it's the hardest day
some might say...when you have to say goodbye...
there's a candle burning,
on the table...and the wind comes and blows it away.
I've got your image in the mirror
the picture couldn't be drawn any clearer.
As I walk out of this house...I turn to say...
it's the hardest day
some might say...I think I found something out about you.
When the rain is falling...you're name I'm calling...
I've got something else to say.
You packed the car
and drove down the street...I could hear the radio.
They were playing sad songs,
about boys and heros...
I think that they were talking to me.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
you and I today
Are you out there,
are you waiting for me...did this happen
can you come for tea...
and I'll be sittting,
out by the tree...I'll see your shadow underneath the door
I'll put my head back,
and you drive the car...foot on the gas
taking us far...
Away from the nights...out past the lights
out to the place where they don't know our names...
are you waiting for me...did this happen
can you come for tea...
and I'll be sittting,
out by the tree...I'll see your shadow underneath the door
I'll put my head back,
and you drive the car...foot on the gas
taking us far...
Away from the nights...out past the lights
out to the place where they don't know our names...
Sunday, March 26, 2006
signs of life
The world is waking up again, the sun is beginning to spend the day beyond the reach of cloud cover. All over the city people ride their bikes, walk their dogs and meander through rows of sidewalk sales. The grass is beginning to show signs of life, as blankets of snow retreat to puddles and slowly, they evaporate into the sky.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
ad for cheap cigarettes
I need time to help create.
To sow the seeds of love,
in the fields of hate.
Spoken words are a beating drum
next to a pile of broken bones.
The world is watching as you climb to the stage.
Looking people straight in the eyes
to expell your rage.
To sow the seeds of love,
in the fields of hate.
Spoken words are a beating drum
next to a pile of broken bones.
The world is watching as you climb to the stage.
Looking people straight in the eyes
to expell your rage.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Ghosts of the fallout
When she closed her eyes, her mind always returned to the crying and the deafening screams. She walked carefully, taking each step slowly as she made her way through the thick blanket of smoke and screams, that blurred her vision and dulled her senses.
She could hear the sharp, high-pitched cracking of the fire as it moved through the concrete and fallen timber of the once proud homes of her neighborhood. Like a cancer it spread, from one house to the next, and almost as quickly as her eyes could blink, the neighborhood vanished. Nothing was left but the soft sound of smoldering ash and the dark, drab colour of soot.
There was no laughter, there were no children playing capture the flag in between the rows of homes. She kept walking, and, willing the sunlight to break through the sufficating layer of smoke covering her head, she dropped to her knees.
She could feel her pulse rise and fall, and rise and fall...it repeated itself for several minutes. She couldn't hear the birds, nor see the sky... she was lost.
She could hear the sharp, high-pitched cracking of the fire as it moved through the concrete and fallen timber of the once proud homes of her neighborhood. Like a cancer it spread, from one house to the next, and almost as quickly as her eyes could blink, the neighborhood vanished. Nothing was left but the soft sound of smoldering ash and the dark, drab colour of soot.
There was no laughter, there were no children playing capture the flag in between the rows of homes. She kept walking, and, willing the sunlight to break through the sufficating layer of smoke covering her head, she dropped to her knees.
She could feel her pulse rise and fall, and rise and fall...it repeated itself for several minutes. She couldn't hear the birds, nor see the sky... she was lost.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Marathon...I'm running for.
Presently, it's snowing outside. The wind is coming from all directions and it's causing a burning sensation on my face. The first few minutes of running in weather like this is tough, something most people, even runners won't think about. I must admit, I usually head inside to the nearest treadmill, as insipid as that sounds. No trees, dogs or people to watch as I'm running by, blood coursing at a steaming pace through my vains. But today isn't about running outside or inside, in bad weather or on a sunny day...it's about running.
As I communicate this to you, I am training for a half-marathon, that's 21.1kms folks!!! It's my first and hopefully not my last, baring any unforeseen injury I might sustain along the way. No, no, so far it's been good, week three of a sixteen week training schedule. I have always been athletic, so this comes sort of naturally to me, not to toot my own horn! But, even with prior athletic experience, I'm learning the joys of having to get up on Sunday morning and run.
At least I'm not alone, I have the rest that fill out the Running Room clinic on Slater street. Every tuesday we meet for a talk and a run, usually a short one that I try and run too fast!! Last tuesday I noticed a sign on the front door of the store. It was an annoucement for a breast cancer run, 'Run for the Cure'. I started to read the poster, a date, time, the distance, all the usual suspects that pertain to advertising an event. Then I noticed something else.
