Friday, June 22, 2018


No one cares much for my poncho. When I purchased it, I announced boldly that I am "bringing back the poncho," so I think that sealed it.

I like my poncho. I like its adaptability. It is a blanket, but it is also a blanket to be worn when standing.

I also like its story: how I saw it at a thrift store in Kamloops, but when I went back to buy it, it was gone. A month later I saw it at Erin Templeton's Vancouver shop (I had bumped into Erin in Kamloops at an exhibition opening). I told her my story, and she laughed, said it was our story now, and offered to split the difference.

So the poncho is not simply a garment purchased at a shop, but an emblem, a story on which its relationships are carried.

Thanks, Brian, for taking its picture. And for last night's bison (wieners).

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Work Day

The pitch fork hits the ground (and slides in) or it hits rock and I wiggle it (in). Once under, I lift, turning the fork this way and that before kneeling down and pulling up stuff like mallow, mustard...

Into the cart they go.

Then it's off to the next square foot.

I have done this at least a thousand times over the past three days, and it is something, but if there is a contraption that removes weeds without taking too much topsoil with them -- great! I want one!

Lunch now. On the deck under the gazebo. The towering clouds and blue patches have given way to dark twisting shapes. I hear thunder, but I see no lightning.

Part of me wants to see a lightning strike, like that Earle Birney poem,

He invented a rainbow but lightning struck it
shattered it into the lake-lap of a mountain
so big his mind slowed when he looked at it

but that would mean fire. The forests are tinder dry, and if they catch fire, then we catch fire too.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

A small room behind a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

Last night's dream was slept on. When I rolled over, there it was: a genre that reflects and accelerates (the times); an assertive genre that, in its listing, celebrates, admonishes; a prayer that clears as much space as it takes -- a litany.

Monday, June 18, 2018

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Westchester Loyola Village Library

After dropping off my rental car to avoid paying for a day that would end six hours later (or two hours before my 8pm flight back to Vancouver), I walked to the Westchester Loyola Village Library to work on the piece that brought me to town: 800 words on Peter Cardew's design of the Reigning Champ store on South La Brea.

The person sitting next to me was also at work. You can't see it from the photo (taken surreptitiously), but to his left is a small keyboard, which he tapped away at, sometimes furiously.

I would love to have heard what this person was composing. The style of music, the samples he was using, whether it had anything to do with him writing and recording it at a library.

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Dog Star Orchestra

A group that meets. The Dog Star Orchestra.

On Thursday night at Coaxial, three pieces: the first we missed; the second, a floor "mounted" score for group movement; followed by music -- someone blowing tone clusters through a melodica while a voice, a voila, a trumpet (and more) take turns pulling from these clusters individual notes and, as angels do, holding them.