“Artspeak!” – Converse like a Critic!

Fun post.

Was sent this link recently.

It’s just too good not to share  …  click  ‘here’.

…  hee-hee …  enjoy!

Poll: Google’s Street View. Good or Bad?

Please vote in the comment section below.  State why.

Personally, I’m not enamored.

Google Corporation is a business, not a benign ‘humanitarian’ charity carefully curating the ’streets’ of humanity.

For more info, link  here.

Or, for a less engaging but pertinent post, here.

The Philanthropist … (another short story)

(Dear Canadada Readers: here’s another edit of an older ’story’  – would appreciate any feedback…. good, bad, indifferent – Thanks! – c)

I sat in the small audience with twenty-four other representatives from various Foundations at the Adopt-a-Village symposium. We quietly listened to a well-built black man in his early forties talk about starvation, mal-nutrition, malaria, military intervention, the heroic efforts of the Canadian Red Cross and the overall generosity of the Federal Canadian food banks. He talked too of the urgent need for family planning. As a humorous aside he mentioned that his hotel rate in Gobi was “a whopping” $3.00 U.S. per night.

As he spoke his large body flowed with a natural lilting of the head. He gently swayed from side to side like a contented elephant. His hands swept passively through the air and his long brown fingers would slowly unfurl. From time to time he would lazily scratch his head, or place his left hand inside his jacket and press, caress, his chest. His hand would go to his shirt collar and he would absentmindedly tug in discomfort. At one point his palm was turned out to us and I was startled to see how very white it was. His voice was melodious and soft. Low, deep, and sonorous. His entire body energy seemed to reflect a well-tempered contemplative individual. The overall body movement, the overall picture, was, to my watchful eye and curious mind, very appealing, and basically sexual.

I tried to concentrate, and listen. I tried to really listen to this whole black person talk as he moved so gracefully through such confining and restrictive white space. I listened acutely for the half-truths, and the half lies, listening to see, if this sexy massive man knew the difference himself between the politically correct white lies and the simmering elusive black truths.

He spoke well, with a polite firmness, yet with the craft of a well-versed and artful diplomat. As I said, he was good. Very good.

I found I could resist no longer, I had to speak to this big man. Investigate. So I asked one question after another. I wanted to get a sense of our private dialogue, the potential of our own undulating intimate rhythm. I wanted to see how he would answer me, if he would answer me, or just answer the question. He was very good. It was hard to tell exactly. Precisely. Yet, even so, his manly earthy charm was riveting. As he walked by me to answer yet another question from the audience I caught a whiff of his sweet smell body sweat. I lapsed completely from the job at hand and could only think of his black body on top of me. Laying over me. Lying beside me.

As he passed by I noted there was a gentle flabby jiggle at mid-section beneath his khaki coloured shirt. The tip of his tie twitched. And that made me vaguely uneasy. (If his people are starving, then why is he so well-fed and so well-dressed?) But I scoffed at my superficial assessment: he had obviously pruned himself for this important fund-raising presentation, and yet, there was something else, something else.

The man oozed. That was it. He just oozed sensuality. It was sheer and feral. Potent with potential.

I wondered about my white woman lust for this hulking black man. I noticed that he didn’t come too close to me. I flattered myself to think that he too felt our toxic sexual sub-current, our sultry sub-text. No other woman in the audience conversed with him as much as I did, except perhaps that hen-pecking frau in the back who kept after him about proper accountability, zealous Christian missionaries, unpredictable cycles of agriculture and the diminishing cleanliness of the water table. She spoke forcefully with a kind of condescending marmishness. And after her last question, I deliberately softened my inquiring voice, and almost spoke in a whisper. He smiled at me. Several times.

Towards the end of the presentation, he showed a beguiling slide of a sun-baked riverbed with a scraggly patch of cultivated maize growing in the sunken hollow. Beside the maize a bent old man with porcelain white eyes stood in a colourful mustard sarong. He was barefoot and leaning on a wooden stick. He gazed quizzically at the camera. Two small hairless children were freeze-framed as they played happily in the foreground with what appeared to be a tiger cub. A well-shaped and well-groomed mature bejewelled woman sat near them on the ground holding onto a gigantic water gourd, laughing at them. It was a pleasant picture.

I asked the Adopt-a-Village representative where the seeds had come from so that this rock hard farmer could plant his precious maize crop. He started to tell me that the genetically strengthened corn seeds were supplied by the Agricultural Ministry funded by various global bio-pharmaceutical Foundations like ours but then he stopped, and said, “Oh, you mean these people,” as he glanced quickly over his shoulder at the simple family portrait. “The Matsi carry their own seeds, they always have, from generation to generation.” Suddenly his large open friendly face snapped shut, and he did not meet my eye that time as he moved forward to the front of the room clicking rapidly to the next slide.
He had inadvertently slid from the script, and he knew that I knew it.

