The ribbon round your neck
against your skin that's pale as bone
It is my favorite thing you've worn
The band is playing our song
And we won't go home, 'til morn
-twaits
I've done four covers for the marc atkinson trio. The first one l did l made three little tin men
with instruments, they had moveable arms, legs and penis's. Penis's so big you could teach
time with them. The second cover l did is this one above, floor tile mosaic, it is my favorite
and this time l was discreet with the clock pieces. I also did a cover for marc's other band
the bills
l did this one while travelling in calgary, l carried around a little black suitcase
filled with bits of fabric, needles and lots of thread and if l had worn a overcoat
l would have looked very suspicious.
Life is whittled
Life's a riddle
Man's a fiddle that life plays on
twaits
Marc is good to me, he lets me do whatever l want.
On this fourth trio cover (which l've just finished) l decided on dolls.
So l carved six little hands, and three little heads and gillian gravenor made
three little bodies with three black suits. And cam purdon made a beautiful
little macaferri guitar. Now l'm not a carver but carving those hands
and heads was such a lovely thing ...like breathing skin.
This image above is one of the first l shot and it looks like a scene out
of a john wayne movie...
...and this is it, the marc atkinson trio, their fourth cd, it will be out soon, a few weeks l imagine.
Marc is a such a wonderful man, he just kindof glows...
I am family...
Then what to do to find the room where you are?
Deep cave of obsidian glowing with red, with green,
with black light,
high room in the lost tower where you sit spinning.
crack in the floor where the gold ring
waits to be found
-d.levertov
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
e e cummings
...fresh snow in the gully, the smooth running water, a new year is arriving.
What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?
- George Eliot
"...l just want to see my two daughters." - Spike christmas eve
For some reason l am reminded of spike every now and then. It was many years ago that l
knew him, visited him and his dog butch, a big raggy german shepherd that stood by his side,
waiting for crumbs, waiting for stroking hands, waiting just for him. I would visit
spike and butch every couple of weeks while cycling around downtown,
and would bring smokes and once l brought some meager snack for butch.
I was over there one christmas eve, sharing my smokes, petting butch, shared
in spike's bottle of bad wine,a big generic green gallon bottle . At some point
spike said he was hungry so l volunteered to make him something to eat..
I remember not finding much in his cupboards - just like a fairly tale
there were crumbs with the inside of his fridge being a pale yellow
ketchup stained empty wasteland. All l remember finding was a cabbage
and decided that this would be find, l could boil it and spike wouldn't go hungry.
Well the inside of the cabbage was crawling with little white worms, so that kindof put a
damper on spike's appetitie and we just had another smoke instead. I listened to spike talk of
the neighbor, a young girl with child. He told me that she had been out of diapers, out of food,
out of money, so he gave her the few bucks that he had. He was so proud, so happy with his
gesture, it made me happy, made me feel glad to be there, to be with spike and butch,
to share in something so simple.
now when the streets get hungry, baby
you can almost hear them growl
someone's setting a place for you
when the dogs begin to howl
-twaits
"What is it?
The particularly poetic way of envisioning and crafting life has to do with firing
the world through carefully maintained inner flames, with witnessing in image,
memory, and language to the luminosity, the hidden fires in things.
-eileen gregory (summoning the familiar)
Drag your wagon and your plow
Over the bones of the dead
Out among the roses and the weeds
You can never go back
And the answer is no
And wishing for it only
Makes it bleed
t.waits
When l was a kid, grade 4 l think, living in Port Hardy and running through the bush
playing "Gunsmoke" l had a toy deringer and wanted to be Marshall Matt Dillon.
One day me and the neighbor girls tried smoking a piece of straw. It was
hot but not great. My dad use to smoke sportsman plain, l loved the yellow package
and they always came with a little card inside, fishing flys or something.
