating. Specifically, for me, this has meant lots of poetry.

Last week was another event promoting a new collection from Mother Tongue Press, 4 Poets. As one might suspect, the book celebrates the work of four writers, in this case "New BC Poets" -- and it does so in a way that stimulates a deep understanding of their work.

Mona Fertig, editor and conceiver of the series, has given us a book that contains more than just poems. Each author makes a statement on his or her Poetics, provides an interview, lays out draft versions of poems, and even offers a poem in translation.

The event I attended at VPL saw only two of the poets in attendance. And though I regretted not having heard Peter Morin or Al Rempel at earlier events, Daniela Elza and Onjana Yawnghwe gave readings that kept us listening intently.

Daniela, who's doing graduate work in education at SFU, brought along a collaborator for part of her presentation -- a dancer! Su-Lin's performance worked wonderfully with Daniela's words; I can only think of one other time I've seen these two arts mixed so successfully.

But if that event wasn't enough, there was Thursday's reading by four local authors, followed on Sunday by one of Vancouver's most vibrant literary events, Word on the Street.

I was lucky enough to serve as host for an event that featured Evelyn Lau, Russell Thornton, Colin Browne and Vancouver's current Poet Laureate, Brad Cran. The little Poetry Tent was full, with an overflow crowd spilling out onto Library Square. It was great to see such enthusiasm for this genre too many people choose to ignore.

But of all these inspiring events, the sight that meant the most to me was one I saw yesterday -- and naturally, it was one of those times I didn't have my camera. It put the phrase 'word on the street' into action, literally.

A girl was walking down the sidewalk, steadily moving forward, but with her head bent to an open book. Now, that's being engrossed by the power of the written word!

An evening of short readings

Our Community Arts Council reading series kicked off its new season with an evening of short readings by four local authors.

When I introduced Vaughan Chapman, I teased her a bit, as she almost always wins the door prize at these events -- thus, she 'won the prize' and got to read first (and wasn't allowed to enter the draw). The poems she read were memory-based, placed in the context of family. Geographically, the poems were very much of the prairies. One of the images I loved was from her 'Pea Poem' -- "...fruit hard as teeth coming through."

Vaughan was followed by Virginia Gillespie, who read poems based in the Four Corners area of the U.S. (the juncture of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah). She transported us, not only with her words, but with her lovely and clear singing voice. She also supplied me with a line I'd like to adopt as my new mantra, "Free me from this erratic pace." Oh, yes!

Following these two poets, we switched gears and moved on to Ian Lauder who read from his post-Arthurian novel, Elfindale. The book follows Lauder's take on the apprenticeship of Morgan LeFay to Merlin. Lauder extolled us to reach for a state he calls 'lightness of being' and suggested that to attain it we "...develop our androgynous psyche."

The evening closed with Cristy Watson, who usually serves as bookseller at our series, reading poems old and new. One of the chapbooks she read from, DNA, was fresh off the presses that afternoon! Watson, a survivor of breast cancer, has a series of no-nonsense poems about her experience. Most enthralling (to me, at least) was a piece about Icarus, only with the focus on his flight instead of his crash. "Who wouldn't seek to climb the moon?"

Watson's poem goes on with the line, "The sheer magnitude of futures sprawled before him..." and so, I suspect, does the future for these writers.

Wake-up Call

Even though today isn't quite the first day of autumn, it felt like a day of moving forward. That feeling might have something to do with today's Global Wake-up Call to Climate Change.

I've been reading a pretty chillling book, Forty Signs of Rain. It's the first in a trilogy called Science in the Capital, a series that's been called 'hard science' fiction because it relies on (and utilizes) so much current research. The author, Kim Stanley Robinson, speaks knowledgably about the climate crisis. Here's an interview if you'd like to hear some of what he has to say.

I was part of a group who met in White Rock, British Columbia, Canada. It was a beautiful day, and while it was great to see friends (and strangers), the part that made me happiest was the fact that our local event had been organized by Caitlyn, a local young person -- not one of the usual middlin'-to-older sorts who generally take on such projects.

