Post-Card from Canada

 

      Some Days are more saturated than others…some colors
are more satisfying than others, and it is disconcerting to learn
that colors have no existence of their own.
     Color is an interaction of light and mind.  The light illuminates
and the differences in illuminations are captured by the mind.  One
can not exist without the other.  An abstraction as an image pays less
attention to the form, and more attention to the interaction of light
with matter. I like my work to reflect my fascination with intensity, intensity
of emotion and intensity of light.
    There is power in color evidenced by the dreary gloom of a damp
cloudy day juxtaposed with a blue sky spotted with white clouds under
a brilliant sun.
    In Canada the winters are long and darkness
needs to be enflames with warm colors.  The Blues and the yellows
in this abstraction of a pipe organ reflect those extremities in a
sanctuary of peace, tranquility and Gregorian Chant.
A. L. Dussault
St. Benoit organ
The Title of this piece is, “St. Benoit of the Lake”. The original
photo was taken in a monastery where ancient Gregorian Chants
are sung five times a day by brothers who are otherwise silent,
obedient and dedicated to survival and the love of God.
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From Zen to Death and Back

From Zen to Death and Back

Leonard Cohen died with his
Mia culpa hanging on a breath of life not
wanting to be extinguished.

Some want it darker is about as dark as it gets while still sustaining a melody, a small rhythm gnawing from the inside to make its way out into the light for one final view, one final airing. I admire his boldness of Character. A brilliant study on Human Darkness composed of life and sung as a troubadour nearly across the entire globe. He has a message that resonates to the wonderfully misfit, the magnificently imperfect humans who manage to find each other in this every expanding chaos of mind and universe.

What a gift of himself he gave to we wandering souls that catch-up here and there, staying  6 feet behind and following an echo from the past.  It is a function of my generation.  We were brought up to feel appreciation because they knew it could be so much worst. It had been for them and for their parents as well.  Sandwiched in between two World Wars of brutal intent and consequence they wanted us to know we had it good.

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Here is a listening moment from his very beginning:  Suzanne

 

I can say that I grew up with him.  Canadian from Montreal, I had to love him for his heritage.  Then the liturgy of the Cadillac Church was so interwoven with the culture that he let it become the landscape from which he picked his brilliant metaphors and symbols.

I can say that I find him to be the joy of darkness, the portal to a complete zen acceptance that allows authenticities to be vulnerable appendages rather than the hanging chads of shame and secrecies.

 

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In My Craft or Sullen Art

BY DYLAN THOMAS

In my craft or sullen art   
Exercised in the still night   
When only the moon rages   
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light   
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms   
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages   
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart   
From the raging moon I write   
On these spindrift pages   
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms   
But for the lovers, their arms   
Round the griefs of the ages,   
Who pay no praise or wages   
Nor heed my craft or art.
 Image
 
To be engaged in life, with life, is the gift of consciousness; an alert consciousness, a consciousness that is deliberate and pays attention to those activities and moments that
resemble something that makes us smile and gives us joy.  
Have you ever heard the moon raging–I have, it sounds like the baying of wolves.  It is a sound of anguish flooding the immediate universe with pain or concern and not a soul
hears the cry of their most secret hearts.
The tears in the night that linger in a dry eye, the lack of a common wage, a spirit broken because the hopes have become empty wishes and there is no vision beyond what your eye can see.  These bayings of an empty heart howl across the lake as the full moon shines down to emphasize the stillness.
It is for these souls that I write and for mine and yours:
 
But for the lovers, their arms   
Round the griefs of the ages,   
Who pay no praise or wages   
Nor heed my craft or art.