It is love your neighbour not fear them

In this case, the gap between people's ears as it can be equally as dangerous.

God summed up all the rules and laws of the Old Testament with one simple law – love your neighbour. Simple and easy enough to understand with no fancy-dancy turn three times, then throw chicken bones in the air, kinda horseshit. It works for me and I wish I could match that simple rule everyday; alas, I am just merely human.

So against the premise that “loving our neighbour” is the summation of the law what do we find so prevalent in our current society but an economy of fear using our neighbour as the apex of those fears.

I woke up this damp Saturday morning to read our local paper “The London Free Press”. The headlines read, “Do your neighbours grow pot?” Running in the column next to this headline article was a supplemental article on the same story titled “Neighbours one day, suspects the next.”

In that supplemental article, you read such statements:

1. “…the quiet young couple that used to bring her food whenever they barbecued were taken away in handcuffs one day when police seized more than 100 pot plants”
2. "He said he worked in Niagara Falls and would bring us wine," XXXXX said, adding the couple also had a small child. "They were so nice to us."
3. “And on Speight Crescent -- a street near an elementary school -- neighbours were shocked when the home of a young couple who had lived there for three years was raided.
4. "They're the last people on the street you'd expect," said neighbour XXXXX. XXXXX said the people -- who still live there -- are good neighbours.”
5. “It could be any street in the city.”
6. "They are the last people on the face of the Earth you'd expect," XXXXX said. "If they came up and got out of their car, you'd be like, 'Them?' "
   

The whole point is that the kind family that lives next door may very well be the bogeyman, the evil pot-smoking deviant of society, heavens they could even be growing the stuff. It seems the paper and the police want to create an environment of paranoia to do what? Help you love your neighbour, not exactly more like fear them. Magnify this fear motivation with all the other aspects of danger in our modern world and your suddenly living in a walled community with a security camera hanging on all four corners of your house and forgoing your civil rights because anyone might be the bogeyman. Ironically, the neighbour, an executive, might be a very responsible member of our society while working for an athletic shoe company that is exploiting children’s labour all over the third world; but that’s okay somehow because he only smokes pot and not grows it. Then again, if they look foreign (in our white lily assed world) he may very well be related to Osama through the evolutionary chain and thus must be a terrorist or support them because they read the same books he does, like the Koran. When does this fear mongering stop?

It’s funny because together with these articles comes a list of things to watch for and a map of all the houses busted in London over the last year and a half. All of these articles written under a banner of, the enemy could and probably is your neighbour, fear them.

First the list:

Signs your neighbour might be running marijuana grow operation:

- The outside of the house is untidy and ill kept. (I’ve got a neighbour like that he never does anything to improve his property and cuts the lawn twice a year.)

- Garbage bags filled with soil and plant material are thrown out. (Damn, that would be me as I’m a gardening nut with huge flower gardens around my property that need to be attended. Hey, for that matter so are most of my neighbours and our city have “green days” monthly to recycle garden waste.)

- Covered windows. (What can I say it keeps my house cool and protects my watercolour paintings? The blinds in one of our bedroom windows, facing the neighbour are rarely opened.)

- Bright light can be seen through the windows. (Okay, don’t have that, unless I’m reading at night because with age so goes my eyesight, or sometimes it just happens when I bump my head into the wall, and I see bright lights - I guess that doesn’t count.)

- Tampered or bypassed hydro meters. (Okay, this is done from inside the house but thanks for that tip I’ll be sure to ask all my neighbours to see their control box and meter.)

- People are never at the house for long. (Like when were on holidays or when I’m in New York working. Dang, I have a single neighbour up the street who doesn't seem to be home much.)

- People enter and leave through the garage. (Like most of middle-class North America. Why did they invent automatic garage door openers?)

- Construction and ventilation fans can be heard. (Is that what that humming inside my head is. Alternatively, might it be the air conditioner and the furnaces cold air return in the winter. Then again I also live next to an apartment.)

- People arrive and leave with garbage bags full of property. (Boxes are okay but plastic bags are not – this spells doom for the man from glad. Bags full of property?)

- People bring lots of soil and growing equipment into house. (Shite, this would be me again as I just love my house plants and from time to time I need to buy a watering can or a bag of potting soil.)”

* use the above links to see the list without my comments.

Now the Map:

What kills me is that map, they provided, it shows a marijuana leaves in 40 places all over our city: representing houses where people have been caught growing as little as 12 plants in the last year and a half. Every neighbourhood from the north, east, south, and west. If this was a map of gas station locations, it would look just normal and I’m sure some petrol companies wish they had 40 stations. My point is if these grow-ops are as common as Seven Eleven variety stores what is it telling us? Somebody is smoking that shite which they're growing in those buildings. We live in a supply and demand society! Canada has some lax rules when it comes to possession of cannabis but the government is sitting on its hands when it comes to legalizing it because of USA pressures. So many people are smoking this stuff here that growing it has more outlets than our controlled liquor board or beer stores in Ontario. The article reinforces this with this quote from the front page “Walk 10 minutes in any direction and your likely to find marijuana grow house, police say. Big houses, small houses, nice houses….” Jeez, I have to walk twenty minutes to go to our local regulated beer store. What does this say? I think it reinforces my point above, common everyday Canadians are smoking weed and need to get it somewhere other than some crime driven family business out of South or Central America.

Oh CANADAbis

The whole thing is preposterous. When I was in Africa, you’d drive down the highways and byways and see marijuana growing in the ditches along the side of the road like weeds. Should they just cover the whole damn continent in a cloud of Agent Orange or Round-up? This plant grows everywhere it seed finds germination like a dandelion. So why the hysteria?

In my humble opinion then: In my gardening business, we have a joke when we spread fertilizer on the grass (as in lawn), we call it “job security” as the grass keeps growing, and we keep cutting. I think the police are doing the same thing but their manure or fertilizer is a “tissue of shite”, to do exactly what - job security. I wouldn’t mind that as I don’t dislike police, I respect them and wouldn’t want their job and I’m not looking to see them loose their jobs. What I resent is fear mongering to do essentially the same thing, using fear to do what exactly, fear your neighbour. I’m looking out from my closed blinds now looking at my neighbours house looking for any piles of garden waste or garbage bags in front of the house, just in case. Laughable, I better open the blinds in case my neighbour fears me.
You know we have a problem and it has been around ever since I was a kid in short pants. People want to smoke weed and to do so you need to be able to get it and as the government only uses its crop for medicine it has has to be got somewhere – supply and demand. Therefore, what do they, we do? I guess you ask your doctor for a prescription.

Enough already; what a bunch of crap, I'm choking already!

Ps. For you law enforcement types. I love you to. I respect you and the hard work you do! Isn’t that respect and being a good citizen enough. Please don’t turn me on my neighbour as it is easy enough when they, with a shovel, fling their dog shit across the fence or don’t mow grass for weeks at a time. My neighbour is also an Arab and one of the nicest people living on our street – no relation to Bin Laden. NO, I don’t grow it myself, as there’s a location to purchase it within ten minutes of everyone’s house, remember :)~

Sometimes I do ask “I moved from Amsterdam for this – what was I thinking?”

Spring fine long freezin zealand sky.

Spring can be a damn fine time of the year. What a season! Although each season has its own particular glory, I love them all. I just wish Canada’s winter wasn’t so fricken frezzin long. New Zealand is the place for me!

The Magnolias hunger the sun, fully laden and expecting to bloom in its warmth.
I do so enjoy its lustrous pink petal against this cold April sky.

What more can or need I say.

Codex to the poem below

I just drift away looking at the red veins
in the saffron petals.
A sweet saffron of cadmium orange.
The male stamen reaching
out from the female carpel.
Balanced against a cold April sky.
Words cannot describe such splendor.

The stigma, style, ovary, and ovule are often known collectively as the carpel or female parts of the flower.
The filament and the Anthers are collectively known as the Stamen or the male parts of the plant.

courtesy of http:/www.naturegrid.org.uk/qca/flowerparts.html

WOMAN are BEAUTIFUL

Fruithilarious to Fritillaria and back again.

