Cowichan Valley Arts Café

To Be

2012-01-19T14:35:00.000-08:00

Everything you see here
has a meaning and a purpose,
nothing is wasted, not one
thing is irrelevant.

Ask me what it means -
you are a visitor and
I am the God (not only)
of this Earth. I will
tell you, I will explain
what it means to sit in
this world and experience
my creation if only you
will look and listen,
watch and wait.

Open your mind, try
to understand this
meaning, how I see,
what I am. Here.
In some worlds, I am
a bad boy, but now,
listen to me and pay
attention to what
I'm showing you.

Learn to receive the
gift you're given -
life and consciousness.
What you will do with
this is yours; what's
in your brain is in
the universe.

Can you see it?
Now live, and if
you are any good,
learn to live well.
This and this alone,
pleases me.

Rojan Zét

Margot Page Vancouver Island artist

2012-01-18T10:31:00.000-08:00

Margot Page's beautiful enamelling on steel work comes in a wide variety of sizes, shapes, and custom designs.

You can see a wide variety of her work at the Imagine That! artisans' design shop in downtown Duncan, the City of Totems, on Vancouver Island.

Visit Margot Page, Enamalling on Steel

My Winter Garden

2012-01-16T08:29:00.000-08:00

Flower Basket, watercolour by Donna Hogan

SEO AN T’AITE MU DHEIREADH The ultimate place (Gaelic)

2012-01-15T08:14:00.000-08:00

you were the soft sad music tangled in the branches

quivering in the deep shade of alder and birch

beneath Ben Nevis

you were the sun slanting through clouds

spinning mist on the hills

steaming from the nets coiled by Loch Coruisk

you were the sharp scent of bog-myrtle

the silver shimmer of reeds in the marsh

the jewels of primrose and tormentil scattered through the meadow

the ridge is dark and desolate now

the burn a jagged scar slashed into granite

its cold life seeping into the peat

now you are gone

cattle are lowing in the glen

restive for the uncropped sweetness of the highlands

the herring fleet is hostage in the harbour

the savage ransom of the sea refused

now you are gone

there will be no respite of grain

there will be no satisfaction of salmon

the hearth is dank and grey

like thrift to the cliff face

I cling to the vision of your homecoming

grief foaming 'round fingers of rock

my spirit reckless as the gannets

plunging through sea spume

soaring over the headlands

~ by Yvonne MacKenzie

Judi Pedder on Vancouver Island

2012-01-04T10:34:00.000-08:00

Lake District Memory, by Judi Pedder

The Westray Lament, by Manuel Erickson

2012-01-04T06:09:00.000-08:00

© 1992 Manuel Erickson

To my parents, Nellie and Harry Erickson, and to coal miners everywhere

Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
    To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do-
    And twenty-six miners died.

Inside the Westray mine lies disaster,
    Coal dust an'methane wait there t'blow;
Friends, brothers, husbands go down t'gether,
    Fear grips their hearts when they're b'low.

One Friday night the miners descended
    Into the coal mine two miles down:
They'd felt the last of sunshine's caresses,
    They'd heard the last of love's sweet sounds.

Deep in the mine the coal gas is workin',
    Hissin' an' sizzlin' inside the veins;
Men are destroyed where they stand a-workin'
    Others are killed where they had lain.*

Twenty-six friends, brothers an' husbands
    Lie in the Westray shattered an' torn;
Fifteen the draegermen haul to the surface,
    Ten an' another stay unfound.

Inside the Westray mine lie eleven,
    Quiet an' still like the darkness within;
Flood all the tunnels to make it safe! but
    Eleven men ask: "What? Again?"

Now that the Westray mine is a-flooded,
    No one can see the bad errors made;
Evidence gone an' no answers given-
    Buried where eleven laid.

Twenty-six ghosts from inside the Westray
    Say to the bosses who decide:
"You didn't listen to our warnin's,
    Loved ones're alone now that we've died."

Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
    To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do—
    And twenty-six miners died.

* When working in a small space, it is sometimes necessary to lie down.

~ by Manuel Erickson

Remembering the Westray Mining Disaster

2012-01-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

Robert Benoit sings and plays guitars and bass on the Merle Travis classic, Dark as a Dungeon. The photographs are of various North American coal mining disasters including the Westray Mine tragedy of 1992 in which 26 miners lost their lives in Plymouth, Nova Scotia.

Read more about the Westray Mining Disaster at Wikipedia

New Year! poetry by Charles Van Gorkom

2012-01-03T06:19:00.000-08:00

Who goes there?
Twenty Twelve, you say,
and how do you come?
do you come with flames
or with flowers?

Are those your people rioting,
your guns blazing,
your missiles streaking,
your drones assassinating,
your bombs exploding?
Or do you come quietly in peace,
your children playing safely in the streets,
fear and hunger banished from your families,
fathers working and mothers bearing
another child of joy?

Twenty Twelve, you may pass
with clean hands and a pure heart,
with a voice that sings
with the stars, with the dawn,
and with love in sun's rising.

I know,
I can't stop you however you come,
but I will sing,
my peace will bless,
I will embrace you with hands that are clean,
a heart that is pure,
and with love in sun's rising.

~ by charles van gorkom

Life is not art

2012-01-02T13:17:00.000-08:00

"Of course, life is not art: it is not the perfect photograph, the idyllic landscape, the majestic brush stroke or the clear delineation of hues. It is a sloppy, complicated obstacle course run by less-than-perfect individuals who can't control their environment or those in their orbit, and inevitably lose their tempers when they cannot maintain control."

~ Phil Hall

Life is not art, collage by Ron Greenaway

Mission Aborted, poetry by Susan Christensen

2012-01-01T08:59:00.000-08:00

We’ll all make it, now.
Our raging river’s lure is strong now.
Its restful, clear, upstream beds beckon us on.

Through the wilder eddies at the water’s edge,
Too tired and beaten to brave the deepest current just yet
As it surges around the bend, we slow a while. But,
The storm swollen torrent tries to pull us back towards
Mother Sea.

There! Over there! The eddy seems quieter, gentler
And the surface of the threatening sky is barely broken.
A brief haven before the last energy-draining mile.

Destiny draws me on.
Just a little further now.
I know it in my bones.
Just to make it to the home stream.
Just to make my life-giving deposit.
Then forever rest.
Fulfillment lures me.

Just a few minutes of calm water. Surely the danger is past.
Vague watered-down memories lurk near my mind’s surface.
Mammoth netted ships pirating our juveniles on the high seas;
More blockades of nets seining us as we milled around,
Awaiting the right timing to dart to our deaths.
Huge denizens of the deep,
Orcas, herding us-- scooping up my brothers
As we closed on the river’s mouth.

We understand about safety in numbers. But,
Our numbers have been decimated.
This last frantic dash through the river
Has a naked feel
As we doggedly strive upstream.

Eagles, now, join the gulls. Forced near the surface,
Senses are jarred by their ravenous shrieks.
This ancient river path has been scoured and gouged
Making smoothed boulders with whirl hollows down here.
Deceptively, deeply quiet down here.
Even the gulls no longer jeer us over here.

I feel it strongly now. My few brethren and I,
Drained by hunger, drawn by destiny.
Our mission.
Our reason for being.
Pass on life.
Carry life to safe shores—that we might live again.
The cycle closes in on us.

Onwards! Back into the rapid froth. It’s time!
Time to struggle upstream. I’m not finished yet.

The dark-visaged man with his toque pulled down
And his collar pulled up, sharpens his focus
Against the water’s glare. Ah!
A good big one. This one won’t get away!

With a smooth, practiced swing of the long handled net
He raises the unsuspecting fish
Just as it skirts the curve of the boulder.

This one is a good size. And full of life, thrashing
As it hangs suspended in the air.
Taking extra care with his footing,
He clambers over the wet rocks with his catch held high.

This makes seventeen this morning, he smiles,
Thwacking it over the back of its head;
He throws it onto the pile of still twitching dead.

The family will be pleased.

~ by Susan Christensen

Cowichan Valley Arts Cafe Christmas Greetings

2011-12-23T08:36:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all!

A Winter Skate

watercolour by Donna Hogan

Vancouver Island Seal Lions

2011-12-19T07:34:00.000-08:00

Vancouver Island Simple Abundance

2011-12-14T06:39:00.000-08:00

This is a photo of some kelp I saw up at Tofino last month. I saw
Sarah's quote in her book "Simple Abundance" and thought it fit very nicely.

I wrote and asked her if I could use her quote and she graciously agreed-nice huh?
You never know until you try!

Merry Christmas!

…… Susan Miller aka "Beach Hauntress"

Charlie Van Gorkom, on Vancouver Island

2011-12-05T09:39:00.000-08:00

After 43 years up north in the Smithers area, we have moved to Chemainus to spend the last years of our lives. I am a bootmaker/poet.

hikingbootshandcrafted.com and my poetry blog is www.rainforestsoul.blogspot.com. My graphic arts are in remission, Never-the-less, I have joined the Cowichan Valley Arts Council. I am impressed with the world-class quality of all the arts in this valley!

My first time living on the Island, I have written a poem giving my first impressions, and if you deem it worthy, I would like to post it on the cafe blog.

Impressions Of Vancouver Island

Rough unfinished wood,
rain forests mantled with thick green moss
encircled by the Pacific.

Art hanging everywhere,
world class crafts on shelves tucked
into every crook in the narrow roads,
murmuring voices of sea and wind,
Live acoustic guitar,
smells of coffee and baking
in coffee shops with live music,
on an island world to itself
seceeded from the mainland
more than a hundred years ago.

Who knew?
No one could be told who
would care anywhere,
so the secret government
by acclamation went unspoken,
unelected, undefined by declarations,
orations and constitutions,
defended by the isolation,
the winters with no tourists,
and expense of ferry trips
off island.

Unheralded, but accepted,
since it has been mutually agreed
a casual association with the rest of Canada
can be advantageous for secret trade.

~ Charlie Van Gorkom, bootmaker/poet

Other posts in the Café by Charles include:

New Year

West Coast Solitude

2011-12-04T08:15:00.000-08:00

West Coast Solitude
Masa paper on canvas by Judi Pedder

Doors, poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-12-03T13:17:00.000-08:00

Late evening, calling done, supper
cold, music stopped, silent house,
I open Door to dark night.

Moon stands in half, black between trees,
Car's sound moves east, Light marks positions,
Dark whispers, "Come." Air wraps cold arms
around me, carries me down Ladder, sets
my feet on Ground.

Deer rustles up Bank, Trail gathers me and
I am blinded moving only my feet toward the
water, only my feet, my feet moving toward
Water, across Pavement, touching Sand, and
Light's sharp glance stabbing off a wave
almost fells me. Stumbling, I move along
Beach to the shelter of walls under Dock and
to the leaf-hidden stair of fifty-seven steps.

The silent habitations of neighbours pass by
marking each pace's distance from my own not
paying attention, letting nature find a course
for me. Only one outcry from behind some wall
and I am at mailboxes where I stop to pick fennel
and maybe think of her once, then back up Ladder
to where the fridge hums and I stand stripping
seeds from small branches, collecting them in
an empty film canister behind closed doors.

Rojan Zét

Judi Pedder, painter

2011-12-02T08:42:00.000-08:00

Profile of an Artist

Judi Pedder takes inspiration from scenes witnessed while traveling in Canada and England. They reflect her strong connection to earth and its natural beauty, and her need for wide open peaceful spaces. Born under the sign of Pisces, she has a particular affinity for beaches, the ocean and smaller bodies of water, which frequently appear in her work.

House plants and gardening offer a closer and intimate perspective of nature's wonders. Her flowers are never shown in formal arrangements - she prefers the 'before picking' state and frequently starts with the main subject, adding/growing the leaves and buds as she sees where they are needed. Many of her 'flower portraits' have evolved from various garden and studio tours as well as from her own garden.

She works in watercolours and finds pure joy in the flow of water plus pigment - "there's no other medium that can do what watercolour does best - if you are brave enough to let it! The variety in my work often comes from my intent, my choice of support, or paper, for that particular piece.

My work on Masa paper is acknowledged, widely recognized and always brings questions, hence the recent production of my DVD “Preparing and Painting on Masa Paper” - a complete step-by-step workshop with 3 paintings shown from drawing to signature. It is available on line, from my gallery/studio in Comox, or by mail."

Judi began her formal art training with a scholarship to the Ipswich School of Art, England, studying a diverse range of subjects. She moved to Canada in 1966 where family and employment took precedence over pure art pursuits until the 1990s when Judi decided to indulge her admiration of watercolours by studying with several accomplished instructors. Her work has been exhibited since 1995 and hangs in Johannesburg, Chicago, Budapest, Calgary, Albuquerque & many Ontario & BC cities.

Judi Pedder arrived in Comox on Vancouver Island on May 1, 2006 where she set up a gallery/studio for the dual purposes of painting and conducting classes or workshops.

Contact:
317 Torrence Road, Comox, BC V9M 1A6
Phone: 250-339-7081
Email: judipedder@shaw.ca

See more information and artwork by Judi Pedder at: www.judipedder.com

Moderators note:

Judi has given permission to publish some pictures of her art work on the the Cowichan Valley Arts Café.

