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.

Ars

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

Shak

  • -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
    Catrin
    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

    Scream

    Screams

    Eureka
    Hello hello

    From deep within the curragh
    Come the cries
    Of the screaming Goddess
    RTFMRTFMRTFM
    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

    Eureka
    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

    Art Garden Planning

    Eureka
    Hello hello

    Garden of Artists

    Well George … Almost time to be thinking about the Garden of Artists …
    Maybe write a poem or a song … Paint a picture … a vision of Spring …

    Yes, I realize it’s still bitterly cold around the shores of Chaleur Bay. But the thaw has to happen eventually.

    What is it? What is the Spring Garden of Artists? Well since you seem interested …

    February begins with a new Celtic season appropriate to thinking about gardens and planning for Spring and getting things ready.

    No George … The Spring Garden of Artists is Not an English Country Garden … Not at all … More like a Wild Flower Garden.

    The Garden of Artists is not about neat little plots or pc containers with well-defined labels lined up according to tongues or nationalities or politics. Neither is about gender nor religious beliefs.

    The Garden of Artists It is about independent artists getting together and sharing art … Visual art … Music … Songs … Drama … Creative Writing … Dance …

    No George, I have no idea what sort of flowers will sprout. That’s the thing about wildflowers. You may spread the seeds but you never know how they will take or what wonder-blooms might appear …


    Check it out George
    Chaleur Bay … Where else?
    http://www.chaleurbay.me

    Cookin’ Goose

    Cookin’ Goose

    Eureka
    Hello hello

    Disclaimer:
    This website is an ongoing story in the making of a rock opera. The author and main character is a Canadian-Celtic Granny elder …..
    Disclaimer continues … one day at a time … juggling ideas and trying to find those red shoes …

    Today Granny thinks back to the last year of the last century, 1999 to be precise.

    GRANNY: OK George here’s the story … Why I threw in the bit about the goose … Because that’s what everone thought at the time … Just a silly silly Silly old goose … Never took her seriously …
    The going concensus was … That goose deserved to be cooked … Poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted … writing terrible trash she called poetry … she really should have known better. Siily old Biddy.

    Fifty is a lot of years waiting around for wisdom to settle in. Obviously not in her case. If it had … Well you know how it is … If only she had kept her lips buttoned. She would … Well, she might have done a wee bit better for herself.

    The story? Well it goes like this … It was Spring of 1999. The old biddy was becoming somewhat desperate. Everywhere she went it was the same. No job. Not even the most menial. She tried everywhere. Of course no one would admit that it was her age preventing them from hiring her … That would look like discrimination.

    So there she was in May of 1999, struggling to find work. The poor soul became so despondent about her economic situation that on some days she could barely hold back tears. There were days when she hid home alone trying to gather the courage to keep going. On days when she was brave enough to venture forth she tried to keep a positive attitude and a smile as door after door after door slammed in her face.

    Not once did anyone admit that it was her age they held against her. They all claimed it was her attitude … That was what they whispered to one another after slamming every door she tried to open ever so gently.

    She even tried consulting with the experts. Beyond advising her that her attitude was all wrong, none ever actually gave her any concrete help. Experts told her it wasn’t simply about getting a job. You had to show that you were developing a career, preferably in computers, networking with the right people and doing volunteer work for the most popular causes of the day.

    It didn’t take her long to realize that what all these experts meant by “right attitude” was they expected her to go through the motions of pretending that she greatly appreciated their reams of expert opinion and advice. It only agitated them if she dared venture the “been there done that” response.

    So finally in May 1999 she cooked her goose by writing a batch of … Hmmmm well at the time she was hardly in a state to offer anything resembling polished poetry … So what to call it … She called it Warts Warts and More. The shabby self-made book of eleven pages of writing and drawings was not very successful. Looking at it today … Well George … I think the old Biddy was in pretty bad shape. She dared to say such things … And what happened to her George?

    So, her goose was cooked … And the happy pills they gave her … What about the Happy Pills? George, what was that? … That spurt of insane laughter … Did you hear it?
    Cpyright 2015 MSO