Aurora

2011-12-23T06:56:00.004-05:00

A painting I did for a friend as a Christmas gift

The landscape is inspired by Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia

Anne's sunset

20x24 oil on canvas.2011

~~~

2011-12-23T06:39:00.004-05:00

2 songs beautifully covered by Tristan

2011-10-14T07:22:00.000-04:00

16x20, 2011

Before I became immortal

2011-09-12T20:32:00.002-04:00

Winter on the farm, the landscape spreads out before me a sheet of white tundra, pools of black mud and dead brown foliage. It's impossible to stray too far back, the snow is waist deep. The twins and I build forts under the big yellow sun that hangs alone in the cold blue sky.Its solitary presence escalates the feeling of the colds isolating numbness. We make game of tracking the prints of rabbits and other wildlife. A sighting of deer through the wiry web of branches is a majestic privelage, though a dreaded one if seen left for dead by the side of the road. When the boys get too cold to continue playing outside, they go indoors. I remain , the snow is falling and I lie down allowing my mouth to fill with the cascading flakes , they seemingly hesitate to melt as they descend in patterns and slide in droplets off my red cheeks. I shut my eyes and the play of light shifts in kaliedescope patterns. I am Eskimo Ophelia floating beneath the glare of the hot sun transported in a frigid silence, the sky an expanse of possibilities. I embrace this solitude, nature is my shrine as I lie here under the firmament. Getting up from the snow I notice one of the neighbours bulls from a distance I climb the fence and the bull spots me, I might aswll be a red flag in my bright orange snow suit. I make haste to get back over the fence but my snowpants get caught in a bit of wire that is twisted into a knot that points up towards the sky. After a cursed struggle I finally free myself from the the catch of wire and make it back to safety but not without tearing my pants. The white polyfill fibre sticking out and exposed making my new orange snowsuit look old.

2011-08-19T07:58:00.000-04:00

This is a song my son composed

Tristan Darko

2011-07-29T11:26:00.002-04:00

Did I ever mention that I carry some superstitious beliefs. It only pertains to one thing, or rather to one specific date. The date aforementioned falls on the 29th of July. Today it being July 29 , I am resolved to commemorate past events, Shall we begin. My father died in a fatal car crash on July 29, my son's grandparents married on July 29, and you are probably wondering why I brought that up, its for you to keep wondering. My son burnt his face with a cup of hot coffee when he was 16 months old on july 29. My friend left me on July 29. Maybe there are other dates that carry weight, but for some reason this day stands out from all the rest. When tragedy strikes close to home, it cuts to the tenderest of entrails. Bones and muscles, flex and burn. The body memory is retained. Translated through time, distorted,veneered and sometimes vanquished.

Painting by : Leonora Carrington
Song by : Bjork

2011-07-19T22:28:00.001-04:00

Arabic rhythms

Arctic throat singers

African Pygmies

She has recreated the sonic experience.

2011-06-06T16:47:00.003-04:00

This song cuts to my heart

2011-06-04T17:28:00.005-04:00

2011-03-14T08:27:00.009-04:00

This is a painting from a still of the film "The Turin horse" by Hungarian film maker Béla Tarr. He describes the film as being about "the heaviness of human existence". I won't say more about the film, as I haven't seen it. Except that the title is in reference to Friedrich Nietzsche and his witness to an event in Turin that ultimately changed him.

The image grabbed me, I thought..I want to paint this

...and so I did

Its that door that won't open

2011-01-26T08:37:00.011-05:00

Its that door that won't Open

the foot hanging limblessly

the morass of desire

the token from the heart bereft

the subjugation of winters sleep

Here I stand remembering

white fleck of hair floating in the breeze
stock after stock is stalking me
I am trembling not with fear
A vagabond spitting as he passes me on the street
my soul shudders with a knowing

I know I know too much and yet too little

This dissatisfies me to no end

The right hand makes a gesture

an invitation of a color

the left is holding hands

the kindness

the vaporous stranger sits at my side

Mist

deliverance

2010-12-08T04:56:00.000-05:00

   I don't remember

    there was a cat
     there was a drill
     fire quickly spread
     the cat springed and hid in the cupboard
   Ofcourse he had to jump into the highest
   nook he could find
   I had to get the chair and drag it across the floor
   paint and varnish peelings dragged along with us
    I and the chair
   the chair had a life
   many a thought and feeling sat here
the weight continually shrinks and swells with
   each passing season
It sits a century later in a corner
     painted and stripped several times over
     with a string I draw a knot over a rubber spider
     the cat leaps and chases
   as I run leading him down the stairs

Death be not proud

2010-12-02T06:22:00.004-05:00

Bowing out with artfullness
What of the ones left behind. Left remaining
fighting the terror, the loneliness
Anger , a vipers grip
A white scorpion in the desert scutters under the bed.
When he stings you, you will die.
Painfully your limb swells and you heart burns.
Her children surround the coffin.
Pine, beautifully carved
Within she lies peacefully , at rest free from pain.
Outside the box a multitude is gathering, so many people
she had so many friends.
She had a heart of gold, always thought of others before herself.
This is true I can vouch for this myself, but what a temper,
she hadn't learned yet to soften the blow.