Yes, Virginia, there is hope for the world.

Terrible symmetry

1 - 3 - 1.

One hundred and thirty-one.

That’s 20 more dead soldiers since the last time I wrote about the rising toll in Afghanistan.

And now it’s reported that the most recent victim, Pte. Jonathan Couturier, apparently considered the mission ‘a bit useless’.

It’s seeming that more people are finally questioning Canada’s actions in Afghanistan. Recent statements from Senator Colin Kenny compare the mission’s futility to the war in Vietnam. Robert Fowler, the Canadian diplomat who was kidnapped earlier this year, has also expressed doubts.

The promised date for withdrawal, 2011, seems just too far away.

Celebrating the Arts with The Grapes of Wrath

Even though our government doesn’t seem to value the arts, I still do. Saturday night saw a group of us heading over to our local Legion hall for a concert by the most recent incarnation of that great Canadian band, The Grapes of Wrath.

For a band made up of only two guys these days, Tom Hooper and Kevin Kane made a helluva sound and a whole lot of terrific music.

I’d gone to the event expecting good harmonies, but hadn’t realized just how well these two voices work together. Live concerts sometimes prove the power of the studio mix, but not with these guys. Sure they were singing their two parts, but there were songs where I was hearing at least three-point-five harmony. Besides learning harmonies from Simon and Garfunkel, a duo they admitted listening to, I wondered who else their early influences were – The Turtles? Seals and Crofts?

Beatles fan that I will always be, I especially loved their George Harrison tributes, their own composition as well as their cover of Here Comes the Sun. The strumming was right, the plucking of individual notes – even the right foot raised in that slow-kick clunky dance step George did. Sigh.

I bought their CD and am glad that I did. So, not only do I celebrate the arts, I support ’em. Hope you’re doing the same.

A grey day in Vancouver

People who don't live in the Lower Mainland of B.C. might laugh at that subject header and ask, "Isn't it always?"

But today was grey in ways that went well beyond the weather.

A noontime protest outside the Vancouver Art Gallery saw artists and friends of the arts gather to protest the deep cuts our government has made to this culturally important sector. As part of the action, we all tried to wear grey -- to portray the drabness of a world without art.

We stood in the misty drizzle and listened to speakers explain the depth of the cuts. They also urged us to promise solidarity as we look to convince our government to stop the cuts to arts funding.

The actions the B.C. Liberals have taken are unprecedented and not all in keeping with what other provinces are doing. The rest of the country seems to understand the importance of the arts -- not only for their cultural contributions, but for the financial returns they bring to the economy.

The trek home meant a ride on the recently opened Canada Line, a new step in the area's transit infrastructure. Because so much of the route is underground, even this leg of the trip home was the uniform grey of concrete tunnels. Oddly, even the stations where the train stops are blandly grey (though I suppose they are referred to as 'taupe'), as if we're all practising for a world that really will be the grey shades of a world without art.

More to come on this, you can be sure.

End-of-summer traditions

Besides the tradition of going to the PNE, going out for an end-of-summer lunch date is another. The day's been coolish, so big bowls of Udon soup were the order of the day.

After that, an end-of-summer stroll on the beach. With the tide out, it felt quietly private, even though there were plenty of kite-flyers, skimboarders, dog-walkers and puddle-waders.

No sadness over the season changing -- besides, I know it really won't happen for another two weeks.

A much better than fair day at the fair

The fair in question, the PNE, would stand up to the test of anyone's notion of a state fair. it's an event with its roots in the traditional agricultural fair, only it's grown far beyond farm displays. Still, there are plenty of critters as well as displays of mushrooms and honey and other B.C. produce.

We spent most of the day there, starting with a big band performance by Dal Richards and his group. Dal's looking and sounding pretty great, especially for a guy who's going on 92.

