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DREAMS

My dreams used to thrill me because I got taken to other worlds and made to feel awe.

There is colour and magic in them still after all this time, equal to Zanadu.

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MEETING AGAIN

– centuries old and a thousand kisses –

memories made of steam.

 

A WANDERING

After wandering in dark and confusing dreams of late, last night,

restless, wandering, backing and forthing, in the misty pale light

of the shadows that have taken me haunting to unknown places of unnamed thoughts and the swirlings of the unknowns of everything,

the smoky gate lifted, and

without even the slightest clue of what the questionable density and torment consisted,

or the trigger that began its stirrings, I am left standing, relieved, and some as-yet-to-be-revealed way, opened –

LETTER TO A FRIEND

I hope you are managing through everything that is happening in your life these days. I imagine big emotions.

Live them all; there is even joy in the most painful.

Gil taught me that. Grieving him showed me how big love is.

Let those big emotions sweep through you instead of holding tight for fear of them.

Let them make you cry and heal all the losses you’ve ever had.

Thinking of you,

E

Maudie

I went to see MAUDIE today. It is a most wonderful film, a magnum opus, of a real woman’s life. A friend heard that Maud Lewis painted straight from the tube. She used house paint straight from the can. She was tremendously well portrayed. Her humour was like quiet gentle sass. It made me smile every time.

I saw her little painted house at the Gallery in Halifax. It was a humbling experience. So great a spirit was not to be contained.

She made what looked like an impossible life, beautiful. When she could barely hold a brush, still she painted. And Everett, he felt loved too in the end.

My Reality

Every one of us on the planet is living experiences that become the stories we tell. Only one of me or you exists in this whole world, and only one of everybody else

We have our mythologies, and tell our stories however we do, and we are mostly strangers. Stories help us to make sense of things, and they make us believe we exist.

Everyone has a book in them.

Make art instead of war, I say.

Spring

It is April.

The street sweeper has come.

**

Oh, when April blows the wind through your bones

And you turn up the heat, put on a sweater,

Or wrap yourself in a shawl,

Then wish there were a little wood stove somewhere,

And the thought of it warms you up.