tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4165694715093285362024-03-07T00:47:12.115-08:00Dual and Divided NatureFound in Niagara, Lost in TranslationHarryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12939002146158397355noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-58865492138104857252022-08-18T11:32:00.008-07:002022-08-18T11:38:23.633-07:00Abandoned <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIo4crgkXjKMXU3eW8lBmpuZuwFp5QssdgulOFuwTc6vitGHlh557V11PhpERD1ARwCu-LpZye8Bl-ES6oFLiw7zJcV68I1qH5cZL3kbT5H7JClNlqqHxjLh0DiCP91ZgQvKmG7ur_kqIv0GluujOi_XtPThwpiO_RAqh2fYZrj1osIilD7fxbIBU00Q/s6000/DSC_2705.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIo4crgkXjKMXU3eW8lBmpuZuwFp5QssdgulOFuwTc6vitGHlh557V11PhpERD1ARwCu-LpZye8Bl-ES6oFLiw7zJcV68I1qH5cZL3kbT5H7JClNlqqHxjLh0DiCP91ZgQvKmG7ur_kqIv0GluujOi_XtPThwpiO_RAqh2fYZrj1osIilD7fxbIBU00Q/w400-h266/DSC_2705.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Upon entrance, you stumble through to rust, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and someone else's abandonment.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But you claim it as your own,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">which it is,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">until you leave.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Harryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12939002146158397355noreply@blogger.com0Grand Forks, BC V0H, Canada49.0300946 -118.445139220.719860763821153 -153.6013892 77.340328436178851 -83.2888892tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-20379543532486335372018-12-21T09:31:00.001-08:002022-08-18T11:22:07.312-07:00Crossing Over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOUta62YP-ccy4ynaPA-6lqG46ERB8a1p1KIajzzcBkboNXeXrw0TZZLqqgInSPqeXLqu7Ci_e3RX_ZcdqMPc7aFs5JK-xxcTDFj0GzS6W9qVBh2NdFozNTvOZ9XUn-DrjN_2yP3fhRxw/s1600/IMG_20181130_225402.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOUta62YP-ccy4ynaPA-6lqG46ERB8a1p1KIajzzcBkboNXeXrw0TZZLqqgInSPqeXLqu7Ci_e3RX_ZcdqMPc7aFs5JK-xxcTDFj0GzS6W9qVBh2NdFozNTvOZ9XUn-DrjN_2yP3fhRxw/s400/IMG_20181130_225402.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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You crossed into that light,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">surrounded by soundless water. </div>
<br />Harryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12939002146158397355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-32243395928171959562018-10-28T19:15:00.001-07:002018-10-28T19:15:31.950-07:00 Resting Place <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxXVm3VNDwU87NXZvc6aumGXc6MiJwznHRqW7gssC_LFkIy8L1bvQxSwhzThyphenhyphencpn-fYFTt_boTsePZ-2dw17fSnl3dNYAXYADR8awrd9QoIhPtK-ngOJLBsfdHy0FuW4-vyl5WIKeqcTVV/s1600/Ghosts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxXVm3VNDwU87NXZvc6aumGXc6MiJwznHRqW7gssC_LFkIy8L1bvQxSwhzThyphenhyphencpn-fYFTt_boTsePZ-2dw17fSnl3dNYAXYADR8awrd9QoIhPtK-ngOJLBsfdHy0FuW4-vyl5WIKeqcTVV/s400/Ghosts.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Collapsed giants. </div>
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Eyes fixed.</div>
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On no particular point. </div>
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<br />Harryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12939002146158397355noreply@blogger.com0Grand Forks, BC V0H, Canada49.0300946 -118.4451391999999748.988449599999996 -118.52582019999997 49.0717396 -118.36445819999997tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-55888311974498287932018-10-09T17:01:00.000-07:002018-10-29T12:17:32.859-07:00Pear Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4xZ2vI-6dDB1oIeYIKbiN33ATN13ArAFXCIFrQ_ZIthbNsBGDSx6PfezWgHqT6LdkY0IiBG46Zoho0FdX30WDYnsQNDyJdKI92zigkgpQmROy0VDNBWT_uQjkm9lw9GUoy8n8nWEyLMf/s1600/IMG_20181003_170023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4xZ2vI-6dDB1oIeYIKbiN33ATN13ArAFXCIFrQ_ZIthbNsBGDSx6PfezWgHqT6LdkY0IiBG46Zoho0FdX30WDYnsQNDyJdKI92zigkgpQmROy0VDNBWT_uQjkm9lw9GUoy8n8nWEyLMf/s400/IMG_20181003_170023.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The mistake Eve made</div>
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was not in accepting the apple,</div>
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but forgetting, </div>
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when the serpent turned,</div>
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to also take the pear. </div>
Harryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12939002146158397355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-61022590569696718932015-06-14T09:25:00.000-07:002015-06-23T12:56:03.381-07:00What Grows Out of Fracture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLXkQvAQPGLd044vDOJVxEiMoDjHnpd8k575WF__gmN5lV104EFTZFkTq_Bupgz0wiMjJkh_gcZP0OCGO62GqJyl2h8h05DCbDTzzCSwdt-w1cA50qRFKGRtfiAxCQviPyfp933ZAAvLT/s1600/DSC_1139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLXkQvAQPGLd044vDOJVxEiMoDjHnpd8k575WF__gmN5lV104EFTZFkTq_Bupgz0wiMjJkh_gcZP0OCGO62GqJyl2h8h05DCbDTzzCSwdt-w1cA50qRFKGRtfiAxCQviPyfp933ZAAvLT/s640/DSC_1139.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">~ Ernest Hemingway</span></div>
Harryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12939002146158397355noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-69380286380070687072014-09-19T19:12:00.000-07:002014-09-20T08:23:27.629-07:00Blacklit Jellyfist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhce26tXxLAS98WxIFByRLgJgo1qgdNjlXtisIB1fA27eJpRZyYGLjxzfti7CXkL_pqTqeal4RhoEKEQI5HtXzVh0EWnMDbHCRVhRY2S18TuzVh4yiYFg2YcvIDXi86xbj1d3rQ5qgWo4VR/s1600/DSC09585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhce26tXxLAS98WxIFByRLgJgo1qgdNjlXtisIB1fA27eJpRZyYGLjxzfti7CXkL_pqTqeal4RhoEKEQI5HtXzVh0EWnMDbHCRVhRY2S18TuzVh4yiYFg2YcvIDXi86xbj1d3rQ5qgWo4VR/s1600/DSC09585.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Night's blind corner and,</div>
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ghosts fall downturned into a</div>
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child's faint closing hand. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-50808827372183115292014-08-29T05:54:00.000-07:002014-08-29T05:54:58.064-07:00Keats, Severn, Nocturne - Helen Humphreys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://www.hhumphreys.com/Nocturne.html"><img alt="Nocturne - Helen Humphreys" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QwjOuP-5IZU/VABzX7itpMI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/jFPsQnxOkgE/s1600/Nocturne.jpg" title="Nocturne - Helen Humphreys" /></a></div>
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"In that room where there was no writing and no reading, Severn sketched the dying man, in fact made some of the finest drawings of the poet when he was on his deathbed. Perhaps Severn's sketching was a comforting presence to Keats. Art, although no longer of urgent relevance to his world, would have been his familiar. </div>
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Severn, afraid that he'd fall asleep one night and that Keats would wake to darkness and think that he had died, devised a system so that the poet would have continuous light. He fastened a piece of thread from the bottom of one candle to the wick of another, and in its guttering state the dying flame would ignite the thread and travel up it to ignite the wick of the next candle. </div>
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It is said that John Keats awoke at the exact moment the flame was travelling up the thread from one candle to another, and that in his excitement at witnessing the spectacle, he woke Severn to tell him of the success of his invention. </div>
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At the end, we are all far from home. We are far from home, and what we hope for is that someone will fashion us a light, so that we will not have to wake in darkness."</div>
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<b>~</b> <b><a href="http://www.hhumphreys.com/Nocturne.html">Helen Humphreys</a>, <i><a href="http://harpercollins.ca/books/Nocturne-Humphreys-Helen/?isbn=9781443415453">Nocturne</a></i></b></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-25124200509613737492014-07-26T21:55:00.000-07:002014-07-26T21:57:39.840-07:00On The Subject of Gardens<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8wsGH64uQozpzyRis3KXYe1c3iagwE9-Cy9VX6MvibLtoKdO7FHfEn8vP3cHdLo-p3kuZ9JDWZhV2PN1yRWRYdEmo2RRvSKbnN_U-dMxb8tAcEwm7UfIbDs3PwNmbe6eoTkCT0ZlUmRl/s1600/DSC08921.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8wsGH64uQozpzyRis3KXYe1c3iagwE9-Cy9VX6MvibLtoKdO7FHfEn8vP3cHdLo-p3kuZ9JDWZhV2PN1yRWRYdEmo2RRvSKbnN_U-dMxb8tAcEwm7UfIbDs3PwNmbe6eoTkCT0ZlUmRl/s1600/DSC08921.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-30097486179937877242014-07-02T20:13:00.000-07:002014-07-03T16:07:56.311-07:00Miracles and Horror<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0pTX_WvP-YI/U7TI2DLSRgI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/dzSFQHmP-us/s1600/DSC08813.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0pTX_WvP-YI/U7TI2DLSRgI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/dzSFQHmP-us/s1600/DSC08813.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: whitesmoke; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“</span><a class="qlink" href="http://izquotes.com/quote/306377" style="-webkit-transition: color 400ms; background-color: whitesmoke; color: #181818; font-family: 'Cantora One', georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; transition: color 400ms;">It was a miracle; it was all a miracle: and one ought to have known, from the sufferings of saints, that miracles are horror.