I instantly understood. The photograph was just a prop. A sophisticated yet ‘primitive’ sales tool for this global charity gambit. None within the photograph had known why their picture had been taken. They had no idea that their simple traditional lifestyle would now be used to raise cash. Their frozen visages were merely an eternal testament of ‘backward’ global poverty. A celluloid image to trade with the First World. It was equally as clear that they would never be the immediate recipients of any kind of global assistance. And by the look of it, they didn’t really seem to need our life-altering charity.

I looked again at the sexy black man as he moved stealthfully along the side of the wall selling his Adopt-a-Village concept to well-heeled, and isolated Canadian philanthropists. And, yes, suddenly I experienced a massive earthquake of doubt. He was not one of those stone faced and timeless self-reliant nomadic people. No, he was far too well-trained, well-educated and totally dependent on our Western commercial ways. Our money, my money, fed him and kept others like him in Gobi hotels at $3 a night U.S.

His effusive black charm instantly vanished, his skilful sonorous voice no longer seduced. He was just like any other polished floor-flusher. As I stood to leave, I did not look back at that handsome smooth talking hustler. How foolish of me to think.

But, I did pick up one of the well-designed four colour glossy brochures strategically placed beside the front door for the Adopt-a-Village programme. It was still an appealing idea, all things considered. Perhaps not all the money, I reasoned to myself as I hopped into the Benz, went to the well-organized administrators and skilled fund-raisers. There had to be some kind of trickle-down effect otherwise the whole scheme was just a fraud. And that couldn’t be true, now could it? I would make the recommendation to my Board, I decided, driving up Yonge Street, that we grant a provisional small endowment of $500,000. According to the brochure, that would be enough to care for 5 villages of 500 inhabitants for 5 years. That should do.

As I sat at the red light the sweet smell of that sexy black salesman lingered on in my nostrils.

Seeing ‘Patterns in Nature’ … a random taut

Recently finished reading  Marshall McLuhan’s collection of essay’s & lectures compiled by his daughter,  ‘Understanding Me’. That guy was so far ahead of his time it’s kinda mind-boggling.

But also encouraging, cuz if HE could SEE and understand back in the 1960’s & 70’s what was going to happen to children of mass media , so CAN we project & understand what will happen to our grandchildren in the next 30 or 40 years, with a little cogitation … no?

Example, he talks a lot about PATTERNS, recurring patterns, and  how our minds not only SEEK them, but MAKE them, neurologically.

This got me thinking …  Here a a few images to amplify this notion.   LOOK at these images and what do you SEE – ?

Collectively – they kinda make the  mind go ‘whoooop’.

Words can’t really ‘get there’.

It’s a visual RECOGNITION of similitude.  They show ‘a pattern’.

It’s a visual TRUTH.  Something we haven’t quite been able to articulate properly.  Something we haven’t quite GRASPED.  Yet.

Do you SEE what I’m saying here -?

While musing on this whole notion I stumbled upon some art work by Mrs. Brown’s grade 3 students.  They too were asked to explore  ‘patterns in nature’ …

That’s the first image in this post. Nice & natural, and TRUE, ain’t it?

(p.s. FYI, the image beneath the water droplet depicts man-made debris floating around our planet.)

Oedipal Opus Re-cycled … (another short story)

(Dear Canadada Readers: I’ve done (another!) edit, and seek constructive criticism … wadja think? … THANKS! Here goes … )

When Gaby and Rick started their affair nearly seven months ago, Gaby’s teenage son, Kyle, knew it meant more uncertain family upheaval, but conversely, more lucre and loot for him. Rick was another of his mother’s ‘foot loose ‘n fancy free men’. Ed, Kyle’s current stepfather, had only just moved out of Gaby’s ranch style home in Freelton with that tell-tale love-lorn whimper. He had finally given up. Kyle’s mother had been reasoning of late that it would just be best for all parties if Rick, her latest on-and off-again loosely-married paramour, moved in soon. It was understood that his Oakville-based wife was an insufferable b*tch. It was also certain that his wife would win custody of his two early teen children. (Rick was, after all, having the affair with Gaby.) Kyle knew that when Rick moved in, it would initially be problematic. Each and every one of his mother’s lovers was problematic. There were always new patterns, new behaviours and new rules.

Ever since his own father, Ken, had left in a blind rage nine years ago, his mother had rationalized the volcanic-like exit with dismissive superiority, saying, he just wasn’t good enough for them. She had clung to Kyle over that intervening time, never letting him out of her sight. Kyle learned to live with her deep-seated emotional insecurity, though he never would have known to call it that. She needed him, and he was always there. At school, when she came to pick him up, he had said to his cool bum-slung pant friends, with equally dismissive superiority, “She doesn’t like driving. I have to drive her home.” Which was more or less true. He had been driving since he was eight, picking up his father from some dingy after-hour hole-in-the-wall, or picking up his mother when her vehicle had broken down or run out of gas on some lonely stretch of highway after yet another heated argument. He had learned to shoulder the responsibilities of his infantile parents with surprising grace. That’s why it was such a surprise when he announced to Gaby and the newly ensconced Rick that he was moving out.

