a drawing

The shading around the outside casts a third dimension, a negative space sinking down into the page. This seems a visual black hole inscribed into the page. The lines do not escape; the figure's gravity pulls the page's whiteness down through the darkening gray into the razor-thin line; the event horizon and the vanishing point. That's when I lose the bigger picture. That's when I get lost, as I so often do, in the minutiae.

Pause.

Bob Ross would add a happy little shrub right in there, between the boulder and the fallen tree, sprucing up the lakeside. There, just there, is the pastoral landscape to rejuvenate my senses. Breathe that mountain air. Feel the breeze swept down the mountain into this lush western landscape, filled with evergreens and scrub grass. The crisp azure water, rippled by the sunlit wind. A two-dimensioned paradise, I suppose, without any way to enter in.

Pause.

Recall, the year before I was born and already there was a sequel: Superman 2 starts with General Zod, Ursa, and Non standing trial for their crimes against Kryton, sentenced to exile in a two-dimensional prison sent out among the stars, hurtling through the endless universe, frozen in time but able to beat their feeble fists against the pane of glass that imprisons them. The opposite of a Bob Ross painting. Not completed in 30 mins. Nothing pastoral about the endless absolute zero of the space between galaxies. Until you catch the jet stream of baby Kal-el's rocket and ride it down to earth, soaking up the rays of this yellow sun...

Pause.

Almost a cliche to say, "The spinning blue-green marble."

Perhaps: The anomaly where something crawled out of the void. The rock that managed to sprout. The stone that sprung water. The tiny miracle in the expanse. But I'm reminded of what Carl Sagan said: If we're the only ones in the universe, it seems an awful waste of space. Still, our little spinning blue-green marble seems to have slipped past the emptiness and filled itself with all sorts of pastoral oddities. Happy little tree by the river. Gold light spinning the leaves out of trees. Wide blue cloud dappled skies. Anxious little apes draping themselves in delusions, searching for that perfect pastoral restoration...

Ode to Mon Frere et Ami

There's a lot of history there avec mon frere, little of it French-flavoured -- although there was a period in Paris ten years ago when we were 19 and 21, and a memorable incident involving Coca at the base of the Tour Eiffel. And then there was his grade eight homeroom teacher, who'd majored in French in university and taught it to my class during the French-Science swap. I was in seventh grade at the time and my class was apparently much more civil to Mlle.; she barely survived her first year of teaching and it was rumoured she abandoned the profession after the year with my brother's class. She told me "zut" was the vilest swear en francais. I know several more vile phrases now, all of which make zut blush by comparison.

Anyway, mon frere just turned 31, which is a little shocking after all my reminiscing... I suppose I can indulge a little longer: I'm enjoying the boomerang effect. There was the underground rec room we tried to dig in the garden. If we'd spent less time planning how great it would be, where we'd put the TV and half-pipe, how we would carpet it, and more time actually digging, we might have at least managed a trench. As it was, we got distracted after scattering the topsoil and hitting the in-ground sprinkler pipe (which we unsuccessfully tried to rip out of the ground). So we went off to something else. Perhaps our detective agency or a race around the medium-sized block on our BMXs. Whatever it was, I'm sure we had the time of our young lives doing it.

Sharing so much of the past and having a best friend for a brother, that's about the most graceful thing I've received in my life. And wherever we end up -- him with a family now, two beautiful daughters and a brilliant wife, and me with my books and words, and all the excitement of amour toujours nouveau -- wherever these days take us, there's a thick history that will always join us as brothers and friends.

Happy birthday, brother.

and then

when you're as tired
as i am
reading too much
of that serial thriller
killer stuff

just dropped reality
the polished marble
rolling across the hardwood
bouncing off
the authentic oak baseboard
to settle out of reach
behind the chesterfield

you fall asleep
to dream
the crazy jagged dream
of that serial killer
thriller stuff

undead seasons

Some days, zombies roam in me. Their pungent decay
fills my senses - eyes water, nose runs.
Cold fingers with still-growing fingernails
claw my insides, chill my heart, promise
immortal mortality with their groaning, slavering,
insatiable mouths. Bite down

on moonlight - gliding through urban streets,
colliding with puddles and bouncing back, penetrating
homes' windows (patch on the bedspread
shifting with the night sky), and laying siege
to rooftops, balconies, sidewalks, parks, empty
lots. Catch my breath, swallow

air down the right pipe, pulse with each
beat. This autumn air braces, brings heavy frost
to coat the ground, harden the mud... losing
the barefoot connection to ground.
"Keep your feet muddy," Sakaki says, meaning
fully. Sakaki also says, "Let's eat stars."

Nourish the soul on starlight
for in the oncoming darkness of the night
season greenery recedes, gives way to the barren
fields and bare branches, dried crisp flower stalks
- and up rise the dead inside through frozen ground.
Eat stars, and don't let that winter dark consume.

to-do

Scribble a to-do list, then post it on the fridge. Look at it daily and wonder how life could be better if I could snap my fingers and have it completed. There's always something that could be written through, whether it's a list with boxes to tick or a line of poetry with words made to fit. But still, there's a list to post on the fridge next to posed pictures of family and friends: the one in Kananaskis with my friends; the one with my niece in the arms of her grandpa and grandma; and a really fine one of my lover and me on a beach in the Caribbean.

I need to remember to include that on the list: Write more lists. Because when I hang them, I am reminded to pause and look at those pictures on my fridge.

stepping out

The air is thick in here. The audience is chattering away, flipping through programs and fiddling in their bags and in their pockets. The sound rolls in a burble across the room, the acoustics of the theatre tumbling it all around expertly. It is overwhelming: the air full of sound, the mass of people, the cast of their gaze...

And then:

The house lights go down. The curtain sways softly. And I wait a beat, listening to the sounds peter out. I wait, feel that electric tingling on my skin as I'm about to step out onto the stage, as I'm about to throw myself onstage before the audience; some combination of anxiety and excitement. I feel it--in that moment, as I lift my foot and draw back the curtain to step out--the peace and confidence of it all pour through me. I feel the elation of being alive, of commanding these people's attention, of stepping out there and being vulnerable...

In that moment, I am invincible. There is no success. There is no failure. There is only the curtain in my hand, my weight shifting forward, my foot connecting with the wooden floorboards, and the darkly glowing audience before me...