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Happy Birthday Brother

Sound carries meaning.
A prayer carries meaning.
The words Happy Birthday carry meaning.

Listening to Lama Pasang chant Tibetan sutras
For my brother, Stewart, my thoughts and wishes
Expand across a continent, over mountains
Flowing into rivers and oceans,
And farther yet, on to distant shores.
They expand to encompass as much as I
Am capable of.

For Stewart to have long life… and happiness
I must think of
His partner Miao
She must be happy, too.
And his children, Sky, Joel, Sarah, Jesse, Josh, DarDar
And his siblings Lynda, Stephen and myself.
And all his many friends.

Then my reach must overflow, encircling
The families, friends and relations
Of all his family, friends and relations.

And beyond yet again, the chant reverberates
A rejuvenating echo
Heard by the children of his children’s’ children
And the families of families’ families
And the relations of relations’ relations
And the friends of friends’ friends.

And beyond again…

In all places
Children
Families
Relations
And Friends
May dwell.

It must rustle the leaves of distant forests
Live in the songs of heavenly birds
Survive the shimmer and flash of fins
Arise in the twitching of earthly noses.

It’s a chant that goes beyond
Anything I am capable of…
Except Hope…
Always Hope…

Wishing long life and happiness, Brother
To you and all our world!

Luv Craig & Diana & Family

Apparition

See my published works / Or my works in progress

Maria, Aaron, Laurence, Cathy, PI Pirelli… Crystal Doer…

Crystal Doer?

He hadn’t known any of these people two weeks ago; now they crowded his thoughts.

Victor closed his eyes, relaxed.

“Crystal Doer?”

She drew closer, a shadow taking shape within his darkened room. He half expected her to materialize in the midair between him and the billowing curtains, or to hear her voice threaded into the night sounds of the city. Could she be alive? Out there, after all these years? Her parents still hoped. She’s run away, they kept telling themselves. Someday she would come to terms with her demons, then she’ll come home.

She’ll phone from a town at the end of a long dirt road where the nightly entertainment is watching the Northern Lights. “Mom!” she’ll say. “Dad! Can you forgive me?” And they won’t even say a word. They’ll just cry, longing to hold their babe in their arms, to splice together the severed ligaments of their crippled lives.

Yeah, and now for the sappy music and credits, Victor objected…

You cannot have a name!

“What?”

The voice had no locus. It simply materialized inside and outside him and one and the same instant.

He says you can’t. So I’m going to call you Emanon – noname in reverse – because if you say something backward it makes no sense, yet it exists. I’ll still be obeying, but I will have a sound that means you and ‘not you’ at the same time. Do you understand?

If I even thought of a name like Billy, or Jake he’d know it. Even thinking about thinking it is dangerous. He senses disobedience the same way a hyena sniffs out molecules of sweat. You must never reveal your secret no-name to him. He’ll beat me and you within an inch of our lives if he ever finds out.

“Who is he?”

She didn’t answer. Her spirit faded, a weak signal obscured by the shifting electromagnetism of the city.

“Who is he?” Victor shouted after her, but she was gone.

He stared into the misshapen gloom of his bedroom. Am I going crazy? Had he become a medium for the long-lost spirit of Crystal Doer? Was he infatuated with a decades old photo of a dead girl?

Victor kicked the sheets away, freeing himself from their tangles and rolling out of bed. The room had become a locus of insanity, a place where reason wobbled, flew apart, the shrapnel of what had been tearing into the gauzy fabric of reality. He wrapped himself in his housecoat and padded down the hall. The inky well of False Creek, its shores encrusted with the garish phosphorescence of the city, came into view through his patio window. He stared down at his chosen world. At first nothing seemed out of place. Granville Island, the Granville Street Bridge, Burrard Bridge, all the meaningful structures that triangulated his sense of who and where he was remained in place. But…

You’re out there, aren’t you?

Crystal didn’t respond. Quiescent now, she’d become a presence perfectly merged into the dark interstices of his universe. When you speak, you become a point of absolute being; but your silence is everywhere.

