30 April 2010
The Grey Fox
How do I explain a man who was probably one of the brightest intellects medical sociology has ever seen, but who still suffered from a deep sense of insecurity that it made him paranoid?How do I explain a man who was so incredibly generous yet would cut you off at the knees with a malevolent violence if he smelled any semblance of potential disloyalty?
How do I explain a man who needed love so badly that it made him imminently human yet would never tell you how he really felt?
You can't explain him, and for someone that desperately desired explanation both as a scientist and as a man, it's somewhat poetic.
29 April 2010
28 April 2010
The mess of love- D.H. Lawrence
Someone posted this poem as a comment to a poem I had written on my own blog a few years ago. It was posted as an anonymous comment, so I have always wondered who had shared this with me. I found it very amusing, to say the least.
We've made a great mess of love
Since we made an ideal of it.
The moment I swear to love a woman, a certain woman, all my life
That moment I begin to hate her.
The moment I even say to a woman: I love you! ---
My love dies down considerably.
The moment love is an understood thing between us, we are sure of it,
It's a cold egg, it isn't love any more.
Love is like a flower, it must flower and fade;
If it doesn't fade, it is not a flower,
It's either an artificial rag blossom, or an immortelle, for the cemetery.
The moment the mind interferes with love, or the will fixes on it,
Or the personality assumes it as an attribute, or the ego takes possession of it,
It is not love any more, it's just a mess.
And we've made a great mess of love, mind-perverted, will-perverted, ego-perverted love.
We've made a great mess of love
Since we made an ideal of it.
The moment I swear to love a woman, a certain woman, all my life
That moment I begin to hate her.
The moment I even say to a woman: I love you! ---
My love dies down considerably.
The moment love is an understood thing between us, we are sure of it,
It's a cold egg, it isn't love any more.
Love is like a flower, it must flower and fade;
If it doesn't fade, it is not a flower,
It's either an artificial rag blossom, or an immortelle, for the cemetery.
The moment the mind interferes with love, or the will fixes on it,
Or the personality assumes it as an attribute, or the ego takes possession of it,
It is not love any more, it's just a mess.
And we've made a great mess of love, mind-perverted, will-perverted, ego-perverted love.
27 April 2010
My father's sayings
When interacting with someone do not ignore the fact that, if they have a heavy accent, it is most likely to be verbal rather than mental.
25 April 2010
23 April 2010
Old pictures...
These are some pictures from the spring of 2008. I may've posted 'em on www.alabelforartists.blogspot.com. Or maybe on Facebook, who now probably imagines they hold the copyright on these pictures or something.
22 April 2010
You Say Party! We Say Die!
Here's a picture I took of You Say Party! We Say Die! when they performed an afternoon show at the Label Gallery in September, 2005.
Devon joined as the drummer a bit later I think.
I think we had to move their show to the afternoon, because we had a last-minute chance to put on a big play from out of town, and because the Winnipeg promoter of their show hadn't really sold any tickets anyway.
So they went to the health food store in the Village, bought some groceries, came back to the Label and made vegan sandwiches, and then played a huge crazy high-energy show to five people (including me and Dan) with the front door open to afternoon traffic.
This pic was first posted at http://alabelforartists.blogspot.com/2005/09/you-say-party-we-say-die.html
...and so it goes...
Image from http://www.brooklynvegan.com/img/music2/yspwsd1.jpg (I would be happy to give the individual photographer credit, but none of the on-line sources that used this photo listed his/her name...)
Drummer Devon Clifford, from the band You Say Party! We Say Die! collapsed during a performance last Saturday night, and died later in hospital. The cause of death was a cerebral hemmorage, a result of congenital defects.
In the photo above, he's second from the right.
This band is from Vancouver, but used to play quite regularly at the Label Gallery on their way through town on various tours. They went from playing $5 shows in front of 20 people in our gritty little space to performing internationally, including tours of Europe and the U.S., and at Osheaga in Montreal and other major festivals, appearing on the cover of Exclaim! magazine, on TV, radio, etc.
