Peninsula

We walked along the Peninsula on a sunny, breezy Spring day. A narrow strip of land, just 100m across on the edge of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. On the edge lying on the "far side" of that cradle of civilization. Jutting out from the edge of what otherwise was a forgotten corner of a forgotten land in country of great prosperity and progress.

The grass stood waist height and swayed in the steady wind. That wind was gentle, especially when compared with the kind of weather the harsh North Atlantic can dish out - even on the lee side of the island. As we waded through that sea of grass, we got further from our car, further from the world, and as we progressed, the Peninsula got narrower and narrower. Until we found ourselves at the very end of its extent, and reached the point where it plunged into the deep, dark, salty ocean.

We sat there, at the narrow point for a while, talking, or not. Just enjoying the sight and knowing this was a place where it was entirely possible you may never return to in a lifetime. For the journeying there was not just a leap, but several leaps away from "normal life". The kind of place that the heartiest of sea birds might out on their list of rounds. But that all but the most adventurous of travelers would leave off their list.

On the way back, we stopped to take a look around the modest remnants of the homes of a brave few who might have dared to call this land their home. Single room shacks with a rusting bed frame, and an old iron stove, now only partially enclosed by decaying plank-board walls. How does one come to live in such a place? Is it a pull from the wild? Or a push there, a spirit driven out of the mainstream world by the crush of society? Was this place abandoned with haste? Or did it's former occupants simple fade away into the salty sea that surrounds? A place of youth, or of old age? Of love, or spawned by fear?

Feeling vexed by the questions, and tired with satisfaction at having explored, we got back into the car, and headed back to town. We left that strip pretty well as we had found it - asking very little of it, and expecting no more in return.

----
George Dyke

The Sea

When I was down beside the sea
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.

My holes were empty like a cup.
In every hole the sea came up,
Till it could come no more.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

In relation to Sun's Rays -

Something I wrote "way" back in 2002 - sitting on the edge of a cliff in Newfoundland, early (really) morning:

Finally I reached the ocean, and realized that I could basically walk right along the cliff, almost as far as I wanted or could be able to go. I walked until I found a comfortable area to sit down, to gaze at the ocean and the waves below me. I guess at that point I found what one could term as total plenitude. Watching below, trying to predict when the next big wave would crash, listening to the booming sound of the waves hitting the cliff, seeing a few birds peacefully bobbing up and down the surface of the water had me mesmerized. A few clouds of mists were visible close to where the camp was. The light was also shining at the perfect angle and intensity, so that whenever a wave would come crashing against the rocks, I could actually see the microscopic droplets rising up before me, and barely feel them caress my skin… And I sat there, for how long, who knows, how many times have I said that already? Time had stopped…

***

A feeling that I could somehow explain in music.

...but that is the subject of another post.

-JP

Sun's Rays

If I were to know a ray of sunlight so beautiful as to give one pause, or compel one to sit for a while and soak in it's warmth. And then if that ray were to be blocked by a changing of the hour, or the season, or the emergence of some opaqueness, I would think none the less of that original ray in that in that original moment. For the sitting there would have been no less fine.

- GD

Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps...

Following is the original French version of the Baudelaire poem... written in prose (as opposed to usual verses). A small remark I'd like to make here is that something is lost in translation. "S'enivrer" is translated as "get drunk" which is not entirely correct. A literal translation of "getting drunk" would be "se saoûler". "S'enivrer", by contrast, is to be totally, passionately taken in with something (or someone) - which doesn't translate directly. You can be "ivre" without being drunk. Not too sure how to translate that into English but that's the difficulty of translation!

****

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.

-Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
***

JPster (the Frenchie)

That you may not be the martyred slaves of time

Digging this joint from Charles Baudelaire. Enjoy, as you choose!

One should always be drunk, that’s all that matters.

So as not to feel time’s horrible burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down you must get drunk without ceasing.

But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose, but get drunk.

And if at some time on the steps of a palace, or in the green grass of a ditch, or in the bleak solitude of your room you are waking up when drunkenness is already abated, ask the wind, a wave, the star, the bird, the clock, all that which flees, all that which rolls, all that which groans, all that which sings, all that which speaks, ask them what time it is.

And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply “It is time to get drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get drunk and never pause for rest. With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose.”

With credit.

Master

Master

When I think of you, and the years fly by.
The how, then where, then when, then why.
A life, so blessed, unfolds and unfolding.
Passion boils hot, salt's from the Earth, water's scalding.

The future's the past, the moments are now.
Time's like an arrow, its deeds that allow.
Everything's in front, yet nothing's behind.
The state's moving forward, its all in your mind.

A mind, made new and open, to ideas profound.
Both final, like a book, and fleeting like a sound.
Yes, it all lies ahead, yet it comes from the past.
And it lives in this moment, no sense how things last.

That's how he'd have it, if he could speak, he'd say.
You can take your power, your money, and hay.
If all she's got is this moment, that's the take.
If its three in the morning, I'm gladly awake.

Yet one never knows when sleep may fall.
Sometimes it just takes you, despite it all.
I cherish his boy dreams, nurture them with my worth.
Wrap my arms around them, in spite of their girth.