Besides the big band experience, we took in a group of performers who go by the slightly pretentious title, Celtic Legends. This overly broad name makes them difficult to track down, still the building was packed and I wasn't the only one who seemed enthralled by their presentation. The musicians were top-notch, and I have to admit the sound of that fiddle stirs something in my blood. I wonder if my Irish grandfather has anything to do with that. And the dancers were maybe even more impressive -- with their straight backs and free-as-marionette legs, their stomping was really quite the thrill.

I'll admit I still miss the car show that was such a long-standing tradition, the demo derby. This year's replacement, 'On the Edge' was completely lame. To make matters worse, 'climax' points in the show were punctuated by the eruption of huge flames. These not only emitted a huge blast of heat, the stench from whatever fuel was used was horrid -- and strong enough that many very little children were instinctively reacting by covering their noses and mouths. So much for the fair's 'green' brags.

Much more fun, and in keeping with our traditions here in B.C. was the revived (albeit on a smaller scale) lumberman's show. Log-rolling, axe-throwing, speed-sawing and more. This is a tradition I really hope they'll decide to retain. In fact, it might be an excellent installation in the B.C. pavilion apparently still being planned for February's Olympic extravaganza.

Eating, of course, was one of the reasons we went to the fair. There's so much to choose from, you can't try even the tiniest portion of what's available. The soft ice cream (intentionally soft) might have been the highlight for me. Not something I know how to whip up at home, especially not with that curly swirl!

Of course, there's so much to see just wandering around the midway, considering the merits of various rides, and just plain people-watching.

The evening's free concert was the Gipsy Kings, and there must have been thousands crowded into the viewing areas. Big screen video made it easier for those of us in the back to see. Great sounds to round out a memorable day.

I quit

For too long, I’ve been one of the sheep who convince themselves that buying lottery tickets might bring a big payout.

But recent decisions about gambling in this province have made me think differently.

I got nervous when I learned that our local transit service would soon be taking a different route into the city, forcing riders to transfer to the new Canada Line train. While I can’t disagree with taking people out of gas-burning buses, I’m distressed over the site they chose as the transfer point – Bridgeport station, the stop for a casino. If I were a person with a gambling problem, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me to use public transit anymore.

I grew even more concerned when the B.C. Lottery Corporation raised the weekly limit for online gaming from $120 to $9,999.

I know a family whose lives have been ruined by a member whose gambling addiction went over the top. Lying, denial – she used any ruse at all to keep playing. I can only imagine the horror stories that will develop as a result of this new policy.

But yesterday’s news has made me decide that it’s finally time to quit.

The provincial government announced, despite promises to the contrary, that funding to the arts from the Gaming Commission has been cut. This habit of going back on promises seems to have become their newest mantra.

For the past few years I’ve justified buying lottery tickets with the probably-too-flip excuse that “I’m supporting the arts.” But since it turns out I can no longer fall back on that excuse, today’s the day I’m quitting. No more buying lottery tickets for this girl.

This decision feels liberating. I suspect it’s something like the feeling other quitters get –the smoker who’s tired of getting winded every time he tries to run up some stairs, or the boozer who realizes she’s offended her best friend by some regrettable drunken remark.

Because I already bought tickets on Thursday, tonight’s the last time I have a go at that pie-in-the-sky one-in-fourteen-million chance to win a life-changing sum of money.

Wanna bet that my financial situation will have drastically changed by tomorrow morning? I’ll give you better odds than the lottery corporation that it won’t have. But hey, if I do win big, I’ll have to share, as I know of a few arts groups that could really use some help.

Disappointments, big and small

I experienced a couple of small disappointments last night. Here I'd been seeing Google's subject header all day, a compilation of telescoping letters proclaiming that it was the 400th anniversary of Galileo's invention. Only then I found out, maybe that wasn't exactly so. Still, when I got home from a movie (about extraterrestrials, at that), there was the bright star of Jupiter riding the sky.

Last summer we'd actually had a telescope here on loan, so had been able to look closely at the giant planet and even to observe several of it moons. Silly me, I thought maybe binoculars would work, but even when I propped them against the letterbox as a sort of tripod, I couldn't hold them still enough to see more than a bouncing blur of light.

But my big disappointment is ongoing still today.