His mother wanted to know why, what had she done? and even Rick, the current flame, asked if Kyle was in some kind of trouble? Kyle tried to explain everything was fine, that it was just time to move out. Gaby immediately thought that Rick had said something to upset the boy. And Rick, in turn, suddenly got a very clear picture of why her two (or was it three?) husbands had already left her. She obsessed unnaturally over her only child, her son.

Gaby demanded to know where Kyle was going to get the money to move out. He quietly explained that his step-father, Ed, had lent him several thousand dollars to get him on his way. This produced an unholy screaming match on the phone between Ed and Gaby. She said Kyle was not his son, he had no right to interfere, and he was stupidly putting her boy into debt. Ed quietly told her that Kyle had asked for the loan, and that the boy would pay it back soon enough with interest after he got a job. She wouldn’t hear of it. Not her Kyle. He would never want to leave home, leave her. Ed only said, ‘It’s time Gaby’. She hung up on him. When next she met up with Ken, Kyle’s biological father, to get his past-due child-support payments, she accused him of putting the boy up to it. Ken listened to her rant for about ten minutes, handed her the cheque, and said, ‘Gaby, it’s time for the kid to get out.’ She would not hear of it, not her little pumpkin. She stormed off in a huff.

She began a devious set of manoeuvres to keep her baby boy at home.

She began by buying him things. He received a brand-new triple XP edition PlayStation that was soon hooked up to his already complete in-house quadraphonic DVD stereo system, in his bedroom. She paid his overdue cell phone bill and bought him a new Star Trek faceplate. Every night, for several weeks, when she returned home from work she would have a new article of designer grunge clothing for him that she’d picked up at the mall. She even bought him a pudgy hamster and named it ‘Harley’ after the cocker spaniel that Ed had taken when he had moved out. She made up large batches of his favourite frozen meals for him to defrost and cook when he arrived home. She suggested that if he wanted to he could convert the large unfurnished room in the basement into a ‘bachelor’s pad’. Kyle had willingly accepted all these obvious overtures with a certain neutral calm; his mind was made up, he was moving out.

It wasn’t that he had anything against his mother. She had done the best she could over the years given their often rocky and unpredictable circumstances. He also knew that he was not exactly a wanted ‘love’ child, but rather, a badly timed ‘mistake’. Ken and Gaby had married far too young and she had had Kyle when she was only 18. Kyle’s age now. Ken had not been ready for a ‘family’. He had wanted to get established, have something saved up. So, Kyle had become a bone of contention between them since day one. When Ed, her second husband, moved in, Kyle could see that he was kind and tolerant of his mother’s clinging possessiveness about him. He quickly turned this to his advantage whenever he wanted something. All he had to do was tattle-tale to his mother about some real or fabricated incident and Ed would suffer for weeks, until Ed, or his mother, got him what he wanted. After years of that kind of abuse, let alone Gaby’s ever hungry eye, Ed had finally wised up and moved out, taking his motorcycle, metal working tools and the dog with him. Gaby immediately bought Kyle a shiny new red toolbox, filled it with every conceivable tool imaginable, spending over $2000 at Canadian Tire. He was, as a result, a somewhat spoilt child. But, regardless, he was growing up.

When she saw that he wasn’t going to budge about the move she tried a different tactic, one that had worked surprisingly well on her former in-laws whenever her husbands were acting up. She got sick. Something major would blow out. This time she used her back. For two weeks she lay propped up against blankets and cushions in front of the t.v. screen in the livingroom, demanding, through moans and groans, that Kyle stay home from high school to help look after her. He did. He cooked, cleaned, watered the houseplants, vacuumed and dusted. He played house with her for an intense two week period of time. Then he rented her a walking cane from the pharmacist. He insisted that she had to get mobile or the condition would get chronic. The gig was up. Rick, meanwhile, hovered about, tinkering with the car, mending the storm windows and otherwise keeping himself occupied during this pathetic charade. He knew that this mother-son scenario had to play itself out. He would prefer, after all, that Kyle be gone so that he could live there unfettered as the new king of the castle. He quietly rooted for the kid, even loaning him his laptop when he asked for it. He never mentioned that it always took him several hours to straighten out the buggered-up programs after Kyle returned it. He already knew that the unwritten law of being with Gaby was, never, ever, criticize the kid.

Kyle announced that his move out date was September 1st. Gaby was beside herself. Both Rick and he tip-toed around the house waiting for the next explosive outburst. She invited over her best female friend, Joyce, for dinner, insisting she bring her attractive nubile daughter as bait. She placed Kyle beside the budding princess, insisting he carve the chicken and serve her. He did what he was told, but announced even then, that he was moving out soon. The teenage girl’s eyes brightened. As soon as they left, Gaby went into another of her rages, claiming that everyone knew that little b*tch was a little wh*re just like her mother. Subdued, Rick washed the dishes and Kyle dried.