How she boiled over and I laughed telling her to let it go.
After awhile I turned away from the pettiness.
At heart she was never petty, she had a heart of gold.
She carried the weight of it in her crown.
Always proud to step in, take care of it

no matter.

Farewell Sheila

2010-09-03T20:19:00.003-04:00

Its early evening going on eight. Dusk is settling over the city. The night air feels fresh and replenishes following a day that felt as if I were baking in an oven,or stewing in a stewing pot. I was informed earlier today by a child that each summer would grow hotter. I don't know why , but it makes me consider my demise. Do I still want to be here.

I'm afraid of dying.

Sometimes I wish it were all over. I continue now on my walk. The poverty of my life hits me. This is a wealthy neighbourhood with their utility vehicles , sports cars and Mansions. Houses built of grey stone, built in the style of scottish architecture. Afterall they were amongst the early settlers here.The Scots built the first bridge across the Saint Lawrence river. As I walk I consider the poverty of my situation. This encompasses the things I feel are absent from my life, or are they merely illusions. Hollow satisfactions, falsehoods and fabricatations. Being loved for oneself is desirable by almost everyone. Its getting it bang on with the right person. It appears most miss their mark. I did, and lurking in the back of my mind, my thoughts falter , the room goes quiet, perhaps I light one up. Doing this portends the thoughts will take flight.

2010-08-23T07:59:00.006-04:00

Shadow

photos:MK

2010-08-19T18:23:00.001-04:00

To know you will be lonely is not the same as being alone.

Lonelineness slips into a knot, and you can feel its grip, its pull, as it tightens. To imagine you will be lonely is a romantic fabled concept. Poetry will fly off pages as you ponder upon the nature of things as you walk amongst trees, as your feet press down and you hear the crunch of bracken beneath your step. I have never felt lonely in my own company, but I have felt alone in the company of others. Disparate , indistinguished and inconsequential.

It is true, the solitary heart thinks amongst everyone else, feels its superiority. I am special, I am alone in this. What a incongruity of ideas. This thinking can but only sever connection.

It is when I am alone that I have felt the most complete and alive. It's true too that I have felt the deepest despair , but think it was always brought on by the failure of relationship to others. Parent, friend,lover and even child. It's safe being alone. Some say there is safety in numbers. One I, two is a pair, three is crowd, four is a family. A man, a woman, a boy and a girl.

photo:MK

2010-08-06T17:23:00.000-04:00

On the road

As a woman now facing the latter half of her mid forties. My head is bent to the skies facing north. The peak of all my obstacles still loom, but now the beckoning has faltered. Could it be the end of the road. What now? South still shines though not as bright. The flame is a dying ember. Moroseness is moronic. I see that now, I do. I strategize in a vagueness of manner, my uncles hand brushes my arm, I feel young . He is happy that I came to see him, he says he remembers. This definately means something as the old man is struck with Alzhiemers. Cognitive observance is a cherished emotion. He is one person who is happy to see me. The future is a grappling promise of weekend excursions after a week of a hefty workload. Money is set aside for a rainy day or a craving that takes hold. It can be in glass or it can be in wood or a color.

2010-07-01T07:18:00.008-04:00

The holidays

will be spent with my father at his apartment in Carlton Place, Ontario. He lives in an apartment above his store. The first time I walk through the corridors of the building, I imagine a cockroach infested hotel where one might find prostitutes and derelictes hanging about. With all the money he makes from his business, he could surely afford a house, a nice big house. Yet he chooses to live in a place where one can only imagine they arrived at the end of the line. Abject poverty and a complete absence of hope have cried tears here. I don't think my father is even aware of this. How could he knowingly bring me to a place such as this, a place where dreams die. Cheap faded floral patterned wall paper is peeling off the greasy walls and the linoleum covered floors echo's the floors of the farm house when Celeste was still there. The beds are old and springy and the matresses are sweat stained . They give off the musty odor of its previous occupants.

There is nothing to do. The television is black and white and only three channels work if you set the rabbit ear antenna at the correct angle or otherwise give the box a good whack. There is no food in the fridge. Nothing to stare at out the window. It is a small country town and all the shops are closed during the holidays and the towns inhabitants stay indoors trying to keep warm from the frigid sub zero temperature. The bathroom is a great disappointment, as I always enjoy my time sitting in a hot bath, singing and have a dialogue with the friends I longed to be with. There is a shower stall at the back of the kitchen and the toilet is in a closet sized room. My father says he has no towels, after taking my shower I have to dry myself with the dishtowel. As the showerstall is in the kitchen, all I have to do is reach my arm out of the stall to the stove where the dishtowel hangs from the oven door. The dish towel smells bad, and after drying myself I too smell bad.

He has towels, I can see them on a high shelf in the doorless cupboard in the bedroom, but he refuses to get one down. This unsues in a battle, one I won't back down from. It takes my refusing to ever visit him again ti'll finally he will aquiesce, though it seems painful for him. Ofcourse I love my father but he is a strange man and I don't like how lives. The towel from the closet is thin and immediately soaks through as it absorbs the water off my skin, it is no better than the dishtowel, except for the absence of a musty smell.

photo:http://www.shadenproductions.com/

Ever have an epiphany?

