Day 8: Opening

driving down to red deer in alberta’s april, sepia dry the smell arrives first through closed truck windows ageless, immediate sour tang somewhere there, toward the westering sun tractor and disker pull open the season generations of memory, cell by cell leap to the ready; how we have changed but how we remain tuned to…

Toller Cranston Flies Away

Woke up to news that Toller Cranston has left this world, suddenly, unexpectedly. Indeed, Toller was a champion; flamboyantly artistic, magnificently weird and out there. I remember his Russian split jumps, nobody could Russian split jump like Toller. And we loved him, even as we sat there in the flickering winter dark slightly weirded out…

Snowy Day Ode to Summer’s Cows

My friend Shelley just shared with me a lovely poem by Anne Sexton, Snow. If you know this bright little ditty, you’ll recall at once its references to, for example, God’s socks… Sexton also describes snow as being “like bleached flies” – how would one ever know? Me, i’ve simply never seen a bunch of bleached…