To date this includes:

51 Jokes (in Four Minutes)

2011-12-01T07:00:00.000-08:00

Juniper Islet, by Yvonne MacKenzie

2011-11-27T08:51:00.000-08:00

the cure for sadness

is to embrace all existence

like the beloved

at Juniper Islet the heart cries out in delirium

oh my love

as frosted lips gently brush the forehead

sea wind loosening the clasp of winter’s wrap

and slipping back the hood so the land can kiss your eyes

at Juniper Islet

cedar limbs shiver in the crystalline silence

shrugging powder-white robes

onto a pillow of emerald moss

the scriven track of geese on a snowbound log

is the first stanza of a poem taking flight

an invitation

to open your arms

and join the dance of earth and sky

skirts of light sweeping over the waves

revolving in the stateroom of the soul

pulling you closer to center

Donna Hogan, Out of Africa

2011-11-16T07:20:00.000-08:00

Out of Africa
watercolour by Donna Hogan

Cara McCandless, Singer, Songwriter

2011-11-15T06:36:00.000-08:00

Profile of an Artist

Here's the Story…

Cara's musical beginnings were in her family's kitchen on cold winter nights in Southern Manitoba. With a group of musicians jamming late into the night warmed by a woodstove and by the sound of music. Those beginning's lead her to British Columbia's Cowichan Valley for inspiration and to be closer to her family. Cara is the daughter of charismatic Celtic Tenor and banjo player Chuck McCandless who raised Cara on bluegrass, traditional Celtic, folk, blues, and rock & roll. Cara's ear was being exercised even before she began walking. Cara played clarinet in concert band from grade 3 to grade 12 all the while following her Father from town to town, show to show, festival to festival, slowly getting a feel for her future. It wasn't until after graduating high school that Cara picked up a guitar and soon after wrote her first song, which has lead to a repertoire of 70 plus original songs. Cara's folk/grunge style is deep and edgy so don't let her bubble gum looks fool you. Cara will reach into your soul and the lyrics she sings will invite you into hers. Cara's self-taught guitar style is unique and combines flawlessly with her "sultry-soul thick voice" -Monday Magazine, Victoria. Cara's original compositions are true stories penned through life's experiences and accompanied with musicality that creates a picture in the listener's mind.

Turn up your speakers, click "Play" and listen to "No Escape" by Cara McCandless

So Far in the Biz…

Cara has toured Western Canada as a backup singer for "YellowbellY" and has fine-tuned her stage presence since her first show 20 years ago. In 2000 Cara was a winner of 100.3 The Q's radio contest, "Rocktoria" that enabled her to record three songs with a producer and gain radio airplay to a "pop" audience. Staying true to her roots, Cara has returned to folk music and is back where she belongs. Cara is currently playing bass with "The McCandless Family Band" and is waiting the release of their debut recording "Up Yer Glass" which is due out in late 2010.

What's on the Horizon…

Cara is going to continue to perform and gain exposure for the release of her own debut album "In the Sun" coming soon in 2011. Cara plans to tour Folk Festivals across Canada and with those experiences Cara will continue to write songs of loss, love, and longing. "Cara's Beth Orton/ Natalie Merchant style is as radio ready as it is challenging."-Mike Devlin, Times Colonist, Victoria.

Learn more about Cara McCandless and listen to more of her great tunes at www.reverbnation.com/caramccandlessinfo

Contact: caramccandless@hotmail.com

Guardians of the North, by Susan Christensen

2011-11-09T09:40:00.000-08:00

Panic in the air.
Did you hear that?
What do you mean, Don't be silly?
Hey! Why're you slapping at Me?
Ohhh, God! Run! Get in the truck!
For heaven's sake! It's only a few
Black fly bites! Ooow!

What's that thundering?
Look! On the horizon, over there!
It's caribou.
Stampeding...
Running for their lives!
What a God-forsaken land.
Not fit for man nor beast!

No. A pristine wilderness
Untouched by man.
A delicately balanced ecosystem.
Guarded from despoiling
by God's
tiniest
warriors.

~ By Susan Christensen

Micki Findlay, Vancouver Island photographer

2011-11-07T14:54:00.000-08:00

Profile of an Artist

Micki Findlay is an award-winning, freestyle 'photo-artist' who has a passion for the arts which include the theater, music and computer graphics. She was to discover, later on in life, that she possessed a love for photography after receiving a digital
camera from her husband as a gift.

With a keen eye for artistic detail, and putting her graphic art skills to work, she lovingly pours hours into her craft to perfect it, while bringing a contemporary, unique, artsy feel to her images. She has a knack for bringing her images 'to life' with her post-processing techniques and use of vibrant colours.

Photography runs in her family…her mother was, at one time, the official photographer for the Canadian Armed Forces. Micki recalls having to pose for hundreds of photos until her jaw hurt from smiling.
Her late and great Aunt Ella had been a professional black & white photographer, back when colour film had not yet been developed, so to speak.

Micki feels very blessed in life, appreciating the talents God has given her and the magnificent beauty in the world He created. She believes it a privilege to capture some of that beauty and to share it with others for their enjoyment. Living on breathtaking Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, she is never at a loss for inspiration.

Micki is known as 'The Singing Photographer' due to her ongoing involvement in music. At six years old she was performing and competing in music festivals as a vocalist and pianist and continued to do so throughout her teen years. At 17 years of age, she was chosen to compete at the BC Finals where she won first place two years consecutively. She was then chosen to represent Canada in various competitions throughout the British Isles with The Royal Conservatory Choir from Victoria, BC.

She runs her own singing telegram business called 'Tickleberry Telegrams'.

Micki is co-creator in an online shop called A2Sea Creations. It features unique, beach-inspired treasures, handcrafted on the west coast of Vancouver Island, BC.

Meander, poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-10-22T10:51:00.000-07:00

Like a flower
right in the middle
your figure appeared
carrying out trash...
a good sign I thought
and so appropriate.
One quick word left
me there centered to
continue with a sigh
on my rocky circuit
leaving at your waiting
threshold for someone
a foil-wrapped delivery
silently unfolding.

Rojan Zét

Donna Hogan, friends

2011-10-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

Friends
Watercolour by Donna Hogan

Donna Hogan, watercolours

2011-10-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

Donna Hogan is on the road again. She loves the road and the road loves her back.

On the road again, it's great

Her continuing contributions to the Café site include:

I don’t know if you were looking

2011-10-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

poetry by Manuel Erickson

I don’t know if you were looking:

You’d put me in a carriage

and pushed it to St. Clair and Oakwood

Did you see me look up

at the lady wearing a beret

in the bright red-green-white Sweet Caporal ad

painted on the drugstore’s brick wall?

She sparkled in the sun and smiled

I giggled

I thought she was you

People appeared. They

leaned under the carriage hood, cooing

I smelled their smoke and heard your voice

Street cars clanged their bells at car drivers

I jiggled as you pushed the carriage

over cracks in the sidewalk

I felt warm and wet and it took a long time

to get home

Rock Balancing on Vancouver Island

2011-09-28T20:29:00.000-07:00

photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

"Rock balancing is an art, discipline, or hobby depending upon the intent of the practitioner in which rocks are balanced on top of one another in various positions; these scenes may then be photographed."
~ wikipedia

...leprechauns show thyselves

Fools Rush In, poetry by Yvonne MacKenzie

2011-09-27T07:19:00.000-07:00

gathered in solemn assembly
the celestial chorus are busy shining halos
and rehearsing their mission

meanwhile
god whistles a happy tune
and the fool comes yipping round her heels
panting with glee

unlike the measured tread of angels
fools rush in to the arms of the beloved
turning cartwheels through the mud
and jumping off the dock with their clothes on

guided by joy
the fool steps from the boat
and glides across the waves
with no thought of separation from source

joined to all creation
she dances on the edge of the abyss
the vastness of her love
entangled with the limbs of the sky

her heart heeds the instinct of birds
soaring upward through the clouds
never doubting for an instant
God’s will for wings

Yvonne MacKenzie

Ride Vancouver Island

2011-09-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

Digital collage by Ron Greenaway inspired by the poem of Rojan Zét titled "Tomato".

"Ride this flow", digital collage by Ron Greenaway

Tomato, poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-09-25T19:30:00.000-07:00

Through watered eyes soaring, my
jacket billowed roaring to clouds
behind Pre-voh with glances quick
and wondering, perfumed sound thundering.
Airbrush tresses round me flowing,
wind has found me, weaves the going
and the coming swift below me.

Black tar-zipped lines evaporate;
pavement fur, oaks, undulate. Spokes
winding over pebble squeals and
shots from pipes decelerating,
staccato nails around a curving track
tangent to the Queen's circle attack
speed ascending, the road bending.

Clutchless fastshift, loud and snorting,
red and gleaming chrome sun sporting lake
and island gliding by, heart in my
outstretched hand, leather on the fly,
ready now, completely mine wanting to
go, take me higher, off the stand,
and ride this flow, anytime.

Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island Bunny

2011-09-03T07:31:00.000-07:00

You can run but you can't hide.

photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

Mary Donlan

2011-09-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

Profile of an Artist

SeedBed 18

SeedBed 17

Mary Donlan is a painter based in Campbell River on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.

She was born in Grimsby, Ontario and earned a B.F.A. at the University of Western Ontario where she studied under Patterson Ewen. Mary lived in London for 20 years where she was a member of the artist-run Forest City Gallery. While living in London she was introduced to the work of many terrific local artists. She moved to Vancouver Island in 2007 where she started the SeedBed series which is an ongoing body of art.

Mary paints in the tradition of abstract expressionism with a collage aesthetic. Mary is developing her painterly vocabulary is based on the plant world – forests and garden are her favourite places.

The intention of Mary's work is to express the creative process. “In my paintings I aim for the effect of layered images, fragments, occurrences. I see the process of layering, merging, shaping and synthesizing as simulating the creative process.”

For more information and to see more of Mary's art please visit Mary Donlan's website at : www.marydonlan.ca

Seedbed Collage 12

Ro Jan Z8, Beachcomber

2011-09-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

Profile of an Artist

A Turtle Islander, most comfortable near salt water, raised on Lulu Island, formed by coastlines.... The snaking shore leads me on, ever onward, to the sound of white noise, surf, a pounding in my ears - tinnitis some call it, but after a while you get used to it and listen to the differences in its pitch, its frequency, its tone, and imagine the encoded signals, communications from another dimension - secret messages. Along the way there are findings, curiosities to discover. Ideas slide across sand and patterns emerge. The substitionary principle appears and shape-shifting begins. Dark shadows flit across the periphery of my vision. Then it becomes harder to determine the bad from the good, the right from the wrong, true from false, and slowly the trust-informed child becomes the bewildered skeptic, careful and reclusive. Recursion. What is it we can believe? Who is it we can trust? The weather changes. Rolling mist separates us from clear sky and puts me in a damp fog. The fire smoke rises into a falling rain seeking the elusive glass ball.

There are metal ones too, found half-way up the west coast of Vancouver Island near Cougar Annie's outpost where I caressed the cheeks of enormous glazed rocks, wept at the suffering evident in their gashed and shattered sides, and kissed them. I joined their private celebration, one white man and a black bear crashing their party but could I really feel uninvited to find myself at this gathering? No, I felt welcome, privileged and humbled to be allowed entry to such a grand ballroom, in such exclusive company, led by Nature herself and no other human contact except the jettisoned remnants of hemispheric sea-traffic under the foreshore trees beneath the bluest skies, in the clearest air - walking on land built by rain and drifting wood, to join the dance with these stones.

Most people don't know I have operated cranes, lived in a cave under the road in Gibraltar, sailed an ice-covered 87' ketch in the north Atlantic, graduated with an English degree from one of Canada's top universities without taking a Shakespeare course, written a skit in Pin-Yin Mandarin, and worked up and down the BC coast as a lightkeeper. Actually there's an awful lot people don't know, and many who don't care so it all works out in the end. We live, we die, someone else lives and dies. There's the sea, here's the shore, a perfect fit, there's no money involved. We just walk over it all and find what we look for, with no reason to continue when our innocence is finally and completely lost. Fractals. Ah, but what is this life? What is life for, for me, for you? That my dear, is the question. And then to live it well, this is something we humans have yet to learn, yet to discover, yet to find, yet to search for. It may be something we have simply lost. Some of us have begun looking, finding our balance, and keep hoping....

Are You In My Tribe?
The tribe I belong to is based in mutuality, reciprocity, and equilateral co-operation. It is a shared potluck group meant for all, not just for the rich or for the poor, for the fat or for the skinny, and recognizes that one person's time is not worth more or less than another's, it does not require weekend retreats for money beyond costs. This tribe is line-of-sight - within touching distance - it values respect, sensitivity, understanding, and justice, freely given from one to another without need for profit, and is based on willing exchange of experience and knowledge. The people of this tribe are connected to mother earth with the understanding that physical health relates to harmony with the natural world, that spiritual health relates to harmony with the universe, and that emotional health relates to harmony with the self and others. Each member is respected for their work in bringing community a little closer to such a reality. Are you in? Pattern recognition.

Rojan is a Cowichan Valley resident and believes poetry has the ability to reveal significant truth. As a visual artist, Rojan embraces the deliberation poetic thinking brings to a subject including text as a medium but feels the art really lies in the thinking, in the reflection, perhaps even more so than in the writing about it. As such, text becomes data, and writing - nothing more than observations for a theory, as though we are the sensors for Spirit beyond ourselves, antennae as it were - articulating and identifying sensory input for a universal cognition. Evidence.

No longer at one of the Pillars of Hercules in a cave under a road, or isolated at some remote coastal outpost contemplating the potential offered by cereal-box promises, this passive observer remains pre-occupied with the state of being, and of being Human, realizing the rise of another potential - the successful Human Inadequate (imposed failure of authentic self-actualization for increasing numbers of social stake-holders). In his struggling with form and content, Rojan has produced six chapbooks of poems, short stories, and personal essays, and is always at work on another text, presentation, image, or song while making music in efforts at preserving sanity in a broken world gradually realizing who the bad guys really are, and it's not who they want you to think. Rojan's words and images can be found at www.cowichanvalleyarts.blogspot.com and www.rojan.bacardipress.com.

Two Contrasting Poems

2011-08-05T15:44:00.000-07:00

1

and look across the gap

© 2007 Manuel Erickson

I don't want to remember the Kinsol:

I want to walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,

hear its creaks in the wind.

