if . . .

... continued from Unfinished thoughts Part 1 "Molik: Everybody should be completely free, with imagination and all that is necessary to stimulate a creative process, while making really clean actions."(p. 13) This is the test for any working process. A pain of lack gives birth to possibility. We need to overcome obstacle. We need space around us and precious pockets of time wherein nothing is required then maybe something may occur. We need an intensified reach, indiscriminate exchanges that are often linked with notions of body memory. We need a sense of uncontainability, a transgression of boundaries, a porosity and indeed the conviviality, of what has been treated as opposed: information and matter, imaginative and biological, body and mind, organic and non-organic life. :: Note :: ... after sessions of practicality ...

A wonderful moment at The Mendel Art Gallery of Saskatoon with the student artists talk. Since it's inauguration in 1972 the annual Spring School Art Exhibition has been a favorite of mine. "School Art is in keeping with the vision of Gallery founder Fred Mendel. It was Mendel's conviction that art is for people of all ages and walks of life. (Folio MendelArtGallery Vol. 39, Issue 2: Spring 2011) The young artist in the picture spoke with confidence and composure. Others were shy but all were received with genuine warmth. The Gallery was full of excitement and celebration articulating the joy of creativity. A grade one boy slouched against the wall hands in pockets casually confirmed "the cutting of his paper collage took a lot of time." Another self-composed youth produced a finished work which came from the study which now hung in the exhibition. Each work was treated with deserved respect. Afterall 200 artworks were selected from the 2,000 submitted pieces.

ancient troubadour dark glint of violence and amorality inhabits stark ugliness upfront archetypal misogyny nothingness :: Note :: ... created as an erasure ... missing ...

How much irony can one take? I ran away to get away from my Father but, I only fell in-likeness with a reflection of him. At first it was quite beautiful, not caring and witnessing him as I opened my tired eyes. But as I grew farther away from the one man I hated I grew closer to a younger version of him. He was something I craved for - a bad boy. He had such a pretty face, marble blue eyes and honey coloured hair. He also had God-like hands that easily explored my body. He smelled like the ocean, so calm and quiet. He was what I adored, wanted, needed and craved for. And, just as I thought irony ended it spat more in my face. He was like my silent addiction. Just like the one my father and him shared. As pure as the cocaine their body craved, I wanted our hearts to beat to the same rhythm. Was it even humanly possible to love a reflection of someone you HATED? But then again was I that rude to assume I was human? What if I was a lost soul, a sad ghost or a hideous monster? He always g

Spent a few hours after teaching driving voters to their polling stations. A little bit of field work, I thought. The poverty was startling. Run-down apartment blocks, small dilapidated houses, streets dirty and pot-holed. A single mother with four little ones leaving the oldest in charge bringing her nineteen year old to vote for the first time. They knew the party leader they wanted to vote for but not the name of the riding representative. They resided on a busy, noisy thoroughfare and when asked if it was loud replied yes it was a difficult place to live. A talkative thirty something, labored breathing, living with his working girl friend collecting disability insurance after two bouts in the hospital dealing with lung cancer. Fighting to get re-trained, unable to pay for his drugs and therapy wondering how to survive. Another thirty something coming out of a single room home with ten people crowded around a TV. He's the only one in possession of proper ID to vote. The next doo