The Canadian government continues to reject the idea that Omar Khadr should be returned home to Canadian soil, even though he remains the only citizen of a Western country to remain in the prison camp at Guantanamo Bay. Australia and Great Britain removed their detainees years ago, but Canada continues to dig in its heels and has currently decided to challenge yet another court directive demanding that our government bring him home. 

Their next (and final, I would assume) step in challenging such directives is having the case heard in the Supreme Court of Canada, a step that of course will be paid for by all of us.

I have no idea whether Khadr is guilty or innocent. But for that matter, no does anyone else. Even though he's been held for seven years -- and in a prison that doesn't meet Geneva Convention standards -- he has never been taken to trial. If this isn't cruel and unusual, I don't know what is.

For all of our country's platitudes about decrying human rights violations in China, and complaining about so many African countries' abuse of children as soldiers, it seems awfully contradictory for Steve Harper and his Conservatives to forget the fact that Khadr was brought to Guantanamo when he was only fifteen. If that doesn't qualify him as being a child soldier, what does?

Oh yes, just one more disappointment. As a concerned citizen, this is a matter I wrote about to my local (Conservative) Member of Parliament. Like so many of his party colleagues, he's great at playing up his dedicated religious beliefs. Among the things I asked him was: Wasn't Christ's message one of love and compassion? Naturally, I haven't received a reply.

Art in the Park

Yesterday was the first in what will hopefully become a series – an event called “Art in the Park”. Even though there’s lots going on in Surrey this summer, this was a one-of-a-kinder, an arts picnic at Library Grove in Holland Park.

It was a mixed show, grounded by the music and lyrics of cellist Corbin Keep. Painters and photographers were showing and selling their creations, and four writers read from recent work.

The photo shows Lois Peterson, one of the people who dreamed up the notion of Library Grove. Then employed by Surrey Public Library, Peterson’s group envisioned a grove of trees that would stand as a symbolic ‘payback’ for trees consumed in the making of books, and also as a symbol of growth and environmental responsibility. So it seemed especially appropriate that Lois should be one of the presenters at this event. She read from Elsie and the Silver Rain, one of her forthcoming novels (she has two coming out in 2010). Other readers were Sylvia Taylor, Virginia Gillespie and me.

But hearing Corbin reminded me that the Lower Mainland doesn’t have an armlock on talent. This summer, when I was on Denman Island, I had the pleasure of meeting Del Phillips. I’ve been playing his CD nearly every time I get in the car. And each time I listen, I hear more. It’s worth clicking onto his website where you can listen to samplers from the CD, or just explore the musings of a very interesting mind. When you go there, click on ‘Impossible Odds’ for a spin through some of Del’s amazing insights and visions.

Publishing, the perils of

This morning I met with a man who is serious about wanting to get published. He’s 83 and frankly admits to feeling a certain urgency.

Sadly, his desire has led him into a deal with a publisher who’s not as squeaky-scrupulous as we’d like the world to be.

We talked about what he’d done and what he’d committed to by signing their more-complicated-than-necessary contract. Turns out they hold exclusive copyright on his work for the next seven years.

Chances are, when it comes to my friend’s poems, this doesn’t mean a huge whole lot. However, there are people for who it could have meant the difference between sweet diddly-squat and a fortune.

Consider The Celestine Prophecy. Anyone who’s made it through its 200-some pages probably won’t proclaim it great literature. It ain’t. But the message it contains is one that millions of people apparently needed to hear, as it sold and sold and sold.

Its author, James Redfield, self-published the book. By word of mouth and assorted networked ripples, the book caught the imagination of enough people that a commercial publisher decided it would be a worthwhile investment. As it turns out, the book sold millions and was even made it into a feature film.

Had James Redfield self-published through the company my friend’s dealing with, he’d have been out of luck when the big publisher took notice and wanted to buy his manuscript. That seven-year clause would have meant the shall-remain-unnamed publisher would have been the one to make the fortune that should have rightfully gone to the author.

