“love poem”

Do you remember? The pulsing energy of my hand on your stomach? How you backed away? Light was glinting off your glasses, I smiled, happily uncontrolled, my paw furtively looking for a home. Mauling, reaching out for your collarbone, your chin, your uncertain gaze. I won a sidelong glance, a puzzled look. Muddy flecks from the mirrored ball fought through the haze, trying to shower us its horizontal snowstorm a blizzard of flickering points. The lights smiled down on us. Fish underwater, hand hanging suspended in rumbling of electric music, modulated by the smells of sweat, lust and poppers.

Everyone wriggled, swimming up and down streaming through the fog, I couldn’t move, there in that eddy a moment of swirling of calm. My head spinning, we waiting, bobbing, watching the flow, willing you to take my hand, climb the stairs, be my man. Later I call you jewel. A bright and shiny being, precious, a Language of greeting cards, fairy tales, happy endings. But still you continue to shine, sometimes silent, waiting for questions, watching and making gestures; a language far beyond my babble, a silent glowing in the darkness the pitch of matter, the dream of nothingness, the end of it all, the beginning.

Thickened with globs of oil, refracting, facing flicking, spreading, creamy hardening in your hand, filling the space like, like, like alike. We two, not just one jewel but two diamonds. Cuffs linked as a pair, glinting, teasing together and apart, they exist in parallel to the other, the pairing of things, places events, people. A jewel planted grows into something giant and wondrous, a diamond comes from the ground, squeezed solid, vice liked clamped carbon, black and pungent, gassy, questions more questions you ask.

What time is it? how far is it? Why is that thing so shiny? What is its essence? When will we get there? What will it be like? How will we know? When does time stop? When can we stop counting the days? When will we nestle, two silver spoons in a drawer, on the raft of our bed? How do you do it? How do you do? Who are you? What do you want? What time is it? Where does this path go? Right here right now, I love you I love you I love you!

Posted in Toronto Years

“Cottage Birthday”

On Sunday, everything has calmed. Friends stay on and the sun is still shining. Fourty years on the planet and now I’ve got to forget, start counting backwards stop asking other people, put it out of mind.  N stays on till Monday and we eat mushrooms and paddle to our sunset spot for cliff diving. The sun is golden, not so scalding, the dock shadowed as we paddle out into the lake. We find ourselves pulled off course, a diversion towards a dark inlet with overhanging branches at the edge of the water. We discover a magical glade, a mushroom nest. It’s a cave-like space under the spreading branches of a gnarled cedar tree. Mushrooms are growing out of the moss carpet, it looks untouched and scale-less. The water is tranquil black mercury. The lake is silent under here as we marvel at the design of the moment. Everything perfectly painted, still fresh and wet, all coming together into one cohesive thing, nothing out of place. We sit in the canoe, bobbing gently, mesmerized by the everythingness until we hear our rock calling from over our shoulders. It’s so perfect we want to scream.  Reluctantly, we pull away, slowly back-paddling, whirlpools sucking at the sky, whirling through the water lapping at the edges of our secret garden.

We clamber up from the canoe dragging over moss and rock, distracted by each little casual moment of the forest.  Pinecones, a branch with old and gnarly bark, finding little faces.  It’s everything everything. The opposite of everyday everyday.  It’s so much, so stimulating. I nuzzle S and laugh as we soak up the falling sunshine, waiting before jumping into velvet water.  We three fortunate souls lucky to be surrounded by this. After photos and swim we paddle through the dead heads, marveling at their haunting beauty, their utter ambivalence to our existence.

We look first at the reflections before raising our gazes up to the vertical, greyed and silver twisted trunks dancing in the mirrored liquid.  Pictures can’t help to remember this. We need some other language.

N says we didn’t take enough, reminds me of the time at Om, marveling at the world in the forest while the music echoed in the distance. Lights through the woods, calling out but unable to compete with the swamp. We were up to our knees in swamp-water, enjoying the silent squishing sounds, marveling at the difference between trees.  Each one an individual, a life of its own, a voice. Coniferous, like rappers, Yo, their branches reaching out.  Decidous, like uptight, white folk, dropping leaves at the first sign of autumn.

I break from writing and blade out to the beaches try to see the beauty without mescaline.  It works. It’s not as easy but I stay focused. See the wrinkled asphalt roadway, brown thistles backlit and glowing in the setting rays of sunlight.  Splashes of yellow, goldenrod. It’s almost incapacitating and I can feel my brain trying to filter it out, bring me back to the everyday, wanting to blink it all back to commonplace but it isn’t uncommon.  Now I try at home, looking at colours, shapes, the orange textured foam of my sofa, naked against the rust red of my bedroom wall- deliciously offgassing, decaying small particles falling off, crumbling back to the original matter.  My tooth, the sound it makes wrenched out of my jaw.  The concrete, brittle crunch and pop and then the question.  My body is tense and moist. “Do you want to see it? It’s quite an unusual shape.” I shake my head, worried I’ll pass out, the horror of the machine I’m living in breaking down, pieces dropping away from myself. Newly symmetrical, two missing upper molars. I am only a man, I am only a man.

Posted in Toronto Years

c.2003, “Squeezebox” story boarding

Posted in Drawings, journal c. "Squeezebox" 2003, Toronto Years

c. 2002, the “history of Andrew”, Jane Project…

Posted in journal c. "Dizzy" 2001-02, Toronto Years

CNE 2002

Posted in journal c. "That Thing We Do" c.2002, Toronto Years

c.1996, Sperm bank for master race collage

Posted in Berlin / Dessau Years, journal 2 c.1995-96

c.1996, Trips to Dessau…young gifted and tracked collage…

Posted in Berlin / Dessau Years, journal 2 c.1995-96

c.1996 misc. story boarding sketches

Posted in Berlin / Dessau Years, Drawings, journal 3 c.1996


Posted in Berlin / Dessau Years, journal 1 c. 1995-96

c.1995, The most amazing party ever…collages

Posted in Berlin / Dessau Years, journal 2 c.1995-96