Archive for the ‘October 2010’ Category

February 2015

Posted: February 15, 2015 by zacharyandgillian in October 2010

Two Artistries-February 2015

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Let me write you a flower.

Posted: September 9, 2013 by Zachary in October 2010

Let Me Write You A Flower(Alternatively titled:  Get Well Soon)

Over a hill of cascading yellow crops, the ground is ablaze with colour.  This smile of nature reflects the sun, as a child’s reflects the beauty of his mother.  The gentle dips of the land are dimples of a young countryside.

We are not sick forever.  I would, could I offer a salve for your heart, give in abundance.  How much more your wretched body – the peevishly defiant thing.  Let me take you away.

That youthful ground is the perfect perch to see the clouds.  Gently expanding, floating effortlessly against a blue sky, they are an oasis of the Muse.  An upside-down ocean, the sky is married to the promise of adventure, and the birds sing.  Onward, clouds!  Hurry!  Enjoy our secret pleasures of speed and distance!  Travel the world!  But those gracious fluffy things simply laugh, and happily remain.  For where else will flying dreamers rest their feet?

I think your body learned its wry petulance from you.  Your spirit is ever a cheerful rebel; a sophisticated anarchist.  How could your body not sarcastically return what you offer in everyday osmosis?  Your rousing independence.  Forgive it, its sins.  It knows exactly what it does: its rallying cry is a confirmation of your strength and freedom.

And, like your soul, it will soften again.  You will not be sick forever.

Peeking through a kaleidoscope of cloud is the only way to enjoy the garden.  And this garden, through these cotton candy clouds, framed by a smiling landscape, offers honest beauty with no desire to compare.  Ornate gates offer entrance, though no fence exists to suggest otherwise.  A single rusted hinge squeals to the entrants declaring beauty in humor.  The inspired laughter of innocents inside also affirms the opposite.  Amidst a rainbow of colours and pathways, a single plaque on a lone pedestal offers a word:

Here.

Rest, and get well soon.

Nature’s Grace

Posted: August 25, 2013 by zacharyandgillian in October 2010

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The Earth is the most graceful person I know.

The art of Grace is a subtlety.  It is neither deception nor equivocation, and yet it is not truth.  To be achieved, it requires a misdirection of multiple parts.

Firstly, the person on whom the subtlety is acted must take a perception that is true.  Often, it is believed that grace includes only that the person believes it to be true, but that is a cubic zirconia.  A gold-digger’s grace; mere deception.  The truth of the perception received must be real, both in the mind of the Graceful and in actual fact.

A skill of real grace is revealed if the perceiver does not, entirely believe the truthful fact themselves.  A master will leave an amateur perceiver believing they have perpetrated a misdirection of their own design – that the Graceful believes a falsity.  A complete reversal of reality, not by design, but by the weakness of the perceiver.  A veteran perceiver will more quickly turn to doubt than confidence – a modest humility or a selfless skepticism.  But the truth-in-fact, and the truth in the Graceful’s mind of the perception must remain.

Secondly, the person on whom the subtlety is acted must take an old perception as original.  This is not to be confused with making the previously unperceived, perceived.  For that is a makeup.  A harlot’s grace; mere equivocation.  The truth of this perception must have come previously, true in the perceiver’s mind by some other affirmation.  It is only born-again.

The skill of real grace in this case is revealed by the weight of the revelation.  A master will leave an amateur believing that the perception is entirely new; lightning from the sky.  A veteran perceiver will instead believe that it is a phoenix; a thing once dead but breathed life again, wearing new feathers.

Thirdly, the effect of the perception in the first step must be to have the perceiver accept the proposition reborn but unsaid in the second.  This is to be an obvious step, but not one that follows from necessity, and so the Graceful must follow through.  It is easy for the perceiver, left unguided at this point, to consider these two perceptions as separate instances, and so immediately reject the second as brilliant, beautiful but ultimately unsupportable.  While the arrogance of the amateur will complete the process, a veteran perceiver will quickly recognize this.  The skill of the Graceful is defined in their ability to provide the bridge.

It is then that the Graceful has communicated that which is true, with a statement that is true, while never claiming any ownership to the thing at all, and offering the platitude of ownership to the perceiver, without cost, should they so desire it.