Not all self-publishing companies operate this way. Many are legitimate enterprises that respect their authors and don't take advantage of them. The photo on today's post shows a number of self-published books in my collection. They range from the very professional (inside and out) Sixty-Five Sunsets to a couple of spiral-bound productions to the tiny, purposefully homemade look of books I bought from a street busker in San Francisco. And oh yes, The Joy of Cooking. Like James Redfield's book, it too was originally self-published.

Nor are all poetry ‘contests’ scams. But there sure are a lot of miserable characters out there who prey on unsuspecting writers who believe it when they're told their poem is going to win the Nobel Prize or their book is going to be the next bestseller on the New York Times list.

Good information about publishers and publishing is available. Here are three good links. The first is specifically for poetry, the links page at the League of Canadian Poets’ website. Explore the links there to find out about contests and other publishing information.

The Federation of BC Writers also offers links to an extensive list of markets and legitimate contests.

And a great site that lists questions to ask yourself if a publishing offer sounds too good to be true (it probably is) is one presented by Writer’s Digest.

But don’t put that pencil (pen/keyboard) down. Happy writing!

By the time we got to...

Most of didn't 'get there' -- not even Joni Mitchell, who wrote the famous Woodstock anthem.

Yet even though we didn't get there -- not to the festival, nor to all those idealistic goals we held, even the most stubborn would have to admit the world has changed in the last forty years, and the sort of folks who did go to Woodstock had a fair amount to do with those changes.

We dress much more casually than we used to, even for work. If you disagree, stop and consider the fact that people used to dress up to fly on a plane. Like, what's the point in ironing an outfit if you're going to spend the next four hours sitting in it? And those nifty little hats that women used to wear -- in many situations, because they were required to wear them? (I'm thinking of going to church. I remember having to bobbypin a tissue on my head so I could attend mass. Like, if God were actually there, he/she might care there wasn't something on my head?!) I'm not heartbroken over the relaxation of any of these restrictions.

But not everyone would agree that the changes have all been for the good. Drugs are more readily available now, and using them holds much less of a stigma; swearing has become more common, as we're not so afraid of all those old taboos; sexuality is more open -- gays can live their lives honestly, young women no longer have to 'go away' if they're unmarried and pregnant.

I, for one, am glad of most of these changes. Without the kind of thinking that brought about some of these changes, this morning probably wouldn't have seen me putting my kitchen scraps into our compost bin or my newspaper into a blue box. I may well add to this list as this commemorative weekend goes on. Then again, I may just go and bake up a batch of commemorative brownies.

Peace, man.

Water's not for wasting

It's good to see that more people are paying attention to the way they're using water. Happily, our neighbourhood is full of more brown lawns than green ones. This time of year it's sure easy to see where the property ends.

By not watering, we all save on energy too -- because we don't have to mow anywhere near as often. Depending what kind of mower you have, that's a saving of electricity or gas or maybe just old-fashioned push power. Whatever, this seems such an easy way to conserve -- by doing nothing.

Maybe by next summer there'll be more people understanding just how beautiful brown is.

It's an art show!

Oddly, the weather turned autumnish today, but all the better for an art opening!
The show features the work of Kirsten Taylor as well as mother and daughter, Patte and Kari Rust. Each of the three artists spoke briefly about her artistic process. As Kirsten explained to us, her work explores several media, everything from prints to photos and paintings. Patte paints wonderful landscapes, while Kari's work shows strong influences from her work in animation.

There was something comforting about joining a crowd of enthusiastic art-appreciaters at the local gallery. Dare I say the word? It felt a bit like fall.

Black and blue

But no pain. It was another day for berry picking. This morning it was blues, this afternoon, a batch of blackberries from the back yard patch.

Hokey can be good

One of the joys of living where we do is that every once in a while it still feels like a small town.

This weekend is Sea Festival in White Rock, and one of the festival's traditions is the torchlight parade. There aren't any actual torches anymore (I wonder, were there ever?), but it's still a bit of a thrill, even if a pretty hokey one.