Well, what a day! I’m freeeeeeeee of writing my Memoir’s as a blog, no more staying up for hours trying to make my own subjective deadlines. Yippee Yahoo. What the Jiminy Cricket was I thinking in the first place. Live and learn I guess. I truly am the survivor of my own stupidity. Thus the Fruithilarious!

I worked at the monastery today in what was just generally a miserable day. It started with snow pelts then progressed to drizzle and a shower or two. Working outside is great but some days it really is for the birds, because they’re dressed for it.

At the end of my workday, I came home without the pressures of slaving over my keyboard trying to finish another 3,000-word essay to post here. Instead, I went out to my garden and photographed these wonderful images.

As promised, I would show you the Fritillaria imperalis when it bloomed in my garden (read my post of Wednesday, April 06, 2005 “Fritillaria imperalis”).

Well here, they are and I dare say that every garden should have one because it is simply incredible in its stunning beauty.

Traditional image of the Fritillaria taken in my backyard.
Just to isolate a parameter of how it’s generally documented!____________________________________________

The same flowers photographed from another angle, mine.
I see it as art rather than botany - growing things.
Beautiful are they not.

If your not convinced of its absolute beauty - a little closer view.
Stunning wouldn't you say.
It's like the weirdest thing to look at against the cold April sky.

Well this picture is worth a 1000 words.
If this image doesn't convince you, nothing will.

I'm very hAPPY with the way these imAGES turned out.
Happy images are better than drugs and more fun to do.

I just drift away looking at the red veins
in the saffron petals.
A sweet saffron of cadmium orange.
The male stamen reaching
out from the female carpel.
Balanced against a cold April sky.
Words cannot describe such splendor.

This beautiful flower, which grows in my garden, made coming home such a pleasure and wiped the misery of a cold wet day away. It truly is abstract with its downward pointing flowers at the top of a stem, just below a tuft of upward, pointy leaves.
Look at it — I just marvel at God’s handy work.

By the way, blogging became fun again today. Working on my website remains a job. Do click on the images to enlarge them there so much better larger. I only wish I could give them to you as raw image.
G.P.

Why I appreciate Pirate culture.

Well I’ve been busy moving my Memoirs materials to my website, coding pages and redoing images for these texts. As a result, I’ve been a little to busy to do any photography for you today. I am happy to tell you my Memoirs will be operational at www.gerardpas.com in the next 24hrs. To visit them please click here http://www.gerardpas.com/library/ and follow the link. For the time being here is a little ditty, I wrote for you on.....

Why I appreciate Pirate culture.

In my opinion, pirates were probably the most progressive culture of the 16th and 17th centuries. They displayed an understanding for the handicapped and their rights, which was unprecedented even by today standards.
Thereby, I think that pirates had one of the most progressive cultures of their time and one I would have gladly belonged to – make that fit in with.

Think about it for a moment. In what other culture would they elevate a one-legged, one-armed man, a partially blinded person, or a woman to a position of authority? It is not at all a peculiar or an odd image for any of us to imagine the captain of a pirate ship, hobbling out to the deck on his peg leg, or standing there with his hooked-arm. I admire this of the pirates, as they were truly equal opportunity employers.

In own my youth, there were so many jobs I knew I could easily do, but never offered me. People thought I must have been too fragile to undertake them. It always angered me: I was just as desperate as the next, in need of feeding myself and paying the rent. If indeed I couldn’t do the job, they could have let me go; you don’t know how many times I asked people to give me a chance based on this economy. Had there of been a job bank or employment bureau for Pirates, Buccaneers and Privateers, I’d of most certainly of had the job – hey, I might of even been offered a position of authority.

Okay, like my biker dreams below, I realize there were plenty of other drawbacks to the job but overall most Privateers did well and gained principle roles in their respective societies. Henry Morgan was knighted, acted as the vice admiral of Jamaica. Morgan was one of the most ruthless of pirates, his daring, brutality, and intelligence made him the most feared, and respected buccaneer of all time. Francis Drake saved England from the invading Spanish Armada and for his brave actions; he received a knighthood and was appointed the Mayor of Plymouth. It was not all men either there was Mary Read and Anne Bonny, naming just two. Okay their final destiny was not as desirable as that of Morgan or Drake but my point is they had positions of authority, which in the 16th and 17th was thinking outside of the box.

Then again, it was the hundreds of “I was also there” that nobody remembers, and whose now consumed bodies, filled the Spanish Main with fish food. With my luck, I would have ended up inside Nemo and first you’d of had to find him in order to find me: if I hadn’t already come out of the end of Nemo that is.
I salute pirates for their contributions to equal opportunity employment and wish some of our contemporaries would take a page from their book.

A kinder portrayal of Captain Hook.

I'm moving my Memoirs to my offical website!

Dear friends,

I’ve come to the realization that posting my memoirs on this blog is just too much work and bother. They have become unruly in size and truthfully, I do not think anyone wants to read a blog that runs 6 pages per entry date

Therefore, I am moving the MEMOIRS to my official websites LIBRARY section. If you’d like to read them there, please click on this link.
I think it works better in terms of controlling content and overall presentation to locate this material at www.gerardpas.com than here on this blog.

What that means is that my blog will return to my original concerns and images on a regular basis: Musings and Cogitations. I think that it will alleviate the stress I have of trying to write large articles and post them daily; as I just can’t keep it up. It gives me more time to actually work on each text and image and thus provide a more cohesive autobiography. It also frees me to have more fun blogging and writing about my daily concerns, such as flowers, soccer and what’s up in my life. This blog also stays fresher and truer to a blog this way.

In the days to come I will be deleting all my autobiographical content from this blog. As I enter new Memoir Material I will post links here to keep you informed.

Today was an ugly grey day and I wanted to go out and photograph it and what the snow did to my garden. I couldn’t because I was too busy trying to finish the continuation of my already epic length memoirs. Yes, the little light that’s burning in this house means that someone is still home and the elevator still goes to the top floor. What a relief.

I live in a frozen wasteland

Guess what? I live in the frozen wastelands of Canada and for jiminy cricket’s sake it snowed last night and is still snowing today. Damn I was out in the dark last night staking up flowers so the weight of the snow would not snap them. I woke up PO’d looking out the window at the snow flakes. Nature is good isn’t it? It can provoke so many emotions; maybe that’s why it was previously thought of as a woman. I am not a follower of Plato or the Greeks when it comes to the role of woman as worldly and men being consumed by the ideal. Plato must have been gay in that bad way of being gay, a misogynist kinda gay! But as my analyst can attest I have a hard time understanding woman.
Snow, aaarrrrh or is that brrrrrrrr?

Yes, Arsenal plays tomorrow, something to live for on a cold and miserable day. I have to put my digital pen down now and take some rest and a cold beer.

Damn Voltaire was right! Curse him.

My northern perspective on London.

More images from my tour of London, Canada, as promised you in an earlier post “No not that London — the other London” (April 7, 2005).

As a young immigrant child I lived in the East End of London (E.O.A.) [Read “My youthful biker memories from London EOA” (April 13, 2005)]. As a screwed up teenager, my family moved to the West of London - Wharncliffe Rd. near Blackfriars St. We lived within a good stones throw proximity to the Blackfriars Bridge. I did a watercolour painting from the levy of the Thames River of this bridge at night; its cool (well Prussian blue) . I’ll be sure to give you a glimpse and talk about the painting on this tour or you can see it now by clicking here. As an adult, I have lived with my wonderful family in the Northeast of London for some 20 years. I got hitched when I was 30 and moved into this home with Maria 20 years ago.
The entire time I have lived in London, I have always lived in the north end of the city. Be that Northeast, North-West, North, or central. Even when I lived downtown, I lived north of the Thames River, the CNR railway and just south of Dundas St., which are used to determine the boundaries from North to South. I have known the city most of my life from its northern perspective looking south to the Thames. I have lived in London such a long time that I know every vista well: east, west, south or north but the north face view is my most familiar.

