direct link: Spit of a Backyard Spills Bliss

My meditation today was cleaning my little patio - raking, scraping caked leaves and dirt, sweeping and dragging the paper garden recycling bag that I had filled to the curb. In between I sat back and contemplated the green ash, enjoyed my dog, and, after finishing the clean-up, gazed at the canopy of leaves above me for uninterrupted hours.

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A spit of a backyard spills bliss into hours, yes it does.

Especially during a heat wave - 32°C/90°F and a humidex of 38, which doesn't describe the vapour pressure and inferno of heat Toronto was today.

A little bit of earth, connected to my apartment by a short walk, can offer lovely rest and contentment on a hot summer's day. A nice place to serve tea and cake to family and friends. Or to write, and I did get some writing that's been hard to do done this afternoon! Last year I put a hammock up, but rarely used it, so this year it's the chaise longe for resting, contemplating. My oasis in the city, and we do all need our oases.

In my fluid relationships, every incarnation of love in my life remains with me and carries me to the next wave, the next immersion.

The fishbowl pushes the air aside. Fish hide in plants that grow underwater. Dart. Slowly slide backwards to the edge of the glass, and watch with one blue eye.

A new country was birthed in the world today. / My day of mundane tasks / the jubilation of the peoples of South Sudan.

In my bedroom curtain, that I was sewing, a small dead fly fell out. Deep teal sheen under wings of sheer grey symmetry, vacant gaze of compound eye.

Tonight I dug out of storage and heaved upstairs 30 years of private journals: these are my stones tonight.

My green ash is hermaphroditic and functionally female, knobby brown flower clusters, bunches of seed pods, a Niun among maples and cedars.

direct link: White Petal

Experimenting... always learning! Trying this and that with the footage. Having fun, and it shows in the humour of the piece.

I wanted to do a voiceover, a narration — thinking a Wong Kar Wai style. You will see there are sections to this visual poem. Doubles, single, shifts in colour and style as the yoga dance continues.

Here are a few scribbles, that perhaps will or won't work:

I live in a city in a small apartment. Fabric covers a doorway and shelves. I'd like to see myself dance before it is too late.

Faded opulence. Over-the-edge-of. Yet floral abundance. The flowers are the stars—beauty, that edge of fading.

Doubles. Who are we? Repetitions of ourselves. Our memories create us in our fragmentary identities. I fold into who I was or who I will become. Uncertainty is confusing. People flee from my uncertainty.

White Petal

Look into a dissolving mirror
bones, skin, neurons

the self-image.

This poem is not neat as intact
petal veins, mysterious as garden
fossils.

The poem writes,
rises from ruminations, dried
flowers on my spine
bursting seeds.

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Danced, videoed, edited by Brenda Clews; background music by Gabrielle Roth and the Mirrors, from an old favourite, Initiation: ​http://gabrielleroth.com/​

More stills from White Petal, which I've continued working on. It was just a test dance session, but I like working with clips where there is no pressure to produce anything. Sometimes merit blossoms out of such unintentional projects. Playing, experimenting, learning... as usual, the stills are better than the flick.









Flowers are from video I took in my neighbourhood specifically for White Petal.