The Earth is an incredible source of Grace.   How quickly we perceive the truth of nature’s beauty and bounty – so ever-present and self-evident.  How easily it ignites all of our feelings of human passion, spirit, and glory – with an inexplicable newness, every time.  And surely, even the skeptics (and surely the humble!), accept the two as connected.  If our soul shares one ounce of that splendor, how could that brilliance be rejected?  We, who are made in His Image, are at least to that extent, Gods ourselves.  We, who come from dirt, share all the romance and perfection of that dirt.

Perfect Grace is the impossible art of providing a positive by proving a negative.  It requires the expression of a truth through the provision of an infinite number of independent and unique truths.  The Earth offers the single answer of its nature to billions of perceivers every day.  They, no matter their own acceptance of it, see the truth in it.  In turn, they see the value it offers them and their own humanity.

The Earth, every day, proves a negative.

Fav’s

Posted: August 11, 2013 by Zachary in October 2010

RoadtripThe most valued “road trip” possession I own was never mine to begin with.  It’s a stolen possession – never meant for me and, as I am skilled in my sins, never known to its creator as missing.

As time would (always) have it, it’s now also a relic of a time gone by.

It’s a CD.  At one time regarded as the evolution of a “mix tape,” this CD contains a careful selection of 24 folk-y, whimsical tunes.  No names auto-populate into iTunes when it’s tossed into my laptop.  The artists are largely forgotten to both the old and the young – it’s an obscure collection known to a particular age group.  And, save for their 15 minutes of fame, these artists were really only the admired of a select few.  To be honest, I don’t think I could even tell you who they are.

The disk’s surface is blank, with only the demarcation Fav’s scrawled in black felt marker.  And when I put it into a CD-player, I know three things:

1)  I cannot remember for the life of me what’s on it.
2)  I’m going to enjoy the next 24 songs
3)  I’ll have my best friend beside me.

The first time I encountered this CD was in the passenger-side seat of my friend’s car, driving a road-trip across the province.  He opened his glove compartment and there lay 7 or 8 CDs.  All labeled in his perfectly enigmatic hand:  Folk, Laid-Back, Jazz, Home….  We listened through them all, including Fav’s.  I can’t say that there was anything that stood out about this CD more than others.  He certainly didn’t covet it more than the others, suggesting that its name was a category of a bygone time.  But we listened to it just the same.

Now, years later, having been through road-trips, jobs, living situations, and a litany of other experiences together, we’ve parted ways.  Of course, we live in a world where “parting ways” is a ridiculous sentiment.  Social media, smart-phones, and cheaper-than-ever transportation ensure that we’re never really separated.  We’re together at the click of a button (and an overpriced internet package).

But, that same media has a single shortcoming – it can only help us fill in the future.

On a road-trip, one is reminded of the stoicism, longevity, and raw, rich beauty of the world around us.  And that beauty is a generation of its history.  It is certainly a reminder of the grandiose importance of existence – of our generating new memories and new experiences.  (Indeed, that’s the very nature of a road-trip!).  But if someone is really watching the scenery in between watching the traffic, they cannot help but be impressed upon by the sheer beauty filled in by those experiences long since passed.

24 tracks of my favourite friend.  Our past.  Our history.

I live in prized countryside.

A Snowflake on a Hot Summer’s Day

Posted: September 11, 2011 by Zachary in October 2010

A rose by any other name, does not, in fact, smell as sweet.  I’ll concede to Shakespeare only that the smell would be the same.  But sweetness fair Juliet spoke of, she smelled with her heart.

And the world over speaks of Montague and Capulet.  What is in these names?  ‘Tis, as our heroine’s wisdom suggests, not their anger, their love, nor any other part of their tragedy.  But a name is something.  And in it is something else.  For we would not have heard of such love, nor would it have had such celebration, were Romeo’s body to find a different name.

I dare to suggest, to such a beautiful Juliet, that her greatest and only beloved would have thrown away perfection itself, were he to bid his name away as she wistfully commanded.  And that is certainly was not what she wanted.

But how could she know?  How could she know that what made Romeo so perfect was not merely the intoxicating loin-spark of his lust, nor the scandal of his endless reach?  In his name was the forbidden fruit.  In his name was the very marriage that made him perfect.

I have tasted a name.  I have tasted many.  I keep them, like one would keep good books – on the shelf of a mind, where a heart can go from time to time to remember what it’s digested.

I have names that are fun games.  Simple memories.  I have names that carry the mantle of my deep anger and disappointment.  And I have names that conjure the impossible.  Names that have changed me.

I even have one or two that are legacies of emotion.

We all do.