By mid-August he had found an apartment in Guelph near the university. He was going to work in the on-campus automotive department repairing campus vehicles. It was a good entry level job, promised to pay well and included a comprehensive benefits package, for life. When his mother went off to work he began packing up his gear into boxes. He put the boxes behind the hot water heater in the basement. His plan was to make one big move, to be out clean and clear, instead of moving out piecemeal over several weekends. In the meantime, he left his bedroom characteristically dishevelled in order to make the break from his mother as painless as possible. Late at night, when all were asleep in bed, he would furtively edit through his CD/DVD and comic book collection. What to take and what to leave behind.

On the morning of Saturday August 30th, while Rick and Gaby were still in the shower after make-up sex, Kyle loaded up his friend’s van with his boxes. When his mother finally came downstairs rosy-cheeked and flush, Kyle told her he was leaving in ten minutes. Gaby stood dumbfounded, at wits end, while Rick made another pot of coffee. As Kyle put on his windbreaker and baseball cap, his mother came to him and said, “You know you always have a home here Kyle. Always.” He leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, “I know, Mum. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’ll call when I’m settled.”

Fifty years later, Kyle still remembered that morning drive up to Guelph as one of the best drives of his life. He had never felt so free.

When his assorted wives and adopted step-children wanted to know about his early years, he always told them that he was raised single-handedly by his mother. And she, proud old rickety grandmother of many, would always add, “Kyle was the very best son.”

The Dustbin Artist … (another short story)

I had just finished my grocery shopping for the week and was driving out of the parking lot when I espied several empty picture frames leaning up against a pile of rubbish. Ever on the look-out for nice frames for my own paintings I stopped the car, went over and took a look. There were three of poor quality and one of better quality with an oil painting in it.

It was not a particularly GOOD painting. It was very amateurish in technique.  The colours were way off for ‘realism’. There was no real skill in it.  It lacked the sophistication & painterly pretense of a ‘serious’ artist. No, it was essentially a private piece, heart-felt & honest, and I liked it.

The mountain range, the clouds and the overwhelming conifer forest were rendered with a kind of attentive knowing. Nature was the larger focus of this simple untutored work. The little misshaped log cabin, massively disproportionate to the overbearing landscape, was the only human element in it. In fact, the cabin was the only clue that Man was even there at all.

The painting had a strange resonance with the ‘familiar’ from both ‘European Alpine landscapes’ and ‘the Canadian Rockies’. Yet, overall, the subject matter seemed more a reverie, or a remembrance of another time, another era. The ‘old world’ and the ‘new’ were colliding within the mind of the painter.

I doubted that it was a Real Place in Time & Space – though it might have been. It seemed more a place of longing, a fantasy piece, a desired place of gentle solitude among the magnificence of a Grandeur Design.

In the right-hand corner was the artist’s signature, H.Goebol, a european name. Who was this? Hendrick? Henrietta? Howard? Helena? Was ‘H’ a retired untutored lumberjack or a pining European maiden stuck now in suburbia?  Hortense? Harold? Heidi?

And why was it in the dustbin?

Was the artist dead? Was it in the rubbish as a result of a ‘clean up & clear out’ by uninterested relatives? Or, did the artist just tire of their own effort? Were they discouraged? Beaten? Had they given up on their dream, their longing?

I loaded the piece into the back of my car.

Goebel’s work now hangs in the guest bedroom at the lakehouse. It is visible to the eye every time anyone walks down the hall.  It continues to beckon, to invite, to welcome all in.

Goebol.  H . Goebol.  Dustbin artist.

‘The Prisoner’ … Debuts Nov. 09-!!

‘You only think you’re Free’

Amctv.com remakes ‘The Prisoner’, cult hit t.v. series of the 1960’s, set to release in November, 2009. Ian McKellan plays ‘No.2′.  Jim Caviezel plays ‘6′.  …. oh my, that’s GOTTA BE Good ! …

For a fascinating (and well-written) behind-the-scenes take about this new miniseries shot in South Africa and Namibia, read McKellan’s blog here.

Caviezel will have BIG SHOES to fill.  Patrick McGoohan,  co-creator and star of the original series, was outstanding as the enigmatic bewildered  ‘6′.  A complete release of the original series is also available on  amctv for a limited time frame, I don’t know for how long. Click here for your CLASSIC  ‘Prisoner’ fix …

Who is this? … (Photo Quiz)

Guess …

If need be, guess again …

…

How many did you think it was before you got it?

Who did your mind skip over?   How did it eliminate the ‘wrong’ one?

How long did it take you?