As in most small town parades, there are old time cars and police vehicles and marching bands. But for this parade, all of them are somehow decked out with Christmas lights or at least an array of glow-in-the-dark thingies.

This year's event was disappointing in that there weren't any pipers, an element that seems just about essential to me. At least we got some would-be Blues Brothers -- not quite the same, but fun nonetheless.

Spent with a group of longtime friends, it made for a beautiful night along the seaside, even long after parade's end.

Litteracy

That isn't a typo, as I'm not talking about literacy. My gripe is litter. Even on the rocky shoreline of Hornby Island.

It seems there used to be more public awareness campaigns about litter -- Don't be a litterbug. I'm happy to see the city of Ottawa is one place that's revived this program. I just hope the movement spreads, as I'm sick of finding junk on the ground.

Still, in my small way, I continue to 'act locally' by picking up one piece of litter every day. Why not try it? You'll be doing something positive for your neighbourhood and for the planet.

Our own moonwalk

Not really, but some of the landscape on the rocky shores of Hornby Island can appear a bit moonlike. The volcanic action (combined with seawater) that formed this island has left so many interesting shapes. The rocks in the photo below look (at least to me) like nets draped to dry.


Whether I'm walking the shoreline, sleeping in the tent, or wading in the ocean while I take pictures of seaweed, this is the best -- at last, holidays!

Thoughts on...

...too many things. It's been days since I've done a posting. And so much has gone on in the interim.

The most time-consuming (in a good way) has been the Denman Island Readers' and Writers' Festival. Audiences, consisting of locals and off-islanders, were exceptional. They might have been the most attentive audiences I've ever experienced (or been part of). And the questions they posed to readers or panelists were worthy of professional interviewers. Having so many literate, informed people everywhere made for four very stimulating and enjoyable days.

And then there was the passing of Walter Cronkite. At first, I was dismayed at his not lasting quite long enough to make it to the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. But then I thought about how close his death was to the launch of the mission that took those three astronauts out into space. By now, as we approach the anniversary of the actual walk, I can only think Walter's spirit must be waiting beside the Sea of Tranquility to greet the ghosts of old footsteps.

Thinking of astronauts, I must record how thrilling it was to see the shuttle on Saturday night. With very little ambient light here on Denman, the night sky is intense; the Milky Way sprawls, the dipper stands out sturdy enough to imagine it might indeed have been what spilled out all that milk. Yet while we were walking from a party, a bright light caught my eye and made me look up. A twinkling star, as bright as the famous one from Bethlehem might have been, hurtled across the sky while we stood and watched. It moved quickly and disappeared within less than a minute, I'm sure. Still, I felt so lucky to have seen it all. Silly as always, I waved to Julie and Bob.

But now it's time for holidays. Tonight we'll be sleeping in the Hoserdome, our tent. Will post again when I can and with luck, I'll have seen more night sky -- and will have made some wishes on shooting stars and maybe waved one last goodbye to Walter.

It’s festival season!

Summer, and the season of folk festivals and jazz festivals and writers’ festivals is in full swing.

One that's going on this week is the Harrison Festival of the Arts. It offers some of everything: music, theatre, dance, visual arts and even a taste of the literary arts.

This year’s Literary Café featured the multi-talented Andreas Schroeder, and poets Elsie K. Neufeld and Leonard Neufeldt. The focus for this year’s event was a celebration of the Mennonite literary tradition in the area. Neufeld and Neufeldt (that looks almost as confusing as Thompson and Thomson) have worked together on many projects that showcase Mennonite work. The 2006 anthology, Half in the Sun, presented poems and prose by some of B.C.’s Mennonite writers.

Mellow offerings from the Nelson Boschman Trio bookended the event.

From the left, the photo below shows Elsie with the evening’s host, Cheryl Isaac.

Next stop? The 7th annual writers’ festival on Denman Island.

Sweet welcome home

Even though I was a bit jet-lagged, the morning was so beautiful, it was easy to get up. Three of us went out to pick some gorgeous B.C. raspberries.

With the size of them, it didn't take long at all to fill all of our buckets. Now it's just a matter of freezing as many batches as I can while we eat our fill. Ah, summer!