Looking south at London's downtown from Brescia College. U.W.O.

As a “high” school aged, mixed-up teenager, I would travel by this vantage point on a daily basis: Sarnia Gravel Rd. at Western Rd. I used the public bus to make my way to “high” school at Sir Fredrick Banting H.S. (Funny, I’m now a diabetic and I owe so much to Banting – thanks for the dope). I learned quickly why they called it “High” school. All those rich kids, with their oodles of cash, would smoke joints in their daddies cars in the school parking lot all day – that’s hard to do on a public bus “Hey driver can you pull up to the back of the school then chill a bit, maybe smoke some reefer.” NOT gonna happen! It didn’t matter much, as I hadn’t the scratch anyway, so I couldn’t have afforded the weed even if I wanted to smoke it with a bus driver! Yes, I have issues with money – I don’t have any, damn it. I hated high school and the coming of reason as I became a man –> some other time, it’s just too long.

This hill is located behind Brescia College of The University of Western Ontario (U.W.O.), on the southern perimeter of the property. It became a frequent visiting place for me as a teen. Not only does it offer a great view of the city but before the recent development and expansion of U.W.O., it was also a relative quiet place. So much so, that up until recently a local farmer still grew crops on the hill.
As a young teen, I would often sit on this hill thinking about the meaning of life: why my life seemed to hurt so much. I’d pray do yoga, meditate, or smoke cannabis, all the while looking out at the city or inwards to my perceived broken soul. I never had an epiphany, any liberating thought, or paradoxically a mountaintop experience, on this gentle sloping hill, just views both inwards and outwards.
It remains one of my favourite vantages to view our city because of its proximity to the core and the monastery were I work. This picture was taken a week or two ago. The leaves of the trees had still not sprung to bud. If the leaves were indeed out, you’d see why this city is called a Forest City, as you looked out over the green foliage to the downtown. I will show you more images in the time to come to convey this forest aspect.
Regrettably, because of the limitations of my camera, the above image does not correctly convey the entire vista, as I know it. Because of the focal length of the cameras lens, I can only show you a portion of the whole view as you would see it sitting here with me. When I put on a wide-angle lens, the camera puts you further back in perspective and the downtown core is incorrectly miles away, as seen in the image below.
Nevertheless, these two images together do make my point. The top one shows the city as it would be sitting there and the lower one shows you how large an expanse this vista from the hill provides for viewing London, Canada.
If you came to visit me I’d take you to this hill, night or through the day, it matters not when.

The same view using a wide-angle lens, then merging three digital photos.

For my cynical friends in New York – no they don’t sell tickets to watch paint dry here.

I hope I’m not boring you all to tears with this London shite and if you’d rather see my favourite pictures of New York City then visit my website by clicking on this link. I must admit the view from my New York Studio was somewhat more impressive in terms of cityscapes.
Then again, I also truly love it in London because my family is here, we live next to a park and a large woodlot, we have no fences, the city is forested, the clean air the forest provides, it is a safe place to raise children, we live close to the great lakes and most importantly our very civil Canadian society – bless them when they take care of me.

Arsenal ties Chelsea

Okay, I’m not pounding my chest like an ape while proclaiming that the Arsenal beat Chelsea Football Club.
The game was a tie or draw at Chelsea 0 – 0 Arsenal.

While I wanted to pontificate on Arsenals greatness, I’m satisfied with the outcome as it also means that Arsenal is the one team which Chelsea could not beat this season or for that matter this decade (Chelsea has not beat Arsenal since 1995). Yeah Gunners.

The lads looked great and I think if Thierry Henry was playing for Arsenal the score might have been otherwise. Sadly, Thierry is out with injuries. All said a great nail biting game in which Arsenal played well.

The other good thing to come out this afternoon was that Manchester United lost so Arsenal stays ahead of them in second place within the EPL: with a 4 point lead; giving Arsenal a little cushion for the remaining games. We still have to face them in the FA Cup (read below).

Another good thing today was that it rained - a nice gentle rain all day.

Blue Balls for Blue Jerseys

Arsenal's new patch celebrating the last year of play at Highbury Stadium. Next year Arsenal will be moving to its new 60,000 seat Emirates Stadium.

Well today is the day of days, the big day, the day to separate the men from the boys!

Just when you thought, the soccer season must be over, as I have not been rambling on about it, I’m sorry to tell you but it’s not quite yet over. Exciting times await.

Yes, Arsenal is playing the filthy horde of Russian Oligarchic paid wankers and posers from down on the Kings Rd. at Stamford Bridge, in South London (the real one). The game is this evening at 8:00pm GMT or 3:00 pm EST on Fox Sports.
I hope that Chelsea’s balls will be as blue as their jerseys by the end of the game! One can only hope – blue balls to go with those blue jerseys so they can sing the blues, over a few Blues. Arsenal need to win this one just for us fans and our pride, leaving us with a feeling of satisfaction if not jubilation. Yes, we could boast that Arsenal beat Chelsea this year, something only 1 other team has done this season. Arsenal tied their last game with Chelsea, so a win isn’t impossible to expect as Chelsea has only tied 4 other teams this season the fifth being Arsenal.

As you can see, I am worked up and ready for the match. I do not think that the Arsenal can still win the English Premiere League (EPL) because when you look at the numbers it seems next to impossible – then again, miracles do happen. For me I’d just like to see Chelsea coach Mourinho (MoronWho) served a plate of humble pie for a change and nothing would be more fitting than if the Arsenal dished it up and carved it up for him. Oh yes, victory in the EPL is very tender when you’ve just been kicked in the balls by the kids from up north, Highbury way!
After all Chelsea are a bunch of lying, referee bullying, thieves who have been trying to illegally steal some of the worlds top players, enticed by the piles of evil cash they have to flout about. Stinking blood money if you ask me!

Then again, if Mr. Roman Abramovich wanted to buy some art, I would sell it to him, I may be footy mad but I’m not nuts. The difference is that for me, a man has to eat and feed his family, but soccer players are asking sums of 100,000 British Pounds Sterling a week to play for him. Money is the root of all evil and all it does is to help you buy company when in misery!

All day I will be thinking on this game and what the outcome will be.

After this Arsenal must play the monstrous Manc’s, the ManUre, the MancHeaters, the devils themselves, aka Manchester United for the honours of FA Cup 2005 in May – more on that some other time.

Filthy scum…. Class, yeah they got class! They hold up their little pinky fingers as they punch you in the throat. Ruud VanDiveALotRoy and his poxy sidekick, boy-want-to-dive Rooney. As the whole Manc team chants a chorus of “All cleats sharpened and showing General Purple Nose, good knight, Sir Alex JerkUsSome”…

I’m a gooner,
Go Gunners Go!

Visit Arsenal's website to learn more about this football club. — www.Arsenal.com

Mayapple - is it erotic

Yes, I’m still writing the William Burroughs text (see below). This Burroughs text is slowly becoming a labour of love, so I will not mention it again until completed - I want to take all the time it deserves.

As for today, I was struck how this plant takes on both the form of male and female sex organs, striking really. I’m sure Georgia O’Keeffe wished they grew in her desert environment so that she could paint the plant in its female like form.

In these parts, it is called Mayapple (Podophyllum peltatum); also known by others as Devil's apple, hog apple, Indian apple, umbrella plant, wild lemon, and American mandrake. It also comes from the apothecary of the woods as its roots contain high levels of podophyllotoxin, alpha and beta peltatin, all of which have anticancer properties. Native Americans and European settlers used the root for all sorts of medical purposes: a laxative, worms and warts. The Chinese use it to cure snakebites and tumors on the genitals.
The flower is waxy white and blooms in May, thus the name. The flower develops into a pulpy, lemon-yellow berry which ripens in late summer and is the only part of the plant that isn't poisonous (the berries should only be eaten in moderation, if at all).
It is found in woodlands throughout North and Eastern America. These grow in the soil next to my studio.