Though it wasn't hard to miss, sitting in the center of the post. They were little cards, like name cards at a wedding. Each one had writing on them, and each one had something different written on them. One said, 'For my daugher, my hero' another read, 'For my father'. On everyone, there was a dedication of one form or another, in memory of people's loved ones, who had either died, or as one read, 'For my sister, keep fighting', for those who were finding the courage to live on. On the bottom of the poster there read a single question- who are you running for?
Seeing these cards left me thinking of a few different things for the rest of that night's run. One was my loved ones, my grandmother fell victim to cancer ten years ago this passed year. Another feeling I got was, what I'm a running for? Though I'm not running in that breast cancer race, I must be doing it for a reason. On a basic level, I'm running because I want to get back in shape. On another, I'm running it to see if I can. Then there's the 'cross it off my life's to-do list' which is a good motivator.
As I sit beneath the glow of a candle flame, outside the snow still falling without hesitation, I'm wondering why I'm running this marathon. There is another 13 weeks, so this won't be the last I have to say...
As I communicate this to you, I am training for a half-marathon, that's 21.1kms folks!!! It's my first and hopefully not my last, baring any unforeseen injury I might sustain along the way. No, no, so far it's been good, week three of a sixteen week training schedule. I have always been athletic, so this comes sort of naturally to me, not to toot my own horn! But, even with prior athletic experience, I'm learning the joys of having to get up on Sunday morning and run.
At least I'm not alone, I have the rest that fill out the Running Room clinic on Slater street. Every tuesday we meet for a talk and a run, usually a short one that I try and run too fast!! Last tuesday I noticed a sign on the front door of the store. It was an annoucement for a breast cancer run, 'Run for the Cure'. I started to read the poster, a date, time, the distance, all the usual suspects that pertain to advertising an event. Then I noticed something else.
Though it wasn't hard to miss, sitting in the center of the post. They were little cards, like name cards at a wedding. Each one had writing on them, and each one had something different written on them. One said, 'For my daugher, my hero' another read, 'For my father'. On everyone, there was a dedication of one form or another, in memory of people's loved ones, who had either died, or as one read, 'For my sister, keep fighting', for those who were finding the courage to live on. On the bottom of the poster there read a single question- who are you running for?
Seeing these cards left me thinking of a few different things for the rest of that night's run. One was my loved ones, my grandmother fell victim to cancer ten years ago this passed year. Another feeling I got was, what I'm a running for? Though I'm not running in that breast cancer race, I must be doing it for a reason. On a basic level, I'm running because I want to get back in shape. On another, I'm running it to see if I can. Then there's the 'cross it off my life's to-do list' which is a good motivator.
As I sit beneath the glow of a candle flame, outside the snow still falling without hesitation, I'm wondering why I'm running this marathon. There is another 13 weeks, so this won't be the last I have to say...
Friday, February 17, 2006
my recurring...
When I close my eyes, I return to it. The image remains there, forever and still, burned into my memory. When all is quiet and there's not a soul in sight, I let myself slip back and slowly give in to it's forces as they draw me closer. All is black and quiet, just the gentle accompaniment of the sound of noise, nothing in particular, no focal point.
In my dream it's always raining. Not violent like during a rainstorm, but certainly more than gentley. The sky is gray and dark, as the sun has run off for another day. I'm standing next to a window, which plays host to quite a view. An innocent rush of cool air runs up and down the length of my body, raising the hair on my neck. I can see the grass, bent over from the wind, and trying to win back it's upright position.
She's wearing a white blouse, and jeans that hug her waste. Her cloths cling to her like a second skin. Her feet are bare...I noticed while she lightly stepped her way toward a red-brick garden path. My face is pressed against the paine, the fog from my breath forms on the surface and blurs my vision. Ahead of her, a row of cedar hedges.
At this point, my mind cannot take it. Screaming at my body, it commands me to give in to chase. She is the target of my desire yet I cannot move. Conflicted, I stand there helpless and vulnerable. The sound of the rain drives past my ears harder with every minute. I want to give in, I must give in. With one last brust of meloncoly, I start for the door and grab the handle.
As I went for the door, she disappeared from slight...