Corny but true

Look how tall that corn is on this, the 4th of July!

Canada Day, extended

Yesterday was Canada Day, but since much of the country took the day off, I guess I did too.

We had a bocce championship in the afternoon, and the winners won a swishy chocolate bar that had the word ‘Excellence’ on the wrapper. Since good winners always share, they passed it around for all of us to sample.

The barbecue supper came close to getting rained out, but an umbrella over the barbie meant the cooks could put the finishing touches on the sausages and ribs. Whew!

Since the park we tried going to for fireworks got flooded, their event was postponed until Saturday, the 4th. Where I’d been thinking about borders and their significance (or, more to the point, their absurdity), this seemed apt enough. Canada Day fireworks on the 4th of July. I reckon.

My thinking was reinforced by the DVD we rented last night, The Wind that Shakes the Barley. It’s about the ‘troubles’ that raged so many years in Ireland, a place where brother fought brother, where the invisible border of religious difference played such a big role in dividing a country.

So, my wish as I extend this year’s Canada Day? For all of us to try to find ways to pay less attention to the borders we’ve created, all those invisible lines that lead us to think of someone else as ‘Other’.

And to celebrate, here’s how our own little fireworks show played out.

Bought these at the local convenience store.

Found a bucket of sand to stick them in, for firm and safe grounding.

The Dear Man went waaaaay back in the great big yard here.

After a bit of fussing, the fuse took light.

Hurrah, colours in the sky!

Freaky Day

Last Thursday, the 25th, must have had some kind of planetary strangeness going on. It seemed like a day where, if something could go wrong, it did.

Jevon did some damage to his car that was totally flukey; the proofs for my chapbook manuscript ballooned from its modest 28 pages to a sudden 35. I nearly lost the author who was coming to town to present a reading. And she'd come all the way from Denmark. Yikes. And oh yeah, besides Farrah Fawcett dying, there was that whole strange thing with Michael Jackson, wasn't there.

I would have probably forgotten what a screwy day it had been if it hadn't been for the fact that even here in Ontario where we're visiting, I keep hearing about more about things that happened that same day.

Our auntie got stuck in traffic as the freeway was all backed up -- all because (on a dry day, not in rush hour) a car was overturned, resting on its roof in the middle of the road. I haven't been able to track that one down. I think it's probably best left alone.

When we went to visit my brother-in-law, Leo, he pointed out the house across the street. There was a huge tree leaning onto the roof and it was set for demolition (too damaged to fix). He tried pointing out the barn as well, only it wasn't there anymore. You see, there'd been a tornado. Luckily for Leo, it had only touched down across the road, then sucked itself back up into its cloud and moved on.

And like I say, I would have let this go, but when I bought today's paper, the front page had a terrible story about newlyweds killed after they'd just returned from their honeymoon. This occurred on Friday, not Thursday. Still, it could well have been within that very odd 24-hour span.

Halfway to Christmas

Okay, call me weird. I'm probably the only person in the blogosphere not writing a tribute to Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, or even a belated one to Ed McMahon.

I'm observing June 25th, the day that's midway on the calendar to Christmas.

Partly that's because my mother's birthday was Christmas, so today would have been her half-birthday -- and I'm the kind of person who makes note of such oddball things.

But it's also because I've started preparing some of the goodies I'll be giving away in December. The picture shows a little batch of jam I made with those berries I picked.

The block stamps are ones I found in a sale basket the other day. I expect I'll be using them when I make this year's batch of cards.

And yes, I admit it, I feel sad over the deaths of each of those three artists -- as different from each other than almost any three performers I can think of. May they rest.

Market Day in White Rock

I suppose for many, Sunday is still a day for church-going. I'm not among that group, but hey -- whatever you believe is fine with me.

I still needed a few bits of local greens to round out yesterday's Sunday supper, so the Farmer's Market seemed like the best place to go. As usual, I ended up buying more than just those few vegies. I bought jars of honey, salsa, some baked treats, even granola.