Mayapple sprout - as a male

I just grow it because I like it, as I will never be rubbing any of it on my genitals or eating the berries for that matter. That said it is remarkable that the plant takes on the form of male and female sex organs in its development. If you asked me, it is probably because of its phallic resemblance that it was used on this sensitive area. No, I am not a Puritan; I just like to remind myself that this is a sensitive area in more ways than one. Us men, always seem to have our brains located in the wrong area, wouldn’t you say. What kills me at my age is when neither of them get used much, the brain or the… Oh well I can’t change nature, just subdue it a while. I like the female image below, as it gets me thinking of… Time for rain and a cold shower – lol :}~

Mayapple sprout - as a female

I’m an artist so I have a license to think in the abstract.

Memories – not oh, but rather ouch the memories.

I am not much in the mood for writing much more just now.

The truth is I been spending a lot of time writing a text about how I first met William Burroughs as a friend some twenty-five years ago. In the event you do not know who William Burroughs is, I’ve included these links for you - he was an American writer who made up part of the Beatnik Movement and whose work influenced several countercultures. Bill was also a big influence in my own life and I thought it would be interesting to write my first memories of him. My text is not yet completed and thus I submit these images for you today. When I’ve completed the Burroughs text, I will publish it here. Thus ouch the memories!

Trilliums work their way up from the warming earth.

These tender plants have raised their heads from the warming soil in the bed next to my studio. They are called Trilliums and this flower is the Provincial flower of Ontario, Canada, where London is located.
Trilliums take years to produce seeds and they are not able to survive the full exposure of the sun. Many have been killed by clear cutting of the forest over the last hundred years all throughout North Eastern North America. They were also harvested for medical uses by Native Americans and white herbalist alike, it is a wonder that any of the plants survive. As mentioned, this little cluster grows in the flowerbed next to my studio and as such receives very subdued light during the day with some sunlight in the mornings. Trilliums are herbaceous plants and come in a variety of colours; they grow in the rich woods all over this province and bloom in spring. I am fond of this little cluster, as they have thrived here for almost twenty years.

Our Magnolias are set to come into full bloom.

Our Magnolia tree has also started coming into its own with the buds swelling by the day and the top buds actually starting to bloom today. I wanted to share the stark beauty of the pink petals touching the blue sky, as it is indeed a wonderful site to see. I started this tree as a twig some twenty years ago in my front yard but it needed more love and light so I moved it to the back where it has flourished ever since. I’ll be sure to show you the whole tree in bloom in the days to come.

We’ve had an exceptional warm spell over the last week and everything is racing forward towards full spring. Unfortunately, we have also not had much rain and are in need of it now. In fact, the last major precipitation we had was snow earlier in the month. We need some rain.

as the sky is grey - so is my spirit

I started this day as I have the most of the better three days before it, feeling sick and nauseas, spewing bile. I felt down and then started thinking about all the things that I must do. The family, our gardens, the monastery, my own art, our house, New York, all screaming for attention. I feel rundown and despondent to their shrill crying, at times thinking them to be the “call of mermaids” mesmerizing me into peril. I attempted to address some of the work; what little choice does the Shepard have but to find the lost lamb. Muttering indignities under my breath, I went into the garden to cut down last years tall ornamental grasses from my spring beds. It was a pleasant enough job on such a grey day with the clouds of heaven weeping small drops of rain onto our green earth.

As I worked, I meditated on my position, first thinking: that as the sky is grey, so is my spirit! My spirit undoubtedly clouded by my own myopic self-indulgence in pain. As I thought, I worked and as I worked, I began to contemplate what makes me grateful for the trials of life when they are successful. The first image that awoke from the malevolent morning that was of joy. Just the day before, while planting the Pansies in the post below, I watched my daughter coming down the street illuminated by late afternoon’s golden light. She was wearing a smile for me that grew when she saw me. Need I say more? I am still feeling that smile.

Like nature, which has both its cruelty and its kindness, so was the manifestation of my day: hovering on the fluxes of joy and regret. I thank God for these days of melancholy because they make you know that you are truly alive.

My gift to you then dear reader, are these rarities of the past. These antiquated medicinal treasures from our glorious apothecary in the forest.

Lungwort blooming under our stand of Maple trees.

Lungwort (Pulmonaria officinalis, Ephedra (Ephedra sinica),

The Lungwort formerly held a place in almost every garden in Britain, under the name of 'Jerusalem Cowslip'; and it was held in great esteem for its reputed medicinal qualities in diseases of the lungs. Lungwort a large, green, leaf like lichen (Lobaria pulmonaria) that grows on trees and rocks in damp subalpine regions. It was once common in Britain. However, atmospheric pollution has caused it to become rare, and it is now found in humid forests on the west coasts of Scotland and Ireland, where it often attains a great size.

Fortunately, it’s also found in my backyard here in the other London, the one in Canada. What an engrossing plant - with its pink and blue flowers growing from the same stem and its white speckled blemishes painted on all its leaves (sometimes called Boy-Girl Flower because of its pink and blue blooms). This one is definitely on the top of my spring flower list.

It also brought me some element of joy like the perpetual smile of the Buddha - though more fleeting and ephemeral.

Such subtle beauty to end any time of remiss.

viola = pansy

Pansies grow in my front yard and fill me with gaiety.

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Let us drink and sport to-day,

Ours is not to-morrow:

Love with youth flies swift away,

Age is naught but sorrow.

Dance and sing,

Time's on the wing,

Life never knows the return of spring.

(from The Beggar's Opera 1728)
By John Gay.

John Gay: English poet and dramatist, friend of A. Pope and Swift. Gay is remembered for his play THE BEGGAR'S OPERA (1728), which was the basis for Kurt Weil and Bertolt Brecht's classical work Dreigroschenoper (1928, The Threepenny Opera).
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Main Entry: 1 pan·sy
Pronunciation: 'pan-zE
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural pansies
Etymology: Middle English pensee, from Middle French pensée, from pensée thought, from feminine of pensé, past participle of penser to think, from Latin pensare to ponder -- more at PENSIVE

1 : a garden plant (Viola wittrockiana) derived chiefly from the wild pansy (Viola tricolor) of Europe by hybridizing the latter with other wild violets; also : its flower
2 a usually disparaging : an effeminate man or boy b usually disparaging : a male homosexual

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I also love these, ever so tiny and delicate, wild violas that grow in my lawn. I must move them so that they can be happy in a garden to thrive. Their so fragrant for such a little things and can be candied to eat.

Tiny wild violas growing amongst the blades of grass in the backyard.

These are happier growing under our stand of Maple Trees.

You know now that I think about it, I always found A. Pope difficult to read because of his poems length, although there are some juicy bits. Isn’t a laureate what cowboys use to lasso a horse?

GP

Not all willows weep – some reach towards the sky.

Willows at the Monastery of the Precious Blood - London

It is true, not all Willows weep; the Artic Willow (Salix arctica) for example has it branches reach up to the sky. I am found of the willow at this time of the year, as it is usually the first of the large trees to sprout its leaves. In this photo from the Monastery where I work, you can see the brilliant lemon yellow colours of the Weeping Willow (Salix babylonica) just starting to explode with life. The two large trees, center and far right, are Weeping Willows and the tree to the left just behind the middle tree is an Artic Willow. In my painting of The Forks of the Thames (below), the trees in the foreground and lining the river are Weeping Willows, at just about the same time of year. I just love that yellow against the vibrant spring sky.

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Well if I was tired yesterday, I am thoroughly exhausted today. Add to that, sore muscles over my entire upper body. I’m a right mess – beaten and bruised by trying to subdue nature – okay, well clean it up anyways. I spent the better part of the day raking under this stand of Willows and another stand of Sycamores just behind my cameras vantage point (above image). Ouch, my back still hurts and my arms ache but my spirit soars from being out in the elements most of the day.