2010-06-11T21:43:00.002-04:00

A thought or an idea suddenly bursts through,and into the light of day you step forth . A feeling of joy washes over you. If you are open to it at the moment, grab a hold of it. Grasp it to your chest. It is your unconscious speaking in full clarity. Epiphanies are rare and magical at best. They come at the least expected moment, in a dawning of a second. A vagabond spitting as he passes you on the street. Your soul shudders with a sudden knowing. You know exactly what must be done, and there is no deterring you. Epiphanies are a gift from the gods, shooting arrows landing at your feet, as if to guide you.

Australian Aboriginals believed that if you needed an answer to a question . A problem or a dilemma in need of fixing, all one has to do is find an open space, large enough to spread your arms straight out from your sides. Then commence spinning counter clockwise whilst concentrating on the question or problem at hand. Upon awakening the next morning the solution will unfold in your mind, like a letter being pulled out of an envelope. A secret long contained finally carried from a whisper to a resounding blast.

Beware the act of rebuttal. The mind performing a mystery does not ask to be cut to the bone. Some spend hours crossed in a lotus figuring IT out. Epiphanies are honest, possibly the only time we truely are connected to ourself.

Do you know yourself ?

MK photo:Aboriginal dancers telling Dreamtime stories at the Sydney Olympics opening ceremony. Image source unknown.

painting:Colleen Wallace Nungari

2010-05-05T08:06:00.003-04:00

Hardship

Hero or coward which one be you. I moved out into the world at a very young age. Not by choice but circumstance. Friends and aquaintances would claim I was strong and courageous, but really I wasn't . It was the desire for autonomy from strife and the feeling of being caged by an ungrateful invalid. I won't mince my words. The old adage "If you can't say something nice don't say anything at all". Well it stops here, only speak the truth, and the truth is sometimes ugly. The truth is beautiful too, for now I can reflect back on all that has past, and I can smile and I feel good. Not smug either, but authentically at peace. Still there is alot of ugliness to be shared not for woe, but to enlighten and embolden. I am brazen to say I had dissappointing parents. A cruel mother and an ambivalent father. They handed down to me a sense of hardship, as if it was, to be perfectly natural for our times in this nation. For a few years I was a slave to my mother . From the age of twelve I took on full duties in the running of the household. This comprised of cooking my own meals,washing the dishes, sweeping the floor after everymeal, doing the laundry, taking out the trash, grocery shopping , banking, vacuuming, and dusting everyroom and scrubbing the bathroom. You get the picture. I faded into walls as I flowered. I was pretty and popular, for a time. Then I became faceless as I turned my face to the walls. Even a youngster can turn bitter.

Resentment fueled by daily dosages of anger fed from a bitter tongue. The serpent of demise strangled my soul. Do not forget I was only twelve, and I wished my mother gone.

MK
painting: Goya "Saturn eating his young"

2010-04-03T20:21:00.002-04:00

Biking along the canal

photos:MK

2010-03-22T20:08:00.002-04:00

Tina Modotti

I bought myself a bike, a second bike, two days ago.

I rode it today to the store where I promptly plopped in all the groceries of jars and skins. I drove the bike home. It feels like a truck after riding the mountain bike. I am seriously questioning what exactly was the reason for buying a new bike. Was it boredom ? Am I trying to reinvent myself ? A last chance Texaco , stab at youth.

I feel the tenuous grip I masterfully hold, it is slipping. Strength decreasing, desire ebbing. They say as women age they lose their womanhood. Does a man lose his manhood? Where does the women go. I am having thoughts about returning the bike. Alas, I'm stuck with it. Can I grow to love it. I romanticized its impact before I had it.

MK

Farmhouse

2010-03-12T08:15:00.002-05:00

The Farmhouse

or..just

another Goat story

~ 1975~

In place here once stood an old farm house. It has since been destroyed by fire. I was 11 yrs old moving into a new foster home with a young hippy family whose dream was to renovate a rundown 150 yr old farmhouse. Using the supporting frame they tore down the walls while we were living in it. Every evening after work my foster father who was a school teacher by day set to work on home building. Ripping out the old planks of rotting wood and replacing them with strips of fresh two by fours of white pine.The scent spread throughtout the house as inscence. The smell travelling up my nostrils opened up a sense of excitement of the future, of the magic and possibilities of creativity. The radio playing the latest pop songs , my foster father sang over them as he hammered and sawed. I stilll hear him when I inhale the faintest suggestion of any lumber construction ... "make a new plan stan, don't need to be corderouy, hop on the bus Gus, just get your self free". He was a man of a genuinely happy disposition. I enjoyed sitting close by where his good humour could rub off.

Before we moved in it was a Goat farm run by a middle aged woman and her teenage grand daughter Celeste. Celeste's front teeth were rotting and chipped. Which is no small wonder considering the daily gorge of volumes of pepsi she consumed. I doubt she ever drank plain water. On the first few visits to the farm, while my hippy foster parents were fixing the deal on the house and the 35 acres of land that accompanyed it, Celeste would lead me into the forest and show me where to find the sweetest blueberries and the tastiest apples . You couldn`t find them growing anywhere else on these lands, for this was apple country here in the Monteregie regions off the southshore of Montreal.

