what we see

A digital camera. A new way of movin'.

bloggin' & burna-bein'

blogland is an odd place to find oneself. don't let the blogbugs blight.
is this a journey? a confessional? a diary? a redemption speech? or...a blog? (BLAWG!: as in a purge, a vomit of the things we can't or don't say normally; this is the receptacle? "this is blog-awful!"?)

Burnaby, Burnaby, I'd sing an ode for you. but not now.

solstice

feeling so down, then so up. (sliding back into my old tricks again, here in Burnaby.) fitting for the solstice celebrations: yes, solstice was yesterday, but today is the day when sun is on the up. we marched in percussive lantern procession to fire dancers and water cannons then to the Roundhouse. they spoke of solstice like some kind of battle we're winning. something like "the eternal symbolic battle of light and dark are fighting in the sky but the good will prevail! GO SUN!"...yeah. but then there were some tuvan/tibetan-style throat singers, digging deep into the earth (i was there, covered in dirt), then soaring into the sky. then, a labyrinth made out of candles in brown paper bags, flickering. i watched the people like type going onto a newspaper.

on my way home, i felt like a candle in a bag, flickering. wanting to burn the whole fucker down.

can you hear me?

Globasm

http://www.globalorgasm.org/
http://www.otoons.com/sex/sexOtoons.htm
I don't want to see people in the tundra of yesterday or tomorrow, but of now!

Chandro

Chandro,

I'll always remember that feeling. That feeling when we hugged in those times, in those places. You showed me something I hadn't quite seen before. I'm sure you'll never read this, and I doubt we'll ever meet again, but this is a small candle I light for you. For those few moments when I didn't feel like a beggar.

This is the small language I'm trying to nourish.

I rolled and I tumbled

A roll of film, developed, from before my trip, November 24 2005. A year gone by and did I really pose for that? In pink shirt and black pants next to Natalie dressed the same.

One month to the day since returning from India.

Always exciting to go through rolls of film, especially long forgotten. Always interesting to see if the camera can catch the beauty you feel and see. Always interesting to see which eyes are speaking. Which moment manifests. Which gavel comes down.

Photos: your deck of cards; your poker face.

They're gems in a torrent, slow.

home sweet?

Home is in quiet,
in Mystic Vale,
in evergreen trees.
  in so much more

anywhere else, the words roll out like sidewalk.

(to utter more, is to bury it)

vast

Here it is vast.
Skytrains, fir trees, the air.

the first, tightroping into saneness

On the bathroom-way, music dragged me outside. Into the rainy dark of a Burnaby night. A mystical haunting sound hovering the trees. Wind chimes I never knew over my parent's porch, and then I in the bathroom to take a shit.

Vanilla, the only orchid we eat (as far as I know), is linguistically related to the word vagina (Latin), meaning sheath (or scabbard).

And the wind chimes again, like a Tuvan night dream (without any horses) comes in through the window.
     Galloping.