I want to stand in the middle,

listen to the rumble of Koksilah's rapids below;

I want to know the cuff-linked

architects who designed it,

the bearded, rough workers who built it,

the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;

I don't want to look at

a mere replacement:

smaller, narrower, less sturdy

and know that it severs me

from my history, culture, tradition:

no replacement can "be" the Kinsol Trestle.

I want to walk on the Kinsol

like the hikers from near and far

who gather at each unapproachable end—

and look across the gap.

2

closing the gap

© 2011 Manuel Erickson

I don't need to remember the Kinsol:

I can walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,

hear its creaks in the wind.

When I stand in the middle

I hear the sweet music of Koksilah's rapids below;

in my imagination I know the cuff-linked

architects who designed it,

the bearded, rough workers who built it,

the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;

for this is no mere replacement:

though narrower, it is not less sturdy;

this trestle joins me

to my history, culture, tradition:

this is the Kinsol Trestle.

I walked on the Kinsol with a crowd of thousands,

joined hikers and bikers from near and far

gathered at each closed-in gap,

shared smiles, laughter, chatter and happiness

as we walked from one end to the other.

Gone Fishin' , poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-07-13T07:58:00.000-07:00

You can wait 'til it's too late for visits. Light a candle by your bed and
watch how the light flickers. Think of times you've been together,
maybe times you shared a beer.

When I'd visit he would always have a word of cheer for me, take my
hand, and grip it warmly, though it might have been a year or more
since last we'd hugged each other.

Sometimes I would show him pictures of the places where I'd been and
sitting on the bed he'd wonder, "how's your Mom," or, "how's your
brother." Always he would be so grateful for the smallest little thing and
thank me, thank you, thanks for coming when we finished visiting.

I thought I saw the candle flicker just before I fell asleep, then dreamed
that it was he who travelled while I slept and breathed so deep. He went
before me gap-toothed, and hollow faced, this man with twinkle in his
eyes, for whom I'd smuggled garlic sausage and raw onion.

There he was out on the ocean,
gently rocking on the sea,
sunlight sparkled while he dallied
on his boat just big enough for three.
I heard a strike, the line went zing,
he hooked a big one, let it run,
and stood to see it flashing golden
in the evening's setting sun.
He played with it and when about
a half an hour or so had passed,
he brought that fish up to the boat,
gaffed it in and made a cast again
and soon another fish lay thumping
on the floor but still he stood
and when the third fish found its mates
there wishing for the deep blue sea, he
folded up his rod and said, "If someone
asks just tell them God and I've
gone fishin'."

Late that night I tossed and turned. While I'd slept the flame had
burned to cold and dark. There was no doubt - in early morning light
I saw - the flick'ring candl'd flickered out.

Rojan Zét

An Alien’s Brief Introduction to Earth

2011-07-07T17:46:00.000-07:00

MY PLANET'S NAME IS EARTH. It is a misnomer because seventy per cent of it is covered by water, so it should have been called Water. But it doesn’t really matter, because it’s not as important as other features, attributes and the activities of its dominant species, the bi-pedal human race. But let’s start at the beginning.

Earth is in our Sun’s habitable zone, unlike other planets in our solar system. We live on the third planet from our middle-aged, yellow Sun. The first planet is too hot for life because it is very close to the Sun; the second is covered in impenetrable clouds that admit very little sunlight and has a runaway greenhouse effect resulting in a global mean temperature of about 460 degrees Celcius; the fourth is rather cold with a thin atmosphere that has very little oxygen. All the others and their moons are far too cold for life, though some of the moons might have simple life forms. There are four gas giants that probably have no life and a ninth planet that is too small, too cold and too far away from the sun to support life.

My planet is very beautiful, especially as seen from fairly close up, from no farther away than Earth’s moon (mean distance 384,000 kilometres). The moon is our sole natural satellite and is considered to be rather large for a planet as small as Earth. Scientists suspect that the moon is an offspring of Earth, caused by a glancing blow imparted by a rather large, perhaps planetary, object far back in time—at least four billion years ago. They think that the resulting debris accreted and solidified as it orbited Earth, becoming the moon.

When viewed from space, Earth appears to be a mix of colours, especially white, blue, green and brown. The white is mostly swirling clouds—the swirl is caused by the coriolis effect which has opposite reactions in the northern and southern hemispheres; the blue is the oceans; the green is vegetation; and the brown is land without vegetation—deserts. Some of our astronauts, flying hundreds of kilometres above Earth and looking down on her, have reported that they wept because of her sheer beauty.

Earth is nearly spherical; she is slightly flattened at her poles. She rotates on her axis once in a bit less than twenty-four hours (by our clocks). The axis is tilted approximately twenty-three degrees, creating four seasons in most places on the surface of Earth. It completes a single orbit of our medium-sized Sun approximately every 365 of these 24-hour periods we call “days.” We call a single orbit of the Sun a “year.”

The poles are the coldest places on my planet. The north pole has no land mass around it, but the south pole has a continent we call Antarctica. Both poles have a substantial amount of ice, but it is melting at an increasing rate, thanks to human activities that produce “greenhouse gases” such as carbon dioxide, a trapper of heat. Our planet is slowly warming, and most climate scientists think that all of the ice in the Arctic (the northern-most region) and the Antarctic will have melted in another ninety years or so. A rather large island, called Greenland, also in the north, is covered with a layer of ice that has been thinning somewhat rapidly over the past few decades; its melt-waters run into the ocean. The scientists are concerned that all this melting will cause sea levels to rise, resulting in the loss of coastal areas, the inundation of seaside cities and the culling of millions of our people.

Climate has changed many times in Earth’s geologic history, say the scientists. This time, however, it appears to be mainly the result of human activities such as the burning of fossil fuels: coal and oil. These fuels provide the motive power for electricity plants around the world, but they are considered “dirty” fuels. Nuclear energy is also used for this purpose; while it is cleaner, it is known to be dangerous because of radiation. Many people are against it.

The biggest problem for Earth’s dominant species (humans) is the environment, spurred by our faulty economic and political systems. These systems praise the cutting of forests that acted as heat sinks when they were alive, the mining and burning of dirty fuels (coal, oil), the manufacture of goods that are bad for the environment (plastics, a derivative of oil) and overpopulation (this last supported by some of our religions). They have resulted in a hole in our ozone layer, bad air and water, degradation of lands around the world, five graveyards of discarded plastics that are floating in gigantic gyres in the North and South Pacific, North and South Atlantic and the Indian Oceans, sickness (especially in the poorer areas of the globe), ignorance and poor education. Our faulty systems support the aggrandizement of wealth and power.

Our poor treatment of Earth’s environment appears to be having a deleterious effect on weather patterns. Storms seem to be more severe and more frequent than before, flooding areas that have not usually suffered from floods as often, and causing droughts in other areas that have lasted for up to ten of our years. Hurricanes are more frequent and more dangerous—an example is the one we call Katrina that occurred at the city of New Orleans on the Gulf of Mexico in the United States, Earth’s wealthiest country. Floods have happened in eastern and western Canada; there has been a very long drought in Australia; and earthquakes have become more numerous, especially in Haiti, Japan and New Zealand. The most recent earthquakes were in Japan where damage was caused to a nuclear power reactor that resulted in its being shut down, and in New Zealand where a large city was virtually destroyed. Volcanoes, too, have been far more active than in the past one hundred years, though that might not be related to our bad treatment of the environment.

Our weather scientists have warned for many years that weather will change and become more severe if we don’t alter our treatment of the life-giving environment.

Some people are actively engaged in reducing environmental problems through education and action, but this is equal to the effect of a mote of dust on a galaxy. These people know that marine life tries to eat the plastics and birds also mistake it for food; they are trying to mitigate the disaster, but without much success. Slowly, Earth is losing its natural life because of the careless and ignorant throwaway habits of her dominant species.

From where has this garbage originated? The answer is complicated, but in general, it comes from corporations that manufacture it. Plastic comes in many forms: bottles, containers of every size and shape, sheets… These things are cheaper to make from plastics than from metals. The problem arises when the materials inside the containers are used up because most people simply throw the containers away. While there are recycling programs, there are not enough of them and they are not under-pinned by stringent laws. Such under-pinning would recognize the emergency caused by our throwaway society by making it illegal not to recycle and re-use these things.

It must stop because we are in danger of asphyxiating ourselves and, ultimately, of causing global epidemics of illnesses due to loss of food sources through the continuing despoliation of our only home in the universe.

The dominant species on my planet is not united; that is, it has not organized itself into a unitary, global government. This situation diminishes the species, making it very difficult to deal with our major problem, the environment, on a global basis. As a result, the planet is politically divided into separate pieces that we call countries, each having its own territory. This statement is not entirely accurate, however, because many countries have several nations contained within them. As an example, the United States, Canada, Russia and many other countries have several nations living inside them, most of whom have decided to be a part of that country.

Sometimes, an ethnic group will decide to form its own country, or nation-state. This happened in Germany more than one hundred years ago. When it occurs, a period of “ethnic cleansing” takes place in which those who are not ethnically related to the dominant ethnicity are forced to leave for other countries. This can, and does, happen even in small countries: in 1948, Israel forced Arabs out of their homes in which they had lived for generations. These people became refugees in nearby countries and in areas close to Israel. They are now called Palestinians because the land Israel occupies was once known as Palestine. It has been a throbbing, festering political and ethnic sore since 1948.

Another small country where this happened is Yugoslavia. It contained several ethnicities that broke into separate nation-states, each with its own ethnic group.

While Earth is a lovely, serene-looking planet, astronauts who have experienced profound emotions while viewing her from space have remarked that, from orbit, one cannot see the artificial national boundaries. From above, all the land, all the oceans seem to form a continuous, unified whole: no boundaries, no revolving gyres. We humans need to replicate that idea in our form of planetary organization.

Can you help?

Dominic Fetherston

2011-06-30T06:47:00.000-07:00

Profile of an Artist

The House of All Sorts (Emily in the Attic) 2011
acrylic

Katrina In the Village 2011
acrylic

Dave Brubeck
acrylic

I had an early introduction to the production and the sales of my art. When I was 8 or 9 years old, I spent time under the stairs to the basement of our house in my “art studio” drawing cartoons of characters I had imagined. Then I would go door-to-door to my neighbors in Saskatoon, trying to sell my “one-of-a-kind, affordable art.” As a child, it was exciting to be capable of earning anything, even if it was only a penny or two for one of my scribblings. In 1967 a penny was enough to buy a double piece of bubble gum or a few chewy candies, so it all seemed like a pretty great deal to me; I was having fun and getting paid to do it.

This month, I am turning 53, and I realize I am basically doing the same thing I did when I was 9, although, I’ve stopped going door to door. But I still make time to play with my art and to allow my ideas to churn and formulate, and because playing is such fun, I’m pretty much involved in that.

Over the years, I have had the opportunity to teach many individuals and groups and I’ve facilitated a wide range of arts and counselling classes. It is getting kind of hackneyed to say that I enjoy working with and learning from others, but I like living my life searching for more information, additional techniques and education, and the balance of taking in and putting out, makes what I do mostly fun and very fulfilling.

I am a BC born, Saskatchewan and BC educated painter and mixed media artist. I was diagnosed with glaucoma when I was a young man, and I’ve undergone multiple eye surgeries in Canada and in Mexico. Information about my journey to Mexico to find competent, safe and sane health care is on my website. I’m a married father of one and step-father of four who enjoys my time in my basement studio that I lovingly refer to as “Caution Studio” on southern Vancouver Island at Esquimalt, BC.

My website: cautionstudio.ca

The Filigree of Cedar

2011-06-17T08:43:00.001-07:00

Photograph by Rojan Zét

The Karma of Stones, poetry by Yvonne MacKenzie

2011-06-16T06:54:00.000-07:00

you were so frightened

so I said

look, it's part of the mystery you already know

the filigree of cedar in the forest depth

sublime in damask light

the abandon of finches in the birdbath

flicking golden droplets upwards

the flash of stars in the night sky

igniting a passion for travel

you'll feel empty

but not lacking in essence

like you've come home to yourself

and the freedom of not wanting

leaving no-one behind

you'll be the air we breathe

the refreshment of rain in the garden

the question of karma will vex you no more

the things you gathered, the burden of regret

will seem like odds and sods

you want to shake

from your pocket

you'll see yourself in every gleaming sea washed stone

and rejoice

knowing one day

a child will reach down with wonder

and add you to his treasure

~ Yvonne MacKenzie

Vancouver Island Tribal Journey

2011-06-11T06:58:00.000-07:00

Traditions (Tribal Journey), 2008
digital photography by Julie Nygaard

This picture was taken in Cowichan Bay, B.C.

See and read much more about Julie Nygaard at By Brush And Pen.

It's Art

2011-06-09T20:03:00.000-07:00

This is a hand drawn stop motion animation to the song It's Art.

Turn up your speakers and click play. It's a cute video.

Recipe, poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-06-04T07:23:00.000-07:00

Learn measure weigh pour, weigh again and measure more,
wash dry break fix, finally all is in the mix, sauté
skewer toast grill, taste boil turn and fill, cook
smoke baste sizzle, fry burn roast drizzle, wine
chocolate, shall we dine, almost ready looks divine,
eye-beams holding circumspect hands together pause, reflect,
music playing lights down low, you and I in candle-glow
creating making food together, snug and safe in stormy weather.

Finally nothing left to show but kitchen clean and
silent; belches offered long ago just memories
growing distant. What now? This vista here arrayed
seems empty somehow as displayed. Come back,
return that happy moment where and when, we want it
not to go away somehow to stay. I will, right here
below your feet, but while we're living, you must eat.

So take your shopping list to town, seek and purchase,
write it down, carry home your bagged goods proudly
and ignore all those who speak too loudly. Buy just what
you think you need, good meat, good bread, food good
to feed the ones you love and care about. Keep love
alive, don't do without, and when you're done with
careful looking, start to do some carefree cooking.

Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island Boy & His Dog

2011-06-03T08:06:00.000-07:00

Photo by Ron Greenaway

Vancouver Island leprechauns

2011-06-01T08:03:00.000-07:00

Walking on the beach once again I stumbled across more beach art by those elusive leprechauns.

leprechaun ( ) n. One of a race of elves in Irish folklore who can reveal hidden treasure to those who catch them.

photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

First to Vancouver

2011-06-01T07:44:00.000-07:00

© 2001, 2004 Manuel Erickson

Victoria Day, May 23, 1887

"Ma! Ma!"

Mary Flowers roused herself from slumber, opened her eyes and raised her head from the pillow she had propped against the top of her seat. She heard a rhythmic clickety-click, and struggled to comprehend it, her brows furrowing. "Yes, Evelyn," she said, the sleep having not yet left her throat. "What is it, dear?"

Twelve-year-old Evelyn Flowers stared out the passenger coach. She jumped up and down on her seat until a quick glance at her mother forced her into stillness. She looked out the window. A large smile played across her smooth, round face, which the window reflected back to her. She craned her head upwards, then lowered it, trying to absorb the scenery as it slipped past her window. Her blond curls bounced and shook with each sudden movement of her head.

"We're here, Ma! We're here!"

For the first time since her daughter had awakened her, Mary shifted her eyes from the child to the passing scene outside. She became fully conscious of the clicks of the wheels. They sounded farther apart, as if the train were slowing down.

Evelyn perceived a second reflection in the window glass: Mary had stood up and, balancing herself against the vibrations of the coach, gingerly transferred herself to Evelyn's place and peered out the window. Since it was a warm spring day, Mary had opened the window before her nap. Rich scents entered the coach, filling it with a mix of the heady fragrances of blossoming trees and flowers. At first only tall trees could be seen. The train had almost stopped when a small wooden clapboard building came into view. A painted sign hanging from the edge of the roof clearly identified the station. Mary smiled.

"Evelyn, dear…"

"Yes, Ma?" Evelyn answered, her face pressed into the window.

"Did you think we'd arrived at Vancouver?"

Evelyn turned quickly and glanced at Mary. Her gaze was between consternation and surprise.

Mary put her hand on Evelyn's shoulder, leaned toward her ear and said softly, almost whispering, "Read the sign on the station roof."

Evelyn did so and took in air. She turned again to her mother, her face wrinkled in disappointment.

"It's all right, darling," she said. "In your excitement, you simply forgot we had to stop in Port Moody. We'll be on our way again, soon."

The conductor approached their seats and said, "We've stopped in Port Moody to change engines, Mrs. Flowers. We'll be off again in ten minutes."

"Thank you," Mary said, nodding to him.

"How far is Vancouver from here, Ma?"

Mary sat beside Evelyn again. "They said it was only twelve miles along the new track, dear, so it won't be too long, now."

"Oh, I hope so!" said Evelyn. "I want to see Vancouver, and I want to see Pa!"

"So do I, Evelyn," Mary said softly.

True to the conductor's word, in ten minutes Evelyn and Mary felt a slight tug from the front of the train, and the whistle sounded. Then they heard the chuffing sound that had become so familiar to them during their trip across the continent. The train accelerated. The next stop, they were certain, would be the last.

"Ma," said Evelyn, "I love riding the train!"

"Yes, dear, I know. I like it, too."

"I mean, all the new things I've seen, all the new places, and even how it was spring in Toronto when we left, but still winter in Winnipeg. And the mountains! Oh Ma--the mountains are so beautiful, especially with the snow! I didn't know they were so high. Then when we got here, suddenly it was spring again."

Evelyn smiled and again turned her attention to the passing scene outside her window.

"Those are new and wondrous things to me, too, Evelyn. After all, I've never before travelled across Canada."

"And this train!" said Evelyn, turning to her mother. "The conductor wouldn't let me visit the engine, but I saw all the wood they carry and he showed me where the water goes and where they put mail and our baggage and how they made lunches and--Ma, while you were having a nap last evening, the porter even showed me how to make a seat into a bed, and I did one myself!"

"Did you, dear? Well, I'm glad you've seen all these things. It has certainly been an adventure for us, and you are an adventurous person."

"Thank you, Ma." Evelyn paused. Then, "Ma, we're part of history."

Mary smiled and gave Evelyn a light hug.

"I mean, we're passengers on the first train across Canada. That's--that's special. Even the conductor said so."

"Most definitely, dear."

Mary did not carry a timepiece, but she thought that about twenty minutes had passed when the clickety-clicks of the wheels once again started getting farther apart. She knew they would be at the Vancouver terminus shortly.

They peered out of Evelyn's window, looking for their first glimpse of Vancouver. The faces of mother and daughter reflected in the glass and were so close to each other that a portrait photographer might have placed them that way.

The train slowed once more and only tall trees could be seen. Evelyn looked at her mother, a question on her face. "Don't worry, Evelyn. You'll see Vancouver by-and-by." Evelyn turned back.

As Evelyn gazed, the scene began to change. The trees were fewer, and eventually there were none. A large berm blocked her view where she thought the city lay, so she spun around to look out the other side. A wide body of water filled the glass.

Mary turned as well. The slowly moving train passed a small building, then another. They spied what looked like a boat dock. A tall holly tree stood near it; small birds flitted into and out of the holly. At that point the tracks curved to the right. In a few seconds, the train glided past some buildings as it approached their destination. Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, but the berm still prevented her from seeing a view, so she turned back. Several freight cars, some with their side doors agape, sat on a trestle built onto the water.

Suddenly the scene was blocked by a low, peaked building. "That looks like a big garage," said Evelyn.

"It could be a shed of some kind, but it's too large for that. You could be right, dear." She looked out Evelyn's window, but saw only hills. The train slowed more, then stopped completely.

As their coach was not far from the locomotive, they heard steam escaping. To Evelyn it sounded like her cat hissing its displeasure. She had given it to her best friend before leaving Toronto. They gazed at the scene outside the train.

"Ma," Evelyn said, not taking her eyes from the scene, "all the trees! They were so big in Port Moody! But here there's just big, brown hills with no grass. Where are the big firs and cedars that my books said are here in Vancouver? And I can't see Vancouver, Ma." She turned to look at her mother, then gasped as she saw what was outside the opposite window.

Evelyn almost did not hear her mother's response. She felt Mary take her hand and pull her close. She heard her say, softly, "Perhaps Vancouver's behind those hills, but at last we're here, Evelyn." Then, a sigh. "It's been a long journey." Mary smiled and kissed Evelyn's forehead. "Welcome to your new home, dear."

"Ma, look out the other window," said Evelyn.

A large crowd had gathered on the pier next to the railroad tracks. Most of the men were attired in suits and derbies, the few women, in bright blouses and dresses with colourful, flamboyant hats. A low murmur of conversation reached their ears. The crowd stood, facing what looked like a shed.

Again the conductor stood beside their seats. Mary looked up and Evelyn heard him say, "Sorry to disturb you and your daughter, ma'am, but we've reached Vancouver terminus. Everyone gets off here." He smiled, touched a finger to his cap and moved on.

Mary straightened her light-blue cotton dress, suitable apparel for a warm Pacific day in May about which her husband, Ben, had advised her in a letter. Evelyn searched the crowd for her father as Mary opened the curtain of the luggage bin above her seat and took down two suitcases, giving the smaller one to Evelyn. Her mother took a deep breath, then said, "All right, Evelyn, let's go and see Vancouver and your pa."

"Oh, yes!" said Evelyn.

Mary opened the compartment door and they stepped through.

They made their way to the car's exit where they found the door already opened to the outside. Mary went first, the conductor giving her a steadying hand. Evelyn jumped from the last step to the platform.

"Ma'am," said the conductor, "you might want to know that the large body of water you see is called Coal Harbour and the road just there goes into town. It's called Howe Street."

"Why, thank you," said Mary. It's very thoughtful of you to orient us, and I'll be sure to remember." The conductor smiled again and touched his cap.

They found themselves amidst the large crowd that they had seen from the train. It wasn't boisterous; those who spoke did so quietly, with grace. Mary turned to her daughter. "Stay close to me, Evelyn."

"Yes, Ma." Then, "Ma, why are there so many people here?" Before Mary could reply, Evelyn answered her own question. "Oh, I know! We were on the very first passenger train across Canada, and they're here to welcome it."

Mary smiled at her daughter. "That's right, dear." Evelyn's eyes sparkled, and again she started jumping up and down.

"These people know our train is historic!"

"Right again, Evelyn. And what is the name of our train?"

"The Pacific Express."

"Perfect."

Evelyn stopped jumping. "Ma, do you think they'll keep our train?"

Mary looked at her precocious and inquisitive daughter. "Yes, I do, dear. At least the engine. I think it will be kept for a very long time." She looked around, then said, "I do think there will be a speech. I think we should hear it."

As Mary put the suitcases down, the sun was momentarily blocked by someone's shadow. A soft, baritone voice said, "Mary! Evelyn!"

They looked at him. Mary mouthed, "Ben!" and Evelyn almost shouted, "Pa!"

Evelyn grabbed her father around the midriff, laying her head on his lower chest. Mary and Ben stared at each other. Finally, Ben said, "Let's pretend we're alone…"

Evelyn stepped away; he opened his arms and Mary fell into his embrace. Apart for six weeks, their kisses were soft and sensuous, until they remembered their daughter standing beside them.

"I'm so glad to see you!" they said in unison, and laughed. Mary separated herself and straightened her dress. Ben bent and kissed Evelyn on the forehead; she threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking off his top hat in a plethora of kisses. She let go only when Ben straightened.

Evelyn wore a wide, happy grin. Her father was dressed in a light-brown suit that matched his hat. His clean-shaven, smiling face was a delight for her to see again.

"My dear Evelyn," said Ben. "Did you like the train ride across Canada?"

"Oh yes, Pa! There were so many wonderful things to see…"

A male voice boomed and the crowd turned to face the low, shed-like building. "Ladies and gentlemen!" the voice cried through a megaphone. "I am William Gregory, master of ceremonies, and I have the great honour to introduce the premier of British Columbia, the Honourable Alexander Davie!" As polite applause filled the air, Mr. Gregory handed the megaphone to another man and stepped aside.

"Well," said Ben, smiling, "it seems we're going to get a speech. Would you like to hear it, Mary, or would you prefer to go to the hotel and rest?"

"We are tired, of course, but let's hear it. After all, it's not every day they can welcome the first train to cross Canada." She turned to their daughter. "If you want, you may sit on your suitcase, Evelyn."

"Yes, Ma."

Premier Davie was clad in a pinstripe suit and top hat. He scratched his neatly trimmed, black goatée, a contrast with most of the men present who sported long, bushy moustaches.

The Premier raised the megaphone and began to speak. Evelyn understood the Premier's main point that the train on which she and her mother had travelled heralded the extension of trade and development across Canada, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.

Mercifully, because the family wanted to be together, the Premier's speech was short. The master of ceremonies took back the megaphone, thanked the Premier and introduced the mayor of the city, Alex MacLean. The mayor wore a simple business suit but no hat and, unlike Davie and most of the men, was entirely clean-shaven. After another short round of applause, he explained how the train that had just arrived, pulled by the Canadian Pacific Railway's newest locomotive, Number 374, proved the practicality of a rail line across Canada.

"This engine," he said, waving his other hand above his head, "along with Number 371 and many others that pulled these cars from Toronto, will soon be bringing hundreds -- nay, thousands! -- of new migrants here to the garden that is Vancouver. The men who built Number 374 just last year in Montreal, together with those who drove her, will live in our hearts forever!"

The audience applauded politely. The mayor handed the megaphone back to Mr. Gregory and stepped aside. The crowd started to disperse.

Mary reached for her suitcase, but Ben stopped her, taking it himself. Then he grasped Evelyn's. "My carriage is just around that corner, my dears," he said, pointing with his head. "We'll be at the Alhambra Hotel in a few moments. Places are close by in this new city."

Ben had been transferred to Vancouver early in April and was looking for suitable lodgings for his family. The great fire had occurred the previous year and the city was still being rebuilt; accommodation was in very short supply. He had telegraphed his reservation to the Alhambra before leaving Toronto for Port Moody, the old CPR terminus. Once in Port Moody, he had reached Vancouver by boat.

As they approached the hotel, Evelyn's natural curiosity overcame her weariness. "Oh Pa, look at all the chimneys! Why are there so many?"

"Each room has its own stove or fireplace, Evelyn," Ben answered. "Ours has a fireplace, but we won't need it just now."

"The hotel is big…"

"Yes. Just as big as those in Toronto. See? It has two storeys."

"And so many windows!"

"Each room has a large window so you can see into the street."

"Pa, where's our room? In the front or the back?"

Ben chuckled. "Don't worry, Evelyn. You'll be able to see into the street."

Ben steered the horse near to the front door, got down from the carriage and tied the reins to the hitching post. To Evelyn, the horse's soft neigh sounded like a satisfied sigh. Ben helped Evelyn and Mary alight.

He retrieved their suitcases from the back of the carriage and they entered the front door, built into a corner of the building. A bell tinkled. Immediately, a balding, middle-aged man with a fringe of pepper hair and a dark moustache appeared from behind another door.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Flowers. I see you have collected your family." Evelyn thought his voice was too high for a man.

"That's correct, Charles. May I present my wife, Mary, and my daughter, Evelyn."

"How do you do, ma'am, and Evelyn." Charles spoke directly to Evelyn. "I'll bet you had a wonderful trip on the first train to cross Canada, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir," said Evelyn. "I saw so many new things!"

"How do you feel to be part of Canadian history?"

"Oh sir! It feels wonderful."

The three adults chuckled. "I'm glad, Evelyn," said Charles. He turned his attention to Mary and Ben. "Well, I'll help you with your suitcases."

