Fields

Empty Fields, Epping Ontario.


Harvested Field, Epping, Ont

Fall, Part 4

Empty beaches.

Fall, Part 3

In the fall, the small red apples fall from the MacIntosh trees. You can hear them hit the ground with a thud when the wind starts up. The old rotten apples smell sweet like cider and wine. I take armfuls of leftovers over to the horses and watch them grind them, letting juice trickle to the ground.

Sick and Stranded

Sick in bed.
no television, no radio.
just a single bedside lamp.
A small fly is buzzing,
bouncing from the pale
green walls with:
a tap buzz tap buzz tap.
Hiding in the shadows,
in the corners,
Caught in the lampshade,
And down where the light spills.
The fly is searching for light,
a way out.

In the morning,
dead flies are lying
on their backs
below the window.
Still.

The Fall, Part 2

I am writing from my laptop on my bed. I have moved to the country side to recover from a never ending flu. Because the city is full of sickness (I have Howard Hughes disease)...

Fall fully arrived last night. Unable to sleep because of a high fever, I listened to the wind howl outside my window in total darkness. The buckles of wind would slam into the roof, against the walls. It would gust so loud, that I could hear the branches creak. The rustling leaves sounded like a jet engine.

The air came and went from the crack under my door with a haunting groan. The rain poured in loud drum beats, and then tiny taps. Cold wafts crept in from the closed window, sending a chill over my pillow.

When I got out of bed in the morning, the air was chilly. Fall is here.

This happens every year. The Septembers are warm until that one night when the winds change and shove the summer out of the way in loud puffs from the north.

If only the air would pass as easily through my stuffed nose.

Fall

I have my first cold of the season. The days are getting shorter. Yay, fall.

The City

I'm getting sick of living in the city.

The Red Wheelbarrow

By William Carlos Williams:

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Fall

Fall: The VIA Train from Brockville to Toronto

The sun now sets at 7:30. But the light, while it is still in the sky, is more beautiful than the searing whiteness of summer. Now the shadows are longer, the sides of barns and buildings are hued with pastels.

Less light, but more.

Branding Hurricanes

During the hurricane Katrina (K-bomb) incident, two networks branded their coverage in two different ways.

CNN had, "STATE OF EMERGENCY" and Fox News had "AMERICA'S CHALLENGE." These statements were forever burned at the bottom of the sceen whilst they played repeating loops of flood, chemicals, fires, and Bush.

Let's combine and play with these two phrases and see what we come up with:

AMERICA'S CHALLENGE STATE OF EMERGENCY
AMERICA'S STATE CHALLENGE OF EMERGENCY
EMERGENCY OF AMERICA'S STATE CHALLENGE
STATE CHALLENGE: AMERICA'S OF EMERGENCY
OF CHALLENGE: AMERICA'S EMERGENCY STATE

Some Stars, Some Questions

Early september is the best time for watching stars. There is no moon, the sky is clear.

But there is nothing overtly interesting about star gazing, after all. Up above the world so high, there are small randomized pinpoints of light like a dark table covered in spilled salt. Yet I find myself lying on my back in the grass, looking up for hours. Nothing moves, really. There is the occasional blue and red pulsing of an airplane and a small streak of a shooting star. And since I don’t know much about astronomy or astrology, I cannot trace out the ancient constellations or sacred patterns. I can't map out a fascinating red dwarf planet or see the rings of Saturn. On a good night, I can find Orion's belt and the big dipper (big deal).

But there must be something to this star gazing.

Stars are not interesting because you can stare at them. Rather, they are fascinating because you are actually looking at yourself up there. In the face of the emptiness of space, the incomprehensible distances, the vastness of the unknown and never-to-be-known things, I begin to ponder what most people ponder, like: is there life out there or what? If so, what does that mean? How much do we really know anyway? And does it matter? Am I really that important anyway? How did earth end up here at this moment, like, right now? Etcetera....Etcetera....

Paradoxically, you look into the finite space of your mind by looking into infinate space.

These questions do not cause any depression or sadness or pessimism, however. In fact, they are as beautiful and multitudinous as the stars themselves.

Eglinton - Davisville - St. Clair

It's rush hour on the Toronto subway, 9:38am. The train car is packed tight. The air is a mix of cologne, hair product, sweat, and desperation. We're stopped in a tunnel just before Eglinton station. As time passes, people shuffle their papers, close their eyes. Those lucky to have a seat, look at their watches. Those standing, are pressing against another stranger, another armit, a shoulder, a backpack. There's nothing anyone can do about it. And we're deep below the earth.

"Sorry"
"Sorry"
"Opps."

The train lurches forward, a woman loses her balance and steps on another woman's foot.
"Oh, I'm so sorry."

The majority of these people are about to be late for work. It's another 15 minutes to make it downtown. There's man in a pair of glasses and a dark suit, a blue silk tie. A woman in a flowery skirt, too much makeup and shag-carpet hair. A man reading the National Post. A woman in turquoise is reading The Poisonwood Bible.

I try to imagine them getting ready for work, starting with their buzzer going off, wondering if they wake up to an alarm or a radio station. Watching themselves in the mirror, putting on their work face and clothes. Feeding a cat, perhaps, and making their way to the subway station. Kissing their husband good bye.

With all these people it is so silent . I always wonder why. Everyone is having a private moment in a public space. How do we do this every day?

The train arrives at the next station finally, people come and go, and find better places to stand. The train moves on, leaving Eglinton and en route to Davisville Station. This is the only section of the route that passes outside. For approximately five minutes, after being in a dark tunnel, you see light, trees, light, the world. Is it raining? Snowing? I always look for the same houses, people backyards and for rail workers fixing something.

We arrive and leave Davisville. And as the train picks up speed, you look out the window and you see Mount Pleasant cemetery with its green grass and grey headstones marking the bodies below the ground.

And just as you see those graves, the train renters the tunnel back underground to join them--only we are still alive.

But I wonder how many people on their death bed say, "I wish i had spent more time at the office."