These three things naturally come together at times, like today, when I realize I’ve done nothing in writing new poetry, even though I can honestly say, I’ve been thinking about it. Today I took my 3.6 km walk a little later in the morning because of a rain violation. As I walked, I began to contemplate ways to move a certain poetic story forward (I seem a bit stalled as far as story goes). I’ve been reading an eclectic bunch of books in order to move the thought process forward, mostly on art, and I was thinking about Tracey Emin and the method of plundering the past. And the thing about being in your head and walking through a part-wild, part-inhabited space, is that you always have to be prepared for the unexpected (like the little baby rabbits on the road–they showed little fear of me, not knowing they should be afraid (I’m pretty scary–there are people that will attest to that)). And I wasn’t paying the world any mind at all, until I saw the huge German Shepherd out of the corner of my eye, his tail raised, ears raised, body stiff. And I kept walking, holding its rather frightening gaze (now keep in mind I’m the coordinator for a writer/artist colony, so I don’t scare easily) realizing that the guard dog was loose, and guarding, and holding his ground. I continued to walk by, trying not to provoke it, and I was almost by it, but being as graceful as I am most days, decided to look forward at the road ahead, and that’s when it lunged for me, visciously snapping at me. And that was when I screamed, but didn’t run, though my heart did, up my chest, into my throat and maybe even out my nose. While it came close enough to slobber on my capris, it didn’t bite me, merely guarded his territory, the million dollar cabin being built by the lake.

But, it did something to my headspace. It snapped me out of my stall enough to think about the poetry I’ve not been writing, made me think about ways and methods of pushing at the myths/stories I’m trying to reconstruct in a deconstructing way. It pushed me to think about the art as an act, or the think about the act as art. And sure, that might be vague to you, but it’s an echo that will continue for some time, those teeth grinding, the thoughts plundering, my words reacting with as well as against. Here at writer/artist camp, anything can happen.

So, the trip up to Emma was uneventful, except for this one moment in time. You’ll have to forgive the shoddy camera work. It’s tough to drive, gear down, and take successful video at the same time, but hopefully you get a sense of the strangeness of this metal bridge that connects the land on each side the South Saskatchewan river (kind of like the way I’m connecting with you). I hadn’t planned on taking the video, so you get the radio instead of a lot of voice-over (after nearly 4 hours of driving, I was tired of listening to cd’s), the bug guts on the windshield, and the delight of follwoing a camper over the water. (I’m not really going very fast at all, but it looks faster in the video.)

…the smallness of number. Which will probably be posts on this blog in the next while.

And this could carry on into the summer (if it arrives). But there’s abundance in this paucity, because I’ll be away, basking in the cabin next to the dining room at Emma Lake, then in the room above the kitchen at St. Peter’s, then briefly at Sage Hill for the anniversary bash, then back to St. Peter’s. Then maybe home, sometime in August. And while away, I’ll be editing the second ms for a spring date, writing new material for some poems I started this spring, reading some good books, meeting some great people, co-habitating with old friends, and finding something inspiring to treasure.

And maybe, in this smallness of number, a post or two will shine through.