But the real treat of the morning was running into friends, standing around and having a little catch-up chat. That kind of unplanned encounter always gives me such a strong sense of what community is all about. And maybe that's as close as I will ever again get to anything like church.

The day was cold and gusty, a big change from what we've been having, but the singers persevered. From left to right, they're locals Heidi McCurdy and Laurel Murphy. The singer on the right is Katia Leonardo, over here from Portugal. The little vid gives you a tiny sampling of what you'll hear this Wednesday if you can make it into Vancouver for a show at the Jazz Cellar.

First of the season

Even though it's felt like summer for a while now, Solstice doesn't officially arrive until 10:45 pm tonight (PDT).

So, even though I can't really call this the first of this summer's berry-picking sessions, I'm still considering these strawberries the first of the season.

The morning was just overcast enough that we didn't need to work up a giant sweat while we picked, teasing the reddest berries out from under the leaves.

The trick now will be to get jams made, berries frozen and best of all -- to eat as many fresh ones as possible!

The Nose Knows

A walk to the beach led me to an ugly discovery. The sculptured bear on East Beach, even though he’s never been my favourite piece of public art, had been the victim of a senseless attack.

He’d lost a good chunk of his nose.

It must have taken a huge amount of effort – or at least some solid tools – to gouge out such a chunk of this massive piece of stone.

It’s too bad whoever did this couldn’t find a more productive outlet for that kind of energetic strength.

A friend reminded me that rubbing the nose of a statue is a superstition associated with bringing good luck. Mean of me, maybe, but I’m hoping that the missing chunk of nose will follow the person who did this, and trail him (her?) with all sorts of bad luck. The nose knows…

Big Break Sunday

After spending the last two days indoors at a conference, it felt good to walk around in a beautiful setting, Hazelmere Golf course, site of this year’s Surrey Invitational.

We caught up with Derek Gillespie (of this season’s Big Break XI, aka Big Break PEI)on the third hole, and for a while we seemed to be the only ones following him.

Here he is, nearly at the 18th green, looking all intent on just where the ball might be landing.

It’s too bad the greens were so hard. They really seemed to play havoc with the day’s putts.

We probably should have invited Derek over for supper last night. We could have helped him warm up on the ‘putting green’ on our deck.

Even if the video is mostly a sideways view, this is a pretty fun way to spend part of a summer evening.

There's a Heart in Art

One of my best pals used to wear a button that read “Ya gotta have art” – so true.
But to have art – at least in this country – ya gotta have support for it, especially when it’s in its fledgling stages.

Where do writers and photographers and designers get much of their early exposure and on-the-job learning? Little magazines.

In an article that appeared in the Saskatoon Star-Phoenix, John Barton, editor of The Malahat Review was quoted:

“The small magazines are integral to Canadian arts and culture and help cultivate homegrown talent,” said Barton. Yann Martel, author of Man Booker winner Life of Pi, published his first story in The Malahat Review in 1988.

Ask Margaret Atwood where she first published her work. Waves? Branching Out? Blackfish?

Yet despite the history of our literary magazines, Steve Harper and crew have a plan that will gut them, probably shutting many down. The article (see previous link) sees John Barton reminding us “That funding has allowed the magazine to increase contributor fees, redesign the magazine and increase staff salary -- all of which produces a better product…”

And really, don’t such factors (increased contributors’ fees, staff salaries, etc.) all do their part toward sustaining a healthy economy? The contributor is now able to buy a loaf of bread – and hopefully something to have with the bread.

Those artists and authors who’ve had their work in that small magazine can, with these publishing credits, knock on doors to bigger opportunities – and, for example, have their book published or get a show in a gallery.

For a start, why not subscribe to a magazine or two.

There’s a Facebook group you might want to join, even if its name is long: Coalition to Keep Federal Support of Literary, Scholarly and Arts Magazines.

If you’re a letter writer, Heritage Minister James Moore needs to hear that this ‘adjustment’ would not be a good idea for Canadian art – and in turn, for our heritage. After all, what are cultures remembered for? Their art.