"Thank you, Charles," said Ben. To Mary and Evelyn, he said, "Our room is on the second floor."

They followed Charles up the stairs, Ben going last. At the top, Charles turned left and stopped in front of the first door. Ben produced his key and opened it. "Do you have a second key for Mrs. Flowers, Charles?"

"Yes, of course, sir. I'll have it ready at the counter when you stop by again." He put the suitcases just inside the door and turned to go, then stopped. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. Dinner will be at six o'clock, unless you desire to dine out, of course."

"Thank you, Charles." He put a hand into a pocket and withdrew some change, giving it to Charles.

Again Charles turned. He had reached the stairs when he stopped and faced the Flowers. "Oh sir! I almost forgot. While you were at the train Mr. Chandler came by and said he has a house to offer you and your lovely family."

Ben didn't reply. Evelyn looked at him. Ben's eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly and he appeared stunned. He hadn't expected to find a house for several months, yet, because of the previous year's fire. Mary put her hand on his shoulder.

"W-well!" he said. "Well, this is indeed our lucky day. Thank you, Charles, thank you!"

"You're welcome, sir," and he continued down the stairs.

After the family had entered the room and Ben had closed the door, he said, "I've already seen Mr. Chandler's house. I think we should be very happy there." Mary smiled. Evelyn felt glad that she and her mother and father would soon have a house in which to live, just as they did in Toronto.

"You both look tired," said Ben. "Why not have a short sleep, then we'll go down for dinner and Evelyn can tell me all about the train trip. Afterwards, if you feel up to it, perhaps we'll go for a walk around town and go by Mr. Chandler's house. Let's see," he added, pulling his watch from his waistcoat, "it's almost half past four o'clock. Rest until nearly six, then we'll go for dinner downstairs."

"That would be fine, dear," said Mary. "Evelyn, do you want to rest?"

Evelyn yawned. "Yes, Ma. But may I ask Pa something first?"

"What is it, Evelyn?" said Ben.

"Well, is Mr. Chandler's house near the railway?"

"As a matter of fact, it is. Why did you want to know?"

Evelyn sat in a chair and looked at her father. "Pa, I want to see all the trains as they come and go. And I hope Engine 374 will visit here often. I want to talk to the driver."

"Why, Evelyn?" asked Mary. Her skirt rustled as she sat in another chair.

Evelyn took a deep breath and said, "It's because I want to know how they felt to be the first to drive a train to Vancouver. It can only happen once, you know. If I can talk to them, then I can write it down. Ma, Pa, I'm going to be a writer and write about things that happen first, especially historical things!"

Mary and Ben both stared wide-eyed at their precocious daughter. Ben said softly, "You are growing up fast, Evelyn." He sat quietly for a moment, then said, "Your ambition to become a writer is laudable, my dear, and I think you should follow your heart. Mary?"

"I think so, too. But Evelyn, you should know that if you start something, you have to finish it. Do you understand?"

Evelyn jumped off her chair. "Oh yes, Ma! Yes, Pa!" She ran to them, giving each a hug. "Thank you!"

Mary and Ben looked at each other. Simultaneously, happy smiles broke out on their faces and their eyes sparkled.

Victoria Day, May 21, 2001

A crowd of several hundred stood in front of The Roundhouse Community Centre in downtown Vancouver. The refurbished Engine Number 374, formerly of the Canadian Pacific Railway, stood beside the milling crowd. It glistened black with gold lettering in the bright afternoon sun, festooned with the flags of Canada and British Columbia. Members of the 374 Station Society had brought her outside from her home of thick, unbreakable glass attached to The Roundhouse, once a locomotive repair shop. Puffs of steam escaped from ports near the drive wheels: a simulation of a locomotive that is ready to roll.

A tall, pepper-haired woman stood in front of a microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "I am Laura McDiarmid, Chair of the Vancouver Parks Board. As you know, the Parks Board and the Vancouver Central Lions Club supported the 374 Station Society while they restored historic Engine 374 which stands before you here in front of its fabulous new glass home. There was one person, however, whose vision was so clear and who pushed and shoved more than anyone else to get this project started and finished so that Vancouverites could enjoy this historical artifact. This person knows more about Engine 374 than anyone else.

"Please welcome the prime mover of the restoration, Evelyn Atkinson."

The crowd applauded politely as a petite lady dressed in Victorian period costume approached the microphone and adjusted it to her height. "Thank you for that kind introduction, Laura." Holding up a sheaf of paper, she addressed the audience directly. "I prepared a little speech for this afternoon, but I would prefer to speak extemporaneously. Wel-l, perhaps I'll refer to my notes a bit.

"Before anyone asks my age, I would like to explain that I am named after my grandmother, Evelyn Flowers, who travelled across Canada with her mother in 1887. The engine that pulled that first transcontinental train from Port Moody was the one that stands in front of you, Number 374.

"Most of you already know that this historic engine came to Vancouver just eighteen months after Donald Smith drove the last spike at Craigellachie.

"Usually, a locomotive is scrapped after twenty or thirty years of service. This happened to C.P.R. Engine Number 371 and many more. She and other locomotives brought that same train all the way across the continent to Port Moody, which had been the western terminus of the C.P.R. until the last twelve miles of the line were completed to Vancouver in 1887. Port Moody, of course, is actually on salt water, so Number 371 was the first engine to complete the haul of a scheduled train across Canada from sea-to-sea. That honour belongs to her." Evelyn paused and looked at her notes.

"Unfortunately for us, Number 371 was scrapped in October 1915, just thirty years old. Number 374, however, was completely rebuilt in September 1914, giving it another thirty years of service. She was retired in July 1945, and the C.P.R. donated her to the City of Vancouver.

"The rebuild was very important. It made 374 into an almost-new locomotive, giving her a larger boiler, re-positioning the steam dome, and fitting 63-inch driving wheels in place of the original 69-inch wheels. Still, historians consider as valid the link between the 1914 rebuild and the original engine that had been built in Montreal by Canadian Pacific in 1886." Again she paused, shuffling a sheet to the back.

"Some have suggested that Number 374 should be made operational, but the refinements of 1914 mean that is impossible because too much of the 1886 engine had to be replaced. It would be easier to construct a full-size replica, though at great cost. And it wouldn't be the same, now, would it?"

Evelyn waited for the murmurs to subside.

"Furthermore, when she was retired in 1945, the Canadian Pacific Railway's shops in Montreal made Engine 374 look ‘old.' So they removed some 1914 technology which made her permanently inoperative. After delivery back to Vancouver, she was placed on a short track in the open at Kitsilano Beach, where she stayed until 1983.

"Now, I'm sure you can imagine what happened to old Number 374 over those 38 years. Sightseers climbed on her, birds dropped their ‘business' on her, and sun, wind and rain beat at her. She was vandalized and neglected. She was badly rusted and dangerous. In 1983 she was no longer good to look at.

"So I felt personally pleased that the Friends of 374, an organization I helped to form, raised the funds to start a cosmetic restoration. Twenty thousand people from all walks of life bought heritage bricks at twenty dollars each, and the donors' names were inscribed on them. The bricks are now embedded in the floor of this pavilion and are a memorial to these wonderful supporters. They made it possible to remove dear old Number 374 from Kitsilano and place her in a warehouse on Granville Island. Then in 1985, members of the West Coast Railway Association and the Canadian Railroad Historical Association started the restoration.

"You are probably asking yourselves why I was so pleased about this. Well, as it happens, my grandmother, Evelyn Flowers, then aged twelve, travelled with her mother, Mary, on the very train that Engine 374 brought to Vancouver from Port Moody. So I feel a profound personal bond with this engine, a piece of 19th Century machinery that I regard as a work of art because of her direct connection to my family."

Evelyn stopped, shuffled more pages to the back, read a few lines to herself, and continued.

"I now wish to address one last subject: making Engine 374 operable. My friends, I'm sure you can appreciate that no one would like this to happen more than I. It would be as if I could, in a way, touch my grandmother…" Evelyn paused and lowered her head. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, then tucked it away after dabbing at an eye. "But as I said a few minutes ago, it would mean replacing most of what you see here before you. It just wouldn't be the same. I feel that having this locomotive in its hybrid 1914 form, so very close to the original 1886 machine, is really what is important to me.

"I am grateful that we have today an example of 1880s technology modernized to 1914. Engine 374 is of great historical significance to Vancouver and to Canada, as she is the locomotive that actually linked Canada's two ocean seaboards."

Evelyn looked at the gleaming locomotive, then stepped away from the microphone. Applause followed her as she walked back inside The Roundhouse.

© 2001, 2004 Manuel Erickson

Away Ugly Day, poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-05-16T08:05:00.001-07:00

Ugly day, the rain has washed all snow
away, still driven drops drive home,
fall beating on my bumper chrome,
cold air gusts move limbs to limbo,
trees toss branches down akimbo. In
my woodstove down below, morning embers
yet burn slow, lending heat making
winter's glow replete, then you
appear to greet my day and
gloomy gray is turned away.

Rojan Zét

Terri Bibby, Salt Spring Island artist

2011-05-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

Profile of an Artist

Terri Bibby is a Saori freestyle weaver and designer, creating one-of-a-kind asymmetric clothing, scarves, wraps, bags and wall hangings in the Saori style.

In her studio in the woods on Salt Spring Island, Terri offers classes, workshops and retreats with a B&B option and is inspired by the ever changing colours and textures of nature that surround her. She has also had over 1500 people Weave for Peace on beautiful Peace Banners that have been displayed around the world.

Terri's background is in traditional weaving, having studied at Grant McEwan and Olds college. In 2005 she discovered the Saori freestyle approach to weaving and has explored Saori in Canada, the USA and Japan.

Website: www.saorisaltspring.com

Blog: www.saltspringweaving.com/blog

Ask Cousteau, He Knows

2011-05-09T15:04:00.000-07:00

Susan writes...
I went on a great trip to Spain and Morocco....

Ask Cousteau, He Knows*
By Susan Christensen
April 5, 2011

The Med is dead!
But, dead can be beautiful:
There is still the excitement of the crashing storm waves,
With slate-smooth combers crashing in
Lacing the shore with froth.

Or, see how navy rims the horizon edging into
Deep teals that graduate into
Myriad curves of blues and greens
Frilling snow-white on the sands.

No squawking gulls picking over
The residue of life left by the receding tides
On the clean sandy beaches--
Just the odd dead fish
Desiccating under the sun’s burn.

No wind blown or sodden feathers.
No birds at all.
Only the sound of the waves.

No tide pools teeming with small crabs
And slippery life forms
That make your toes scrunch up.

No stranded, stinking kelp
Or drifts of sea weed
Mucking up the beach where you’d like to sun bathe.

Just some narrow drifts of wave-beaten shells,
Too colourless to collect,
Unless you prefer the translucent hues
Of thin and fragile ones
Catching a transient sheen from the sun.
Let them rest in peace.

No messy tide pools,
No noisy birds,
No slimy seaweed;

Beautiful
As the picture in the brochure.

~ Susan Christensen

* Google: Cousteau, Mediterranean Sea, lab accident, noxious weed.

Loading Logs Time Lapse Crofton ,Vancouver Island

2011-04-25T07:30:00.000-07:00

Click "Play" to watch video.

Genome, poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-04-12T13:22:00.001-07:00

Tonight, sky glowing behind mountains showing, lift your
head while music plays and lost familiar spirits gaze
through gusting wind, walk the beach, reach for tingling
in your hand, and dance with leaves left standing
before tides facing flushed river deltas embracing
furry hills and sand flowing, fires growing,
alive to sense of life and all our sowing...
before what comes deprives us of our knowing.

Rojan Zét

Floating in Roe Lake

2011-04-10T08:26:00.000-07:00

floating in Roe lake is restful
the calm of the mother's womb
restoring moisture to the chamber of the heart
dissolving the carapace of hurt in the wash of her mercy

sun crowned lily pads and velvet catkins
smudge the dappled canvas of water's edge
where the mottled bark of alder is reflected in a whorl of light
overhead, heat gathers a shimmer of gauze
draping modest folds
‘round the indiscretions of the dragonflies
who hover and dart through the air
slapping their emerald tails in a frenzy of mating
insatiable and oblivious of human eyes

a snake glides by
threading the needle of fascination
his sleek undulations
pricking the soft surface of awareness
I might be alarmed
but the spark of all things blazes within me
and fear yields her robe of restraint
dancing ‘round the flame with abandon

we're all a little silly out of our element
but nature teaches us to trust
an eagle trades his freewheeling grace
for a role in the circus
lurching like a clown on a deadwood log
while he peers at ripples in the shallows

fish leap from the waves
to ride the scented breeze
ducks submerge themselves in the cool depths
wicking their saucy tails
in a fan dance as brazen as Gypsy Rose

in this hallowed place
fingers loosen from the raft of supplication
as everything you see
becomes the love you are
the more beauty you witness
the more you know your self
peace no longer a transaction but a revelation
the deep content of coming home

~ Yvonne MacKenzie

Vancouver Island Spring at Parliament

2011-04-09T09:03:00.000-07:00

Spring at Parliament
Photography by Julie Nygaard, 2008

Fly, poetry by Rojan Zét

2011-03-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

At runway's end
wings swing round
then stop. Roaring
increases, ground rushes
past, then drops off.
Earth turns to air,
fence-post hawks shrink
to mice, fields become
blankets.

Jagged peaks ring
higher distances of
afternoon beyond a
sun-burnished shadow
racing a solitary boat,
out of reach.

The downhill roll into
Port Browning leads to the
flash of thousand-bellied
herring in deep darkness
at dock's end. Jellyfish
flex, silent. Crows bark.
The oily smoothness dissolves....

Whiskers dripping, a harbour
seal watches a gull poke its
beak into feathers under its
wing, scream over the water,
and lift into air.

