Decaying Logos, Gritty Images, Time and Graffitti ART…


21496_300  even after the lines are eroded the logo is still in our minds.


the degeneration of logo and regeneration of graffiti is very basic and while not beautiful in the tidy way that corporate mind would approve, it is timeless. Now painted puke beige, the grafitti artists are again coming back.

I didn’t notice the “youre already dead” written in the bottom under “Broadview Meat Market” until I got it home and started editing the photo for paint studies.  It was as good as any poetry or art I have seen.

Early Morning Ponderings…

I love the first few minutes upon waking when I am languid in the soup of ideas and thoughts and images.

I woke up this morning and this is the thought: I wonder if this is how evil geniouses feel when they first wake up?

I mean, before he even knows where he is or what his name is, does he just feel like a baby or a kitten? Perhaps he gradually remembers, “oh yeah, Evil Tuesday.” and turns more evil as he drinks his first coffee and by the third cup he can’t remember any ambiguity at all.

I mean a muffin with the coffee might make a difference…evil_genius_drevil

Why I love Doctor Who and Stuff About Heroes, Real and Imagined

Doctor Who is an alien. He has known countless lives, he is oblivious to conventional human society with all its ways of distancing self from other and he passionately loves us. He continually rushes in to do what is right. He is full of doubt and pain but he nevers tires. He is the embodiment of our disolocated, unstuck in time, brave and compassionate best. He is a good fictional role model.

I watched a documentary on child soldiers last night. Our most lovely hero, Romeo Dallaire who “shook hands with the devil” has gone back to Africa to address the issue of child soldiers. He is a unique individual because he will sit close enough to reach out and hold a hand of a father who has lost his children to a militia, who has lost everything infact. Dallaire finds the thread in his own life that he can share, “I too am a father”. He makes a connection. He recognises the evil of using children as weapons and tells us, even though we don’t want to know. He knows these children. They have been abused and manipulated by thugs who want to rule with terror. Romeo Dallaire, a soldier, believes that a better world is within our grasp now. He really does. He is not advocating bigger guns but the opposite, bringing everything down to the very personal and responding appropriately, like Doctor Who, except he is real, like us.2011-fight-like-soldiers-romeo-dallaire

I have been trying to write a book about the loss of innocence called “The Children’s War” for ten years (yes, I am a bit slow). I ask myself, why is science fiction the most appealing setting for me? Why so often is this the genre for us to work out so many of our own issues?

I think we make up stories about people who are who we would like to be and we feel more comfortable if what they have to deal with is not so close to home. We call them Saints or Heroes or Aliens and yet the essential truth of the best of our created characters is that they don’t require anything special, not a Tardis or a War or a God because it is their choice to do the right thing that defines them.

Remembrance day is not about making up stories about the glories of war but about recognizing the very difficult and necessary actions carried out by those who saw something needed to be done against criminals and thugs who would try to rule. It was for peace that they fought and died. That is what makes them heroes.


This is an excerpt from a science fiction book I have been trying to write for a long time. I watched a documentary on TVO based on Romeo Dellaire’s book “They fight like soldiers…” and I wrote a bit about heroes and the meaning of Remembrance Day but instead I think I will share this chapter. I think it stands well on it’s own. Warning: This is not a funny post. There are references to violence not appropriate for children, even though it is about a child.


They shaved my head and shaved the cat too. We make quite a pair, skin and bones and no hair.

I have to watch she doesn’t scratch too much. They might think she has fleas and take her away. I check her closely but you never know. There are so many things that can go wrong, parasites and such.

The food comes regularly, every four hours I think: Little bits of this and that and weak tea, always weak tea. Not that I’m complaining, at least you know it’s been boiled. The cat sips what I leave in my cup cooling on the floor under the cot. I never knew a cat to drink tea before.

I sleep pretty very well. It’s quiet here.

The floor is cold. Once or twice a day I put my bony ass on a pot and do my business. There’s even a box of sand for the cat. The nurse comes and empties both every day. I guess it’s embarrassing but what can I do? I only mention it here because there’s so little that happens day to day.

They keep the place very clean at least.