As well as my fundamental career as a visual artist, I also own a small landscaping company. Small is a fitting word as I only have one customer: The Sisters of the Precious Blood. Their Convent is now called a Monastery, fitting in with the removal of gender based terms by society. These sisters were cloistered until Vatican II when they started to find new freedoms. Now they are more reclusive than cloistered. They are a praying order as well as baking the hosts used in the Catholic Communion service. My little company is employed to work their 6 hectares of land, the grounds, and gardens for them.

Why a gardener? It’s simple really, apart from my cultural heritage as a Dutchman my father actually was a gardener and gave me his company Martins Garden Service and Landscaping when he retired a few years back. I did not want to work for numerous clients, so I severed off the residential customers for my brother in law, and took only this customer for myself.

Gardening has been in my blood since I was in short pants as a child. My father Martin immigrated to Canada as a Pastry Chef – Baker from Holland. On his arrival, he went to work for a large local Bakery “Lewis Breads”. After working a small shop bakery, which he owned in Valkenswaard, The Netherlands, he was completely overwhelmed by working in this bread factory, where thousands of loaves of bread were produced a day. Add to that, the fact that at the time, the loaves of bread this factory produced were nothing that he considered bread. They were those white loafs which you could mush back into a ball, not a marvelous rye or other traditional European sorts. After a few months, he took on a second job working for another Dutchman, Frank Berkelmans, who owned a landscaping business and after time my dad took over this business as his own. Frank wanted to get into the greenhouse business in a big way and had no interest in residential landscaping, so it was a perfect fit.

As I was growing up, I was always around gardens and flowers, as we also had a small greenhouse operation behind our house on Central Ave (discussed in the post below). Gardening has always been a big part of my life, through my dads influence, and of course my own interests in flowers as an artist.

I took over my dad’s business or at least the nuns because prior to that I had been a Professor of Art and was very unhappy teaching at the school were I worked. It wasn’t the students, I loved them; it was the politics of academia that turned me sour. On my dad’s retirement, I was offered another way to keep the wolf from the door and meet my financial needs as a gardener and I took it. Hey, think about it for a minute: I’m my own boss, I come when I want and leave when I please – great on those days I don’t want to leave the studio. I make reasonable money and employ a couple of workers so that if I need to be away, such as New York, I can go. I also work for the most wonderful group of older woman (the nuns) who bring me warm tea and cookies or cake at the breaks. I get the winters off to work entirely on my work as an artist. Most importantly, I get to work outside with nature, doing something that keeps me fit and trim - what is the word “hard body”. It truly is a blessing and if I had to do something else I'd really lament it as gardening melds flawlessly with my career as an artist. I’m blessed in so many ways.

Thanks dad! I owe you for freeing me from the realms of pedagology and the dictates of political academia. I may be somewhat didactic in nature but I am no pedant.

Broader perspective of the grounds at The Precious Blood Monastery - Sycamores and Willows to the left, Aspens to the right.

It was a cool clarion blue sky today

I worked very hard all day raking the gardens of the Monastery today, so I am very tired. I’m also a little spent from all the writing of yesterday, so I’m at loss for words today.
Today, I can only offer you these little gems from my own garden. They came into or will bloom in the next days. What a privilege it is to watch these plants grow and extol their simple beauty. It was a cool clarion blue sky today and the light was so intensely bright, so bright that I waited until the the sun was low in the sky, just before sunset, to take these images below. Enjoy!

Narcissus (Daffodil): is remembered for having fallen in love with himself. Concerning the flower in which they say that the young man Narcissus turned into, it already existed at the time when Hades abducted Persephone, and became "a snare for the bloom-like girl". For it was while she, attracted by the sweet scent of the narcissus, gathered flowers over a meadow, that the earth opened and Hades sprang out upon her with his immortal horses, and took her with him to be the queen of the Underworld.

Hyacinth: The word hyacinth comes from the Greek Hyakinthos, a handsome young man who in Greek mythology was loved by the sun god Apollo. One day they were practising throwing the discus but the jealous god of the West Wind, who was also in love with Hyakinthos, blew the discus back and it fatally wounded him. From his blood grew a flower, which the god Apollo named after him.

I cannot remember the name of this tiny delicate bulb flower.

My youthful biker memories from London EOA

After all my talk of feeling blue I thought I might think of yellow, as in yellow ribbon; I thought I’d write about memories. These stories are from some of my earliest memories in life.

As a young boy of between ten (1965) and twelve, had you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would of answered, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted to be a biker; just like the older brothers of all my friends in our neighbourhood.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve since come to see that bikers are a group of grown up bullies who have formed a fraternity of crime and corruption. As a boy in the sixties, we were inundated by the popular media that being an outlaw or biker was the latest thing and something to aspire towards. The images of Marlon Brando in leathers, sitting on his motorcycle in the movie “The Wild One” were all the rage and as common as the millions of posters of him that could be purchased anywhere. This was the cultural milieu of the time in the early and mid-sixties: Rebel without a Cause, The Wild Ones, The Wild Angels, and later Easy Rider.

Marlon Brando in the film The Wild One.

It is against this cultural backdrop that I grew up. Our neighbourhood was a poor working class area in the east of London, known locally as East of Adelaide (St.) or EOA. After living in an apartment for a few years following our immigration from The Netherlands, my parents moved here to our first rented house. The house was located at 823 Central Avenue, which put it directly across from one of the local railway switching yards of the Canadian Pacific Railway. From our front window, we could see the large rail yards, the rows and rows of railway cars, the locomotive turn house, the sand hoppers used in the engines brake systems. In addition to the railway, there was a small depot of medium sized oil tanks used by a local fuel supplier. Across the expanse of the many rails and ties was Wosley Barracks, home of the Royal Canadian Regiment (RCR). On any given day, across the divide of railway tracks, we could hear the sounds of the guns retort as soldiers took their firing practice. We lived nestled in between a large factory building used as a printing house and the supply buildings of a plumbing shop. Next to the factory was a garage named Len Powells, with a used appliance shop to the garages right; this shop had tons of broken appliances cast into disregard at the back of the building. Our neighbour to the rear was a junk collector - private garage owner, with discarded cars cast about his property and an ugly junk-yard-dog to protect it. This was the setting in which I spent my early formulative years in London.
Many of my friend’s older brothers were indeed involved with motorcycles; some of them even belonged to various motorcycle clubs of the time, such as the Vagabonds MC and the Satan’s Choice MC. During the late sixties, a church just a few blocks from our home at 430 Elizabeth St. now called First Church of Christ (Disciples), was used to celebrate the large wedding nuptials of some bikers. This event brought thousands of bikers from across the region and beyond. At the time, I think it may very well have been the largest gathering of bikers in all of Canada. The neighbourhood kids and me, hoofed it up to Queen St. at Elizabeth St. that Saturday and saw a parade of motorcycles ridden by bikers from numerous clubs which lasted an hour or more. They were all wearing their colours and there was flag bearing motorcycles, three wheeled bikes, and all the other accoutrement of bike gangs. There was also a large representation of the local constabulary making sure everything stayed under control -- a motorcycle escort you might say, in a tongue-in-cheek manner. I have to admit it was quite a remarkable sight and something, which at the time I wanted to belong.At one point, I actually went so far as to cut off the sleeves of my jean jacket, safety pinned on a white cloth to the back of it, on which was emblazoned a skull and cross bones. My bike at the time did not have an engine, as it was just a bicycle. It nevertheless, did have Mustang Handle Bars (high lifted front bar), extended front forks, and a long Banana Seat. Additionally, to add to the glamour of it all, it was stolen from a local swimming pool (McMahons Pool) just to add to the bad-boy image; an act I now truly regret.