He’d never thought such a thing, this connection to a certainty beyond belief. Crystal Doer’s spirit had broken free from the black holes of time and space, and he was the only human being in the universe equipped to pick up the irregular pulse of her background signal. She cried out for…

“Justice,” he pronounced, aware of the sliding door’s glass vibrating in harmony to the word. The world as he knew it was imploding, everything bending and buckling under the influence of an irrational new gravity.

“This is fucking crazy.”


LitSnip – Photo Gallery

His apartment was an art gallery of sorts, the collection crowding every plausible space. Maria zoomed in on an image, unable to make it out at first. Her eyes widened as the black and white photo resolved into a composition of skin and hair… the base of a penis standing erect in the wrinkled landscape of its scrotum.

“I warned you,” he called from the kitchen, his voice accompanied by the tinkle of ice cubes in a glass. “I don’t usually invite clients to view my collection.”

“You took these?”

“Guilty,” he confessed. “That’s Richard, you’re looking at. Self-styled Richard the Great. Intelligence is not his most prominent feature, but he compensates with his Grecian physique. I’ll introduce you to him someday and become instantly jealous.”

A breast cupped in a caressing hand; a face contorted in orgasm; tongues touching. Maria moved from portrait to portrait, fascinated, shocked just enough to make her tingle. The images merged into a sensual collage as she moved down the hall.

“They’re exquisite! Disturbingly so.”

“Not everyone would agree with that review,” he said, handing off her tonic water on his way down the hall. “A lot of people think they’re porn.”

“And what to you say to that?”

“They need to adjust their definition of sin so it doesn’t exclude the human body as an art form… every part of the human body, and every act we mortals engage in that quickens true ecstasy in the neural network.”

“Wow!” Maria teased. “I haven’t even got past Art Appreciation 101, but I think I get it.”

The images didn’t strike her as obscene. They were… what would an art critic say… powerful… powerful statements of sexual freedom? She frowned. Gorgeous! seemed a more apt description, even though they were unsettling. They elicited? Envy! She was startled by her reaction. Could love actually be like that? Fluid, fearless, utterly sensuous, the distilled energy of spirit dancing. None of the exhibits at any of the pretentious galas Laurence had dragged her to came close to making her feel this way. It’s how we’re meant to be portrayed, she thought. As minor gods.

Realta Road – Halifax Then & Now

More than any other city we visited, Halifax struck me as a contrast between heritage architecture and modern design. Everywhere we went this juxtaposition of old and new intrigued me.

I have to wonder how much the terrible 1917 blast that flattened much of the city had to do with this unique overlapping of historic brick and contemporary glass? Almost from the moment we stepped out of the Rialta I couldn’t help noticing way old and new overlap.

Could it be that, as the only Canadian city to have been devastated during the Great War, Halifax has a unique architectural aspect similar in some ways to European cities?

We were fortunate to maneuver the Rialta into a parking spot right downtown, just a couple of blocks from the Nova Scotia Art Gallery, the main cultural destination of our visit.

Before heading indoors to see the exhibits on that balmy summer day, though, we decided to do the waterfront walk, a truly fantastic feature of Canada’s eastern gateway port. From the ferry terminal, we looped round to Casino Nova Scotia, then back through the city toward The Grand Parade and finally, the gallery.

In the midst of all this was a project that demonstrated just how far Haligonians will go to preserve their architectural heritage. The seven-story facade of a heritage building, supported by a structure of metal beams, was being preserved while the demolished innards were under reconstruction.

I’ve seen the same in other cities, but those stoic walls seemed a sort of memorial to what had been. Soon they will be backfilled with a future that will last, perhaps another century.

Realta Road – No place like home

Funny, how it seems like – no matter how long you’ve been away – you’ve never really left as soon as you return and cross the threshold into that familiar place called home.

Diana and I pulled into the drive at 3298 Cook Street Oct. 11, after catching the 3:15pm sailing from Tsawwassen to Duke point. Our son Ian greeted us, along with Sophie, our retriever, who has been hoarding all our shoes and slippers since we left as placeboes for our real essence. We waved hello to our neighbours across the street, but warned of our ‘radioactive’ state and promised to catch up once we’re fully recovered.