I'll pick them up, and carry them along.
Sing the praises, and crank up the song.
Knowing in life, the balance will swing.
Never knowing when, the bell we do ring.

These moments, you see, may be all that we get.
That being the case, let's not regret.
Let's dance funky chickens on score divided annuals.
Let's mix our spirits, and bare out our dreams.
Write our own story, in volume and reams.

-- G. Dyke, 6 Sept 2010

Newfie Sentence

Look sure, if I gives you 'dem 'deer keys, 'den you wan't 'ave to come back, and you can go on 'den, de'once.

My Son

Oh my son, may you long be able to use your body pursuing arbitrary whims.
Throw caution to the wind in the dogged chase for greater glory.
Run like the wind when the wind blows, fair or foul.
Climb like temperature of my heart when I imagine your new soul.

May you always know that you belong, that you have a home in us.
And let that give you the faith to realize your wildest dreams.
Follow your heart because it will always lead you home.
Follow your dreams because they will always take you on the most interesting route.

May your mind always cradle the essence of your own ideas.
See the world as you see fit, so long as it's your own true belief.
Don't lose sight of wrong and right, but don't bow down to dogma.
Bend the pipes how you always imagined they would bend.

Whatever you do, wherever you do it, always be kind to your mom.
For she will always forgive you when your arbitrary whims go too far.
She will always take you home, even when your heart's not in it.
An even when your mind's eye pierces into some deep, dark corner.

And so will I, my beloved.

Art in the War Factory

To paraphrase, while it takes courage to yell fire in a crowded theater, it takes more courage to yell theater in a crowded fire!

Today's visit to the 17th Sydney Binnale on Cockatoo Island reminded me of this quote. You can find more on this special show here.

http://www.bos17.com/

You can find some photos from me here.

http://gallery.me.com/george.dyke?view=grid#100247

And a YouTube post here.



Enjoy!

New Message

The arc of your story had a radis to short.
Yet as wave fronts front waves.
We live in your revolution.
Prague in the springtime, Budapest during the fall.

No hommage paid to bricks of anti empire laid.
Just a nod from the front.
That everything turned out well.
We can all sing as we please now.

And thank whom we please for it.

-GD

Its Not These Things

Its not these things.

Its not these items.

These tokens, markers, and milestones.

Its not the ever growing string of tin cans, pulled down the road.

You find these boxes.

Square corners, right angles, straight sides.

On the shelf, above the bed.

Giving dust a stage to perform on.

Its not these things.

Its not these boxes.

Accumulation by time's hands.

The contents, sculpted to your form.

Its not these things.

Its not your things, or my things.

The myth of value's travel through time.

The myth of the physical.

Its relationships.

Meaning and legacy is stored therein.

And all that is of value lives therein.

And in there too is the fountain of youth.

And the true pillars of your world.

The meaning is not in the art object.

The meaning is in your relationship with the art.

Through space, when you first experience it.

And through time, when you recall.

Its not that you exist.

Or that I exist.

Its that we exist.

And that we truly believe that to be the case.

And then I give you the thing.

Some stone, to mark that belief.

And that stone matters precisely when we realise.

Its not these things.

Step writin' the next cipher.

Step writin' the next cipher.
Atomically. I form.
Sleep, next norm.
On top, so sweet.

Cum crete.
Concrete

---
George Dyke

EOTB

EOTB

Or, as the iPhone insists - WORN.

Came here. Stood here. Way back.
Water. Flowed under the bridge.
Partneship. Beautiful. Made better.
100% better.

Green. He was the man when I was here.
Under the red that beats at the different drum.
Train. Rolls overhead. But not training.
Grips. Different grips on the whole.

Gripes too. But those are more subdued on a Saturday night.
It pretty positive here at the EOTB.
Is that MC Solair?

The Count

Leaf. Number 167.
Colour: green.
Height: 149.
Depth: 47.

Next.

Leaf. Number 320.
Colour: light green.
Height: 249.
Depth: 23E.

Next.

Leaf. Number D38.
Colour: #EEE148
Height: 2.73.
Depth: 3.14.

Next.

Leaf. Number FA1.
Colour: #34DFAA
Height: 0.145
Depth: 2.34.

Next.

Leaf. Number ONE.
COLOUR: #GREEN.
Height: one.
Depth: one.

Next.

---
George Dyke

The Match

Bounce bounce bounce.
Looking down the barrel.
"Serve" they call it.
Huh. Serve. OK.

Ball tosses up.
Whack. Crack. In play.
You size it up. Forehand.
Zoom. Cramming back over the net.

Reflex. Pretty strong.
But return on target.
So I react. Bam.
Slam. Ball's back in your court.

You say huh.
I look longingly.
Whammo. Backhand.
Across my face.

Now it's personal.
Trot to run.
You'd make me burn!
Top spin for you, Jr.

Deep court. Ball dipping.
You're running now. Fast.
Too fast I see. Return.
In my court now.

Next step?
Jr.'s apace.
Energy in abundance.

Drop shot.

Live to play another point.