</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: whitesmoke; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">- Nadine Gordimer</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Pelee Island, Pelee, ON, Canada41.7744889 -82.6591465000000241.5850189 -82.981870000000015 41.9639589 -82.336423000000025tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-28189388134281560112014-04-29T19:18:00.002-07:002014-04-29T19:20:51.325-07:00Hemingway - A Moveable Feast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCudxiWtLAUHnsyF0Vfhji430f6i0wPRL4JMDZYSSCElAVkipLnCBiDv7Y9tdFiEQtjxwzlqUd6llQKLJzNMNFxvBN3ul1f0DUpfGKZzUxFjp2JpBUYeoqXprQoXSDnP1XE7YJ9rE0bcvZ/s1600/Hemingway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCudxiWtLAUHnsyF0Vfhji430f6i0wPRL4JMDZYSSCElAVkipLnCBiDv7Y9tdFiEQtjxwzlqUd6llQKLJzNMNFxvBN3ul1f0DUpfGKZzUxFjp2JpBUYeoqXprQoXSDnP1XE7YJ9rE0bcvZ/s1600/Hemingway.jpg" height="640" width="388" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.' So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-30823828900110010582014-04-06T17:51:00.002-07:002014-04-16T14:31:37.880-07:00Hang Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bAcymqOSprk/U0H2JCUKXZI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/lWEIjv2iqZI/s1600/DSC08402.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bAcymqOSprk/U0H2JCUKXZI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/lWEIjv2iqZI/s1600/DSC08402.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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To leap headlong,</div>
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into the spaces between words.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-36492280025362412122014-03-21T18:28:00.002-07:002014-03-21T18:29:28.320-07:00On Longing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORhz-laC2UNSpEnJo_8qtihP93ykNazteT09djhIakrahPnhO1CPB3aaIJPbRG7UbmPRA62U0fBsacT6zLCxVM10bOvQ8amwX-SZnBJe0bNubgWFApipDis8qTx2HWBk73WfFuTiX9P3Q/s1600/DSC05215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORhz-laC2UNSpEnJo_8qtihP93ykNazteT09djhIakrahPnhO1CPB3aaIJPbRG7UbmPRA62U0fBsacT6zLCxVM10bOvQ8amwX-SZnBJe0bNubgWFApipDis8qTx2HWBk73WfFuTiX9P3Q/s1600/DSC05215.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Crooked and spent, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">a wayward pull. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The final imprint of light,</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">on the insides of eyelids,</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">before dark. </span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-72086053797828828312014-02-28T08:38:00.000-08:002014-02-28T08:38:21.674-08:00To Combat Cold Weather, One Looks at Warmer Photos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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La Jolla. </div>
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The ocean's grab and draw.</div>
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Fine salt on the tongue.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-7150489991167140522014-02-04T09:06:00.001-08:002014-02-04T09:09:22.090-08:00Port Dalhousie in Winter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-4358412114878696072013-10-23T18:12:00.000-07:002013-10-23T18:14:08.227-07:00Eulogies - Binding The Worlds of Presence and Absence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://www.openbooktoronto.com/eulogies"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUV11qq7e8otGkCxu-3ovwQuV1oR98mzC2CNIWNJFepj5CzwGt9uEjv3v1_CVgLNm-rZ36QZuu9KTn6KK43tCivdYzsyCSlXHhrQU1fyIWMFo3yLsBUt4SnW-dgaboY9N8DRQVNf3OoXA8/s400/DSC06837.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #4c4446; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;">Our lives suddenly lessened — augered out, never to be quite filled in again. And yet this resonance of the departed.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-52998882437674318682013-10-18T19:23:00.000-07:002013-10-18T19:36:38.475-07:00The Way of All Flesh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://www.sicksheep.com/172370/1711635/gallery/gojira-the-way-of-all-flesh"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4BVIOoH8qlO6S7aBTFhDT1U9UMua16b7X8BRE5A6uBGeJ6LJqfa2m0ESQ0wIohrZqMgCwPZlKAdvlgYXLHs79X7FHoSRpKcysY6RfdqTmeT1LQc3PeY2Y6xghxxgvskXPtIQLVmJV0bq/s400/Gojira.jpg" title="Gojira - The Way of All Flesh" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; line-height: 22px; text-align: start;">Do not be afraid you are dying</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; line-height: 22px; text-align: start;">And the four great elements of your body are collapsing one into the other</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; line-height: 22px; text-align: start;">It feels as if you are being crushed by mountains.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-2708359702050659232013-10-02T20:53:00.000-07:002013-10-02T20:53:24.875-07:00Vintage Book Covers - Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“It's a disease. Nobody thinks or feels or cares any more; nobody gets excited or believes in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">― </span><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=23517059349&extragetparams=%7B%22directed_target_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/richardyatesauthor?directed_target_id=0" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">Richard Yates</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">, Revolutionary Road</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-557414309967405702013-09-09T19:24:00.000-07:002013-09-09T19:24:57.590-07:00The Long Walk and James Jones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>If I never meet you in this life, let me feel the lack. </i></div>