We’ll process our tsunami of cross-Canada memories and impressions in the coming weeks, but for the moment it feels good to simply be in the centre of gravity exerted by the place that is truly our own.

We’ve put off this final Realta Road 2022 update because we didn’t want people to know we were back right away. It’s taken a couple of days to feel we’re recovered enough from our illness. Our COVID tests came up negative, so we’re guessing it was an especially virulent flu… whatever it is, we don’t want to pass on.

Now that we’ve discovered so many amazing aspects to this country called Canada, we’ll have to rediscover Chemainus and see how everything fits into our new perspective. In that sense, the place we call ‘home’ is a sort of touch stone that we come back to again and again as we plan our next excursions out onto Realta Road.

(PS: One of Ian’s friends, whom I will never forgive, pointed out that the name of our RV is ‘Rialta’ not ‘Realta’. As far as I’m concerned some mistakes were simply meant to be, and our imagination on ramp merges onto Realta Road.)

Realta Road – Westward Ho!

A peaceful roadside stop on our homeward journey

If you don’t expect challenges, you’re not on an adventure. Since we dipped our toes in the Atlantic, near the tip of Newfoundland’s Western Peninsula, we’ve faced all kinds of challenges. It took us an extra week to get from Port aux Basques Newfoundland to North Sydney Nova Scotia, first because the ferries were fully booked, then after our departure date was cancelled due to bad weather.

Having rounded the Cabot Trail and made our way to Prince Edward Island, we learned that Hurricane Fiona was barrelling up the coast and we’d best get out of its way. A quick visit to Charlottetown was all we had time for, then we crossed the Confederation Bridge, heading inland.

News of the devastation visited upon the Maritimes – and especially Port aux Basques, which we had become quite familiar with – saddened and depressed us.

The weather has turned. First we were caught in more rainstorms, then yesterday we actually encountered the first sleet and snow… not enough to stick, but enough to remind us winter’s coming on.

Finally, Di and I are both sick. We don’t believe it’s COVID, but are avoiding public places as much as possible, and may have to cancel some planned visits. For a while we could barely speak, our vocal cords were so stressed from hacking and coughing, and we are both exhausted. The worst is over, I believe, but it’s been an ordeal.

Our objective now is to make for home. We’ve checked the weather forecasts along our route, and it looks like we’ll be able to get through the Rockies before the snow flies.

Despite the recent challenges, I wouldn’t change anything about our travels. It’s been a wonderful journey, and resulted in an expanded vision of Canada for Di and I.

Realta Road – Evidence of occupation

On Sept. 9 Diana and I hiked round the Crow Head trail near Port Saunders, NL. We were inspired by the beauty of the place, but disturbed by the amount of litter along the trail and on the beach. In my travel log entry I tried to sort out my feelings about the evidence of human occupation…

Port Saunders and Crow Head Walking Trail – We parked in Port Saunders, at the trailhead to the Crow Head Walking Trail. Again, Diana and I were amazed at the unfamiliar rock formations and the forest of ‘bonsai-ed’, windswept trees.

We were disturbed, however, by the amount of litter along the trail and on the beaches. It seems some don’t respect the land, that it’s there to be used and tossing candy wrappers and pop cans along the way is not a desecration.

I was inspired to take photos for a video I want to do titled Evidence of Occupation, the point being that, no matter how we behave, we humans are a part of nature. I want to – in a sense – beautify the rubbish and detritus of human occupation, thus making it part of the reality of our world, a natural phenomenon, even if I don’t like it.

UPDATE, SEPT 22: We arrived on Prince Edward Island on the 20th, and made our first stop a tourist information office. There we learned Hurricane Fiona is making its way up the eastern seaboard, tracking straight toward the Maritimes. We considered battening the hatches and weathering the storm, but learning that wind speeds of up to 160 kph were anticipated, and that the PEI ferry would be docked and Confederation Bridge almost certainly closed, we decided to make for safer ground while we could. We visited Charlottetown for the afternoon, then made our way back to New Brunswick. Now we’re in Fredricton, planning our route to Quebec City over the next couple of days. We’re disappointed, of course. We hope to return under more favourable conditions.

