red-handed

A little dancer, for no reason at all. *Gifted*.

cigar-tin story #143, in the shop . * * * * * Google seems unnaturally preoccupied with my security, while I'm not worried about my security at all. Give us your mobile number , they keep asking, with little cartoons of masked men at keyboards (do you really need a mask to do computer crime?). What if I don't have a mobile number? Or what if I do but I've never bothered to learn what it is? I am a bad Google customer: all take, no give. * * * * * Rain today, which is always weird in FEBRUARY. I don't remember these kinds of things growing up in Saskatchewan. All I remember is: snow, cold, and then more snow, and then even more cold. And then spring, and all the farmers complaining that they didn't get enough snow, and how much they hate the government, and wish it would die, and why doesn't the government give them more money? * * * * * C found her daytimer yesterday. It was under the seat in the car. Missing for months. A

not lost,just secret ; acrylic on cradled wood board, 12 x 9 x 1.5 inches, in the shop . Click on the image to see the whole thing. * * * * * Psychically, spiritually, never mind the weather: the low point of the year. A kind of sleepy bottoming, with tin-cold echoes. No one to see on the sidewalks, and the people in the parking lots look bad, slug-wandering between cars, their feet only moving. Then I had this idea of the swimmer, in deep sea, a lady decorated and mysterious, buoyed by her secrets. * s o l d *

Sabine . This is one of my favourite Merle photographs; she takes on this idealized role in the most gorgeous way. You can find a lovely sepia version here . * * * * * Water Nymph . In all its veiled glory here .

Part of what I read at writing group last night, while the wind wailed in the windows. * * * * * Always that pause when two police cars and a fire truck come screaming past you just as you're walking up to work, Do I stand and listen for gunfire before going in? * * * * * AN OPEN LETTER TO THE (CLEARLY) INDIGENT GENTLEMAN WHO WAS WALKING DOWN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET WITH A BRAND NEW ELECTRIC GUITAR AT 7:30 THIS MORNING, TALKING ON A CELL PHONE THAT (CLEARLY) WASN'T THERE Sir, Is your ID down at the pawn shop just an index card that says AWESOME on it? Regards, The Un-awesome Rest of Us * * * * * Let's be honest: the Globe and Mail has been gutted to the extent that, most days, it takes about three minutes to read. Still, every once in awhile they surprise me. Like on Monday, when they ran a brief interview with Elaine Lui, who may just be my new hero after quotes like these -- I said, "I want to be Miss Hong

and now for the grisly end ; original drawing , inks on paper, 8.5 x 5.25 inches. * * * * * Last few days: proofed/edited one book (my collection, Dark All Day ) and made corrections on another (a compilation, Upstart stuff). Tired of text, especially my own; reading and re-reading your own work at ungenerous intervals is like all television being replaced by old episodes of M*A*S*H ... which is when you decide that Alan Alda must die. * * * * * Making C nervous with my cavalier attitude towards design work lately, which starts her doing that little hop-hop dance and wringing her hands and saying, But you'll get *my* stuff done, right? Yes, fine, fine. Every so often I try to explain to her that cavalier is about all I have left, since nearly everything I do is paid – late, begrudgingly – in buttons. Or just not at all. * * * * * Walking home from work, I make a lot of stops, which is almost always entirely unpleasant, as everyone is in the

Oona got to open her Valentine's parcel from Grandma yesterday. Pretty exciting. We read the Valentine's-themed books after bath, one by mommy and one by daddy.

A song that Oona and I have been singing a lot lately -- The bear went over the mountain The bear went over the mountain The bear went over the moun-tain to see what he could see. And all that he could see And all that he could see And all that he could see was the other side of the mountain the other side of the mountain the other side of the moun-tain was all that he could see. -- which is a bit dark, don't you think? Yet another hard lesson for the bear. Oona really likes to belt this out on the way to school, in the 7:30 darkness as we traipse up icy Cherry Street, although she sometimes gets stuck on the first chorus. Today I had her convinced that we would do "a special Valentine's switch" where she went to my office and worked on my computer and the boss came in and yelled at her every five minutes ("Do more work, Oona Berger!") and I would take her spot at school and play trucks and eat snacks and have two servings of lunch and th

January can go to hell; everyone knows that late-February to mid-March is the psychological nadir of the year. People with SAD should have checked and re-checked their overhead beams and rope strengths a thousand times already.  Still, it does have one enduring bright spot: the anniversary of Buster Douglas knocking out Mike Tyson in Japan, twenty three years ago today .  Why do I continue to be compelled by this event? Because it might just be the perfect example of a person getting it together, in the truest sense, to overcome himself, transcend himself, to stand immaculate in one ne plus ultra moment, and completely achieve his potential.  I wrote an essay about it, published in Palooka magazine. The editor even submitted it to the Pushcart Prize. (1) You can read it here . * * * * * Big snow day on Friday. Shutting the city down. Inspiring some art work , and an audio post. * * * * * Because of all the snow, I couldn't do

A mystery zip-loc bag of valentines in the hallway this morning and Oona convinced that she had to take them to school, that it was valentines day and she'd give cards to everyone. Try dissuading a three year-old from that . Add the very cruel wind and I was convinced to carry her the second half of the way, at which point she just chatted right up.

i know (i know), it's dangerous ; inks on paper, 5 x 8 inches. in the shop . * * * * * Turned forty-five this Sunday. I know. Went to the studio, some drawing like mad, big crumbles of snow in the window, walked home, had a nap, was awoke by Oona pretending to shave my face (complete with toy razor), did some shovelling (more pushing, actually -- snow out of the alley), made baked spaghetti (no tomato sauce, more of a cream blend), received a bottle of Goldschläger, and a chocolate cake, while Oona enjoyed (not) yet another timeout, I can't remember the last time she ate supper, or behaved at the table, and then it was bath and bed time. February always has this kind of static energy, with everyone holding their breath, so I think this is as good as it gets. * * * * * Peter's book finally arrived, looking very smart. C should be proud of herself, for following it all the way through .