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<i>A glance from your eyes, then my life will be yours. </i></div>
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<i>~ </i>James Jones, <i>The Thin Red Line</i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-74596171125270726552013-07-29T14:37:00.001-07:002013-07-29T14:37:54.676-07:00An Old Entrance - Sometimes There is No Quote<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-90437217272892253212013-07-19T13:02:00.002-07:002013-07-19T13:07:12.528-07:00The West Coast - Water and Heidegger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“To be a poet in a destitute time means: to attend, singing, to the trace of the fugitive gods. This is why the poet in the time of the world's night utters the holy.” </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">― </span><a href="http://www.heideggercircle.org/">Martin Heidegger</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-57424715654681269662013-07-11T17:17:00.001-07:002013-07-11T19:01:39.978-07:00Eulogy For Helen Bates<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGx83LzOUh8xwqVFJoGLVXxOi6X3_AOMqB7pN4B7UaMDWI1fGi0zQZZmyqahCVZL56odtLOb7Lg2s7zV2N1JUGb0NJk0g82FoY-myRIJoQXcAqnrRncGmVGYEwRVUalnvQWQTz523yiOW/s1600/DSC07134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGx83LzOUh8xwqVFJoGLVXxOi6X3_AOMqB7pN4B7UaMDWI1fGi0zQZZmyqahCVZL56odtLOb7Lg2s7zV2N1JUGb0NJk0g82FoY-myRIJoQXcAqnrRncGmVGYEwRVUalnvQWQTz523yiOW/s400/DSC07134.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gate to Auntie Honey's garden. July 5th, 2013. </td></tr>
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I could always smell Auntie Honey's kitchen before I even got up the green-painted wood stairs that led to the door. Spices and baking and hot tea. As a kid the smells meant cookies and conversation. As an adult, they meant a kind of time travel, where years went by but certain things remained constant.<br />
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She was the woman who let me rest on her couch when I was sent home from kindergarten with a concussion. She gave us free run of her raspberry canes out by <a href="http://harrytournemille.blogspot.ca/2011/08/eulogy-for-robert-bates.html">Uncle Bob's wood shop</a> during summer, or let us rummage in her time-warp basement for toys that were older than we could imagine. She became a surrogate mother to my own father, after his own parents closed that door.<br />
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I knew a bit about her life in Melville, in Toronto, the train rides back home to take care of sick family members. I knew her middle name was Stanley, even though it translated into something else in Polish. She wasn't really my aunt, but I'd never felt like anything but family with her. Especially in that kitchen - with its smells. Cloves and nutmeg, oatmeal cookies, clean linens.<br />
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Two nights before she died, I sat at that same kitchen table once again. She had been released from the hospital into the care of her children. The latest hospital visit over a heart attack none of us knew about until well after the fact. Until a doctor ran blood work and told us it had already happened. Auntie Honey didn't like having a fuss made about her self - even though she spent a lot of time fussing about the well being of others. But here she was back in her kitchen, dressed in comfy clothes, her face a mix of concern and weariness. Perhaps apprehension. Her kids seated nearby, chatting softly. We kept the conversation light.<br />
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It was my second visit that day. On my first visit, I arrived in the afternoon. I sat in the back yard overlooking her little fenced-in garden, the dead willow tree that still held an old swing in its branches. She was not there; she had gone inside to use the bathroom. So I chatted with Ken and Pat about her health, her home, how time can slow down and speed up. When we went in to check on her, we found her asleep in her living room chair. Her knees drawn to her chest, her neck resting on two fingers as though she were checking her own pulse. A pose so child-like it was hard to take it in. We revert to infancy in our old age - of this I am sure.<br />