I smoked cigarettes for years. They were great for meeting people on the street,
offer a cigarette and l was in. Alot of guys spend all day looking for cigarettes,
collecting butts off the streets and out of ashtrays, putting them in little dirty baggies
and re-rolling the tobacco. They taste awful.
Then l started rolling my smokes, bought drum tobacco because "tailor-mades"
seemed so deceitful. And when l worked at the homeless shelter, everyone wanted
a smoke, "got a smoke, got a smoke", well Drum tobacco could last longer.
now if your mama saw you smokin why she'd kick your ass
put it out you little juvenile and put it out fast
t.waits
I went to a pipe ten years ago, l loved the wood, the feel of digging into a leather
bag for a pinch of tobacco, it felt so good. And of course the smell, no not the
smelly fragrant kind, but Erinmore from Ireland, smelling of chocolate and coffee.
I have decided to give it up, well gave it up Nov 1st. It is sort of hard,
the pipe was like a friend and foolish as l may sound, it felt like a power of sorts.
If l think about it, l can imagine it very clearly, filling the pipe and drawing
in the smoke. It is still very clear and probably will be for a long time.
I will do it...but l feel sad about it.
You'll soon forget the
Tune that you play
For that is the part
You throw away
Ah, that is the part
You throw away
the moon is full here every night
and I can bathe here in his light
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows I'm gone
-t.waits
...the tents are gone from the gully, there is no one sleeping under the stars anymore
all that is left is some clothes, old tarp, a black shoe, empty mouthwash bottles - the
generic kind. And then there is this stuffed kitty, pinkish with a long monkey like tail,
someone's stuffed animal. I imagine it gave them comfort, laying in the tent in the gully,
black with rain pouring down, monster steps creeping by, no sleep,
just hold the kitty, cry...
He has no friends. But he gets a lot of mail.
I'll bet he spent a little time in jail.
I heard he was up on the roof last night, signalling with a flashlight.
And what's that tune he's always whistling?
What's he building in there?
What's he building in there?
We have a right to know.
t.waits
...give me a week,
and this will be something.
If you go down to the woods today, You're sure of a big surprise
If you go down to the woods today, You'd better go in disguise.
I take the boy for a walk every morning 6;45am to the gully.
A stream carries the water down from the mountains and runs through the
gully. It also carries bears, l see their blackberry filled scat, like a big
homemade pie. People go to the gully to drink, and smoke, l see their
empty cans, and their empty soiled pants. People sleep in
the gully, there are now two tents, trying hard to hide behind bushes but
standing out like safety pins. There is also a couple of people sleeping
under the stars, sleeping under the clouds, a blanket thrown over them
like their dead. I go by every morning and wave and say "good morning".
He raises his sleepy arm, his heavy drowsy head and
waves back, "good morning".
For ev'ry bear that ever there was, Will gather there for certain, because
Today's the day the Teddy Bears have their picnic.
The seasons can turn on a dime,
Somehow I forget every time;
These things you've given me
They always will stay
They're broken... but I'll never throw them away
-tomwaits
...these are Sunshine's goats. beautiful animals, they seem so clever, almost tricky
...this one reminds me of coming home from school and watching
"The Flying Nun" everyday.
Martha had goats too...
I use to visit Martha, she lived on many acres in Bowser and
she had many goats. She was in her eighties, out digging in her vast garden,
herding her goats, tending her chickens, chopping her wood. I can't describe her
place, nor her, but it was so complete, "quality without a name".
Her beautiful old sheds and outbuildings, turned silver with age, dancing like.,
her knarly old fruit trees breathing heavy, the soil in her garden
you could smell the richness from the highway. And Martha, silver too, like
the wood, her eyes still bright and filled with want.
I heard from Sunshine that Martha is in a home now.
It seems so wrong, so sad, Martha should be on her land, she should
have died there on her land,in her garden, with her goats.
Maybe when our story's over
We'll go where it's always spring
The band is playing our song again
And all the world is green
-twaits
...dreamt that Paula sent me a note telling me that she had
bad pneumonia and then went on to tell me that love
wasn't about loving the other person lots
but about loving yourself lots.