Memory works in a fascinating way because even though you have likely not seen this man for many years, perhaps even decades,  once you have correctly identified him you see him VERY clearly.

I tried this ‘quiz’ recently on 3 different people: a 20 year old, a 50 year old, and an 80 year old. The 50 year old got it first, after some stumbling, followed VERY closely by the 80 year old. The 20 year old had no clue – though, once told who it was, they KNEW the actor – (clue No.1-!) – and could then SEE him as well.

‘External Reality’ IMPRINTS on our minds. But that imagery, as evidenced over time, is not static. The mechanism for recall fathoms up  the ‘Original’ but quickly adapts and superimposes the ‘Current’ image. We THINK in this way every day, building our brains.

So, go on, WHO IS IT?

Gone Native … (another short story) …

(‘Island Spirit’ by Canadada)

Sometimes we remember things differently and for different reasons.

It had begun in this way.

Jules had said,  “Use positive, then negative pressure, then finish with positive.”

She said, “Well, in Human Resources we say it differently – we say ‘try to make a sandwich’ – bread, meat, bread.”  Then she put her hands together in prayer.  “Like this.” And she opened them. He responded by saying, “Honey, I was addicted to ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ as a kid, you can’t coax them with childish rhymes. It’s conventional organizational behaviour.”  She countered, “Noise, noise everywhere – and not a spot to think.” He said, “I know you think it’s always some kind of psychic war – a negative mental pollution generated by the corporation, but you’re ….”  “Not entirely,” she interrupted, “I think it has more to do with atrophied DNA from previous evolutions. Think calcified neurons. There’s a name for them, ‘entrons’ I think. Anyway, it’s really a physical problem, not a behavioural one.” He said, “I think you’re wrong Ginny. Bottom line, it’s only ‘dog eat dog’.” She laughed, “Right you are Romeo!” She slapped his bare bum and he, in turn, lunged for her. They made love again.

She heaved herself up from the bed. “I’m getting up now. Alert the press.” Wrapping her dressing gown around her nakedness, she walked towards the window and drew back the curtains. It was still very early. A soft rosy golden light shimmered over the island landscape. The water lapped the rock shore, pecking the shimmering pink boulders with persistent impertinence.

She watched the shorebirds swirl above the out islands, and said, “Why don’t we go fishing today?” Jules rolled over to look at her, “Fish?”

She turned to him, “Yes! Let’s go fishing. I’ll make a picnic.”

He smiled, “Ok. You’ll have to do the worm thing though.”

She smiled, “My corporate he-man.”

She opened the door of their bedroom and shuffled across the living room towards the pantry and kitchen. Oreo, the cat, sprang off the worn sofa and headed for her bare feet, meowing. Ginger bent over and patted the pet, “Breakfast, old girl? Where are the mice? Where are the mice? Come on.” Oreo ran ahead of her towards the kitchen.

The screen door was rattling back and forth on the hook. The wind was coming up across from the mainland and blowing through the backdoor into the kitchen. Not a good sign, a northeast wind usually brought bad weather. Ginger re-fastened the hook securely, then shut the interior door. It should have been closed last night before they went to bed. She’d try to remember tonight, if they didn’t drink too much vino again. She filled the coffee pot with lake-drawn water and turned on the stove. The propane burner sputtered to life, shooting out an irregular flame that settled down to a relatively stable flow. She measured out three heaping tablespoonfuls of freshly ground coffee and popped them into the top of the tin coffeepot. She fed Oreo breakfast, then put away the dried dinner dishes from the dish rack. She thought how she might do a hand wash later. She opened the window overlooking the back deck, just a few inches to let in some of that fresh invigorating early morning air.

Jules entered the kitchen in slippers and loosely slung housecoat. “Feel like poached eggs on toast, bacon on the side?”

“Sure. I’m going to take my coffee out to the front deck away from the wind.”

“Ok, I’ll be there in a sec.” She placed her hand on his hairy chest as she slid past.

Jules poured his first cup and rattled around in the utensil drawer trying to find the poaching cups. They were at the back buried under an assortment of cottage kitchen junk: bottle fasteners, toothpicks and boxed matches. He then heaved out the cast iron fry pan from the lower pot rack and opened up the fridge. He pulled out the eggs, bacon, bread, juice and jam. Oreo swarmed in and out of his legs. He glanced out the window to the front. Ginger was settling into the striped lounge chair, putting up her feet. Her pink dressing gown flapped gently in the breeze. He watched as she brushed her auburn hair off her face. He flushed and smiled at his good fortune, he had finally gotten the girl. She was a beaut too. He turned towards the stove and placed the freshly butcher-cut bacon into the pan. The strips slowly sizzled. He poured another cup of coffee, adding two large spoonfuls of brown sugar. He thought of the tackle box – he couldn’t remember where his father had left it. It might be in the back of the tool shed, or tucked up under the bow of the old outboard. He’d have to check later. He opened the interior back door and the screen door immediately started to rattle loudly on the hook. A gust of fresh air billowed open his dressing gown. He glanced over towards the flagpole. The flag was cracking and snapping in the growing breeze. He looked towards the dock harbour, the boats were secure, bumping abit but nothing to worry about. The water beyond was starting to whitecap. He noticed that the wind had a bit of a bite in it. He pulled his dressing gown taut and shoved the hook on the screen door firmly down into the eye on the door-frame, closed the interior door again and went back to the stove to flip the bacon. He rummaged around for the rickety toast rack, splayed open the sides, and put on four pieces of the store-bought white bread. He turned on another burner and placed the toaster on it. He pulled out another pot to poach the eggs. Where was that tackle box, he wondered.

