Oversion’s Weblog

Infinitely my admiration of the most sublime sort for George Edward Fielding was only enhanced further getting together Friday night at the Cameron House on Queen Street last night. Whether it’d been that he did not suffer fools well, or that he could cause subtle people to feel their most free to be around him, the gathering consisted of such as moments of mourning and sadness would spontaneously give way to the great joy of befellowed humanity at its best.

And so with a very suitably folksy bluesy band coming on as the gathering unfolded a gladness to carry forward was born out of the opportunity to collect together a good many of Ed’s friends and family at one of his favorite bars.

His eminently charming daughters, fellow artists, writers and collaborators in the theatre, and just good old fashioned friends, all happily afloat for a few hours, amid reports from an entertaining and fun and quite believably psychic friend that Ed in fact is enthralled with afterlife brimming with joy and excitement and, can one really doubt, relieved of the consuming task that is bad health! I myself do not know how any of this dimension of reality truly works, but cannot come away with a negative inkling of any kind from such living. All in the same spirit though, being up so early the Saturday after, what marvellous thoughts come to mind as to what we could in a grand renewal do with a day like this, all reunited in pristine health and, perhaps, flush, in sunny weather. Eggs Florentine with Caviar, a nibble of red salmon, and a drive to the countryside; stroll down a soft old path toward a cabin with wide landing; paintings unrolled and perused with nuanced background inspiration; then into the woods to the water, elegant swimming, to warm dry on the dark rock… and then back into the city for an energizing party, all the way to first glimming of the next dawn, and at last a a return to the contenting sleep that weds the worlds. Anything like that in the future will include him

My Dad must have had some happy times when he was stationed in Downsview in the late 50s. He was there doing a so called “Time Motion Study” which at the time, since I was simultaneously hearing his additional discussions of Keats Negative Capability, I took the idea of his doing a time motion study for the air force to be something more exotic than a man-hour count on basic core tasks of the Air Force. There’s no question my love of the phrase “Safe Telepathy” emerged out of that period of weeks when I went through his old essays and air force period journals and book manuscripts, all of it somehow adding up – when I was around 20 and redoubling when I was around 40 and said to my Mum I was working in Downsview and she said, “Oh, …you were conceived in Downsview… Imagine the amazement. A place I’d never knowingly been til finding my way into a job located up there, as we were back in Moncton by the time I was born. Grew up thinking Downsview was another part of Moncton. They’d mention the dog we had then and things like that, but that dog was named Bess and died before I was born. No record will ever show that I was in Downsview til decades later. I was born in October and my Dad was packed up from the time motion study by February. In those days people didnt know at the time they were having sex that they would have a baby. But how happy he must have been, back then that part of Downsview would otherwise have been forest and clearings, ravines and creeks and substantial ponds, reservoirs, as they say, and having been poor before joining the Air Force and then in Turkey for some time, ie pretty much carrying on with the sheer daily difficulty with life, to suddenly find himself wonderfully married, and an officer in a dear little town like moncton, practically ee cummings city in its way, with riverview city across the creme brune and the birds there, to endure the Downsview assignment while happily newly married and gradually on more stable economic footing, 35 years old and looking good in the uniform, to discover that around the base were all these ravines, all this water, wild species of everything of this region. Birdwatching, really quite awesomely, has tended to time and again in the most surprising fine ways, intersect with the best learnings from all the grand centuries old traditions, religious and philosophical, but as practised by people focused on birds. Indeed the same people who come to the most advanced levels of ‘letting beings be’ birdwatching techniques of mind, who fully learn the very zenmeccan judeochristian pause and flow of stillness and immanence at once, the holy welcoming and selfnegation roll breath that does not disturb the air, the Daoist Christian Heideggerian Jim Carroll Gerry Gilbert breath in take. It’s funny to put it like that, because when you mention religions it sounds like a lot of people probably do it, when in fact as you see when you search for poets who embody it suddenly it’s particular individuals, like D’Onofrio on the major cases law and order, such a talent that dude, totally, poet, I actually race home on my bike to be there in time for my home work nap to be during that show on repeat each night on the omni 2.  D’Onofrio does all these hesitations in his poetry, on that show, great jazzy trick riffs of thought and breath, including the letting it all swirl down to nothing motionless, which is the same breath in the Jim Carroll long poem on Poetry In Motion, (the best poetry movie ever made to this day that i know of or have seen. Home from my Day in Downsview where I was, as i say, conceived! People have a few drinks at a party, and tear off into the night. Yay. I think North American mainstream culture has long been divided between those who rock and roll, and know they were conceived, and those who require some distracting confusing bafflegab. Everyone feels feeling slighted by everyone else. So, anyway, everyone who is raised by birdwatcher librarian poet artist parents without that much start up money, knows. Energaia indeed, and all the breathing patterns out there. Please take a lesson from the small birds speed on the flight thereof possible in your breathing. Birds are the scientists of breathing. The reason they survive so well, it’s because they breathe so well. Huge fluctuations reqiored om reeething paterrn … solves a lot of problems.

i will fight for your liberty as you have fought for our liberty all these eras times moments dreams and periodic good news

warbler bats in flight, fast like swallows, but even more flareoff lazer beep eeratic

i think i was born at age 3

so stunned by the expulsion from woom

what could have gone wrong? what a world?

me and the sky northeast what came with us so amazing

I’ve reconnected with so manny olds lately and letting life change of its own sublime sway the last few months and just gladly easing into it, not worrying about countless of the sorts of things I’ve often worried and soaring into the rivulets of letting beings be, at a great pace. Legendary things have occurred. Old trusted friends, be they so neglected so many years, nonetheless trusted, deep, in retrospect, verging on cosmic. And it’s come with good news, unbelievably good news, timely beyond all conjuring. So selfexaminational but as one who can fold away into a tiny crisp point in nonbeing and just dream and rest more deeply than can the whole arth or sea, able to perceive its just not mattering what becomes of me, for instance in times of grief,… some of my older friends, these 70s these born in 60s, who’d know, after my father died, a lot of the charm of the narrative of existence stepped aside somewhat dramatically, came back to Toronto bewildered and spaced out, and over time evolved into this eccentrically practical self, then, very focused, my mother and cat, and high art and political values, odd arch intense centredness, I mean they’re fun things to be focused on, there’s a lot of room for play in all ov above, still, a sense of minus quite a few dimensions of existence, the horror of people dying proven too much, I mean, even as a kid I could brace myself in a car and make a full highway collision bounce off, but this rude intrusion of mortality to my existence, proven too much, so I was more refracted, still lots of play in a world of arts and cats and family, cities, and internet, but so refracted, and hockey and piano, but so refracted, and still I wonder. But I’m unrefracting.

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.