Time and Light
We are unborn
all of us and each of us
in the consciousness of timelessness
the embryo of the abyss
coiled in the wrath of nostalgia
fingerprints of loneliness
the sob of tomorrow
the cell of nothingness.
The time and light choke
they dream of a leap into the unknown
they gather the winds that burst
an arrow by an unknown hand aims
at the origin of the young age
and the innocence of destiny becomes history.
excerpt
They knew that what was in the pen was
really just a baby. Even Roy seemed to calm down his calling as
much as was possible. The bid, and there was four people still in
the chase, was at 15,000 dollars before Roy even handed the
microphone to Dr. Morgan. The good doctor was running out of
new words to offer on the horses, but as he told the crowd, “If you
don’t see the future in this one, if you don’t know what it means
to own a grandson of Topsail Cody on the top side and a grandson
of Doc Bar on the bottom side, then you should just get in
your truck and leave right now.” Nobody left.
When the microphone went back to Roy, he quickly took the
bidders to 25,000 dollars. For a weanling! Now, there were only
two bidders. Joel had heard someone behind him say that they
were both trainers and top-notch reiners; one from Texas and the
other from Colorado. Finally, at 32,000 dollars, the Texan waved
his hand and walked away from the ring. Joel was in heaven.
In quick succession, the remainder of the horses sold for
15,000, 12,000, 19,000, 17,000, and 21,000 dollars. In addition
to the 100,000 dollars he had picked up from the ten
three-year-olds, he also just sold six unbroken horses for another
100,000, plus change. It was a 200,000-dollar day. Not bad for a
sale with only sixteen horses. He tried to figure out the average
selling price of a horse, but with all of the excitement it was
beyond his mental comprehension, and besides, who cared!
As Roy thanked the crowd for attending, Cindy, with little Lila
in tow, appeared from the crowd and gave Joel a big hug. “Say
something,” she urged him “It’s your sale.”
Joel proudly strode across the pen to where Roy stood and took
the microphone. “Well,” he said, “I don’t really know what to
say. I would just like to thank everyone for traveling way out here
for our sale. I sure do appreciate the investment that you have
made in our horses. If you need any help, if you didn’t plan on
buying, or didn’t bring a trailer, we sure wouldn’t mind keeping
an eye on them for another day or two ’til you get home and get a
chance to return with your own trailer.”
excerpt
I took my rowboat and paddled out from shore to start the process of
familiarization. I observed the mouth of the creeks, the curve of the
beaches, the blend of driftwood and rock, the colour of the sky. I met
people with aircraft and begged rides off them. And, do you know?
This vast island is totally different than you might think. At one time the
bulk of the land between the seashore and the mountains was actively
farmed. The climate was favourable, and after clearing, the land was
fertile.
If you walk through it—there are still roads in the process of being
reclaimed by nature—you’d be amazed at how much of it had been
cultivated. Some of the parcels were very large, others just enough
to maintain a family or two. Then along came the Boer War, which
consumed a bunch of the young men, and then World Wars I & II
finished the job. Without the next generation to continue what had been
started, the forest grew back, roofs caved in, machinery rusted.
Once I got the feel of it, I decided I’d try to tell the story of this part
of the country—not the history, not the ‘big’ story, but the sense I had
of the size and shape of the island. The wind wracked trees and snowcrusted
mountains stirred my blood. And I found I was once again a
painter.
By the end of 2002, Ken was producing paintings to his satisfaction
and was pleased to find the attitude of the island galleries more amenable
than he’d experienced when he first returned to Vancouver. He came across
galleries dealing in second-market sales where a Kirkby oil of a solitary
Inukshuk standing proud on the tundra, or a parade of Inuksuit backed with
Arctic snows would be on display. He’d introduce himself and was pleased
to see that his name was recognised. He’d tell them that he was now in
business on the west coast. Might they be interested in fresh pieces?
The reaction was always positive. But when he laid out his canvases of
coppery grasses, water-worn granite boulders, wind-bowed trees or perhaps
a lonely lighthouse blinking eerily behind a rising ocean fog, he was met
with consternation.
“What’s this? Where are the icebergs? The Inuksuit? We can’t sell
these. That’s not you.”
Absence
Imposing face
of absence
when you gaze at
your eyes in the mirror
and from up high
you hear
the sigh of the sun
Manolis Aligizakis 