He heard Ginger call his name, once, loudly and urgent, he answered, “Yes?” He turned. “What is it?” He went over to the open window and looked over to the deck. Ginger wasn’t there. Only her coffee cup. “Ginger?” He opened the window wide. He listened. Only the muffled irritating rattle of that back door. “Ginger?” he called out again. He turned off both burners, lifting off the toast rack, “Honey?” He went through the living room and out onto the front deck, his eye scanned the island left to right. Only her coffee cup. “Honey? Gin?” He walked to the end of the deck and looked down towards the lake. He reasoned with himself that she was closer than that when she had called out. He turned back to the cabin, “Gin?” His eye scanned the building, he looked towards the bedroom, the curtains were open, the kitchen window was ajar. Nothing odd or unusual in any of that. “Ginger?” He walked over to where she had been sitting. Then he saw her.

She was lying face down on the ground, her body bare and her dressing gown jumbled up in a heap on top of the juniper bush. As he rushed over to her, he momentarily thought, my god, she’s dead. As he turned her over he waited for her eyes to open. They did not. She was breathing very slowly. “Ginger – can you hear me? What happened honey? Where does it hurt? Ginger?” He glanced quickly over her body, there did not seem to be any obvious breaks or lesions. No discolourment or disfigurement. Only her right hand seemed marginally swollen. He lifted her into his arms and took her over to the lounge chair. He took off his house coat and placed it over her torso. He lifted her head again, “Ginger, can you hear me?” He gently stroked her cheek, then gently patted her face, “Ginger – answer me – honey please!” He laid her head back down on the lounge chair and stood up. He stood with his hands on his bony bare hips staring at her. He had no idea what he should do. He had no idea what had happened or what was wrong with her. Did she have a heart attack? A concussion from a fall? Why had she yelled out? Had she seen something? Jules glanced back at the house and the spot where he had found her. Her dressing gown was still strewn over the juniper bush. He went over to pick it up. As he bent over to lift the gown from the bush, he instantly heard, too late, the distinct and horrifying buzz, a large rattlesnake flopped out and fell onto the underbrush. In fright, Jules collapsed backwards onto the rocks, losing one slipper. The snake slithered off into the bush. Jules scrambled to his feet and fell back again towards the deck. “Shit!” He sprang quickly up the steps and rushed into the living room heading for the hearth. He grabbed the fire poker and tore back outside. Ginger had not moved and her breathing was laboured. He dropped the poker and rushed to her. He lifted up her hand. Sure enough, two small pinpricks less than an eighth of an inch in diameter were now visible just between her thumb and index finger. He tried to remember what he was supposed to do. Anti-venom shot? Tourniquet? Cut and draw the blood? He tried to think.

It would take almost an hour by boat to get to the mainland. The nearest ship-to-shore phone was thirty minutes away. The nearest doctor and hospital was Parry Sound, three hours by boat and car, one hour by seaplane. He had stupidly left the medical kit in his car. He did not know what to do: suck the blood? How much time did she have?

Jules pulled off his draped housecoat, and lifted Ginger’s naked body from the lounge chair. He took her indoors and laid her out on their unmade bed. He grabbed a face towel from the wash basin on the bureau and tied it tightly around her wrist. He crooked her arm up, off the bed, to slow the circulation. She was unconscious.

Jules dressed quickly in shorts and a t-shirt, he put his car keys into his pocket. He wrapped Ginger in the bed blanket and lifted her again. He carried her to the kitchen, managed to open the interior back door, lift the hook on the screen door and shoved their bodies against the screen. He could hear the door flap shut, then open and flap shut again with a repetitive clatter behind him as he hurried down to the boats. He carefully stepped into the rocking outboard and lay Ginger down gently against the back wooden seat. He untied the stern, moved up to the wheel, started the engine and unhooked the bow line tossing it onto the dock. He reversed his way quickly out of the sheltered harbour. The white caps splashed into the back end of the boat. He changed gears and thrust the throttle forward. The boat lifted up and took off.