( journal-sept2000)
Clayton just got out of a involuntary stay in the psych ward. He looks
hollow, sunken, his skin sits on his face like a rubber mask.
I've seen Clayton frequently over the last few months. He gets
angry sometimes, paranoid thinking that everyone is staring at him
He came by one night, angry, angry at his ex girlfriend for not letting
him get his stuff, angry at people who owed him money. I'm patient
with Clayton but his anger made me angry. "Don't bring your
anger here", l said. He followed me into the house, gave me a hug
and started crying.
And it's you, and it's you,
and it's you, and it's you, and it's you
And it's you, and it's you, shoo-be-doo, ba-da-da.
-tomwaits
whe the soul of a man
is born in the country
there are nets flung at
it to hold back it's light.
You talk to me of nationality,
language, religion.
I shall try to fly by those nets.
-jamesJoyce
...l use to think that you could see the soul,
where the skin stretches tight over the protruding hip bone,
that is where the soul is shining through.
Behold, l do not give lectures
or a little clarity.
When l give, l give myself.
-walt whitman
artdrifters is drifting...
I've given a number of courses this summer, dolls on Denman island, bricolage near
Barkerville, and lately a five day course at Red Deer college.
My students have made me think, making me ponder. It all seems so simple
yet l can't find the words.
"The least strained and most natural movements of the soul are the most beautiful"
-(montaigne)
This quote seems to sum up what l am trying to teach. It's a way of life,
a way of being. A way of connecting to whatever your doing.
I tell them to stop thinking, anyone can learn to draw and paste papers
on a board in a pleasant manner, but show us that you care, show us
what is important to you. Show us your passion.
But...what l'm pondering is how do you teach this.
l have had wonderful students, who do beautiful things.
And l thank them.
cause l'm getting better, l'm getting closer, but l can never get right
there. It's impossible, it's a contradiction of what l'm trying to teach.
It's like a whisper...
Blow wind blow - blow me away here
blow wind blow
-tw
This old barn sat behind the house l lived in for all of the nineties. It was in Coombs on
five acres. An oasis of beauty. I learned to plant flowers there, planted things every year,
it became a full time job just to water everyday. And l built things out of rocks l collected,
flower beds that looked like grave tombs, and a set of steps that took me two years to build.
The steps were so natural that you expected salmon to be swimming up them.
I had chickens and roosters, never collected the eggs just let them wander around pecking
things and then they'd sleep in the big cedar tree. I remember when the chicks were learning
to fly up into the tree at night. On of them was a slow learner so l put up a step ladder
to help him. I remember having to shoot a deer that had been hit on the highway,
"right behind the ear" the lady told me. I remember the cop having to shoot another
deer another time and she didn't shoot it right behind the ear, it bled to death.
My cat loved it there, she killed and ate something everyday, mostly mice but
bunnies when they were in season. Occasionally l had rats, in my basement
and in my studio. I set up a trap in the basement and learnt that you had to
use peanut butter and you had to tape it down with electrical tape and then l
also tied the trap to a post. I heard the snap of the trap one night and went
running down. The rat was trapped- his front legs and his head and he was
squirming around like a rat. I picked up the nearest spear like object and hurled
it at him. It was a poor shot and he wiggled out and got away.
The barn, the barn was beautiful. The first couple of years it was filled with
wild cats. After the cats died off it was filled with rats and then they died off.
Then it was mine, l pulled so many old boards out of that barn l'm surprised
it stood.
It was so hard to move away from that home. l tried for years. I thought l
was too comfortable, l thought that l was spoiled. I tried wandering away
from it at times but like smoking it didn't work. So l moved away
for a year to Prince Albert, Saskatchewan to work in a homeless shelter.
I don't miss it anymore, rarely think of it, but
l have a spot inside me that glows from being there.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
-robert frost
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