Home Alone for the weekend
with two dogs insanely jealous of each other
and of my organic turkey sausage pictured above.
There is cold beer in the fridge, and cold white wine for dinner.
There are canine sighs, there is light morning rain.
I trip over 8 little legs who never leave my shadow.
There is a new note card design waiting to be printed and scored,
and a Warbling Vireo waiting to be painted alongside Mr. Toad.
Enjoy your Sunday.
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What a feeling of freedom there is, to be sitting by the water wearing only skinny bits,
to feel the dry, thick weight of just your skin, to feel the sun on it,
to hear the slooshing of the water, and to devour a thick sandwich
and packed smoked mussels straight from the tin, ripping apart the bread
and sopping up the smokey oil,
while a duck eyes you sideways,
mulling the pros and cons of snatching some tasty morsels.
A feeling of freedom and lust,
as you smear the tin clean and suck and smack your oily fingers,
push the plate aside and sign with satisfaction
and roll over to meet the hot towel underneath you.
I gorge on summer now, without feeling any guilt.
It only comes once a year.
I buy berries by the bushel, and eat them with everying––
ice-cream, pies, salads, stuffed in layers of pancakes.
Basking, basking, basking in blinding light, I sit or lie and do nothing
for the sole purpose of feasting my eyes on scenery, telling them
willing them they’d better remember what this looks like,
what this feels like, this decadence of summer,
which like all good things, comes to an end.
I think I learned this from my father.
He likes to go places and rough it up, independent and self-sufficient
and never denying himself enjoyment of things because he understands the simplicity of it.
For example, if my dad felt the need to pack a lunch of the best sandwiches to take on a hike, he knew where to get them, and didn’t think twice about driving all the way in-land,in the heat, to get them.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, he said.
He knew that sitting on top of a cliff, looking out at the sea, feeling the sun on your bare skin
and eating the best sandwiches you could get,
was to grab the best of life in your hands
and fill yourself up with it, and it was a simple thing, comparatively, to go far for a good sandwich.
And then to top that off with a plastic cup full of sun-warmed wine.
My dad would, when we were lying on the beach,
start climbing hills in his speedo, his taught, crimson-brown skin and wiry muscles.
He would find an old discarded bucket and fill it with figs, grapes, prickly pears, and peaches
and come back triumphant, a shadow on our towels and a big grin.
See? he would say, how the Lord provides?
When I’m outside all day, in the sun,
I like to stuff my nose in the crook of my arm and smell it.
Is this the smell of vitamin D?
It smells of sun and salt and blood and earth and water,
nothing short of fire.
It is what life is made of.
If i screw my face as close to the paper as I possibly can,
I can focus on the scribbles in front of me so hard I am lost in them,
and noises become singled out, first one, then the other,
my ear so close to the sound all I feel is the rhythm,
and the rhythm in my hand––
focus on the drawing so hard I am thinking of nothing,
not even the drawing, so that it is a mediation––
only the rhythm of sound and the rhythm of my hand.
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We had pancakes for breakfast,
oat ones, that taste wonderfully nutty. With fresh raspberries sopping and piled in between and lots of maple syrup. And coffee.
We sat outside on the deck and I asked A what he thought was more powerful––a book or a painting.
I have been thinking of this lately, sometimes painting seems futile and passive
and how much some novels have had an effect on me.
And feeling sort of sad if paintings have not been as profound for me as books.
I still don’t know the answer. Who cares?
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Dear Alice Munro,
I thought I hated your books
although I only ever read one––
Dance of The Happy Shades. I was probably about 15,
and I read it only because my sister had two copies
and I thought I had to like you because you are Alice Munro,
and I thought I had to like Alice Munro or I couldn’t consider myself a literary person.
I didn’t understand Dance of The Happy Shades, but I did understand
Margaret Atwood, whose books I read voraciously,
whose books I held privately, like they were written only for me.
It astounds me that all these years I’ve avoided you on purpose,
and picked you up accidentily, because you were there in a pinch
when I needed something at the cottage,
your 25 cent 1975 edition paperback,
with the Cosmopolitan blurb on the front, that for some reason or another, I find offensive.
Your authenticity is astounding, how you are able to pin down something so abstract and intangible as experience,
to write Truth, to leave ego aside,
to only write for the story, nothing else, not for yourself,
or for CanLit, or anybody you know,
not for the voices in your head but for the story that is somewhere deeper than any of those things,
to be able to reach down into where ever the depths it comes from, to uncover it, choose words for it,
stay true to it, it is a very rare and marvellous thing.
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The dude’s 35th Birthday last week
devil’s chocolate cake
and sandwiched in between,
a small pot of homemade raspberry jam
and raspberries.
I highly recommend Nigella Lawson’s Kitchen
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We were in Catania that night. A and P and I went checking out the nightlife. The café’s there are all bars where you can get just about anything. The bartender gave us a lesson in Italian: cafè corretto is a shot of espresso “corrected” with a shot of liquor. He was so excited we were eager to learn he started bringing food to the table – pastries filled with prosciutto and cheese, and peanuts and crisps. We had cold Moretti’s (thank god you can get them here in Little Italy) to wash down the espresso.
I’ve never had such amazing olives. It was like I’d never eaten an olive in my life until I ate them there. We went to this pizzaria, a very casual simple place, I had pasta norma (which I had practically all week, pasta, tomato, eggplant, fresh basil, parmigiano, that’s it), and they gave us a plate of olives, oh my goodness marinated in I don’t know what. I took a picture of them, but after eating half the plate.
Cannoli in Trapani. The others walked ahead and I dragged A into the cafè del corso. All the way down to the bar were pastries dressed to the nines behind glass. Eros Ramazotti playing, me singing to A’s embarassment (which would have been fine if I could sing). Classic Italians in trench coats and hats, sunglasses, joking around drinking espresso as usual. And there’s my cannolo all wrapped up.
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crayfish, the good bits sucked out by the critters
aren’t they beautiful?
Canada Day long weekend, books and dragonflies.
It’s not Malta, but it’ll do.
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4th Anniversary, Trinity Bellwoods Park,
fresh Italain bread, Sicilian pesto from Festival
crema di peperoncino from holiday in Sicily,
cured olives, grilled asparagus
sliced vine tomoatoes, sliced mozzarella ball, olive oil balsamic, salt, pepper
spiced genoa salami, medium boiled egg, cucumber
bottle prosecco, strawberry shortcake.
Margaret Atwood keeping watch.
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Sorry for the snapshot overload.
Packing up for Greenley’s Bookstore.
Today Margaret licked my easel like it was a bone full of meat.
I didn’t notice until she promptly threw up twice.
Then I panicked because I’ve been using solvent lately.
She is back to her old self now. Sulking on the couch.
Have a good week!
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detail, oil on board © Therese Neelands
Had roughly a bodum of coffee this morning
and cleaned my studio
for 2 hours.
We took Margaret to the park,
she chewed on a stick,
and we watched a group of dancers dance under the trees.
There was cricket playing, and soccer.
Banjos and harmonicas.
I came home and painted over some stuff
listening to The Stooges and Erica Werry.
Here is a sneak peak.
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