Oversion’s Weblog

Life is always good in a sense, the worst throws of suriviving disiaster in the midist of disisaster or post disiaster life is still throbbing intense in fact more powerful so intense the grasping for breath and satisfying success. and Life is also easy, and even interesting. Enjoyable, definitely

I’ve been thinking about patterns for their own sake of late. The 7 day weeks, the seasons, the insane clutching unclutching networks of others and patterns of birds around work and maple leafs and and yes feral casts.

(((benchmark this one, gulley still flush 1st autumns, 2009

here in the blog of course you can act like you’re in a wordfile just write and think and free extemperaneouneanize ~ even without an idea starting out A chicadee like that thats the tree they’re looking for whether along a highway or in the woods, all one form of tree. I’ve been full of existential thoughts woke from vast lunar tunnel I’ve been in for years and wondering about Toronto. Toronto can seem like the rock of the world of time to me, the great contextualizer city, for some reason, unexplainably a found-ational eternalizer. 100s of 1000s of zombies filtering through the flying contextualizer all somehow finding their own improbable sleep in wakefulness here. Who knows how? 1000s of writers and painters and performers of so many forms, real pro per formers. The average pedestrian here has studied for 7 years at the sorbonne and taken at least 3 martial artists to lunch or for a drink or been taken. Just to qualify as pedestrian. The people here have somehow managed to pay what most make in a month, in rent on a small crooning space that leads them to always be awake in the dream of breaking even. In short, Torontnians are inured, vulgarized to necessity, starkly aware, and under such pressure, that if someone leaves a bag of boots somwhere, the whole area goes under hysteric government control and all life stops. Today at work I saw a plastic bag with tall boots near our dumpster and looked and there was a piece of equipment with an electrical chord in one of the boots, and I thought, I’m not touchin it but if I call the cops about these boots they’ll shut down our workplace and harass us for weeks or months with insane curiousity about the fucking bag. I literally thought, well, if it blows, we’ll be up in the front office much of the day anyway, and if I’m back there for some reason and I’m killed by this inexplicable pair of boots well, really, what can you do? I prattled away about it and assume a coworker tossed the boots in the dumpster. People illegally dump garbage up there every day

The Junction Arts Festival seemed a happy healthy community’s lucky choice of day for rejoicing in painting and music and food and crafts and all, but foremost for us it was an highly vintage bookthug poetry event, with bright sun and pleasent if sireny surroundings and some truly fine readings.

Hosts Jay and Jenny with their entirely gentle easygoing spirits and who knows what nuance of gladness in the air in general, pretty much all just excellent and all that sunlight, bookthug’s getting to be my favorite, and I’m even starting to wonder if there’s an element of a theme mildly informing the editorial selection, laidback acknowledge-ment of theory around poetry at once with resurgent fascination with the natural world, all spread out in a sauce of the surreal. Certainly it’s surreal that the press is called BookThug. It is so not thuggish. And the intermin-able referencing of mushrooms. It just not relent, mushrooms this mushrooms that, talking mushrooms, mushrooms roll in evolution, mushrooms in space travel, spores as aliens, it seems infinite:

and such happy audience members, ...some of whom read before I got there:

and with that suddenly, the ring of the phone! back to expand on the essay portion of this after sharing notes on all this, such a fine day onflows all night

Life is simple and sweet, for the bold adventurer. Wake, step outside the door, hoist binoculars, and halak! It all looks good, embark!

breaktime then arrives, all the excitement, Lake Highway Station Park:

the beautiful little appreciated world of windsor ontario canada or windsor appolo moon or windsor appollo moon detroit detroit river

outside the bars is another world of course

the downtown weekend nights are extreme. rowdier than tougher places would be. everyone doing all sorts of things at once because they all feel so free, or...

the carhood triple infinite paintings deconstructable

from far or near, detroit looks awesomely different

Windsor and Detroit were once essentially the same place

the windsor side of the moon has caeser's casino

like gould miles the trevor malcolm jazz trio milk show a labour day weekend saturday night explaining jazzz to new people in great contentment with talents like theirs there's that jazz as echo critique dna tastetest for future jazzz the agreed upon word for experimentation. soundproof noodling and home alone noodling attempting to merge. born prodidgy's whom must be the parrot of pilette, bird caged with rock, and, roll. one whimpers for the gentleness of it.

Sweet party tonight, too good, can’t let it go, so creative, without the extra effort once home. It was incredible in so many ways. The moon was full, the week was over, there was a dog and cat, there was my humourbased giftbook “The Dwindling Party” which I’d found with several others on Dupont the previous day, turned out to be a signed original, here I’d already gifted… the only way back being to start from the ending, in photokineticalicorigriphy…

backwards

the british mojito, gin, 3 ice cubes, kale, cranberries, a walnut or two, water... a health drink

Only now upon completing the initial gathering of mine and Joanne Mousseau’s photos for a teamwork documentario do I feel like the great troping narrative of the WEATHERBELL weekend is actually winding or something like a the fall of ribbon from a ufo slowly landing to the moment retellable in contemporary words… Up til now, I was still there, with the day at work and the morning ride and the feral cats and the sunday morning all blurred to one supa collage. (The Full Moon is Friday by the way. This bonus week of summer has been awesome for our work ethic.

Aisha Sasha John read first, and quickly realizing the fairly frantic but gentle massiveness of the winds swirling wonderfully around called most effectively to have everyone come gathering in to a good proximity and then vividly brought forth many circumstances and had fun realizing the entire audience was happily focusing in on every ramification and gladly listening; effortlessly our delightfully improbable event was made real. (I should show in brackets again the look on Ed's and Sam's faces in the audience. So happy about it all, like when ufos that vibe out endorphins land on earth...

David Fujino read second and if there ever really were electric blueberries I'd gladly repeat the whole event with these 4 readers and even have it filmed one day, by the 11th or 12th time, Fujino I'd want to do all the exact texts of the first, and just add a few; enjoyable on paper and so fine under stone and cloud

Ed Fielding read next (he is Felix Culpa now on facebook due to a bit of online facebooqettiquea friend him if you can) but he is Ed Fielding, you can tell I was inspired by the whole event and thrilled and overjoyed with all of the readers and so proud for the people who embarked 2 o clock rain to the lake shore and yet Ed making it out effortlessly on our part determined ready to go and waiting for us at 2 full powered for all what cometh and old york after

Thom Olsen read after Ed, and sung before him! There is an inevitable playful formality even in the most melodramatically comfortable happy environments, "Who wants to feels like is ready to has it going to read next ? is the best reading order. That was the call, Thom or Ed, and both responded immediately commencing. Had we planned it it would have worked, Thom Olsen singing gregorian chant like glorious becharmic and Ed Fielding (Sieur Culpa) beginning upon his remonstrances courtesies focused tracts and philosophical exactions, intermingling with Thom moving into his "on his knees!" passion plays () (In poem)

Thom Olsen, August 30, 2009

hugh hand transcribed a beautiful poem in enough copies for all present and Sam made enough oex weatherbells for all and then some; Karen was carefully giving out beautiful books to those who didn't have each one, and kemeny and laurie had lots of stuff with them

These have been our photos on our 3 cameras from the 1st WEATHERBELL

the colour blue

the weatherbell of arc