Rojan Zét

Marilyn Peeters

2011-03-25T10:46:00.000-07:00

Profile of an Artist

Marilyn is an expressionist painter working and residing on Vancouver Island. Art has been a strong passion for her from a very young age. In the 70’s, she majored in Fine Art in high school with the dream to further her art studies, but life chose a different path for her at the time.

Her and her husband moved to the Vancouver Island during the 80’s where she extended her knowledge in art working as a versatile artist throughout the Comox Valley. Marilyn volunteered with a theatre group where she gained extensive experience as a set designer and painter. With this experience, she was offered many mural jobs from the downtown Courtenay and Campbell River BC merchants. Soon after, she decided to complete her studies of Fine Art with North Island College and Emily Carr University and completed her BFA in 2009.

Today her art reflects on the environment with her passion of nature in her non-traditional landscapes with paint. She explores a sensorial perception of the BC forest through her painting process. The qualities of the landscape elevate her imagination and positive energy becomes the driving force in the creation of her work. Each painting refers to a particular place in nature, yet they are unidentifiable taken from its specific location. She paints with bold, vivid colour that allows a luminosity to vibrate and each piece has a strong sense of light. Working in a large-scale format allows her to work with a loose, gestural brushstroke.

Marilyn has exhibited her work in galleries and restaurants across Victoria, Courtenay, Campbell River, Nanaimo and other public places in Comox BC such as the Comox Airport, and St Joseph’s Hospital and her international exposure includes, Dubai, UAE.

For more information about Marilyn Peeters visit www.marilynpeeters.com

Deuce

2011-03-13T11:06:00.000-07:00

© 2001, 2004 Manuel Erickson

Bernard Churchill loved being a locomotive engineer. He was fond of all the engines whose controls came under his fingers, but his favourite was a little coal-fired steam engine, Number 2, a Baldwin, that everyone called "Deuce." Eventually, Bernard spent less time with the other engines and more with Deuce.

She weighed just 50 tons, but Bernard felt that Deuce could more than pull her weight. He knew her history. Instinct told him that Deuce's success bore little relation to her size. Deuce was already thirty years old when she became Bernard’s regular responsibility. She had worked for fifteen years on Comox Logging and Railway Company’s level mainline—or what the local people called the CLR—hauling logs to the dump at Royston, near Courtenay. She had also been a “bullcook” engine, bringing supplies and crew cars to logging camps and equipment to fight forest fires. For fifteen more years Bernard and Deuce steamed up and down the Comox line.

The Deuce in her shelter, Courtenay
~ Manuel Erickson photograph

Bernard delighted everyone with tall stories about running Deuce full tilt through the timber stands. In one of these, she encountered a cougar. "We—Deuce and me—was goin' full blast haulin' a load of logs to Royston, an' all of a sudden a real big black cat come outta the trees, makin' t'cross the tracks. It was real close to us an’ I had no chance t'blow the whistle. We hit the thing, of course. The cow-catcher caught it an' it went up an' over the cab. I looked out as we rounded a bend, an' that cat was runnin' like fury into the trees. Y'know how they always land on their feet? I dunno who was more surprised, the cat or me!"

By 1960 Deuce was fifty years old. Bernard had retired. Times were changing and so was the CLR's equipment. A new behemoth, a diesel, came onto the scene, and Number 2 was scheduled to become scrap metal.

Courtenay's city council heard of Deuce's impending demise. A councillor raised his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor," he said. "This city would not have become what it is today without the Comox Logging and Railway Company. The age of steam is now drawing to a close. I move that we commemorate both the CLR and the power of steam by acquiring old Number 2, the Deuce!"

A discussion followed. "We have better things to do with these funds than put a beat-up old relic on display," said one councillor. "We need two secretaries," said another. "Such money could get us that help."

The Mayor finally called for a vote. "All those in favour, please raise your hands."

"Against?" He glanced along the line of councillors, none of whom had raised his hand. The Mayor smiled because he knew those who objected did not want to be in a minority. "Carried."

And so it was.

Deuce, her paint shining and whistle blowing, ran once more under her own power along the E & N Railway from Ladysmith to Courtenay. Those who loved steam, and there were quite a few, wore broad smiles, and some wore tears, too. As she pulled in to her new home they did not talk. They stood, listening to the escaping steam softly whispering hiss-s-s.

The engineer extinguished the fire in her boiler and the engine became quiet. He climbed down from the cab and stood there for a minute, looking at Deuce. He took off his cap and wiped his eyes with a shirt sleeve.

It was the end of an era for Deuce. She was displayed beside the highway where the townsfolk admired her, but she had become cold and lifeless.

By 1989 Deuce had stayed in one spot for twenty-nine years as a proud representative of a past era: admired, photographed-and vandalized. Her paint faded and peeled and rust showed among the bird droppings.

In the 1990s the City of Courtenay recognized that Deuce deserved better treatment. Council passed a motion to make funds available to repaint and build a shelter for her.

Today she rests comfortably inside the shelter, protected from vandals, birds and children's climbing feet by a locked chain-link fence and a permanent roof. She is still beside the highway, kept company by the tourist bureau and a colourful First Nations totem pole.

Deuce is now over ninety years old. She doesn't-she cannot-move. Her taps and levers are rusted in place as if encased in ice.

The age of steam is gone, but Deuce speaks to those who visit her. Despite the rust and her controls frozen in time, she is still a feisty lady.

Stand in her cab with your hand on a lever. Feel the driving wheels click-clacking along the rails. Hear her gleaming brass bell clanging and her shrill whistle cutting the air. Look behind: it is 1950 once again and her smoke trails back.

Deuce was a faithful engine. Rebuilding her would awaken the age of steam, if only a little. It has been done before.

She could run on a part of the Comox line. Her shiny brass bell, sharp whistle and chuffing smoke stack would thrill everyone who saw her or rode with her. She would put happy smiles on the faces of new generations and pull delighted tourists gawking from restored passenger car windows. Perhaps Deuce could even deliver occasional cargo such as surface mail.

Why, some say Bernard Churchill is with her still.

~ Manuel Erickson

ME

2011-03-06T11:28:00.000-08:00

Photograph by Julie Nygaard.

Learn more about "ME".

Magic Lake Heron , poetry by Yvonne MacKenzie

2011-03-04T12:47:00.000-08:00

kneeling at the end of the dock
weathered boards splinter the inward gaze
and the clamour of hungry ghosts begins to fade across the lake

darkling minnows swirl below the surface of the water
sieving the mind of errands and unrest
when all at once a great blue heron settles on the shore

he folds me in to the peace of his wings
and the old ache recedes
yet his spear-like beak belies the stillness of his pose
and warns against complacency

he is silent but his song resounds in my heart
attuned to the counsel of reeds and the soft breath of lilies
we float together in this living chalice
arrested in time
the confluence of our being a stillpoint of grace

there will come a time for the seedpod to burst
for the motion of discourse and service
but for now
I am willing to pause
while the scroll of pollen unwinds its fulgent message
of sweetness yet to come
while the birds teach me a new tongue to describe the mystery

Yvonne MacKenzie

Vancouver Island, springtime is coming

2011-03-04T11:14:00.000-08:00

"Spring chicken", digital painting by Ron Greenaway. Inspired by the days getting longer.

Mirages

2011-03-01T06:56:00.000-08:00

While a fisherman cast his nets, two jets
left Libya, flying low over the Med waving
sunshine below, and back on the street,
placards high in the square, two hundred
people fell strafed from the air.

Jets over Libya screamed down at the crowd and
snuffed out those voices getting louder than loud
like the roar of the engines over the wave
of the sunshine reflected by people who gave
up their lives while the life of the one who
oppressed them escapes to be sheltered by
others who stress them.

Two jets left Libya carrying souls for refueling,
while deep in the ocean our fish are re-schooling
and fishers are floating whether distant or near,
remaining alive to the screaming we hear.

Rojan Zét

Moon Dog

2011-02-16T11:23:00.001-08:00

I do not fear this peace I'm
free to call my own nor flee the
space I have to roam alone... this
blue, blue night - Moon's brightest
bright - marks shadows left by some
pure light as though in day between
dark trees. With quiet ease I find my way.
Each step my shadow lengthens slight
as moon dog walks me home tonight.

Rojan Zét

glyphs of pleasure

2011-02-13T16:22:00.000-08:00

"glyphs of pleasure" digital collage by Ron Greenaway inspired by the poetry of Yvonne MacKenzie.

New Beginnings

2011-02-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

touch builds momentum in the bloodstream
accumulates
like silt in the delta
layers of history
greening the edge of our knowing
we reassemble the edifice of the past
as if there will be a chance of salvage
there will not, we sense the tragedy
yet some new beauty grows
rooting us in this time, this place
completing the circuit of earth and stars
our lives no longer defined by birth or intention
but by willingness to inhabit this moment

we will grind the old stones into pigment
and paint our skins with glyphs of pleasure
we will dance around our fire
and invite the hungry ghosts
to sup at our feast
for there is room now in this new place
and bounty

this is what I want:
to lie in the sun
to feel heat in my bones
to be gathered like brush
and rekindled
for you to trace your story with tongues of flame
to find my story in the calligraphy of curves and hollows
paper held over fire
a hidden language emerging
from the alchemy of trust

~ Yvonne MacKenzie

Tyeshia Jones 1992 - 2011

2011-02-06T06:48:00.001-08:00

We returned Tyeshia today - back to the womb,
said goodbye, wept light-drops falling from
our eyes, lowered her to the tomb under
fading skies no more the same.

Glistening nature - alive to every step, each note
kept time. Buds on trees, ravens calling and
tears still falling, hundreds followed down the
road, a ringing bell with souls still singing.

We opened up the earth - Mother took her back again
her voice now snuffed, a candle cold not even smoking,
without light and no more joking, just the sound of
thought-provoking silence and some choking.

Asking why - what joy, to take from such short life and
life so taken, this girl daughter, sister, cousin, niece,
or neighbour, maybe someone's girlfriend, angel, baby, a
brief history at its end, now memory, our minds shaken.

We returned Tyeshia today - back to the womb, bid
farewell and wept, swept the pain of light-drops falling
from our eyes again, lowered beneath dark skies still calling.

Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island Leprechauns

2011-02-05T07:17:00.000-08:00

That little beach artist leprechaun has been at it again! I'll catch them one of these days!

Photo by Susan Miller

Last Words

2011-02-04T11:08:00.000-08:00

He was in a Bed

Outside

With the light on his Face

getting ready to cross

that River

I'll be a different Man

he had once said

and I remember smiling

while he shrugged

The light was warm

and he looked away

He looked back at me

My Light

He said

to Me

and smiled.

~Suzan Kostiuck (Steeves)

Pink Boots

2011-02-01T15:18:00.000-08:00

Pink Boots, digital photography, 2009 by Julie Nygaard

Perfect for mud puddles

Passing

2011-01-25T16:05:00.000-08:00

Gazing outward, unaccompanied I
pace this earth-station's platform,
each slow step sinking my heart
deeper into release of that
which is free in me, toward
my next stop, a lighter
freedom-finding being.

Swiftly falling away in total
silence, the earth-horizon's
curve bends to an arc becoming
a shrinking turquoise sphere that
disappears to nothing and I am
centered in a hollow black orb
dotted with pin-prick lights.

Immobilized, I cannot say
I am stopped. Enclosed,
I do not feel contained.
Without reference, I am
newly stationed alone in
my transient presence.

Who approaches?

Rojan Zét

Raven's Covenant

2011-01-21T15:29:00.000-08:00

When we know what raven knows
we will sing the secret name
of mist and cave

Raven sees her self
in every blade of grass
she enters the heart of stone
and shines with the brilliance of diamonds

The saraband of light on waves
the sacristy of worms
infuse her like the fragrance of lilies

Raven is the throat of the forest
the jubilation of cedar to ocean
her flight a plume of smoke from the molten
core

When we know what raven knows
we will honour the bright centre
and our bones will be wings of prayer

Yvonne Mackenzie

preserving sanity in a broken world

2011-01-18T13:22:00.000-08:00

"preserving sanity in a broken world", digital collage by Ron Greenaway. Inspiration from Rojan Zét.

Metal in Motion by Brad Allen

2011-01-16T10:04:00.000-08:00

A Youtube video about Brad Allen, Cowichan Valley metal artist.

Turn up your speakers and click "Play".

Visit Brad Allen's website at members.shaw.ca/meddleart

Yvonne MacKenzie

2011-01-15T15:22:00.000-08:00

The Cowichan Valley Arts Cafe welcomes Yvonne MacKenzie who wrote:

"... I like to think my poetry reminds people that as well as service on the front lines of change, the land needs activism of the soul in order to create a sustainable existence. For me, that's rooted in gratitude for the beauty of nature...."

Below are links to her inspired poetry posted in the Cowichan Valley Arts Cafe:

Thank you Yvonne!

MoonDance Dynamic Arts School

2011-01-02T08:25:00.000-08:00

Profile of an Arts Group

At any given day at MoonDance Dynamic Arts School, you may find yourself moving to the live upbeat percussion rhythms of West Africa or joyfully learning the art and technique of the West African Djembe. You might be inspired to join lively Bhangra dancing or embrace the spirit of Modern dance. A world of creative passion is yours to engage at MoonDance.

MoonDance Dynamic Arts School is a vibrant cultural and creative hub located based on Vancouver Island for over 11 years. Known for celebrating diversity and cultural understanding through the dance, music and the arts, MoonDance offers a wide range of classes and workshops for all to enjoy.

Artistic Director Lynn Weaver has been dancing all of her life and loves sharing her passion for dance with the community. She has studied extensively across a range of disciplines and believes that each person who participates in learning dance from another culture contributes to the preservation of multiculturalism on this planet. To this end MoonDance employs a varied range of instructors from the local community as well as Africa and around the world who embrace dance, movement and music as a celebration of life.