They were/are a terribly nice group of people, super down to earth and super cool, and always gave 100% and looked super happy to be doing so even when they were only playing in front of a few mopey teenagers at the Label. I was always pretty happy about their success, because they certainly deserved it.
Anyway, sad news. Devon was a super nice, genuine guy who, when we wasn't touring, worked with drug-addicted street people in Vancouver.
An undying beauty
My mentor died today
And no one knew
I held his hand at his passing
And he barely squeezed it
And know one knew
It all just keeps going on
And know one knew
It all just keeps on
An undying beauty
That know one knew
An undying beauty
That just keeps on
And I know
That he knew
And no one knew
I held his hand at his passing
And he barely squeezed it
And know one knew
It all just keeps going on
And know one knew
It all just keeps on
An undying beauty
That know one knew
An undying beauty
That just keeps on
And I know
That he knew
Goes well with coffee and eggs
If you like old pictures - from the Photographic Archives at the McCord Museum: Views of Canada - Vues du Canada (1858-1935)
If you like documentaries - a year-long project whereby two filmmakers release a new, short documentary once a month. Sparrow Songs: the Donut Shop is my current fav.
If you like maps - derivatives of the map of the London Tube, particularly 'going underground'.
If you like documentaries - a year-long project whereby two filmmakers release a new, short documentary once a month. Sparrow Songs: the Donut Shop is my current fav.
If you like maps - derivatives of the map of the London Tube, particularly 'going underground'.
20 April 2010
Wallace Stevens-- Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Wallace Stevens
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
19 April 2010
The Snow Man, by Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Are moral statements simply assertions of social propensity?
Transcendental argument for moral ontology
Transcendental argument for social ontology
Are moral statements, social statements?
Moral statements are assertions of mind as it relates to matter
IFF mind equals a generative property of matter
e.g.) What is the market if not a moral failure?
Transcendental argument for social ontology
Are moral statements, social statements?
Moral statements are assertions of mind as it relates to matter
IFF mind equals a generative property of matter
e.g.) What is the market if not a moral failure?
16 April 2010
14 April 2010
Lunchee Macri-Korean Fusion
Roll = Kimchi gim-bap, Korean style spicy fermented cabbage rolled in rice and seaweed (with extra kimchi and sesame seeds)
Maybe not the most beautiful food photo ever, but seriously yummy/nutritious.
13 April 2010
The Ruin (a medieval re-working by E.L. Tempete)
The Ruin (Cloth Hall, Ypres)
Long stood this wondrous cloth-hall,
now laid low
by the ravages of time and war,
by the turn of fate,
All who remember its glory
sleep now in their earth-beds,
the wall-stones of giants felled now by weapons,
the glory of old destroyed by those three feared arms-bearers:
death, war,
and disease their great spear-Dane,
stronger in battle than any warrior.
Once rang these stones
with the song-joys of a kingdom
now grown over with mosses,
fallen are the towers
that stood amidst the rise and fall of kings.
Empty are the mighty chariot-roads
and the halls where ivory and gold and the riches of the
world arrived as treasure, where the ring-giver
bestowed gifts,
glittering were the god-groves and
warm the mighty halls of wine-lore, bright the fires,
those who had tended them now
folded into the earth
those strong men of old, splendid in their war-gear,
strong of spirit,
fallen are the fountains and the great
stone-works where streams
gushed forth
Gerard Manley Hopkins-- The Windhover
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) was an English poet, an Anglican who converted to Catholicism and became a Jesuit priest and scholar, teaching Latin and Greek at Oxford and various other universities.
He published almost nothing during his lifetime, by his own choice, but is now recognized as one of the most progressive and experimental poets in English in the last few hundred years. (Think of this work read out LOUD, which is how he intended most of his work. It's got a lot of metre/rhyme.)
(Image from Wikipedia.)
The Windhover
To Christ our Lord
I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dáwn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rólling level úndernéath him steady áir, & strÃding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl & gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, -- the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty & valour & act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, o my chevalier!