These excursions were not for my benefit alone, it was the Goat's walk. There were atleast 26 of them and Celeste treated them they way we treat a pet dog. Coming down from the city never having stood next to a live goat I was terrified, especially as the frisky kids gave me bucks that sent me hurtling a few feet forward. In the back of the barns that were held up precariously by rusty four inch long nails or perhaps by sheer faith that our lives contained a divine plan, there lay buried under piles of manure and hay the skeletons of Celeste's dearly beloved goats. She'd fish her hand into the dung and pull out the skull of a departed one and relate an anecdote about his or her character. At first I found the debris of spine and leg sticking out of the dung disgusting, but I soon got over any squeamishness and found myself pulling out limb or skull, eager to know who's skeletal remains I was holding. Unfortunately my foster parents cleared the animal cemetery by the time we moved in. My morbid fascination continued as I scavenged for bits of cartilage remains.

photo:MK 1985

2010-03-11T18:26:00.001-05:00

The trees

In the forest, between all the trees.

Silence and whisperings.

We are trespasser's, innocent hostile

invaders.

The trees pass distances we have run.
They standstill, witnesses.
We parade through their branches.
they remain while we are long gone.

photo:mk 1987

2010-02-09T09:58:00.001-05:00

War

Everything is closer than you think

Hope

Born with a veil

The ship sunk in love

I am fortunate to have never experienced warfare firsthand. That is not to say I haven't been touched or affected by conflicts happening in other parts of the world. Like you I turn the Television on and watch the news, an innocent observer feeling powerless, deeply confused and angry, and Ever so gratefull to be planted on the curve of another angle that no bombs or tanks roll over. I like to believe that it is arbitrary where we are born or end up living. I wonder sometimes, for how long are we safe.

paintings:mk

2010-02-08T06:27:00.000-05:00

It all began in a moment, in a flash, then it was over. I busy myself with the task of reinventing. A poetic form of revising the past. It can never be extinguished, and then why would I even bother. That is one of the benefits of growing older. With the years I come to discover the need for less. Is it the body language dying, or the growing of the inner self. An evolution on a cellular level taking place. The same bones rattling and the same skin hanging, covering flesh. Elasticity verily thinning. Yet now the personality has taken on a flexible nature, able to bounce back. Things, are taken in stride. Drama's may unfold, but with age one could hardly care less. Self complacency resolved by laziness, or is it wisdom in manifold guided by an understanding that passions and frustrations are merely sidesteps to embracing the core of oneself. Embrace your soul structure, this is my mantra.

photo:mk

2010-01-19T09:44:00.008-05:00

Whirling

Dancer body

stiff

Stretches

lean lithe

resistance

circle

tidal swept

Take hold

whirl

wash

clean

light

swift

photo:julieblackmon

2010-01-12T19:07:00.002-05:00

If..

If I could walk in anothers shoes

I`d pound the sidewalks , really let loose

If the breeze blowing southern east blew western north

I`d collect juniper buds and hang them in your earlobes

If the sky above fell in to a grey hole

I`d raise myself up , becoming a tree

from the branches speak , berries come forth

Tally the wastelands , the brush , the bees

circle in a cacophony, soothsaying harm from thee

I squint , raise my wings , take flight , wind in my hair

Painting:MK

2009-12-31T10:37:00.005-05:00

Winter solstice

bring nature home. In the folds of your cold wetness I lay my arms down. Lets call it quits for another season. It is the time of diminishing senses that once, filled me with a hankering for a sweetness outside myself. Dust rose ashes are being swept aside as I prepare. Awakening , within awakened is a gallantry that would rival Joan's brave heart. My horses at the ready following in the heat of supination. Grass marshes flattened, down trodden, many boots have trodden upon this threadbare rug, I call myself. I bottomed near the abyss. Now I tread softly a new path, but I am not raw and open as if woken from slumber. Yes a heat swaddles me, it is natures swathe, culminating.

photo:MK

2009-12-25T19:35:00.009-05:00

I once had a dream.

I awoke the next morning half surprised I wasn't immersed in water.

Instead I woke to the sentience of my usual mammal being.

That night I dreamed I was a fish. It began at the outskirts of a well
grazed forest .A Native Indian approached and gestured for me to
follow him. We continued along a trail and he communicated telepathically,

...the way I generally pass messages in dream time.

He told me it was time I walked alone, that my father would nolonger be guiding me .I found myself standing in the shallow waters of the ocean , the transparency of the ocean revealing crystal clear the life beneath the surface. I watched a large gold fish, then I was that fish peering up into the prism of light breaking through water ,and I swam.

Now I swim upstream, I catch myself in the school amongst so many . So many quick to throw against other bodies , the mind quickening in a flurry of Go Getters. I am not one just a mere spectator, maybe I follow then record all on canvas later.But I live a good life,somewhat solitary though never as a alone as I want to
be. I work because I have to work. I live as a spinoff of my ancestors. One day someone else will take my place and inhabit this space intead of me.It doesn't worry me, nor befuddle me. It just makes me wonder why

photos:MK

2009-12-10T10:17:00.001-05:00

Sun behind trees

photo:MK

2009-12-05T09:35:00.005-05:00

Secret garden

Fork in the road

photo:MK

2009-12-04T15:55:00.001-05:00

photo:MK

2009-12-01T06:56:00.003-05:00

Life was good all along . Only I didn't see it that way. So deeply ensconced by a plight that long ago happened. I became mired in a fixation of an unhappiness that had been fed to me from birth. I open my eyes each day and marvel at the sheer miracle of my very existence. I am not sure what to put it down to. This new awareness, this perspective eased by a subltle knowledge that all will be fine.