His instincts were to go to the Key. There were other people there, cottagers and old-timers. There must be someone there who would know what to do, who could help. The boat thundered over the waves, the belly slammed up and down as it smashed against the white caps. He glanced back at Ginger. But there was only the blanket. Jules let go of the wheel and looked around the boat. Where the hell had she gone? He pulled back the throttle and the boat slithered to a bobbing stop. The waves continued to belt against the side of the boat. The wind was blowing hard. Jules looked back over the water – had she fallen out? No sign of her. “Ginger?” he screamed into the wind.

Ginger placed her coffee cup down on the patio table and gazed out over the out islands. The rocks glistened with morning dew. It was going to be another gorgeous and magical Georgian Bay day. Windy, to be sure, but that was half the fun. From the corner of her eye Ginger saw something move left. She turned her head scanning the rock. She saw it, the island bunny. She sat up pleased. The island bunny had come back. By the end of the summer last year it had learned to take treats from her hand. She put out her hand to it as it leapt for cover into the juniper bush. Gone from her view, Ginger stepped off the deck and walked slowly and quietly over to the bush. The rock was cold and damp under her bare feet. The lichen too, usually so brittle and crunchy, was like soft wet moss underfoot. She leant over pulling back one of the bush branches and murmured, “Are you in there little island bunny?” Before she knew what hit her, the rattler struck. She stared at the snake’s mouth latched onto her hand, stunned, then she grabbed the writhing tail and yanked. The snake let go of her and swung around to its tail. She instantly dropped it. The snake fell full length across the bare rock, twisted, upside down. Ginger’s only thought was to kill it. Kill it. She couldn’t step on it, and there were no small rocks handy to smash it. In that split second, she whipped off her dressing gown and hurled it over the snake area. Then she scooped up the bundled wriggling mess. Suddenly she felt dizzy. She knew she was going to pass out. Jules. She had to call Jules. That’s all she could remember about the strike.

She first came to in the bedroom. She watched as Jules dressed himself. Why is he in such a hurry she wondered? We were going fishing, why was he putting his car keys into his shorts? She blanked out again. She remembered someone carrying her. She remembered the brush of a vinyl windbreaker against her cheek. And her bum resting on a damp wooden bench. Her hand had ached. She felt something cold crawling up her body towards her brain. Slowly, insidiously, methodically, seeking her, wanting her.

She had to escape and quickly. As she slithered over the side of the boat, the blanket fell off. Naked, she could feel the water luxuriantly envelop her form. Rather than struggle with the swell and mad swirl of the whitecaps she ducked underwater and started to swim back towards the island. She moved quickly, effortlessly, naturally. Once at the island she slid ashore and could immediately feel the sun baked rocks warm her body. It would have been nice to lie there for awhile after such a long swim, but oddly, she felt hungry. The spasm in her stomach was demanding. She knew there was food in the cottage, but that was so far away, surely she could find something closer. She started to make her way towards the buildings. Then she stopped. There was a large dragonfly flitting above the tall grass, bobbing from point to point. Maybe if she stayed perfectly still it would come close enough. She shifted her body weight ready to snatch at it. And waited quietly, as still as stone. Only her black eyes followed the darting dragonfly as it came nearer and nearer, blissfully ignorant. She sprang at it and chomped it down in one swift bite. Delicious. But hardly enough. She continued on with her scavenging. Entering into the tall grass, so many ants and insects. Hors d’oeuvres. She could feel something move about 20 feet from her. Something small, rodent like. It was moving towards the kitchen. She too moved towards the kitchen. From the movement on the ground she knew she would intercept shortly. She sped ahead, then stopped and waited. The mouse was scurrying forward, its cheeks full of food. It burst through the grass and stepped directly onto Ginger who struck out and swallowed the mouse in one giant gulp. The mouse undulated down towards her gullet. She lay contented for a time. The sun was getting hot. Maybe a nap now. A long sleep. Better to hunt at night anyway when critters would be active. She thought of the rock barbecue. There was a perfect hole on the side facing the flagpole where she could curl up inside for a time. And she slowly made her way over there.

Jules started to cry. He had spent the last two hours slowly traversing the bay looking for Ginger’s body. Clouds were forming over the mainland, the wind had died down, and the water was calmer, but it would rain soon. There was nothing. Not a trace. He needed more gas, the tank was almost empty. He made his way back to the island harbour wiping the tears from his eyes. He tried to think, to form a plan, but all he could see was her naked body crumbled at the juniper bush. He had thought she was dead then. He tied up the boat. He would retrace his steps, maybe there was something in that. As he wandered back up to the cottage, he walked past the flagpole, it was then that he saw the rattler slowly slithering across the bare rock towards the barbecue. He stopped dead in his tracks. Then stepped backwards, slowly step-by-step, towards the harbour. When below the hill, he turned and ran to the boat and pulled up the emergency paddle. I’ll kill the bugger. He hurried back to the hill and up the footpath. The snake was almost there. Its long sinuous body bulged with a recent meal. Jules moved into the tall grass to the right to come up behind it. He stalked forward quietly holding the paddle ready for a strike. He was within four feet of the beast when it turned and coiled. Its rattler buzzed viciously. He raised the paddle quickly. But too late. The snake sprang towards his shin and struck his leg. Jules slammed the blade of the paddle down onto its back and twisted the edge sharply. The snake let go of his leg and curled in agony around the paddle blade. Jules lifted the edge and brought it down hard again against the rock and severed the snake in two. Mouse blood and innards oozed onto the pink rock. The rattler was definitely dead. Jules dropped the paddle and looked down at his leg. A tip of one of the fangs was still stuck in his shin, he pulled it out, and suddenly felt very dizzy.

