Hello hello

Thank you to a fine Australian who gave us a story this morning. Please read his story at http://wp.me/p5rgVm-2V
He got me to thinking. My response became much too long to post as a comment on his page. Here it is:

Now … I do believe this sounds much like stories I’ve heard about any-town, Canada. It seems long ago immigrant families were moved into certain parts of a town that the powers-to-be decided were not much good for anything else. Somehow, some entrepreneurial “wonky” had managed to pass off the odd former garbage dump or heavily polluted industrial area as a good place to raise a family or house seniors.
The seniors would only die anyway so why did it matter how they spent their final years. The immigrants were slightly more valuable because they would be expected to pay taxes and supply low-wage labour.
When the immigrants managed to succeed despite their less than ideal conditions more and more immigrants were forced into the same space. Soon they began to fight each other in order to protect the little plots they each needed to raise ther families.
The “wonky” meanwhile became greatly admired for his ability as an entrepreneur. He had shown superior ability to profit from a tract of crown land that was there for the taking. As everybody knows, or thinks they do, crown land is land that once belonged to a king or queen who already had way way too much land stolen from aboriginal people all across the world. Besides nobody was bothering to keep track of all that land any more and many plots in anytown, Canada had gradually been forgotten and sold off.

The council, or elected representative of the people as some like to call themselves, had the power to decide what to do with all that Crown Land. With the help of the “wonky” the council would make everybody happy. Soon it came to pass in Canada that her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II would no longer need to worry over all this land because it would all be gone, parceled out to deserving immigrants and other approved groups who could afford to pay for it.

As time went on the “wonky” would get rich, richer, richest, the immigrants would have homes and what passed for local business development agencies could brag about all the cheap labour they held in their local pool. Best of all, council would be able to raise more taxes from the immigrants and approved others. Then they could build themselves a beautiful big new chambers in which to plan new ways to raise taxes and votes.


Ars Usque Ad Mari

Canada’s motto is A Mari Usque Ad Mare … Now how is art supposed to fit into that?
As I sit myself down and think about it … This is what I manage to come up with
… Ars usque ad mare … Art from Sea to Sea
ahhhh … Enhhhhh … OK so please excuse my Latin … By the time this artist reached high school … Guess what … Latin had already died.


Hey … An International Arts Event is being held in Vancouver this coming May.
So far they have no artists from Chaleur Bay. There is still time … January 31 2015 is the deadline for artists to get in on the show. Check it out … http://www.artvancouver.net

Maybe all our local artists of Chaleur Bay are busy preparing for the upcoming Arts Symposium scheduled for next September … You suppose? http://www.symposiumbdc.com


  • -hahnameh

    But but but …
    What about the queens?
    Well …
    Been talking to Brigid …
    Says maybe …
    The lady harper
    This time around …
    Well …
    Almost Imbolc again …
    The old hag? Will she be …
    Gone gone gone
    Replaced by
    The beauteous Finch

    And what says she, the old hag?

    From out across the centuries
    Come her shrill poem:

    “The maidens rejoice
    When May-day comes to them:
    For me, sorrow the share;
    I am wretched, I am an old hag.
    I hold no sweet converse.
    No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast,
    My hair is all but grey,
    The mean veil over it is no pity.
    I do not deem it ill
    That a white veil be on my head;
    Time was when cloths of every hue
    Bedecked my head as we drank good ale.”

  • Basket

    The basket … The one Maggie carries … Yeah … That’s the one … What’s in it?

    The basket contains all those little bits and pieces of life that Maggie has never quite understood, that she’s searched out high and low, that she’s questioned and wondered about when answers have not been forthcoming. You might say that’s what Maggie keeps in the basket. She likes to think of it as her ideas basket. The way it works is not complicated. When Maggie has a question about anything, as she often does, she writes the question down on a slip of paper and places it into the basket. When Maggie finds an especially interesting or creative solution to a problem, that too is written down and added to the basket. Why? Well because solutions often lead to further questions. And on it goes. The basket is unique in that it is almost as bottomless as the deepest part of earth’s oceans.

    One example is money, that strange commodity that has always drifted just a wee bit outside of Maggie’s ken. Money, it seems to Maggie, is just so relative to where you live and whom you serve. A real peculiar puzzle indeed.
    Then there are people Maggie finds interesting, people like JD
    Oops! Here he is … JD



    Hello hello

    From deep within the curragh
    Come the cries
    Of the screaming Goddess
    Over and over she screams again
    Until someone realizes
    Something has gone wrong
    Hand me the codex Hand me the codex
    The harshness of her cries
    Belied by the tears
    Behind her eyes
    As quickly as it has arisen
    The storm subsides
    Remains a stern reminder
    There has to be an answer
    As long as there’s a question
    Find me my song find me my song
    Her mournful chant rings out

    I Am Me

    I Am Me

    Hello hello

    Who am I am me
    Not anyone else
    Nor do I want to be
    My name Sharon
    Is ancient I’ve been told
    A name hard to hold
    Difficult to live with
    Someone said to me
    Long ago when youth
    Still flushed sorrows
    Away to that sea
    Where some would be
    Swallowed whole
    By greedy fishes
    Others nibbled
    Until someday
    They returned to me

    So change your name
    I was advised to become
    A someone with a name
    Margaret is ever
    So so better
    They told me
    And how it was
    That for a long time
    Sharon almost
    Ceased to be