Ofcourse I have my moments, what I fear at those moments is the despair that hangs around the corner. If I incline my head ever so slight the tumult of fearful emotions could wash over me, engulf the good feelings, return me to the bane of pain from which there is no light. I walk this path with the light of grace. An unfolding to the true nature of the skies above me , the trees to my side and the earth beneath my feet. I am walking with the dog down these streets, the houses are built of stone, or wood but always mimicing the elements. As if in a blink of an eye an idea thought them up and gave shape to them. Now I am here to witness, resolute, stealth.

MK

photos: MK

2009-10-13T08:40:00.000-04:00

Autumnal equinox

photos: MK

2009-10-13T08:19:00.020-04:00

Words push open

I wish I could forget , so I crawl into you. I wish I could help you
forget, you would crawl back into me. Buried, under these veils
are layers of words. Softly spoken , as if for the first time. Delving,
getting to know what lies buried deep inside you. Before I forget
and no longer try. I will try to keep myself open to you.
Forgive the foibles made along the way. I will remain
buried under you and over you I will lay. Words softly spoken.
Remember as you bury yourself in your day, silence can betray
the lie left unspoken. Will you remember to lie with me ..
the unravelling of the day.
words push open

photos: unknown

2009-10-07T19:46:00.000-04:00

Peel me an Orange

photos MK

2009-09-23T20:09:00.022-04:00

Dust

Almost perfect, you bring to me shades I never thought of.
Before you there was only grey. In the sky hung the cloud a billowy pillow.
I felt the smother and pined for sleep to shadow my lids.
I heard my mothers voice through the walls shrieking in a hollow chorus.
You are no good, You are no good.
She said this to her daughter, her only daughter.
What kind of a mother speaks this way.
Mine did, she was no angel.
She shrieked in an unrelenting blather of heat and thrush,
and when I tried to expose her, her face went all blush.
She is dead now.
She is not rolling in her grave but sits on the shelf of a beloved son.
Her beloved son keeps her in a closet.
I wanted to feel her weight, he let me, but then got nervous when I shook the canister that held her remains.
They are grey I imagine .

MK
photo:DavidMaisel

2009-09-17T09:12:00.013-04:00

Hark this..

Hark this howling voice that bends the ear to the mites sorry sorrow , beneath squelched dreams yonder the yarrow where we once drifted along the banks tide. You lifted `Neath the canopy of leaves the fruitful flower and placing it betwixt my hair above my left ear, whispering June bugs hummed dolorous as my tears rolled down dropping in droplets saturating the ledge, I followed with my eyes till they dropped in the concave of the hollow bow, to port we found our refuge, but it was here I sought my haven a Guinevere to your Lawrence. The river rushing through now, a reminder a constant reminder as the waves lash against the walls of the The China we respectfully call Lachine. Remember how you longed for her hair that draped her shoulders cascading and tethering and coiled around your soul. Your half native blood. Mohawk fury burning in your veins . Your mother died so long ago when you were young. and we laughed in the kitchen as you showed me her newly arrived Medicare card the government still sends. This affair, it was meant to be only a one night stand and faithfully we failed to make it last any longer. You hover over the sink and tell me there is a barbecue on the reservation you have to go, and with these stabs I take leave.

Still the next day I can feel your arms wrapped around me, its as if we are still locked in an amorous embrace. I carried you to work that day, and later I brought you home.

MK
photo of St Lawrence river: MK

2009-09-16T15:47:00.002-04:00

in Malta

The sleeping lady of malta
She lies here in repose a reverie of gargantuan proportions
Dusk settles, her day of work is done
she takes her meal and stretches out on this slab of cold hard stone
She doesn`t mind one bit though she is rather hot
and it will be another clement night
She is tired
There is much work awaiting her tomorrow
goodnight

2009-08-25T08:11:00.006-04:00

We surmount our difficulties in various ways. The path chosen, the fool or the wise man. No matter we get there in the end. Some do it with great pride while others struggle with self loathing or self doubt. The Wise man declares " Let go of all your certainties, they harbour all your deceit." The Fool gloats, the fool is merry as he thinks he is wise. He has long united the notion that he has attained all certitude, all wisdom. Yes he gloats and carries a belly full , a chalk full of insane ideas. He climbs the rooftop and counts the crows hovering above " Five today, that is a good omen " . He mumbles and writes down the count in his notebook. He returns to the fold in his head. He rests his head on the sofa he found in the garbage. It was a good find, upon spotting it by the side of the road, at the end of brown brick drive. His son was visiting that day, he asked his son to help him carry it home. His son lifted the end closest to the road with reluctance. His head bowed in shame. At the moment fear became a numbness that crawled down his spine. Fear that someone who knows him might suddenly cross paths with him on this day while he carries home a rotting, tattered old sofa, one that was thrown away, that was meant for disposal. However the fool saw here an opportunity. Resting his head on the arm of the sofa. Languishing in the dank dark basement that traps the summers heat. He puffs on a roach and pats his belly. He made a wise choice, this is a good sofa to lay his head.