No wónder of it: shéer plód makes plóugh down sÃllion
Shine, & blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gáll themsélves, & gásh góld-vermÃlion.
12 April 2010
Hochelaga fishbowl
Every night
on my way home
I pass by the same buildings
en route
The portuguese barbecue restaurant
with its christmas lights
even in the spring
The animo-medic clinic
with the sign that says
Urgences
pointing to the backlane
it's never open
And always
through a window
the same man
sitting
in the same couch
in the same position
long dark hair
long moustache
no shirt
big belly
with the same big beer
smoking a cigarette
Last month
his walls were a turquoise blue
with the cross-stitch landscape pictures
on the wall
and the 1960s decor
Recently
the walls have been painted
a conservative beige
but that's all
that has changed
And every night
I see him
through his window
in that same pose
and I keep looking
as I'm walking
like a voyeur
to see
Is he looking at the wall?
Is he watching tv?
Eventually I see
there's no tv
He's looking out the window
like a fish
in a fishbowl
He's looking at me.
on my way home
I pass by the same buildings
en route
The portuguese barbecue restaurant
with its christmas lights
even in the spring
The animo-medic clinic
with the sign that says
Urgences
pointing to the backlane
it's never open
And always
through a window
the same man
sitting
in the same couch
in the same position
long dark hair
long moustache
no shirt
big belly
with the same big beer
smoking a cigarette
Last month
his walls were a turquoise blue
with the cross-stitch landscape pictures
on the wall
and the 1960s decor
Recently
the walls have been painted
a conservative beige
but that's all
that has changed
And every night
I see him
through his window
in that same pose
and I keep looking
as I'm walking
like a voyeur
to see
Is he looking at the wall?
Is he watching tv?
Eventually I see
there's no tv
He's looking out the window
like a fish
in a fishbowl
He's looking at me.
Rule 2 (by Sarah C.)
Can’t isn’t a word.
Try.
Then try harder.
Your best in the moment
is good enough for me, if
it’s good enough for you.
Did you do your best?
Then sleep well
because
we start again tomorrow
Try.
Then try harder.
Your best in the moment
is good enough for me, if
it’s good enough for you.
Did you do your best?
Then sleep well
because
we start again tomorrow
09 April 2010
Oh the possibilities...
Interesting article about the ability to print in 3D. I can hear the drool dripping and pooling around Culleton's feet from here...08 April 2010
Pegcity Blues
Hi. Got some time to kill before Macri comes over for some creative collabs. Ive drank a few Gold Beers. They re pricey but I guess its worth the 6.3 percent. Im listening to my own music as I always do and have always done since I first started making it. Its funny after having been back in Winnipeg for a couple of weeks the crazy adventures I had for the past few months have a way of fading away into memory land. Here I am again, in this place, remembering the places that I have been. That s what the music is about too. I take an imprint of a time and emotion, and then relive that time and emotion through listening. Why? This is the essential mystery of the creative process my freinds. Why do people make these expressions? Certainly not necisarily for lively hood. In my case, the obsession with art and music has in fact been a severe detriment to my income and lively hood. So if not for that reason than why? Although lack of clear motivation has never been an issue for me in the past, (I continue to create despite understanding why) maybe now is the time for a little delving. I beleive it has something to do with THE PURPOSE OF EXISTENCE. In our society, little attention is payed now adays to THE PURPOSE OF EXISTENCE. Its just sort of taken for granted. I guess the mainstream promotes the answer as accumulation of money and quality of life. Quality of life being generally attributed to amount of income. Especially because according to mainstream logic, steady accumulation of income leads to the cultivation of children which purpetuates our species and makes us happy, thus our overall quality of life is increased. Yet I currently have little desire to propogate nor develop more of an income than I can acheive in order to get out of debt and afford beer. And yet I make art. Why? Im reading a book called Tibetan Yoga and secret doctorines. I curl up in bed every night and open the book up and read and then when I cant read any more I fall asleep. Can I tell you something about what I read? No absolutely nothing. Nothing in that book seems to correlate with our mainstream framework. Their goals, their PURPOSE OF EXISTENCE seems to be coming from another planet! These crazy old tibetan dudes keep talking about the evolution of consiousness as the PURPOSE OF EXISTENCE. All I can tell you is that these crazy old tibetan dudes seem to be insinuating that the PURPOSE OF EXISTENCE is the evolution of consiousness and not the accumulation of wealth, nor do they mention quality of life. Mind you, the definition of QUALITY here comes into question and Im sure our resident ontologist Dr Carlos will let us know that QUALITY is probably one of the hardest words in our language to define.