Realta Road – No basking in Port aux Basques

We enjoyed a brisk walk around the Grand Bay West loop in Port aux Basques yesterday afternoon. It was a cloudy, blustery day… more like the kind of weather I’d imagined on this rugged coast. Wherever we go in this region I see the elements of land, sea and air in contention, each asserting its own power. The wind drives on the sea, which surges into the land, and we puny mortals are caught up in the midst of it all.

The sandy beaches at Grand Bay West were deserted, the colourful chairs in disarray, as if they had been abandoned suddenly. In the centre of the loop, an antique harrow atop a hayfield hill, a seeming testament to the challenges of farming in Newfoundland.

Now we’re aboard the Blue Puttees, lurching our way toward North Sydney and the recommenced start of our trip back to the West Coast. We first tried booking our return crossing for Monday, Sept.12, but couldn’t get a spot until Thursday, Sept. 15. That sailing was cancelled due to high winds, and we couldn’t get another booking until today. We’ve lost a full week and will have to redo our travel plans if we want to be back in Chemainus by the third week in October.

Realta Road – Saint Anthony

More stories in the Realta Road Collection

Our day in Fishing Point Park has made up for all the frustrations and doubts we racked up in the long drive to the north tip of Newfoundland. It’s a fantastic setting, made perfectly accessible by a network of gravel and boardwalk trails, which radiate out from the parking lot. Foaming waves lunging at the cliffs and rocky shores overwhelmed imagination from the moment we stepped out of the Realta. I got so excited capturing photos and composing descriptions of the scene in my head, that I lagged behind while Diana marched on, so we were separated for most of the time.

After taking in the sea level view, I trudged up the 476 steps to the top of a cliff overlooking Saint Anthony harbour. What a view! The thrashing coastline stretched on for kilometres beyond the tiered houses and buildings of Saint Anthony. Instead of soaring overhead gulls wheeled and glided below me. I texted Diana, Daniel and Ian a picture of the panorama, and a message saying ‘Don’t know if I’m ever coming down.’

Eventually I did, and Diana and I went for lunch at the Lightkeepers Seafood Restaurant, which I would highly recommend to anyone looking for an off-the-boat fresh meal.

Realta Road – Newfoundland bound

North Sydney to Port aux Basques is a cultural transit

Getting lost and finding a new perspective at Flat Bay, NF

A frustrating first full day in Newfoundland. We decided to get off the Trans Canada, and go along the coast as much as possible, our first destinations, Stephenville, then Corner Brook. We kept getting lost, though. First we came to a dead end down Route 403, which takes you into Flat Bay.

Even our navigational errors have lessons to teach, however. At the T-intersection, where the road branches east and west into the Flat Bay reserve, we came to a church and graveyard. Attracted by the flowers placed at just about every headstone, we stopped to get a closer look. It was like no other cemetery we had seen. These were not the graves of the forgotten! Shrines to relatives and ancestors, they were adorned with bunches of flowers, statuettes, solar lanterns, and words of remembrance.

We drove into the community, talking about the differences between this First Nation burial ground and what we’re accustomed to as European descendants. The graveyard reminded me how much we Europeans have to learn from aboriginal peoples about what it means to be a member of a community – a tribe. Indigenous cultures have ‘elders’, those who are the living repositories of the tribe’s wisdom and its honoured advisors; we shuffle our old folks into homes and, as often as not, forget about or belittle them even before their last rites have been pronounced.

The evolution of European society through the industrial revolution and its precedents, has atomized citizens, breaking down the tight social bonds that continue to hold together indigenous communities.

Is one path better to the other? It’s pointless to answer in those terms. I believe European and First Nations cultures can learn from one another, but that the benefits of sharing perspectives can only be realized in respectful, caring relationships. The genocide that took place in North America during the colonial era was justified by a dehumanization of indigenous peoples. That was a lost opportunity as well as an immoral blunder, which will require generations of work at Truth and Reconciliation heal.