In my dream it's always raining. Not violent like during a rainstorm, but certainly more than gentley. The sky is gray and dark, as the sun has run off for another day. I'm standing next to a window, which plays host to quite a view. An innocent rush of cool air runs up and down the length of my body, raising the hair on my neck. I can see the grass, bent over from the wind, and trying to win back it's upright position.
She's wearing a white blouse, and jeans that hug her waste. Her cloths cling to her like a second skin. Her feet are bare...I noticed while she lightly stepped her way toward a red-brick garden path. My face is pressed against the paine, the fog from my breath forms on the surface and blurs my vision. Ahead of her, a row of cedar hedges.
At this point, my mind cannot take it. Screaming at my body, it commands me to give in to chase. She is the target of my desire yet I cannot move. Conflicted, I stand there helpless and vulnerable. The sound of the rain drives past my ears harder with every minute. I want to give in, I must give in. With one last brust of meloncoly, I start for the door and grab the handle.
As I went for the door, she disappeared from slight...
Through the window...
Through the window, I saw her pain.
I put my ears to wind,
and listened to her whispers.
She cried to nobody, to anybody.
Her face had sunk below the glastly exterior she hid behind.
Silence wrapped around her like a blanket.
By the fire she sat staring into its flames.
She watched the pattern of shadows
cast on the wall behind the brillant flashes of yellow and orange.
She thought about each tear, as one by one,
they escaped from her eyes and ran down her face,
like children lost in a reckless abandon.
Pictures lined the mantle left to right, black and white.
She looked past the blank faces looking as though directly at her.
In her memory she heard the laughter,
in her memory she saw the smiles and felt the warmth.
Through the window she reached out her hand...
I put my ears to wind,
and listened to her whispers.
She cried to nobody, to anybody.
Her face had sunk below the glastly exterior she hid behind.
Silence wrapped around her like a blanket.
By the fire she sat staring into its flames.
She watched the pattern of shadows
cast on the wall behind the brillant flashes of yellow and orange.
She thought about each tear, as one by one,
they escaped from her eyes and ran down her face,
like children lost in a reckless abandon.
Pictures lined the mantle left to right, black and white.
She looked past the blank faces looking as though directly at her.
In her memory she heard the laughter,
in her memory she saw the smiles and felt the warmth.
Through the window she reached out her hand...
Saturday, February 04, 2006
The men we'll be...
Great men are not born, they are created. They are molded from the world that surrounds them, taking shape as time progresses. They experience every experience, expose themselves to every exposure...Their heightened sense of awareness and belonging makes them in tune with the world spinning around them. They are critical of the masses, and know that they know not...these are great men, these are great women...
At first glance, the above may sound like the mother of all rhetorical flurishes and nothing more than pretenious words spoken to nobody. However, I urge that this is not the case. They are the by-product of a moving conversation between myself and a friend who is more like my brother.
What makes great men, or even simplier, successful people flurish while others are struggling to find their way? Some people have money, and all of the benefits that comes with having a network of friends in high places. They finish highschool with perfect marks, practically breeze through the university of their choice, and go on to fulfill dreams found only in make-believe, or Hollywood.
Some people blossum at different times, my friend says. They have a goal from early on, and stop at nothing until they have reached it... or they have help. Maybe their roads aren't lined with as many complications as some, they had love and support to back them. They had a place where, even in failure, they could come back to and hide.
Being one semester away from completing my degree, I have devoted much time and energy to, well to be frank, to being nervous about my future prospects. So much that once I wrote to Dr. Noam Chomsky in search of some inspiration to cure my discouragement. What he said was simple, but very effective. He told me that even the greatest men, himself included, had gone through times in their lives where they were scared or unsure about what their futures would bring them. Laughter or saidness, successes or failures, even those with the most meraculous of accomplishments had experienced them all, and managed to save face.
So it's not all tragedy and tears...which is good for me because being painfully average, I kid myself alot. Truthfully, it's too soon to tell, my grandpa would say I'm still wet behind the ears. When I write the next chapter of my life, I hope they are good pages, that take my to exciting places, taking from them something to charish and savour.
A champion on the field, when he wins, who always wants to stay trapped in the moment, hanging on to it like it's his last. For that moment his was great, and he will be remembered for it, even if his endevours never take him their again...
At first glance, the above may sound like the mother of all rhetorical flurishes and nothing more than pretenious words spoken to nobody. However, I urge that this is not the case. They are the by-product of a moving conversation between myself and a friend who is more like my brother.
