Friday, July 09, 2004

In high repeat on the shop's deck: Thievery Corporation's latest DJ set, a.k.a. The Outernational Sound. Soon to be played to death in every upscale hair salon, coffee bar, and clothing store in town, but, for the moment, still sounding remarkably fresh. Highlight: Paul Weller on sitar. Posted by Hello
Open a virtual pack of Wacky Packages -- go on, you know you want to!

More than you ever wanted to know about Wacky Packages, much beloved by me and many others in grade school. Big shout out to Harry's Market, Dundarave, West Vancouver, still peddling WPs after all these years. Posted by Hello

Thursday, July 08, 2004
OK, OK, just one more: Cat & Girl vs. Magritte. Some of these are pretty hit and miss, but this one just made me choke on my coffee.
Lots more Cat & Girl -- thx Michael!
These Poems, She Said

I used to keep a photocopy of this Robert Bringhurst poem on the wall of my study carrall in Buchanan Tower at UBC. Found it again today, in Doris Shadbolt's copy of Bringhurst's first collection of selected poetry, The Beauty of the Weapons. The empathy I felt in my early twenties for the speaker hasn't diminished a bit, though the critique down toward the end beginning, "Self love...", which made no sense at the time, makes more and more sense now as time keeps fugit-ing on.

These poems she said
by Robert Bringhurst

These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket's
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said. . . .
You are, he said,
That is not love, she said rightly.

Cat and Girl -- "These images don't carry on a dialogue with the world"

Wednesday was supposed to be spent in the mountains, but when I woke around 4am rain and wind were thrashing the trees outside the window. At 9am, the Cheam Range and Mount McGuire were still hidden by steel-colored clouds, and Hope was invisible behind a soft grey wall of water. Plan B: down agricultural back roads to Bellingham through rain and sun showers, with a stopover in Lynden for coffee and croissants, then down the whole length of Whidbey Island. Walked the beach at Deception Pass, bull kelp heads trailing out in the current just offshore. Briefly into Seattle and home at twilight. I-5 lyrical companionship courtesy Gift of Gab.  Posted by Hello
Monday, July 05, 2004

In the air tonight: Mr. Otis Clay's A Lasting Love, whose world-weary vocals really are a standout, even on an album already packed with hits.

Don't try to change me
Try and understand my way
Accept my love the way it's offered
That will be the surest way
'Cause my love keeps growing, growing
Just you wait and see,
Ooh, it will be a lasting love,
A lasting love it will be...

 Posted by Hello
Sunday, July 04, 2004

One of 1400-odd Bus Stops in Surrey, B.C. Photo by Sylvia Grace Borda  Posted by Hello

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