MK
photo:MK

2009-08-17T08:23:00.008-04:00

History

Soil, history, trapped forever here. This land holds all our memories. As I squeeze the notion, and draw breath. A heaving and the trail of thoughts follow, they lap, over their predecessor. Recounting is an unreliable method to the telling of history, once the words breathe their first, the last word on the topic has sealed the template. The beggar can no longer feed off the memory as it can no longer reinvent the past. "Memories are all I have." exclaimed the old one. The old one sits, the dreams became fixed on long ago. Punishment is doled out as the memories ripen and their fruitions yield. The core remains untouched and everything else dissipates. A feverish rush. Hope persists as does longing for a different futur, better. It takes alot of effort to move beyond the past.

MK
photo: Jean Cocteau

2009-08-17T08:06:00.011-04:00

P ar ticle s

Particles of love
drop in drips
horoscopes ginger derivative
you fly solo
I swim sorrow
crabs look in mirrors
of multiplicity

cloud cover
never breaks
until I hear
the tonality of a message
soaring clear through
cyber
space

MK
photo: MK

2009-08-05T07:51:00.014-04:00

For long now

For long now I have pondered what is the right way
do I follow the path as the surreptitious holy maiden
Sometimes I am in a hot place
burning up the manifold of all my desires
The frost of the heart soon melts away and
relieves me back to the doldrums of my waters
At times I think I was born in the wrong era
where invertebrates coil with lavender in my
unplaited hair dragged in the soil collecting
snail shells and toads
At other times I know it to be that I am a warrior
as I jettison from a beehive laying down my salt
and sword bare.

MK
photo MK

2009-07-30T07:53:00.013-04:00

Our polarities were reversed, no matter how hard I tried to match myself to your dynamic ego , my floral to your weed , the magnetic field pulled us away from one another . Pushing and pulling us further with every try...

Pull

Here is this string, it pulls when we tug on it. It is what is holding us together. A light force that binds us, momentarily until it snaps, or one of us lets go . You starts the engine, first its a roar then slows down to a warm gentle purr. Meanwhile I strap the seatbelt on aware that my excitement may be showing so I try to conceal it, slowing down what my arms and fingers are doing. I can`t let you know that this is what I live for this moment here beside you in your car. With self possessed ease you grab hold of the steering wheel and swerve until we turn a 45 degree angle to the right and slide down the ramp into the fast pulse of speeding cars. Lights flashing past us you pick up the speed. I turn to my left and stare at your profile , I feel safe this is where I want to be. Here in this moment, on this highway driving at this neck breaking speed I would willingly die knowing I was by your side. Yes, I am not afraid when I`m with you. You break the spell and shout out "tell me something, a story". Quickly I try to gather my thoughts, you are often impatient with my tardiness to snap back into the clarity of the moment. My attempts to beat your mock laughter is lost, I can`t think of anything , I am happy to sit here with you and stare out the window. I ask about your family in Engalnd, and those in Iraq. There has been another kidnapping you say, a distant cousin but you are from the same tribe. Its tribal warfare you yell, your hand lifts off and hits the streeing wheel as you say this. You shake your head "Bush is an idiot" you fume. In a few minutes we will reach the apartment complex in the center of downtown. We will drop in on Ahmed at his tobacco shop. Short man with a shining bald head and a generous smile. He winks with a twinkle and slight lift of his brow when he sees me with you. You look down like a school boy embarrassed. I can`t understand the Arabic you are speaking, only fragments of words I have picked up. WE finally leave and take the elevator up to your apartment. While you prepare the fried eggplant and yogourt I prepare the ' Shish a ' for us to smoke.

MK
photo by Jan Saudek

2009-07-29T10:44:00.008-04:00

Seven wonders

I am a traveler of the world, crossing the seven seas. I have met the dark stranger, who cracked open my soul. I set sail in the night, guided only by the stars. I have fished for pearls, I have discarded the rubies of a King as I unshackled this mortal coil.The serpent remains sleeping beneath a smashed ship, blown here by the wind. Dreams filled with wonder swim me to your shores.

MK

photo by Hengki Koentjoro
Profile Gallery Prints Faves Journal

2009-07-28T11:32:00.003-04:00

.
.....Farewell... Merce Cunningham

2009-07-27T07:05:00.003-04:00

2009-07-24T19:36:00.019-04:00

The Bus ride

The bus ride to school every morning was shared with the neighbouring french catholic school, ours was the english protestant. Along the bumpy country back roads it was both stomache churning and fun. Only the toughest kids were allowed the backseats where the full effects of the spring seats could be felt. The competition amongst the them to see who could launch the highest as efforts to catapult ones body into the air as the bus` tires with barely any shock absorption flew over bumps or nearly sank into large gaping potholes . It was fun for the rest of us to watch. I think I may have had but one opportunity to experience this little adventure. The french kids being off school one day.I quickly grabbed the chance and discovered to my chagrin it wasn`t all it appeared to be but better in the spectators seat, it was dreadfully boring without an audience hooting for thier favorite . I returned to my usual seat and the familiar slight nausea soon came over me as the bus droned on in my semi soma state.