What makes great men, or even simplier, successful people flurish while others are struggling to find their way? Some people have money, and all of the benefits that comes with having a network of friends in high places. They finish highschool with perfect marks, practically breeze through the university of their choice, and go on to fulfill dreams found only in make-believe, or Hollywood.
Some people blossum at different times, my friend says. They have a goal from early on, and stop at nothing until they have reached it... or they have help. Maybe their roads aren't lined with as many complications as some, they had love and support to back them. They had a place where, even in failure, they could come back to and hide.
Being one semester away from completing my degree, I have devoted much time and energy to, well to be frank, to being nervous about my future prospects. So much that once I wrote to Dr. Noam Chomsky in search of some inspiration to cure my discouragement. What he said was simple, but very effective. He told me that even the greatest men, himself included, had gone through times in their lives where they were scared or unsure about what their futures would bring them. Laughter or saidness, successes or failures, even those with the most meraculous of accomplishments had experienced them all, and managed to save face.
So it's not all tragedy and tears...which is good for me because being painfully average, I kid myself alot. Truthfully, it's too soon to tell, my grandpa would say I'm still wet behind the ears. When I write the next chapter of my life, I hope they are good pages, that take my to exciting places, taking from them something to charish and savour.
A champion on the field, when he wins, who always wants to stay trapped in the moment, hanging on to it like it's his last. For that moment his was great, and he will be remembered for it, even if his endevours never take him their again...
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
My best to Mr. Spencer
It started in 1999, but for some reason I didn't catch on until mid 2005 just how great the show was. I can only surmise that I wasn't very political during my middle years at highschool and therefore hated political shows. Makes perfect sense...but I was missing out on the drama, the sharp, whitty dialogue, and the memorable characters.
However, I was soon sent down the right path by my roommate, who had become engrossed in the show during the previous months leading up to the beginning of my own addiction. Once, upon finishing a cliff-hanger of a season finale, I actually witnessed him foaming at the month while frantically searching for a rental store that had Season two of the West Wing in stock, and that would be open at 1 am.
While his target remained out of reach that night, as dusk turned to early dawn, he eventually watched the series up to the point where it was airing on NBC. In May he went home to work, while I stayed here in Ottawa, with little to do after work during the week. So, one hot night, since I didn't feel like moving and the seasons were directly in front of me...I watched the first episode. That turned into watching the first disc, which then snowballed into watching the first season in two nights.
I didn't get much sleep, but I didn't care because I was living out those hours with smart, animated characters, albeit fictional, but nonetheless worth watching. And over the course of my nightly West Wing feasts, I began to look up to one character in particular. He always knew what to say, but didn't live in an ivory tower...
This person my friends, was Leo McGarry, the man behind the man. For those casual glancers, he was a meek old man in a suit, but for those who knew him and loved him, he was a brillant political mind with the heart of a lion. He scarificed his marriage for the job of Chief of Staff, and on most nights, many hours of sleep. On-lookers watched in awe as he helped mold the plot to assassinate Defense Minister Shariff of Qumar, and we winced when he suffered a heart attack that rendered him unable to continue as President Bartlett's COS.
He would not stay down however, the end of season six saw him rally to become the Democratic candidate for Vice-President, sharing the ticket with Congressman Matt Santos. Currently, the seventh season is heating up with new edge-of-your-seat, hightly political shows, as the plot jobs back and forth from the White House, to the campaigne trail. The highs, the lows, we have been taken on quite a ride thusfar.
I take this time to thank the man that gave Leo McGarry depth and illuminated him in ways no other actor could. On December 16, 2005, actor John Spencer was taken from the world by a heart attack.
His face will be missed. His skill will be admired. Whenever Leo McGarry's name is mentioned on the show until series' end, we will remember with heavy hearts, the name that gave him life.
My best to Mr. Spencer...
However, I was soon sent down the right path by my roommate, who had become engrossed in the show during the previous months leading up to the beginning of my own addiction. Once, upon finishing a cliff-hanger of a season finale, I actually witnessed him foaming at the month while frantically searching for a rental store that had Season two of the West Wing in stock, and that would be open at 1 am.
While his target remained out of reach that night, as dusk turned to early dawn, he eventually watched the series up to the point where it was airing on NBC. In May he went home to work, while I stayed here in Ottawa, with little to do after work during the week. So, one hot night, since I didn't feel like moving and the seasons were directly in front of me...I watched the first episode. That turned into watching the first disc, which then snowballed into watching the first season in two nights.