Getting back to our problem of the motive for creating art and music. Allow me to propose that the purpose of creating art has something to do with the evolution of consiousness that the Tibetan dudes were talking about and that it all has to do with the PURPOSE OF EXISTENCE.
First let me backtrack to the times I took ayahuasca with the shamans. To summarize, this brew puts DMT into your body. DMT is actually already produced in your body but only released when you re in REM sleep, when your born during childbirth and when you die. I read a book where a scientist who conducted an experiment where he gave high doses of DMT to volunteers in a clinical study. This scientist s overall conclusion is that the DMT chemical is the valve chemical which regulates the movement of your soul to and from your body. My experience of the ayahuasca brew reinforces for me that this premise is true. It also left me with the affirmation that life on this planet, especially the life of my own consiousness has the purpose in this existence of TRANSCENDING THIS WORLD!!! Truly we are all born to die. DYING is the PURPOSE OF EXISTENCE. Because without dying we cannot evolve into the worlds of higher vibration!!
Whoa dave has arrived peace!
07 April 2010
Poverty
Poverty refers to the condition of not having the means to afford basic human needs such as clean water, nutrition, health care, education, clothing and shelter.[1][2] This is also referred to as absolute poverty or destitution. Relative poverty is the condition of having fewer resources or less income than others within a society or country, or compared to worldwide averages.
Poverty is usually measured as either absolute or relative poverty (the latter being actually an index of income inequality). Absolute poverty refers to a set standard which is consistent over time and between countries. The World Bank defines extreme poverty as living on less than US $1.25 (PPP) per day, and moderate poverty as less than $2 a day. It estimates that "in 2001, 1.1 billion people had consumption levels below $1 a day and 2.7 billion lived on less than $2 a day."[120]
Poverty is usually measured as either absolute or relative poverty (the latter being actually an index of income inequality). Absolute poverty refers to a set standard which is consistent over time and between countries. The World Bank defines extreme poverty as living on less than US $1.25 (PPP) per day, and moderate poverty as less than $2 a day. It estimates that "in 2001, 1.1 billion people had consumption levels below $1 a day and 2.7 billion lived on less than $2 a day."[120]
05 April 2010
Social ontology and public health policy
One of the social determinants of health is power, and a discussion of power can mean many things.
In one case, it could mean a discussion of personal and social responsibility: what should the society do, what should the individual do?
What are the powers activated and inactivated of society and its (instrumental) structures and individuals within (and reproducing) such structures?
02 April 2010
Hello Freinds. The Smoky Tiger is set to make an appearance at the Standard Tavern tomorrow night (Saturday). Certainly yer all invited to come out and celebrate easter with the tiger and freinds. Im going to be getting rid of some art and stickers and I burned up some new discs of the latest music Ive been making.Ill be opening the show early around 9 Ill play the 7 songs I wrote about Manitoba while I was on my trip. (Did I even go on a trip? Amazing how memory fades into the pool of the black star) A song for Riel, Cuthbert Grant, Big Bear, Ken Leishman, Tommy Prince, Jack Kravchenko, and even a song about the Winnipeg Jets. Then Im taking off for the bush so if you ve been missing the sound this is yer one and only chance! Plus if I dont sell enough stickers to make my visa payment this month, you ll have to come to my shows at the stony mountain penitentiary.
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