photo from my friend "onestonedcrow"

2009-07-23T10:59:00.002-04:00

Life is a bowl of cherries

photos MK

2009-07-23T06:46:00.003-04:00

Crow Crow

I hold this knife , I hold this fork and I dig in to this feast ,
into your heart. In here buried deep within Molten ash,
buried deep within is where I will find your heart, its core ,
supine now Cooling. The brevity of your donation flew by
hardly a trace left, yes in time you too will be forgotten.
I will sit before another plate, knife and fork at the ready.

MK
painting MK

2009-07-23T06:33:00.003-04:00

A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.

Diane Arbus

Sometimes the heart is locked away, in a place that is ice cube cold. It is not necessarily a reflection of the possessor of the heart. On the contrary the tenant of the heart is warm, very very warm. But the heart you see has a limited threshold for pain. Vanquished forever in these eyes, is this beauty mark, its congenital and one wonders why it is even referenced to as a on object to be admired. Most would sigh a breath of relief, do their utmost to have it removed. I have one, it is somewhere on the region of my torso. I never see it. You will never see it. Hence no need for any painful surgical intervention

When I studied photography ( oh lets say about 20 some years ago ) I wanted to be like her. I tried to emulate her style, but then I realized what it takes and I didn't have it in me. I was scared, especially of ugliness. But she had the ability to draw out the beauty of her subjects, those willing to standstill long enough . Was it their trust she gained, was she genuine, authentic or manipulative. Another con artist, hustling and whoring to get what it was she wanted . I studied her photographs, read everything that was written about her. I come away with admiration, for her soul for her courage. I still believe she is master of manipulation.

Diane Arbus

2009-07-19T09:40:00.001-04:00

Sometimes the soul suffers.

It can suffer in silence or screaming out loud begging for attention, for every passerby to hear . The silent soul tip toes in a hush, you feel it sweeping past you , that stranger with whom you are crossing paths. That stranger in who's eyes you recognize the torment, but cannot ever allow yourself to reach out and touch. Why is that?

What burden would you be taking upon yourself. So you look away before the stranger has a chance to touch you any deeper than you allow for. There have been moments when I was that soul burning in the flames of anguish. How the slightest touch from a stranger might have lightened my soul, just a little. I remember after my divorce , that which I initiated, that which HE fought and made my very existence a misery. I was picking up food for the cat and waiting in line, some old man snapped at me " why don't you SMILE " In that moment I thought how cruel people are to one another. I felt the crushing weight of my spirit darken and fought hard to hold back the tears, couldn't he see I was dying.

Suffering in silence.

.Paintings: ArtistofQuito,

........Moser

2009-07-18T10:52:00.006-04:00

The Red shoes

I let the book drop ....and fall open. The red shoes would be tonight's story, the feral woman, the motherless child, unable to contain her desire to put the Red shoes on, and on the forbidden day of Gods sermon under the gaze of disapproving eyes she danced to the wig a jig-jig song of the one armed soldier as he winked at her, and featherlike that did tickle and burned made the soles of her feet want to reach for heaven, dancing her into the dense forest,

and swung her and wrangling her torso at the executioners cabin, whereupon she begged him to chop off her shoes with his axe.. her soul and feet on fire. I stand barefoot most of the time, and I have learned to sniff out those leg trappings and cages, but in those moments of longing it is so easy to yield to ones desire, blindly incandescent.

MK
Paintings by Virginia Lee
Photo: Au fil de

2009-07-14T15:56:00.000-04:00

..
I love my mother, I love my wife, I love God.
This pen a token of my love, love I lift and write the words of God.
This pen is the voice of God. I am God. I love everyone
No one understands the pain of my love, I know no one truly loves me.
I don't like any of them because they all think I am crazy.
I love everyone for I am God, and God loves all his children

I am God................................Vaslav Nijinsky

MK
.

2009-07-13T09:45:00.001-04:00

Who do you venerate? We all privately have our own heroes.
Mine tend to be people in the arts. Not the mere craftsperson or sentimentalists, but artists who utilize their art more as a tool to access something deeper and consequently higher. Maybe tool isn't the right word to use here. we use tools to construct, assemble, take apart. Those that have chosen to develop or cultivate a chosen medium from the genre of arts, I like to believe theirs is a calling. Rather like a Neophyte who cannot ignore the inner harpings to undergo conversion. But then so do Mathematicians seek to converse in the language of numbers.
Its been said, that listening to classical music improves your ability to concentrate, that embedded within the musical notations, underscores a mathematical language. The secrets of God... are they not sought in the matrix of Pi ? But then I was never good in math and as for my concentration I am forever multi-tasking. Apparently it is not possible for the brain to proficiently perform two tasks at the same time, something to do with the brains prefrontal cortex and other key neural regions ie: the partiel cortex.

Each human performance such as percieving, thinking and acting, have specific mental resources whose effectiveness requires supervision through executive mental control...according to DavidMeyers, and if you want to know more you can reach him at this number (734)763-1477. as a forewarning this bears no reflection on myself, but the Artists I admire or venerate in secret all happen to be highly intelligent people. Therein lies the key to my fascination and veneration.

