…Annette Bower, after finishing her novel, caught languishing in her bug (which is much more friendly than a blood-sucking mosquito any day–and way cuter). Having recently returned from St. Peter’s Abbey, where she completed the novel, Annette is set to globetrot through North America promoting blue bugs, novels, romance, and Saskatchewan writing.

Here’s me a small time poet thinking about making a run for it in the bug (I’m hampered from a smooth getaway by traffic and someone with a camera).

Annette’s visit to St. Pete’s was productive in other ways, and the Muenster consignment store and the Humboldt Goodwill store coughed up two sets of my favourite luncheon plate/cup sets for next to nothing. Both sets were gifted to me by Annette. Thanks Annette. To see them (and Annette) you’ll have to visit.

…most people would say that age is a factor in allergies. I, preferring to be ageless, think there seems to be more allergens around (what with all the hybrid-breeding happening–who knows what they’re creating in pollen). Whatever the cause, I’ve had a headache for the past two weeks straight and this weekend I’ve lived on heavy doses of coffee and ibuprofen. I’m not able to take an antihistamine so I must rely on what is available. I thought maybe I should try something more herbal, more natural (what is natural these days?) or homeopathic, so I looked up some remedies on the net. This remedy seems a little easier to carry out, but this one confused me, what kind of match do they want, two thumbs? My father tried the match trick once to remove a tick from the nape of my hairline (although luckily for me, I had a short curly fro when I was young)–he lit the match, thought he’d put the match out, and then put the match to the tick (this was supposed to cause the tick to back out of the fleshy burrow of my head without any fuss); however, the match was still lit and whoosh… well, you get the picture. I suppose that says something about home remedies–or not.

The black and white flower is the Siberian iris. It blooms in slim 2 in blossoms in late spring. This one I salvaged when I moved around 10 years ago, and its really only begun to bloom again in the past few years, although there had always been foliage. Now it really seems to be productive.

The top flower is a painted daisy. On May Day I posted some small poems about the painted daisies. Unfortunately, May Day is now over; it was a great deal of stimulating reading, writing, and responding, all of which I enjoyed immensely and thanks to everyone who took part, and to Ariel and Polly for organizing the blog. But back to the flowers, I adore the colour of my painted daisies–I believe they are of the Robinson variety (I’ve always called them the Mrs. Robinson); I also believe they come in different shades (in Watrous the diner had artificial blue). The mosquito popluation has increased dramatically in the past few days–rain or a storm everyday, while great for the newly sprung garden (although something strange has happened to the watermelon and it is now flopping its leaves in disgust) and annuals and perennials, is also the best thing for the breeding of bugs. I’m lucky in that they don’t really like the taste of me, but even so, I’ve been bit too much in past few hours so this is my excuse for parking myself in front of the computer and pretending I’m a writer.

…is something I’ve been overthinking this past month. Why? Can’t really say; artists are no more or less elusive (allusive?) than any other inspiration, whether it be flowers, or seasons, or people, or poems about people smelling the flowers, or maybe poems about people painting pictures that look like flowers, or poems painted that look like people are what people need to write. Maybe we’re all simply “journey agents” as this reviewer says about Ashbery. I like to think it’s all relevant to the process of whatever it is we’re contemplating about life at that particular time. Or not.

While I was out taking these photos, the squirrel was at the very end of this first picture curiously checking me out, maybe to see if I had some peanuts, since I dug up his stash the other day.

…the City of Regina Writing Award was handed out in grand style tonight at the Hotel Saskatchewan. I was on hand to give congratulations to Ven Begamudré , this year’s winner. It was another fine evening of readings by Ven and by one of judges of the award, Rhea Tregebov. It was great to see Ven again, and to meet Rhea. They both gave wonderful readings of new work.

…of what holds together. Is it the same fibre that pulls apart? Or, more to the point, does what pulls alter the way things are held together?

I’ve been taking photos of all of the flowers in the yard as they open and face the spring, the day, the world, and sometimes each other, and I’m struck by how the knotted heads hold to each other, continually lean in to each other; the community of buds in the way they bend out from themselves.

My favourite flowers are those that blossom in the soft shade of sky on a crisp day, or the shade of morning sky’s light in an early summer heat so quick to begin the crawl out of the ground. Flax, on the other hand, seems to have it all together, moves through fields with fluidity and grace of water, reflects not only its own imaginative features, but the face of the sky.

…I would like to go here and then here. I kept thinking some of these places are really close to the river. What happens when the river overflows?

…and for my next trick, watch me pull a geranium out of my hat.

…or wealth? I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. A couple of days ago I was reading an article about happiness that asked if you had to choose, what would it be, happiness or wealth? At first I leaned to wealth, because, hey, I’ve been happy once or twice before, but I’ve never been wealthy, but then I used one of my favorite professor’s tricks: define happiness, and then, define wealth.

Does happiness include contentment? Or perhaps, satisfaction? What is contentment and satisfaction, is it more important than all of the material things we think we want? But what about the non-material things we want? Can they be bought? Are our desires twined with our discontent?

Does wealth include stability? Emotional health/wealth? Sure, money doesn’t buy happiness, and, as recent conversations have pointed out, lottery winners are no more emotionally content after winning the lottery than they were before, they just have more money, but, can money buy the time needed to understand our discontent? Or does money only buy more discontent?

Maybe this all falls under Aristotle’s notion of being and becoming. Does wealth infer a stasis? And, as such, does it then impede our reason for becoming; do we exist only by being? Some days, I’d like enough wealth to see for myself. Or not.