Me on my bike in front of our house looking over at the CP railway yards - paradoxically I'm dressed for church

Thus, had you of asked another boy from say the west-end of London, he might of answered, a lawyer like my dad. Living in the east-end EOA I wanted to be a biker, like my friends older brothers, like the big events being held in our neighbourhood. This was the sentiment for most kids back in these times and if not, they wanted hot-rod cars to cruise the main drag (Dundas St.) and probably aspired to having a good factory job like their fathers. We wanted to be cool, to belong, and to do what you had to in order to be a rebel or an outcast.Yes, it was rough neighbourhood, our idea of a good time was to have a fight with the kids from one of the other neighbouring schools or just hang out at the local pool hall; which I spent altogether too much time in. The block on which I lived was comprised of peoples from every corner of the world who had also immigrated to this great land of Canada: the majorities were Irish, then the Italians, the Portuguese, Scottish, English and our Dutch family. Our fathers were hard working people of trades and factories, and our mothers stayed at home taking care of their families or worked as “cleaning ladies”, like my mom. The city of London was still an urban city at the time before its rapid migration towards its current suburban make-up. How simple it all seems now looking back.

823 Central Avenue in 2005 - as rough now as it was when I lived in it 35 years ago.

I drove my 14-year-old daughter Nicole past our old family home on Central Ave. the other day. The house has become a complete shanty but still inhabited by tenants. The oil tanks are gone, but the fenced in compound remains. The street has taken on an even more industrial look since I last saw it. The Royal Canadian Regiment has moved their headquarters elsewhere in Ontario and the barracks are a shadow of themselves, currently under development with new shopping locations for Oxford St. The memories though, they remain strong for me.
While driving by the house and telling my daughter of the biker story, I commented “Was I ever glad that my parents moved us from this neighbourhood when they did, or who knows where I might be today?” – it got a laugh from her. My parents bought their first home in 1970 and we moved to Wharncliffe Rd. North in my grade 10 year of high school. Even though I lived in this tough neighbourhood as a child by grade 10 I was already feeling that I didn’t belong. I didn’t belong to biker mentality or to any of the other current trends in society at the time, by then being a hippy was the thing to be. This move put an end to all my biker aspirations. What was I thinking? It would not be until years later that I realized that being an outcast is not everything it’s cut out to be, particularly if it is not a decision of your own choice to make, as you are marginalized into a role which society denotes, like that of an artist or any minority group.

Years later, while living in a Squatted Building (Squatting: the utilization of unused land or housing by a person who does so without the owner's consent.) in Amsterdam, I came to see the true character of bikers. It seemed that the local chapter of the Hells Angels MC Amsterdam, wanted to take control of the ground floor of a building we had earlier squatted. We had squatted this city owned building, as a protest to housing needs in the city where at the time some 26,000 people or more were without a residence. This sum is exactly the amount of displaced people who were forced from their homes to make room for a new underground subway. The building was located at the opening of the first stop on the subway line. The Hells Angels wanted to use the space as a clubhouse or repair shop. The events that I saw during this time are too long to mention now, suffice it to say I saw the true colours of bikers in its less glamorous and more violent form. I’ll write more on this topic some other time as this post is already becoming too lengthy.
I did eventually become a biker though; I joined a bike club and rode thousands of kilometers with my fellow cyclists wearing the colours of the club -- London Centennial Wheelers Cycling Club. Since then, bikes have played a large role in my life, a healthier and somewhat more positive choice of belonging to a bike club I might add.

Me as a biker - a radical paradigm shift from my earlier youthful aspirations.

Somewhat fitting, one of my earliest recollection as a child was on returning to Holland after immigrating to Canada. My parents thought that maybe they had made a mistake in coming to Canada and that they should return to our homeland of Holland. My two sisters and I returned to Holland in the company of my mother, my father stayed on to work and we did eventually reunite in Canada with him. The most vivid memory I have from this period of my life was a red bicycle that my Opa (grandfather) bought for me to ride. It was such a treat, as it represented a liberty I had previously not known; I could suddenly fly like the wind on two wheels instead of hobbling around with a metal brace strapped to my leg. I can still see that bicycle, even now some 40 plus years later: riding it in front of my grandparents house in Roermond, Limburg, The Netherlands.

That is my biker story and I’m happy to say that bicycles are still a big part of my life. I will write more on my relations with the Hells Angels and my time in Amsterdam some other time – stay tuned.

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P.s. I do have a leather motorcycle jacket but my wife hates it when I wear it. If I could, I’d have a 900cc rice rocket to nestle between my legs, but again I can’t get that one past my wife either. Oh yes I do have a cap similar to the one Brando is wearing in the image above -- I do wear it with blessing from all.

Happy anniversary to my darling wife Maria - it’s been 20 years of marital bliss and what a more fitting story than that of a wonderful biker marriage from 35 years or more ago.

Depression and life.

Sometimes the veil of consternation seems like a burden too heavy for any of us to carry. It’s that moment of realization that after you’ve fallen from a height, there is no getting back up, clinging back on, your just falling. You surrender to the fate that awaits your plunge nether and can do nothing to alter the course. Helpless, you flail your arms knowing that all you have to wait for is the fall to end. It is a horrible feeling and one which too many of us have had that suffer from depression. Add to that the additional feelings of worthlessness, guilt, or that you are a burden to your loved ones. Overall, it is not a happy place to be and thus the term depression.

Phaethon’s Faux Pas - a study in depression, which I completed in 1998.

In my own experience, I have had to sink to the depths of utter despair, crisis, and despondency before I reached out for help. Like a man holding a hemlock potion I felt that this stoic reality was the only conclusion and thus the bitter solution was to imbibe the deadly brew. Happily, I did not partake as I spit the bitter drink from my mouth as it crossed my lips.

For the sake of my art, and my loved ones I will gladly endure to the end! I painted this watercolour in 1997.

What I learned from those experiences was that great height from which I felt was so high was only the first step, of the staircase I had ambitiously attempted to climb. The only real height was in my head, which was indeed in the clouds and my feelings were obscured by the fog of being there. It took a crisis of major proportion before I surrendered to my need of help and when I did, it was there for me. I recognized that I could not arrest my fall before I addressed those issues and only then did that cloud dissipated and I saw where I really was.
You feel alone and that absolutely nothing can change the outcome of your destiny as though you’re swimming upstream against a strong current. Suddenly, a life-buoy lands before you and you clasp on as though all of life depended on it and it does.

Like a heroin drug addiction, you can’t really stop the scratch of desire because it has become the shroud in which you hide from the real issues. Taking the methadone only helps relieve the pain of withdrawal; it is not until you seek council and deal with the issues that the dependency abates and the monkey lets go its talons firmly grasped to your back. Likewise, it is with depression, your body, after a time starts to recognize it as part of your being and it becomes the norm. Letting go seems as obscure as not breathing, as it slowly takes over the throne of your being. When you finally realize that the throne of your being has been usurped by something not entirely you, only then can you regain your rightful place on that throne.

A reworking from the above painting in pen and ink. 1999.

After a serious crisis in my life I went to my family doctor for help. At first, it took drugs to lift the cloud and see the pressing issues standing right there before me. I wasn’t falling helplessly but rather had lost sight of the fact that I was lying flat on my back looking up at the ether of those dark clouds above me. Then with a great psychoanalyst, I began to address the issues that had clouded my vision and had moved themselves onto the throne of my being.

Life is not as simple as taking a pill, damn how many of us wish it was. We could be like Neo in the Matrix and take the blue pill making us oblivious to the reality surrounding us. Dealing with the reality of course means taking the red pill and that only begins the sojourn of which we must now traverse. I urge those of you with such misery to take the red pill and start to deal with the issues clouded behind that wall of pain and consternation.

Now some 4 years later am I happier, by no means. Has my life become a bowl of cherries, in no-uncertain terms it has not. Am I looking through rose coloured glasses, for the first time I can honestly say that I see clearly the obstacles still in my way. What I have achieved is regaining the throne of my being. While the demons still raise their ugly heads, I am able to sit on that throne and say no, as they attempt to recover what does not belong to them. Yes, every now and then, I must get up off my back and with every effort I can make, crawl back up onto the seat of power. Nothing in life is that easy and that is a good thing as it helps us gain wisdom through experience. Where there a refrain in my life that chorus would be, “I’m a survivor of my own stupidity”. I live though and not as a victim.