RemediosVaro

Their creativity and their brilliance tap into the stratosphere of illumination . The need akin to that of the scientist of bringing order to chaos, of bringing us out of the darkeness into the light. Enriching our lives be it with beauty or deeper understanding. More importantly is the ability to move with emotion.
It's strange, but when I listen to chopin's " Berceuse in D flat major " it excites my mind. I absolutely thrill to this mans genuis. I am moved in a manifold of layers of feeling and thought, my heartrate accelerates and I'm not certain if I want to jump up or keep still. Science enables us to define understanding, whereas art defines the understanding of our experience.

jakeBaddeley

MK

2009-07-11T21:35:00.000-04:00

Today I took a bike ride along " Lachine canal " to Parc Jean Drapeau.
Along the way I tried to capture with my camera the beauty of the scenery,or at the very least all that it evoked.

Personally I do not consider graffiti as art. How can anyone compare this with the paintings of the muralists such as Diego Rivera and Orzoco with their beautifully rendered bold and politically charged statements that challenged viewers,to this shit..pardon the language. I equate stamping your signature in this bold manner to pornography. Its bold and screaming in your face, and if I am to be stopped in my tracks, its with soap and a bucket.

A train was whizzing by and I clumsily managed to get in focus and snap this photo. It turned out differently than I expected, I quite like it. It's the tree that dominates here and I half expect a little person to emerge from inside the mound.

Moshe Safdi's Habitat 67, I confess it is one of my favorite architectural designs. Interlocking cubes that look as if they are defying gravity.
It was orginally designed as low cost housing, instead they have become pricey condos.

The path along the port gives on to an amazing cityscape of Montreal, and its ongoing development can be seen from this vantage, especially in this area as old factories are refurbished into trendy condominiums. The sentimentalist in me is sad to see the dirty old buildings that once chugged out malefic pollutants go. Goodbye to the city I knew in childhood.
Admittedly it does make parts of the city I once would never venture to, more safe and friendly. These old steel contraptions caught my eye , but do they translate in the photo?

..and was it windy?

Being by water, emboldens the senses and yet paradoxically makes me feel serene.

The Geodesic Dome, I'm old enough to have actually ridden through this before the fire, Remember? It is made of interlocking shapes that can be assembled or taken apart.

Marmot looks badgered, these oversized rodents are everywhere, kinda like the squirrels in my yard.

2009-07-10T22:03:00.000-04:00

It goes without saying the kitchen is my favorite room in the house.At present the kitchen in my home is small. Size enough for one person to work in. The best kitchen I ever had was at 19

I was living in a semi basement gas heated dwelling. Every time I lit the match to light the pilot, I might as well have thrown my money in to the fire, It barely heated the apartment and taking a shower within 10 minutes before the hot water ran out was a drag to say the least, shivering I dried in front of the heater all the while fearing it would blow up . The kitchen however was amazing, who cares what the exact dimensions were. It fit my five foot long antique oak table with the double drop leaf , and a roll top dresser that I painted turquoise. I spent hours sitting at my table reading , thinking , dreaming and eating . There was always a pot of coffee brewing and I, whiling the hours away from midnight to sun up. I look back to this time as I have come full circle. 25 years have gone by, and though those days were mired in poverty and the future stretched out a highway before me. I look back on that time with a certain fondness and slight melancholy. Life is not that different now in terms of my pace. Now I am doing what I dreamed of, no longer searching or confused. Still not getting paid for my passions, at my own bidding .

Life is no longer a highway , more a country back road. The oak table has been replaced by a sheet of glass, and the spiral notebook is digital. Brush strokes are the pantheon of my cuisine.

Kitchen, the emotional abode of the homestead , food of the heart is prepared here, lovingly and in earnest, sometimes static then satiating this hunger. Does it ebb, well I don't know I am so busy concocting in my den, a kitchen, colors red, white and blue, orange, green and purple. I feed them to my loved one.

MK

photo: foundonflickr

2009-07-10T20:23:00.000-04:00

Blow, blow on me, I grow up

Blow on me, the scent you see traveling.

Ethers restored cradles our despair.

Round and forgotten, collected.

Blue is another year, light the candle, burn down.

Blast, effuse,

Blow , blow , blow to me

photo:NellieLarge

2009-07-10T19:59:00.001-04:00

Imagine a world without music, no visions in the night as the music moves you
Imagine a world without a kite, the line uncoiling, in my hands wings take flight
Blessed are we that walk the streets free,without fear of harm or fright
remember that as you toss your hair, or yank at that irritating bra strap
Let the book fall, watch as the letters scramble to form shapes and utterances creep forth
No man will haunt your dreams tonight

Imagine a sister across the hemisphere, a 15 hour plane flight
Imagine no stranger will ever see her flutter her lashes, her lipstick smeared
her voice silenced in a veil of darkness
What shapes her existence if there is no one to mirror her presence

MK

photos;http://www.ankemerzbach.de/

dedicated to the women of Afgahnistan

2009-07-07T20:13:00.002-04:00

To the Mountain, Mont royal

2009-07-07T19:22:00.001-04:00

Old montreal