Classes and workshops are varied and include West African Dance (classes for all ages), West African Drumming (Djembe), Baby and Me West African, Kids Creative Dance, Yoga, Adult Ballet, Asana Dance, Modern, Contact Improvisation, Hip Hop, Pilates, Composition and Performance Art for Kids and fitness classes, among others.

MoonDance believes in the power of community and participates in a number of community building initiatives including a partnership with the nonprofit society Matoto. Matoto is a grassroots organization that uses the arts to channel the natural desire to connect in meaningful ways. They are currently building a much needed school in Guinea Africa. www.matoto.org

Starting in January 2011, MoonDance has a new home at the beautiful Art House in Shawnigan Lake Village, 1756 Wilmot Avenue. MoonDance welcomes the public to enjoy the Art House with an open house on Sunday January 9th from 2:00 - 5:00pm. The day features free workshops, demonstrations and performances for all ages. We look forward to seeing you there!

For more information please visit our web site: www.moondancearts.ca or you can call 250.743.5846 or email moondancearts@yahoo.ca

Midnight Year End

2011-01-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

you have no idea what this mojo can do and neither do i
are these words too snappy for you too fast
i can slow things down if you like and bring it to you stop frame
until i'm getting it right on the pulse our whole
bodies patterning together in convulsions one piercing
the other pierced and all words carefully parsed

parse this mojo marketer mark it if you have to
that that is is that that is not is not that that is

Rojan Zét

Susan Miller

2011-01-01T17:22:00.000-08:00

photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

"Common" island birds?

N-E-V-E-R!!

I can never get enough stills of these perfect posing cuties.

Susan Miller Parksville

My name is Susan Miller and I love to take seagull photos and beach art photos.

Beach art photos are when the stars and planets are aligned I very often come across shell sculptures,inukshuks etc left by little leperachauns who ask for nothing but to be admired by visitors like myself.

Calling on all bunnies and leprechauns to show thyselves...

Walking the beach the other morning I noticed the handiwork of a tricky leprechaun and sidekick.

Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

Peace, a poem by Rojan Zét

2010-12-25T07:23:00.000-08:00

A fabric holding all threads together.
Try to hang on, or just let go, allowing
it to hold you.

Where does it catch you up, snag you, and
how do the pendulous swings carry you?

What rocks do you crash against, and where
does your plummeting smash you to a putty
of flesh and bone?

The spirit slithers away becoming dilute
gossamer, not seen again, leaving just
the faint taste of unrecognized memory.

The time spent hurtling between letting go
and being permanently attached.

May Peace be yours, the evolution of spirit.

Rojan Zét

Brad Allen

2010-12-10T07:53:00.000-08:00

Profile of an Artist

Sculptor Brad Allen has been creating metal art for the past fifteen years. Using a torch as a paintbrush he renders his artistic force on a canvas of discarded steel.

“I find the pleasures of expression with the breath of my torch…”
- Brad Allen

Influenced by his travels to Italy, Sedona, Maui, and his beloved Hornby Island, Allen creates a fusion of the bold and whimsical—the representative and abstract. His works explore global connections as seen in his interpretation of Aztec art and Japanese kanji symbols. His metal art creates a diversity of first impressions and has a unique capacity to convey insights intuitively and emotionally about family, love, and the dance of life. Allen’s deep connection with nature and his commitment to environmental sustainability combine to produce exquisite, carefully crafted sculptures. Allen values the surface appearance of his stock and using his torch and an array of finishing tools he manipulates his medium to create the perfect aesthetic. With the use of heating and cooling techniques he is able to create colours ranging from earth tones to deep penetrating blues.

His fluid and dynamic sculptures reveal the art of metal in motion. Allen’s innovative creations can be viewed in natural outdoor and indoor galleries on Vancouver Island and in private collections around the world.

Visit Brad Allen's website at members.shaw.ca/meddleart

Postcard to Jupiter

2010-12-09T16:03:00.000-08:00

Postcard to Jupiter OR How we got multi-media
(found in a drawer) Earthdate 2010 July 10

My dear Majin,

I'm dining at the Y. What a place for laughs! I met this guy Tom with black hair, his jaw came loose, and his T-shirt which started out being on inside out on this one particular evening when we had our discussion, turned out to have EMBLAZONED on it, "Dier Kennrek I", that is to say, "I recognize my kin..." and I saw it right away - as soon as he turned it around. I said so, and I went with it, I meant it, I looked him straight in the eye, even said it again, and he just kept on staring back at me, his smile growing broader and spreading to his eyes until there were wrinkles everywhere.

What could I do?

I mean, it's not that he had me or anything like that, it's just that it seemed so right, so unbelievable, almost like what I always thought about Truth. Nowadays when I try to visualize Truth I think of an old Ariel Square Four, out of the fifties... a black one... timeless... it would fit in today, yesterday, or tomorrow... like Truth... and truth to me is knowing something, like the feeling of being at home, when those around you are like birds with the same feathers as yours. That's where that saying came from, "Birds of a feather, flock together." It's so simple yet so elegant, and true. I'm part of a flock now, well I guess I always was, really, but now I FEEL part of it, due to awareness of those in my proximity. I recognize them around me, and see myself in those I meet. And wonder of wonders, they seem to like me. My brothers, my sisters, love to all of you.

This guy was my brother, and how did THAT thought make my world change? Well it seems at least I had some time to figure it out. Our paths had gone separate ways since that day long ago when the door closed behind him and I had left Aldabra. How long had it been now...? Let's see... it was the summer before I moved under this overpass where the trains always went through and Lilo and I met there too. Well we meant to meet there but the way it all ended was with me meeting myself where the meat gores through. But that's a whole other story.

You remember I said Tom'd had his T-shirt on inside out? He did. And he is SO compliant, I mean all you gotta do is say something and he'll do it, like, "Move this pile of logs before I get back willya, or HEY, your T-shirt's on in side out," and he jumps up and starts throwing logs around or whips off his shirt... flips it around and throws it back on, then looks up at you with those puppy dog eyes - "Did I do good? Huh? Did I? Did I?" and you just have to offer some encouragement. So there he was, halfway between having the T inside in and out side out and inside out and outside in. Sort of reminds you of something doesn't it... ya, you could see the hairs on his chest, and on his belly, and hanging from his armpits. Maybe you would say he was a hairy guy, but I wouldn't, I've seen harrier, is that how you spell it, I wonder, no that's wrong. "Hairy" gets to become "hairier." "I've seen harrier," ya, that's a good one, I've seen whole suffrin' FLOCKS of 'em, haven't I? You might even say I've been harried. But I absolutely will not allow myself to be hurried. Even harried as I am at times, I take my time. We kind of have an understanding, Time and I. We trade, we exchange, we give and take. When I take it, Time gives. When I give it, Time takes. And we've both agreed to it, it's quite mutual. We're in it for the long haul, both committed, yet we respect each another. And when I'm finally ready to give Time up forever, Time will fully take me. All of me. Kind of comforting don't you think? All of me. All of you. All of us. All together. Birds of a feather. We're ALL birds of a feather, don't you see?

So where was I? Oh ya, the discussion, that's what you were wondering about. Well, I can't say much you know, there's the ban, and there's the incident, and there's the policy, and there's the rules, and there's protocol, and there's the measles, and whaddya know, what next, where will it all stop I ask you? We just can't talk anymore. Can't have that jaw flappin' in the breeze, nosirree podner. Especially now. So much has happened since the last time we talked, nothing will ever be the same.

I love you. We can't help being who we are.

Kiss Lilo for me,

Dura

PS: So that's what it boils down to... can't talk about the discussion any more it seems. Next thing you know it'll be illegal even to speak without permission. Then next we'll have to buy licenses, and then they'll be designating Speakers, (which we'll have to pay for of course) and eventually they'll be built right into our computers. Are you feeling strapped in yet? Maybe I worry too much, if so, it comes from my mother's side. And isn't it the man's side a woman comes from?
Have a side of ribs while you're at it. Ate Smacklik or something like that.

Rojan Zét

Comments
That's really good Rojan, don't take any credit for it but you can put your name on it, just recognize that all you really did was write down the words, and pick out the right ones, and string them together in a certain way, but you could never have thought up something like this yourself, now could you have? How could you have?
M

Vancouver Island Beach Art

2010-12-09T07:06:00.001-08:00

Beach art photos are when the stars and planets are aligned I come across shell sculptures, inukshuks etc left by leprechauns who ask for nothing but to be admired.

~ byline and photography by Susan Miller, Parksville

Common Vancouver Island birds?

2010-12-09T07:01:00.001-08:00

"Common" island birds?

N-E-V-E-R!!

I can never get enough stills of these perfect posing cuties.

Susan Miller Parksville

Cathi Jefferson

2010-12-08T07:47:00.001-08:00

Profile of an Artist

Cathi's career as a studio-trained potter began under mentor Herman Venema in Matsqui, British Columbia, in 1974. She also completed fine arts courses at Kwantlen College and the Fraser Valley College. Two Canada Council Grant provided funding for a 4-month residency at The Archie Bray Foundation in Montana and the Banff Centre for the Arts. Experiences with fellow ceramic artists include a Cuban artist exchange (2004), wood-firings in B.C., Banff, Oregon and Minnesota, and residencies in Banff (2000/2005), Montana (2006), Maine (1997), Japan (1993/ 2003), the UK (2002).

Reflecting Nature: Reflecting Spirit
artwork by Cathi Jefferson

Cathi currently teaches ceramics at the University of Victoria, and has taught at the Emily Carr College of Art and Industrial Design, Kootenay School of Art in Nelson, Medalta in Medicine Hat, North Mount Pleasant in Calgary, and at ‘Series’ in Red Deer. Cathi enjoys teaching workshops and sharing experiences with fellow potters through teaching workshops in BC, Canada, Europe and the USA.

Cathi has always been actively involved in the clay community. During a 4-year term as a board member with the Tozan Society, she helped build 2 traditional Japanese wood-fire kilns in Nanaimo. She is affiliated with Circle Craft Co-op, the Potters Guild of BC, the South Vancouver Island Potter’s Guild, and the Fraser Valley Potter’s Guild (president 1995-2007). Since 1996, she has been a member of the Fired Up collective. She recently completed a 3-year term as a North West Ceramic Foundation board member, and is co-chair of the triennial Canadian Clay Symposium.

Her exhibition history has been extensive over the years, being invited to participate in three USA exhibitions at the National Clay Exhibition for the Ceramic Arts (NCECA) and the ‘21st Century Ceramics’ in Ohio. She was juried into the Sydney Myers International Award, Australia and won the juror’s award at the American Orton Cone Box Show. Among the many publications that have featured her work are Robin Hopper’s 'Functional Pottery' and Phil Roger's 'Salt-Glaze Ceramics'.

Cathi's passion for the preservation of nature is evident is all aspects of her work. Her new studio and gallery on the beautiful Cowichan River near Duncan, BC, is surrounded by the west coast rain forest that inspires her. The unique salt-fired functional stoneware and sculptural forms she creates have designs from nature that she cares so passionately about. Her large sculptural pieces represent the forests that are so crucial to the health of the planet. Her concern for the fragility of nature led her on a three year creative journey that resulted in the installation, 'Reflecting Nature: Reflecting Spirit'.

Visit Cathi Jefferson's website at: www.cathijefferson.com

Todd Robinson, glass artist

2010-12-06T09:18:00.000-08:00

Profile of an Artist

Todd Robinson is a self taught glass artist currently living and working out of his studio in Port Alberni, B.C.

After 17 years as an artist / fabricator in the architectural signage and graphics industry on the Lower Mainland he moved to Vancouver Island to start his own home-based business Cascadia Glass Studio in 2007.

In his art he tries to capture the intense beauty of the West Coast and bring it to life on glass. Having been born and raised in the Pacific Northwest has brought a unique flair to his style of glasswork, from intricately detailed coastal panoramas to funky marine-life decor pieces. His largest major work to date was in 2009 when he was commissioned as the glass artist to carve the First Nations designs into the 20 panels featured in the cedar and glass sculpture on permanent display at the Richmond Skating Oval for the 2010 Olympic Games.

Todd works closely with his clients from original design concept to finished artwork to ensure that each piece reflects their own personal style and taste.

Cascadia Glass Studio is located in the scenic Alberni Valley on Vancouver Island surrounded by the mountains, forests and coastlines that inspire Todd's art. Visitors are always welcome to come by and to view the works both finished or in progress and see the technique involved in creating a piece of art on glass.

The possibilities and uses of etched and sandblasted glass can be endless. Doors, windows, partitions, showers, mirrors, signage, storefronts or maybe a piece of art to hang on the wall are just a few of the options. Whatever your idea is we are here to help you achieve it. Whether it be the subtleness of surface etching or the intensity of deep carving, the versatility of sandblasted glass when combined with light will produce a stunning showpiece for your home or business.

Visit Cascadia Glass Studio online at www.cascadiastudio.ca

Herb Rice, wood carver

2010-12-05T07:52:00.000-08:00

Profile of an Artist

Herb Rice is a First Nation Artist of Coast Salish descent from the Cowichan Valley. He is a wood carver whose approach to his work is to combine the richness of his heritage with a more contemporary perception.

Herb's art is rendered on wood in forms of Wall Panels, Doors, Totems, Talking Sticks and Figurines, all of which reflect legends, teachings or personal stories of growth. His totems and his animal depictions are carved in local red and yellow cedar, alder or pine and depict traditional Salish and Kwakuitl designs.

The concepts and designs Herb depicts represent values, experiences, philosophies and aspirations of First Nations and non-native individuals, families and organizations. Each art piece is accompanied with a story relating the journey represented.

Learn more about Herb Rice and workshops he offers at: www.coastsalishjourney.com

Sand

2010-11-27T08:42:00.000-08:00

Between the pages in these drawers
lies sprinkled sand from distant shores
where once I lay and felt the sun, heard
laughter, and saw children run. There in
the sand I curled my toes, and when I rose,
some came with me.