So today I’m still feeling blue. I am worried that writing the above might seem somehow vapidly platitudinal or cliché. I realize I should divest my energy in my studio instead of the thirty plus minutes I have just spent doing this and it makes me feel guilty. If I can say anything, I’d like to use this probably over used anecdote: A man was walking and complaining to God that he was forced to make this journey and all its travails on his own alone. God instructed the man to look back, where he saw a single set of footsteps and said, “See I am alone.” God answered him further by saying “Those are not your footprints but mine as I have been carrying you these past many miles.”

I hope my own confessional here might encourage only one person to call out for help. Help is there, of that be sure; let me be that testimony.

Melancholy, your languid lure over me is anything but sanguine.

I seem to be on a roll and am feeling about the same as I did yesterday -- blue. It’s not a lack of confidence in my ability to work and make art; it’s my perception that significant others lack the same confidence. It worries my sense of self, like mixing water with wine, I feel somewhat weakened down by it. What really worries me at these times is that I do not want all of these mislaid feelings to continue rolling along, so that a day becomes a week, and then a month, and so on. I’ve been there before and survived it, but only by the skin of my teeth and I don’t think I’m strong enough to weather that storm again.
Just now, I’m feeling down and in all honesty, I don’t know why. I hope it is not just me feeling sorry for myself because I have no reason to do so. I make a lousy victim and hate playing that role. I’m sure I’ll find my way and if I wear any mantle it’s the one of survivor I prefer. Life’s struggles, the ones that even medicine can’t remedy must point to one thing: I’m a live. Good thing to, as when push comes to shove it is always life I choose. Melancholy, your languid lure over me is anything but sanguine.

So again, instead of wallowing in a bed of misery I thought I would share some of the things that did make my day yesterday and today, in pictures from my gardens.

Enjoy!

Bleeding Hearts race upwards in the dwindling-last-light of day.

Fresh young Chives in the dusk's twilight.

Rhubarb unfurls from its early spring red-shelled pods.

Garlic sprouts in the still warm light of the end of day.

I’m feeling introspective and insecure today

The Fritillaria imperalis is growing at a rate of about 4 cm a day.

The above image is a progress report on the growth of the Fritillaria imperalis I showed you in my earlier post titled Fritillaria imperalis. As you can see, since that post of April 6th, the plant has already raced ahead in size to about 33-35 cm, which is almost double what it was just 4 days ago. You have to admire this plant - wait until you see the bloom.

I’m feeling introspective and insecure today. I looked at this blog and thought that it is nothing more than an exercise of vanity, just another form of self-indulgence for me. I realize my punctuation is atrocious and can only hope that someday some who cares enough will proof and edit my ramblings. As my dear old ma’s eyesight is going, I don’t have the foggiest idea of who from the other three people who read it would or could. I’m embarrassed by my usage of English grammar and that it sucks as much as it does. My wife thinks it’s weird to publish my thoughts and convictions on the web for the world to see in this blog. I don’t know, I’ve always liked being somewhat transparent and think that bringing my demons to the forefront is a good way to deal with them. There are those who believe it is not prudent to hang out your dirty laundry for all to see – I’ve tried not to do that, except of course my own dirt. I wonder if my posts on poop-poo and pee-pee might offend? At the same time, I think who give a rats ass, it's part of everyday life - healthy and regular. As you can see too much doubt and that is not helped by my feelings of incompetence with the poor punctuation. I hate days like this!

The garden is coming along and I worked for several hours today bathed in warm sunlight. I was cleaning and preparing for when the spring really sets in, in the very near time to come. There are still no swelling buds on the trees but it is starting. Many plants are starting to come out of their dormancy. I’m thrilled by that, so instead of feeling like a looser or sitting here and wallowing, I’ll just go back outside into my yard and enjoy the rest of this glorious day.

Otherwise, how has your day been?

RED - day or night

seeing red

At night, many people are stabbed or robbed behind this place, even at gunpoint. During the day, I just like standing and looking at the RED wall. I'm afraid of more than RED, YELLOW and BLUE.....

One of my favourite places to stand and vegetate in London, I wash myself in the RED of daylight while others wash them selves in the danger of red at night. The light shone in the darkness but the darkness has not understood it.

Thus another image from London Canada, on my hometown tour. This building is located on the south-west corner of Richmond St. and Queens St. and is called Club Pheonix; it is in the downtown core. I photographed the back of the building from a parking lot facing east, thus very late in the day just before sunset, as the angle of light conveys, everyone needs some excitement.

London's Fork of the Thames

Fork of the Thames, by Gerard Pas, 1983. watercolour on paper, 40 X 46 cm.

First things first, I pre-posted this and the last post as I’m hard at work in the gardens of the Monastery of “The Precious Blood Sisters” and haven’t much time just now. Enjoy!

As my first post was about the comparisons or lack there of between the London’, the real one in the UK and the other one in Canada (please read the post below for more details), I thought that it would be good to introduce you to a watercolour painting which I did in 1983. I had just returned to London Canada after living in Amsterdam and had changed both my life and work radically (please visit my website to read more about these changes).
One of the first paintings I did after my return was this painting of London. It shows the Thames River in the foreground, looking east to the downtown, and the Forks of the Thames River. I wanted to capture the image that has always stayed in my mind of this city no matter where I am in the world. I based the work loosely on Vermeer’s paintings of Delft and the works of nationally known local London artist Jack Chambers. This is how I saw London in 1983 and although much has changed with the skyline, the Forks of the Thames remain the same. I haven’t much time to talk about all I was trying to say with this work except that I wanted to convey that beauty is in perception.
For me this is the postcard of London as it truly conveys this city, both in its dense forest and its urban nature. I made the painting in the early spring just as the trees sprouted their buds and just before they turned to leafs, just around this time of the year.
I hope you like this painting of which I am very proud.

No not that London — the other London

I live in London. No not that London, the other London, London Ontario Canada. How many times have I said that in my travels around the world when asked, where do you live. I say London and then must almost immediately point out it’s not the one their thinking of but the other London the one in Canada.
Like the real London, this London has a Thames, a Saint Paul’s, a Covenant Market; it is in the county of Middlesex bordered by Essex, Elgin, Perth, Oxford and Huron counties. We speak English and the general demographic of the 350 thousand peoples who live here is of a W.A.S.P. persuasion. London Ont. has one International Airport and not two like the real London with no Jumbos landing here, let alone a tax-free store. Both London’s have a Town Crier ours is a man named Bill Paul. This London also has boats, which navigate the course of the Thames River. Okay, it’s a small paddle wheeler used in the summer to take tourists on what must truly be the most boring outing of their lives – “To your right is the Greenway Pollution Plant and that odiferous smell is indeed poop being excreted back into the river, right under this vessel.”
Now that I’ve got the cynical thing off my back, with the comparison to the real London, I thought I’d give you a tour of the London Ont. I know using this blog. Over the next months, I will on occasion post images of what startles my eye in this my hometown of London. What better tour guide than an artist who has lived in this city on and off for almost 40 years. I first immigrated here as a boy of 5 as a boat person from the Netherlands with my parents, who still live here. The first memory I have of the town sign coming into the city was population 75,000 and it has grown by 4 fold since. I studied art here at H.B. Beal Technical School, started my career with a downtown studio, moved away and back in the early 80’s to begin a family with my wife Maria. We have raised two children here, Joshua and Nicole. While I have spent much time abroad over the years living in Amsterdam, Cologne, and New York, we have kept our family home here. It is with surety that I can say, “I am a Londoner”, even if I have become somewhat reclusive to my community of friends here.
Over the years, I have come to know this City very well. As a young man in my twenties, I worked as a Taxi driver to save money to leave London and did, but I know the city well enough to take you where you need to go and be paid cash for it. During that time, I have come to know the sites and sounds of this city, which are worth seeing. The stately homes, the interesting sites, the fine historical buildings, the exceptional views, the interesting eye candy, everything, which makes this London unique in its own way. I’d like to share that knowledge with you in the months to come in pictures or in paintings which I have created about this London. Consider it my pay back to a community, which has nurtured and supported me, where my greater family lives, and where I have raised my wonderful children.