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When I returned later that evening, we all sat at the table and reminisced about older times, we laughed about childhood, people here and gone, the cold shock of swimming in the town's rivers. Four times Auntie Honey asked how I was doing, how my life was. Each query posited as if the question had not been brought up only moments before. She was forgetful - but not unaware. She spoke with clarity about her home, her garden, her love of chocolate cookies. She reached over often to pat my cheek, grab my leg or wrist.<br />
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When she rose from the table to close the door to the basement, she did so with purpose - and perhaps a bit of show that she was still here. This place, this small wood-paneled world of her home, with her bedroom dresser covered in knick-knacks, and her fridge covered in pictures and magnets, was still connected to her. And she with it. The visit was memorable, beautiful even. The kind that eases the heart into a certain knowing - in this case, an understanding of mortality. Or maybe just a sad acceptance.<br />
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Two nights later she died in her sleep, at her son's house. The sadness at the news a cold bloom of grief in the belly, a wringing of hands at yet another void that does not get filled, that only lodges itself in the chest, in that cavity of the heart that always has room for more.<br />
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Sadness, doubt, grief, joy - and memory. Always memory - which I have here now, miles away. That last night in her kitchen, amidst people I love. Where my daughter saw her own artwork adorning Auntie Honey's walls, where glasses of wine were poured and toasted and consumed. <br />
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Where gentle laughter floated over the surface of the table, to mingle around us in premature wake.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-74604059402424552262013-06-29T13:32:00.001-07:002013-06-29T13:32:37.704-07:00An Abridged Life - Nabokov and Cemeteries<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">"...and although there is plenty of space on a gravestone to contain, bound in moss, the abridged version of a man's life, detail is always welcome." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><b><i>Vladimir Nabokov - Laughter in the Dark</i></b></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-90828602840503163592013-06-06T08:52:00.000-07:002013-06-06T08:56:30.764-07:00Image and Story: Death, Bergman, Levi, Reveille<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">"In the brutal nights we used to dream</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">Dense violent dreams,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">Dreamed with soul and body:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">To return; to eat; to tell the story.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">Until the dawn command</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">Sounded brief, low</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">'Wstawac'</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;">And the heart cracked in the breast."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: start;"><b>~ Primo Levi </b><i style="font-weight: bold;">Reveille </i>(excerpt)</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-33094880808597325732013-05-16T11:59:00.001-07:002013-05-16T14:36:28.436-07:00Ferns Unfurling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cr2ZmAJcMqM/UZUonr1RoPI/AAAAAAAAA14/kREkAYUMRQc/s1600/DSC06572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cr2ZmAJcMqM/UZUonr1RoPI/AAAAAAAAA14/kREkAYUMRQc/s640/DSC06572.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>To sink one's teeth into what cannot be removed or thought or sought after.</b></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>A green-softened spine curling up from its self, to its other.</b></span> </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-416569471509328536.post-89862809216421405762013-05-06T07:29:00.000-07:002013-05-06T07:29:31.006-07:00Getting Your Children Outdoors - Baby Cages?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2010/10/old-weird-tech-baby-cage-edition/63819/"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDdgkKdfdzR5LYimscO9hHyT1C3aO2J4tag5CklfyF-IWf4dum40XjtmJS9s1EYAV0m0l3SEv9dMbsH7-bz41UYURM2xsdrv6nUHdKksXm87ZEGoayqAYLRkI9cAV62Rcd4v6wNt1Zph33/s640/Baby+Cage.jpg" width="496" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23.1875px; text-align: start;">"With these facts in view it is the purpose of the present invention to provide an article of manufacture for babies and young children, to be suspended upon the exterior of a building adjacent an open window, wherein the baby or young child may be placed."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23.1875px; text-align: start;">~ Emma Read's Portable Baby Cage <a href="http://www.google.com/patents?id=tdhTAAAAEBAJ&printsec=abstract&zoom=4&source=gbs_overview_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false">U.S. Patent #1448235</a></span></div>
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