Please, take my hand. Let's walk along
the beach while high in the sky, jets chalk
white lines beyond our reach that drift away and
fly like sprinkled sand. Our feet of clay make
footprints that we see turn wet as water fills
them disappearing, yet bare feet and I return
from distant shores to dry.

And in between my finger goes, and finds
the sand there with the toes, brought from
unforgotten ages, sprinkled sand that
spots these pages....

Rojan Zét

Between Thumb and Forefinger

2010-11-26T23:53:00.000-08:00

Between Thumb and Forefinger, digital painting by Ron Greenaway, inspired by the poem "Between Thumb and Forefinger", by Manuel Erickson.

Compassion

2010-11-22T11:35:00.000-08:00

Compassion is a virtue - one in which the emotional capacities of empathy and sympathy for the suffering of others are regarded as a part of love itself, and a cornerstone of greater social interconnectedness and humanism - foundational to the highest principles in philosophy, society, and personhood.

More vigorous than empathy, the feeling commonly gives rise to an active desire to alleviate another's suffering. It is often, though not inevitably, the key component in what manifests in the social context as altruism. In ethical terms, the various expressions down the ages of the so-called Golden Rule embody by implication the principle of compassion: Do to others what you would have them do to you.

Ranked a great virtue in numerous philosophies, compassion is considered in all the major religious traditions as among the greatest of virtues.

.. "may I have some more, please ?... "

Kyle, by Julie Nygaard

2010-11-21T10:57:00.000-08:00

Learn more about this photograph and about the photographer, Julie Nygaard, at julie-bybrushandpen.blogspot.com.

Here

2010-11-20T10:30:00.000-08:00

I am not silent, as some count silence
waiting for inspiration between moments
breathing a stuttering hand contrived,
I am a rock on the land newly arrived.

I am not alone, as some consider loneliness
lying in wait for visitors knocking at a
closed door, rhyming. I am a clock at
midnight, chiming.

I am not afraid, as some fear death
dreading the end or some survival. I
am alive and glistening within this
awkward listening, awaiting your arrival.

Rojan Zét

Beyond the digital divide

2010-11-12T08:15:00.000-08:00

Beyond the digital divide
Painting with light by Ron Greenaway

Ron Greenaway, yours truly

2010-11-10T08:58:00.000-08:00

I am currently the moderator of the Cowichan Valley Arts Café.

If I can be of any assistance, something on the site isn't quite right, please let me know. It's my pleasure.

Some inspired creative posts by me in this Café include:

Cowichan Camerata Strings Orchestra

2010-11-06T10:00:00.001-07:00

Profile of Artists

Turn up your speakers and click "Play" to watch video.

The Cowichan Camerata Strings Orchestra is a group of musicians of all ages, coming together to make music!

The orchestra started 5 years ago under the direction of conductor Garth Williams and has gathered musicians within our community, ages 10-90years. It has been a great inter-generational community group which enjoys playing with each other and playing for the Cowichan area.

We strive to perform music which appeals to all ages, and to make orchestral music accessible to the community. We have performed at the Cowichan District Hospital, Cairnsmore and Wedgewood House. We have played on stage at the Duncan Farmer's Market and at the Station during Duncan Days and Duncan's Christmas lighting.

Our orchestra welcomes new members! Please contact us, or come to a rehearsal and check us out!

A sample of our music from the spring concert, Musical Glimpses of Summer, to scenes of summer on Vancouver Island.

For more information about us and our upcoming performances visit:
www.cowichancamerata.org.

Damned

2010-11-05T11:26:00.000-07:00

© 2008, 2010 Manuel Erickson

You are damned.
Viscous gel oozes
from your heart that is blacker
than the blackest diamond
than the blackest coal
than the biggest black hole in the cosmos.
Your sons will disavow and hate you
when they see and understand
the damage you have done
to me, their grandfather:
your stolid silence, your letter
filled with loathing, your decision
not to have anything to do with me—
I, who loved you:
for you will have damaged them.

Are you redeemable? perhaps: if you
see, understand and acknowledge
the bullets you have shot
into my heart and theirs;
perhaps: if nightmares force you
to swim in tears of shame
until your eyes dry out
and become orbs of sandy grit
until you beg forgiveness
on bleeding knees
for your wrongs.

Only then.

Then, in a time not that futuristic,
your children might say to you,
“Thank you, Mum, for giving me
my grandfather.”

Between Thumb and Forefinger

2010-11-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

© 2010 Manuel Erickson

She has you between thumb and forefinger,
Like a fly;
She'll squeeze the life out of you
If you so much as whisper rebellion.

Vancouver Island Viewpoint

2010-10-25T08:45:00.000-07:00

We have arrived at this extraordinary human evolutionary point in time by doing what we've done. We cannot continue doing what we have done before because it will bring our very existence to an end. It is a human dilemma.

What we will do based on history and experience will be our undoing. An active transformational engagement of change is all that might save us.

Defining terms:

I live in paradise and am witnessing the beginning of the end of human existence, at least as we've known it. My happiness relies on humour. If life is a stage, I live in the theatre of the absurd.

hu·man (hymn)

1. A member of the genus Homo and especially of the species H. sapiens.

2. A person: the extraordinary humans who explored Antarctica.

adj.

1. Of, relating to, or characteristic of humans: the course of human events; the human race.

2. Having or showing those positive aspects of nature and character regarded as distinguishing humans from other animals: an act of human kindness.

3. Subject to or indicative of the weaknesses, imperfections, and fragility associated with humans: a mistake that shows he's only human; human frailty.

4. Having the form of a human.

5. Made up of humans: formed a human bridge across the ice.

di·lem·ma (d-lm)

1. A situation that requires a choice between options that are or seem equally unfavourable or mutually exclusive.

2. Usage Problem A problem that seems to defy a satisfactory solution.

3. Logic An argument that presents two alternatives, each of which has the same consequence.

Connie Kurtenbach

2010-10-19T12:20:00.000-07:00

Profile of an Artist

A Vancouver Island resident for over 25 years, Connie was born on a large farm east of Cudworth, Saskatchewan, spent her early years there, attended secondary school in Saskatoon, and completed university studies in Edmonton and Toronto. As a teacher and performer in Edmonton, Connie founded several music groups and produced LPs of folk music. In Toronto, Connie continued her studying, teaching, counseling, writing and music performance. Since moving to British Columbia with her husband, François Brassard, she has focused on writing and painting. Connie's short fiction was included in The Oyster Speaks, a 2005 anthology of works by the Chemainus Writers.

Connie Kurtenbach's short stories portray a child's perspective on her memorable experiences while her mother is away at a tuberculosis sanatorium. Nine year old narrator Cally Steinbach brings readers into her mother's garden, where every sense is awakened; the aroma of cinnamon bread, the songs harmonized after supper, the first cracking of ice in the spring, and always the underlying sense of loss. When Cally's own imagination and adventures take her into fearful places, she can find refuge in her mother's garden: it is fenced and has a gate to keep out the wild things.

These stories for adult readers convey the young narrator's search for beauty and truth amid sorrow, fear and longing, and a spirit that transforms dark times through the belief that spring will soon arrive and mama will come home. The text is complemented by a series of seasonal paintings by Donna Kurtenbach, as well as drawings and vintage photographs.

In My Mother's Garden, published by Diamond River Books, Adult fiction, $16.95

ISBN # 978-0-9811376-9-8. Website: www.diamondriver.ca (Go to: Books in Print)

Author contact information: ckfb@telus.net Tel: (250) 245-3365.

Carla Stein

2010-10-13T11:09:00.000-07:00

Profile of an Artist
Roaerie Studio
Images by Carla Stein

Carla Stein expresses her view of the world in paintings filled with fluidity, color and emotion. She works in acrylics, oils, watercolors, and pastels.

She has lived in central Vancouver Island since 1991 and has a diploma in Fine Arts from Fanshawe College in London, Ontario. Her work has been featured in a variety of Canadian galleries and is also held by in private collections. Both originals and prints of her work are available for sale. To purchase an original or arrange a commission, please contact Carla directly via e-mail: info@roaeriestudio.com

More of her images can be seen on her blog at: roaeriestudio.blogspot.com

The Road

2010-10-12T08:25:00.000-07:00

The road before me stands
impassive, serves me a curve,
brings me a field of corn,
shows me mist over the tassles,
hands me a lake, and above all,
sends me the moon.

Moon I love you, moon I
kiss you, moon when I see
you and articulate you into
existence I sense you into
the world, when I purse my
lips and speak the first emm,
mmmmm MMMM oooo ooooooo o o o
oooon, like a cow kissing air,
mooing, mooning, mooring with
you, I kiss you kissing me.
Moon, I raise my face.
Carry me, flood me, love me
with your light, wash me, take
me with your rain, bathe me this
night for you are mine and I am
yours and we are together, alone.

She comes with me into the back,
we murmur and gaze, reaching
for each other, moving closer;
together we twist and turn,
threading each other, treading
each other, spreading each other,
never dreading each other, and
there is the sign, Do Not Enter.
Moon on the road, my sunshine.

Presenting a well groomed
face, the road kisses me
off, bows, steps back,
takes a turn, and rises,
leaving behind on this
shoulder only a cob,
some butter, and salt
for moondust.

Rojan Zét

Gas Station Reflections

2010-10-11T08:32:00.000-07:00

Photo by Julie Nygaard, 2009

Raymond is inspiring, creative and compassionate.......
He has ALS.........the medical community says 2-5 years......I believe he will fight this disease
I am in awe of his outgoing and loving nature...........
He is strong and has a love of life, culture and people.........

I love you Raymond

Thank you for being you
Thank you for being my inspiration
Thank you for showing me a whole new perspective and understanding of life

Julie Nygaard at Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Vancouver Island Thanksgiving

2010-10-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving at the Cowichan Valley Arts Café

Dream About Dad

2010-10-09T17:12:00.000-07:00

One
© 2010 Manuel Erickson

I've been thinking more about my father lately. I just finished reading a couple of self-published stories with a Scottish tang to them; I would like to visit Scotland and see Old Cumnoch, the village where Dad was born, and I find myself wondering if I shall.

Sometimes I hear a voice in my head—my mother?—an aunt?—a cousin?—saying that I look like my father, that my personality is a lot like his, that I sound like him. Apart from his hot temper (which I have inherited) and his jealousies (which I have not), I don’t mind. Dad was a liberal thinker; so am I. He voted for the Left Wing; so do I. He loved Beethoven, "the man who freed music"; so do I.

At least, I love Beethoven now, though I didn't, or tried not to, when I was a boy. At that time, I didn't want to be like my dad; I didn't want to be an upholsterer like him, nor did I want his bad temper or his jealous nature. Since he liked Beethoven's music, I tried not to like it.

Dad, Age About 77
photo of Harry Erickson

A free thinker, Beethoven had originally dedicated his Eroica Symphony to Napoleon, but when Napoleon declared himself emperor, Beethoven tore the dedication page from the manuscript, an action Dad and I supported. We were also free thinkers.

When I was young, I rebelled against anything Dad liked so I would resemble him less. Now, I want to rebel against my physical infirmities, especially the ringing in my ears, the tendonitis in my right elbow that keeps me from playing the piano as much as I want, and the elbow brace I must wear for support when I type.

I'm angry with myself for allowing my own pianistic skills to deteriorate as they have. I remember the letter that the Royal Conservatory's principal, David Ouchterlony, mailed to my piano teacher when I was only fifteen, in which he said I could be "a first-rate concert pianist." I wanted to be a baseball player, not a pianist.

I'm deeply disappointed, as well, that my compositional abilities never amounted to much, though I hear new melodies in my head from waking to sleeping and all the hours in between.

One morning I dreamed about my father. I watched and listened to him play the piano. It was a dark brown upright; he sat on an equally dark, round, adjustable wooden stool. He had placed his left leg askew from his body while his other foot worked the forté pedal, putting his entire body at an angle to the keyboard—a relaxed professional.

He played something by Chopin. I didn't recognize the piece, but it was fast and melodious. His fingers seemed to glide over the keys, and his face had the happy look of a person who enjoyed tossing off works of art. He barely looked at his hands, and as he played, he turned and flashed a delightful smile at me.

I was astonished at this scene. How is it I didn't know Dad could play? And how does he manage to get his thick fingers between the black keys? How can he play at all with his swollen knuckles developed from years of doing upholstery? When did he have the time to learn? For goodness’ sake—what mastery he has!

The dream felt real, as real as sitting at the computer, typing this story. But it was only a dream.

Did Dad ever play the piano? Not to my knowledge. I don't remember that he even plinked a key, let alone played Chopin.

I dreamed about my father because I loved him. I loved his fairness, profound sense of justice and his tenacity, all of which I have inherited. It's sad that I didn't realize it until years later.

Two

Perhaps it's a result of reading over fifty-year-old letters: I dreamed again about my father last night.

I was upstairs in our Toronto house on Lauder Avenue when Dad slowly trudged up the steps. "Hello, Dad!" I said brightly. "How are you?"

He looked at me, his face drawn. Then he turned to the wall and gently placed his forehead against it. "I'm just so very tired," he said.

I woke up then. Martha was already awake.

"I had a strange dream about my father."

She waited, but I said nothing. "Well, are you going to tell me?"

I related the dream. I felt a certain stuffiness inside my head, somewhere behind my eyes, and tears flowed freely down my cheeks and onto the pillow.

Martha held me for a while, then got up. "That's not a 'strange' dream; it's a sad one."

"Maybe it's because of the old letters I've been reading," I said.

"That's probably the reason."

The year of my dream must have been 1957. Dad sold his business the following year, and Mom reported in a letter to me that Dad had changed for the better: he felt good about himself once again.

© 2010 Manuel Erickson