Now as this post uses a lot of comparisons to the real London England (51°, 32 N, 0, 5°W, 5:00 pm.) with this London (43° 2' N, 81°, 9' W ,12:00 noon) I’d like to start with two images, one from both Cities. I went to visit the then new Tate Modern Art Museum in London, England and asked a friend (Zhang Hongtu) to take this picture of me standing in the window of the gallery below. It shows the Thames River looking out at St. Paul’s and the core of the city.

London U.K. as seen from the Tate Modern looking over the Thames with myself in the foreground.

London CDN as seen from the Museum London looking over the Thames with myself in the foreground.

I then came back to the other London a few weeks later, to do an exhibition of my work, and took this picture (on a tripod) from the windows of Museum London on the Thames River. It also shows the Thames River looking out from the core to the west of the city. It is an interesting comparison as it shows the similarities in being London’s with Thames Rivers but that is where the similarities stop. The real London shows a bustling metropolis where as the other London shows a sedate almost tranquil vista of forests and parks right outside of the core, even in winter. I always thought of it as an interesting comparative essay in pictures on so many topics: urban verses suburban, Arborists and the modern city, suspension bridges and cantilevers, the pastoral and the city, the mundane and the spectacular, a tale of two cities, etc. I’d like to share these two images with you for you to decide.

A good start I think, as it indeed conveys something intrinsic about this City in Canada and something which it is proud of, even taking it as a moniker: London – The Forest City. London Canada is known as the Forest City. From the highest Sky Scraper all you can see, even from the core looking out, are large trees that obscure the view of the residences underneath them. In the months to come I’ll support this point by showing you some aerial pictures which I took at 3,000 feet above and outside of the city, proving that even from the air it truly is the Forest City. I like living in this type of habitat surrounded by trees and the fresh oxygen they produce.
Hope you enjoy the images and comeback to see what really titillates my eyes about living in this the other London, eh.

Fritillaria imperalis

Fritillaria imperalis rise from the warming earth of our garden.

Check out these beauties. In less than a week, they have popped themselves out from the soil to a height of 12-15 cm. simply amazing. Maria, my better half, will be pleased, as these soon to be giants, are possibly some of the most beautiful flowers in our gardens and rank with her favourites. I like them also, although I appreciate a more delicate petal as found in some of our Iris’s.
These large, stately plants, with orange waxy flowers are called “Fritillaria imperalis” and in my opinion, no garden should be without it. Fritillaria imperalis are the biggest of the Fritillaries genera and a member of the lily family. This stunner can grow up to 1.5m (5ft) high and has about six red or orange downward pointing flowers at the top of the stem, just below a tuft of upward, pointy leaves. It has an unpleasant foxy smell. Other large Fritillaria such as 'Aureomarginata' have yellow-edged leaves, 'Maxima Lutea' yellow flowers, and 'Prolifera' produces two rows of bells. It shows the absolute brilliance of our creator God’s ability to think in the abstract, as it is a masterpiece of nature. I say think in the abstract because using the laws of “form follows function” this flower has petals and crowns, which defy that rule. It is purely a celebration of beauty in the macrocosm of the microcosm of space: a tuft of upward pointy leaves under which hang downward pointing flowers.

Do not worry when they come to bloom, you will be the first to see them here. What a marvelous day to work in our garden! Otherwise, how is your day?

I AM... Canadian

Oh Canada, the true north strong and free;
or is that, the truth sets us free.

As Canadians, we pride ourselves on the game of Hockey. In fact, it is generally considered by most Canadians as “Our Game”. If you never played a game of hockey in your life (like me) the rules and terms of the game are known by all here, it is almost a national right of passage. Hockey is our Game, hockey is our national sport.

In 2002 at the Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, U.S.A., Canada finally ended its agonizing 50-year wait to win the Olympic gold by beating the United States Hockey team. It was quite a match and much of this country was aware of the game and its outcome as the media was in full swing telling us at every opportunity. When that final game was won the streets filled with joyous revelers pronouncing their joy in a chorus of “We Won!” I had learned long ago that notion of “we won” was a cagey game. I very distinctly remember living out Ben Johnson’s 100 metre dash at the Seoul Olympics in 1988 and at the finish being enthralled at how “we had won”. The next day when he was caught for doping it was as though all that joy evaporated and no one was pontificating how “we had been caught for using steroids.” The fact we beat the Americans to me was no different than if we beat the Russians. It was our National team that won that game and nothing more as it has no reflection of me as I can’t even skate. Kudos’ to them for winning but I can’t live my life vicariously through that win.

Soon after, a national brewer took on a series of advertisings that simply promoted being Canadian. The campaign went under the moniker of “I AM…” finished with the word “CANADIAN”. You’d see a guy making comparisons between the U.S. assumption of what made up the Canadian culture or sentiment; the Americans were portrayed as being completely ignorant of what happened in or made up the country just north of their border. The ad always finished with the slogan “I AM CANADIAN”.

I have always resented any form of Nationalism which puts forth the notion that one culture could be superior to another. I find that the intrinsic generalities which this form of Nationalism takes are often deeply rooted in a form of Xenophobia. In fairness to the ad and so as not to be too serious, this ad campaign could also be considered humour; which is also thought of as a strong national characteristic here. That said I find that any type of Nationalism tends to lead to trouble and it cause me great alarm when I see it raise its ugly head. The Nazi’s where nationalists and I despair at what they did with it. I hate the same attitude in the U.S. where I have seen it fester over these last few years post-911. What angered me about the Canadian ad was that it seemed to say that to be proud of what makes us Canadian we had to use a comparison with our cousins to the south in the U.S.A.
What makes a culture is not, not being another culture. What I mean is that I am a Canadian because of a long history, of culture, art and a people not simply because I’m not an American. It is a weak kneed notion which I find simple minded and repugnant at the underlying nationalism behind it. I have so many good friends in the U.S. that know a great deal of this country and whom respect me for being a Canadian Artist. It insults me and them when such hyperbole is used in the mass media to insult both Canadians and Americans alike. Maybe it says more about the customer that brewery is trying to attract but no matter how you slice it, it is an ugly form of nationalism, which simply says I’m Canadian because I’m not American and that Americans are stupid.

I made this work to poke a stick at this notion (no pun intended). Nationalism is a crutch and if hockey is our national sport then a hockey crutch seemed like a fitting icon. I do not dislike hockey and why would I, it is a fast and wonderful game. I just hate any philosophy which motivates people to hate or think lesser of their neighbour. Our American neighbours may have problems but it is not their exclusivity: there are three fingers pointing back at us when we point the one at them. I think that to use the same hateful lexicon that I so hate in the American culture as our own in Canada is an anathema. I am a Canadian because of hundreds of years of history. I am a Canadian because of a strong tradition of art of which I was raised in under artists like Greg Curnoe or further back to Emily Carr. I am a Canadian because I understand our national literature without using a glossary of terms. I am not a Canadian because I’m not an American. How simplistic!
I AM A CITIZEN OF THIS WORLD AND A BROTHER AND SISTER TO ALL IN IT. Yes, I have a unique culture in being a Canadian and a Dutch immigrant here. Of those things I am proud but most certainly not arrogant of. I have seen much of this great world and realize that we all have much to be proud of. If anything maybe that is indeed why nationalism breeds its ugly head because we somehow feel inferior and to compensate we put ourselves above others. Canadians are generally a modest bunch and the truth be known that’s another reason why I’m proud to be one.

I AM... CANADIAN by Gerard Pas 2004-2005