Ginger wondered what was taking him so long. She would have had breakfast served up and finished by now. She turned towards the cottage and called out, “Jules?” She looked at the kitchen window, she could not see his silhouette. She looked at the bedroom window, the curtains were open but there was no sign of him. She stood up, “Jules, do you need a hand?” She sighed and opened the door into the living room and walked through to the kitchen. The toast was burning, the water in the egg pan was at a rolling boil and the bacon was burnt to a crisp. Typical guy, she thought, wanders off and forgets the stove. “Jules?” She turned off the burners, threw out the toast and opened the back door to let out the smoke. The screen door immediately started to rattle. She glanced down at the hook, it was out of the eye. She called out, “Jules?” and looked towards the flagpole. Then she saw him. Face down on the rocks.

Leonard Longhouse from the Henvy Inlet Indian Reserve had been out fishing near Fox Bay when he noticed the drifting boat pushing up against the red channel buoy. When he went over to see what was going on, he found both Jules and Ginger unconscious in the bottom of the boat. Both were stark naked. He immediately knew it was the Spirit Bay Rattler. Leonard used his grandfathers’ powers to revive them, then he took them into the Key for conventional medical treatment.

To this day, neither Jules nor Ginger can be entirely sure what happened that morning, exactly. They fixed the screen door and now keep the medical kit on the island at all times. They gave Leonard a 30-ounce bottle of whisky and thanked him for his help. He, in turn, had told them that they had to give the island back. They didn’t know what that meant exactly either.

The only thing they did differently was this: between themselves one night while sitting under the stars beside the glowing barbecue they raised their wine glasses and drunkenly paid homage to that strange bewildering day. They splashed their drinks onto the glowing embers and jokingly re-christened the island ‘Rattlesnake Rock’.

Yet, to Leonard and others from the Reserve, it is still that unnamed centre island of ‘Go Home Bay’.

Bansky: ‘Bad Boy’ Graffiti artist

Admit it, this ‘pseudo-anonymous’  graffiti artist’s work is pretty intriguing …

Learn more about him here. And see more visuals here.

In his own words …

“People are taking the piss out of you everyday. They butt into your life, take a cheap shot at you and then disappear. They leer at you from tall buildings and make you feel small. They make flippant comments from buses that imply you’re not sexy enough and that all the fun is happening somewhere else. They are on TV making your girlfriend feel inadequate. They have access to the most sophisticated technology the world has ever seen and they bully you with it. They are The Advertisers and they are laughing at you. You, however, are forbidden to touch them. Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyright law mean advertisers can say what they like wherever they like with total impunity.  … Fuck that. Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It’s yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head. You owe the companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don’t owe them any courtesy. They owe you. They have re-arranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked for your permission, don’t even start asking for theirs.”

“The thing I hate the most about advertising is that it attracts all the bright, creative and ambitious young people, leaving us mainly with the slow and self-obsessed to become our artists.. Modern art is a disaster area. Never in the field of human history has so much been used by so many to say so little.” – taken from ADbusters magazine

“Some people want to make the world a better place. I just wanna make the world a better-looking place. If you don’t like it, you can paint over it!”

“Bus stops are far more interesting and useful places to have art than in museums. Graffiti has more chance of meaning something or changing stuff than anything indoors. Graffiti has been used to start revolutions, stop wars, and generally is the voice of people who aren’t listened to. Graffiti is one of those few tools you have if you have almost nothing. And even if you don’t come up with a picture to cure world poverty you can make somebody smile while they’re having a piss.” – Banging Your Head Against a Brick Wall

“Only when the last tree has been cut down and the last river has dried up will man realize that reciting red indian proverbs makes you sound like a fucking muppet”. Banging Your Head Against a Brick Wall

“The artist Paul Klee said “drawing is like taking a line for a walk”, but for me it’s always been more like drowning a photocopier in a canal.”

“The craft is finding a decent drainpipe to get access to the site as much as it is in the art…Van Gogh used short, stumpy brush strokes to convey his insanity – I use short, thin ledges above mainline train tracks.” - Evening Post 2004 (taken from “Home Sweet Home – Banksy’s Bristol” by Steve Wright)