Sometimes the cat snores. Maybe she has some congestion in her lungs. That’s a worry. Right now she is sleeping. Her one leg is outstretched and her paw is on my calf. She likes to be near me. I’m am writing this sitting up in bed while she sleeps.

Day two

I will write a bit about my life before I woke up here.

When I first saw a wanderer I was so young I didn’t even know what he was.

I was still playing with sticks, making little houses and telling myself stories while my mother worked.

I was playing in the cellar where we stored the root vegetables. It was a hot day and it was nice and cool down there. First I saw his bony feet on the steps. They were the same colour as the dirt floor. He was dressed in bits of cloth, wrapped with ribbons, like he was a present. I wasn’t afraid because of this. His face had paint smeared across it and his hair was gathered on top of his head and looked like a bale of wheat when it is bundled in the field to dry. I think I smiled.

But then there was the loud crack of my mother’s rifle and he crumpled and then fell, right on top of me.

I must have been screaming for a long time. My mother said she was sorry over and over. She didn’t see me. She had to kill him she said. She made me tea with milk and lots of honey and held me and rocked me for a long time.

The next time I dared to go near the cold cellar, there was nothing left to show he’d ever been there.

Day Three

The soup today smelled of garlic. I only mention it because the food here rarely smells of anything. I have no idea where these people are from but they seemed to have made a science of bland food.

We use to grow garlic. My mother made the best garlic soup. “People will always need to eat” my mother would say.

It makes me sad and happy to think about my mother. How can the two feelings happen at the same time?


Day eight/entry eight

I don’t think it has only been eight days that I have been here. I think I have been sleeping a long time. I am feeling better but I am also feeling worse.

I don’t believe there is much cause to go looking for things to feel sad about, but sometimes sad things pursue you.

I will tell you about walking and walking: If you walk long enough you become WALKING.

I will tell you about being pushed and shoved and about being afraid to cry. After a while you feel like you are made of wood.

I will tell you about seeing people get their heads cut off. It happens very fast but it also happens very slow. They look surprised. They look right at you even when their head isn’t attached any more.


It is always raining and when it is not raining it is snowing and when the weather is fair it is too hot or too cold. There is always hunger, anger and fear. Mostly, there are lots and lots of days of walking.

Sometimes we celebrate and our leaders make speeches and we drink and chant and dance.

We are soldiers. We are wanderers. Our war is against everything. We move like a storm from village to town, stealing and burning and then moving on.

The loudest is the Leader today. Tomorrow, maybe you get to be the leader. Maybe tomorrow you will get drunk and have sex with a girl and eat until you are full and then kill some more people.

We never stop for long. We move into a town or a city and after we kill anyone who will stand in our way, we line the boys up and ask them if they want to join us or if they want to die and lots of them die but lots of them join. We give them a gun and we make them shoot their families.

The boys that cry we cut off their heads. Most stop crying.

Everyone cheers and slaps the ones who join on their backs as if they have done something special, as if they are heroes. Some of them even smile. But they are not really smiling. They are not even really there anymore. The real boys are gone and in their place are the arms of the monster.

I know this because I killed a boy. He looks at me from the mirror, pale and frightened. He is asks me to testify but there is no one who can hear my confession.

I whisper all of this in the dark to my cat.

I can never go home. There is no home for me now.

Missing the cat


The strands
woven though the days,
plucked from this and that,
once annoyed me,
now I worry that they will disappear completely.

A sound
that is not your voice.
The chores
small but persistent, no longer about you.
The view,
nothing to see
and no one looking back at me…

The wind once lifted the strands of cat hair and carried them like wishes.
Now it only blows.

Walking Around Cemeteries

This is a link to Urbpan’s post about his guided nature walk around Cedar Grove Cemetery, which I think is near Boston.

planted boots

This photo caught my eye: planted boots.  The inscription says, “Miss you Uncle John”.

I had a conversation about “sentiment” recently and how to make “place” and space for objects that reflect things that signify important remembrances. This is something that humans do, out of (almost?) all other animals.  However, often things just get piled up and instead of being beautiful and significant they become just a confusion of “stuff” and garbage.

This pair of boots with plants growing out of them are like a poem of remembrance and a recognition of impermanence. They stand in perfect contrast to all the cold stone markers.