I didn't get much sleep, but I didn't care because I was living out those hours with smart, animated characters, albeit fictional, but nonetheless worth watching. And over the course of my nightly West Wing feasts, I began to look up to one character in particular. He always knew what to say, but didn't live in an ivory tower...
This person my friends, was Leo McGarry, the man behind the man. For those casual glancers, he was a meek old man in a suit, but for those who knew him and loved him, he was a brillant political mind with the heart of a lion. He scarificed his marriage for the job of Chief of Staff, and on most nights, many hours of sleep. On-lookers watched in awe as he helped mold the plot to assassinate Defense Minister Shariff of Qumar, and we winced when he suffered a heart attack that rendered him unable to continue as President Bartlett's COS.
He would not stay down however, the end of season six saw him rally to become the Democratic candidate for Vice-President, sharing the ticket with Congressman Matt Santos. Currently, the seventh season is heating up with new edge-of-your-seat, hightly political shows, as the plot jobs back and forth from the White House, to the campaigne trail. The highs, the lows, we have been taken on quite a ride thusfar.
I take this time to thank the man that gave Leo McGarry depth and illuminated him in ways no other actor could. On December 16, 2005, actor John Spencer was taken from the world by a heart attack.
His face will be missed. His skill will be admired. Whenever Leo McGarry's name is mentioned on the show until series' end, we will remember with heavy hearts, the name that gave him life.
My best to Mr. Spencer...
Sunday, January 29, 2006
A lover's quarrel with the world.
Less than a month before his assassination President Kennedy gave a speech at Amherst College in honor of the late poet Robert Frost.
The Purpose of Poetry- by John F. Kennedy
A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers...
The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the nation's greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as indispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power, or power uses us...
When power leads man toward arrogance, poerty reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows then areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstones of our judgment. The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an officious state. The great artist is a solitary figure. He has, as Frost said, "a lover's quarrel with the world." In pursuing his perceptions of reality he must often sail against the currents of time.
If sometimes our great artists have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, makes them aware that our nation falls short of its highest potential.
I see little of more importance to the future of our country and our civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist. If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him...
In free society art is not a weapon, and it does not belong to the sphere of polemics and ideology. Artists are not engineers of the soul. It may be different elsewhere. But in a democratic society the highest duty of the writer, the composer, the artist, is to remain true to himself and to let the chips fall where they may. In serving his vision of the truth, the artist best serves his nation.
- JFK, 1963
The Purpose of Poetry- by John F. Kennedy
A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers...
The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the nation's greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as indispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power, or power uses us...
When power leads man toward arrogance, poerty reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows then areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstones of our judgment. The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an officious state. The great artist is a solitary figure. He has, as Frost said, "a lover's quarrel with the world." In pursuing his perceptions of reality he must often sail against the currents of time.
If sometimes our great artists have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, makes them aware that our nation falls short of its highest potential.
I see little of more importance to the future of our country and our civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist. If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him...
In free society art is not a weapon, and it does not belong to the sphere of polemics and ideology. Artists are not engineers of the soul. It may be different elsewhere. But in a democratic society the highest duty of the writer, the composer, the artist, is to remain true to himself and to let the chips fall where they may. In serving his vision of the truth, the artist best serves his nation.
- JFK, 1963
Friday, January 27, 2006
Remember me
Remember me as I am,
my image etched in stone,
outlining the vast caves of your memory.
Remember love's warm embrace
on harsh winter nights.
Remember soft, gentle whispers,
and the lies you let slip by.
Let not one night's trechery
ruin a life's accumulation of love.
Remember me for my ambition,
for the things I cannot say,
for the plan I cannot write down.
Remember me in triumphant glory,
lest I should wallow in defeat.
For the love we shared,
I did not die alone.
Forever shall I be comforted
by the memory of your face,
looking back at me,
as I faded away.
my image etched in stone,
outlining the vast caves of your memory.
Remember love's warm embrace
on harsh winter nights.
Remember soft, gentle whispers,
and the lies you let slip by.
Let not one night's trechery
ruin a life's accumulation of love.
Remember me for my ambition,
for the things I cannot say,
for the plan I cannot write down.
Remember me in triumphant glory,
lest I should wallow in defeat.
For the love we shared,
I did not die alone.
Forever shall I be comforted
by the memory of your face,
looking back at me,
as I faded away.
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