I don’t think I should like a rose so much as if it was called something else, though it might smell just the same.  What’s in a name.  What’s in a name is whatever I give it.  Whatever you give it.  Whatever we give it.  And that gift is never nothing.

Shakespeare did not give the world 2 names.  He gave 2 names the world.  The world of love, of suffering, and of beauty.

And he let his namesakes be humble for him.  But they knew.  They knew like I know, and you know.  What’s in a name is far more than any one part of a (wo)man.  It is where we’re coming from.  It’s what will go forward.  It is where yesterday’s sunset meets tomorrow’s dawn.  It is where tragedy and comedy join hand in hand in constant orgasmic resolution.

It is where everything is important.  What’s in a name.

Midnight

Posted: June 30, 2011 by zacharyandgillian in October 2010


Technically, the world begins anew at the darkest of hours.

But you wouldn’t know it.

Those first hues that a day see are the quiet hues of a shadow-owned world.  Where the only light is granted by moonshine, and fatigue bears heavily upon living creatures.  At midnight, day-dwellers are sound asleep.  Shops and stores have long since closed, aside from a few holdouts that cater to the misbegotten.  The streets, the streets begin their slumber too.  Cars begin to disappear from the roads.  After a mere 2 hours into the new day, they will be completely abandoned.  The shadows claim them.

The bars call this time late, not early.  At 12:01, they begin exchanging their bottles of rum and rye for the watered down dreams of their patrons.  It is a practice that has long accompanied the morning proper.  Take the beating hearts of men who have bought your product, and sell them the proverbial cherry on top; hope that yesterday’s drink was a celebration for tomorrow’s expectant good will.  Just a couple more hours.  A couple more beer.

(How rarely the day, half over, greets them with gratitude when they rise from slumber.)

How can this be the way the world begins?  Trumpeted in by club music and marched along in the arms of the drunk and stumbling.  All the while the moon is chosen to lead us in.  In to a new day, through the meager hours of infancy and into an adolescent dawn.

It is true that we do not remember our earliest years, so too is it true of the day.  It does not remember those shadowed hours that claimed its first moments.  It merely emerges somewhere in the future, its memories starting to form with the sunlight.  So too the day starts for us.  We do not remember our real beginning.  We merely awake to our first memories – of sun through the window or clock alarms going off.  We arise as children, not as babes.  As babes we were watched over by the stars and the moon and by the scary things that go bump in the night.

At midnight the world begins.  At midnight we begin again.  Though our minds are fresh with the drink or alive in a dancing medley of the shadow-world or tucked under the cover of our slumbering dreams, it is then that we begin again.  It’s then that we start being the people we want to be for a brand new day.

The dawn is when we learn to walk.  But it’s in the dark that we are born.


Family

Posted: March 30, 2011 by zacharyandgillian in October 2010



Family.  That was the word that must be used to describe it.  That connection that they shared.  That ethereal but existent bond.

Civilization has forgotten its proper definition, an amnesia induced by a dependence on the letter of the Law.  In its place, it has hoisted a new definition – a cold and paltry thing involving heredity and genetics.  A lineage of entitlement based on paper-trail of last names and legal games.  That is what the word had become to mean: a statement of fact instead of a statement of feeling.

But that distinction was reduced to the punch-line of a ridiculous joke, for this merry duo.  What was in a name, if it was not too in action?  And so, in looking at what they had grown, cultivated, and matured into brilliance through careful study, appreciation and some good weather, the dictionary definition provided little substance.  What civilization had forgotten, they had remembered. 

They had remembered that it is within the heart of a beast that resides its motivation.  They remembered that it was not enough to offer help but to provide it, and that it was not possible to be both honourable and lazy.  They remembered that a proactive approach was not above and beyond – it was the barest of minimums. 

They remembered that a fault made is a fault forgivable and that forgiveness was a sacred privilege of their sovereignty, not a right of their title.  They remembered that their community was built off of more than just blood.  Sweat and tears made foundations hold.  It made their abandonment tragic, and their use reliable.

They remembered that it was the spirit of the law that mattered.  They remembered that it is he who follows the spirit of the law that follows the letter of it, but for the sake of that spirit.  For they remembered that it was the soul that mattered.

Labels beyond those recollections were merely clothing for the meek.  Family didn’t worry about nakedness.

It was once proffered that truth could be told without giving a name.  That a song could sing about a subject without explaining the game.  And with their existence, they did the same.

They gave truth.  They sang songs.  They stripped their blankets.  They lived their lives.

They remembered.

Photography by Gillian Berger
Writing by Zach Webster