zen spots and the temporary end of soup and potatoes

Above drawing in journal, an exercise {attempted} in zen. {One had the thought of filling an entire journal with such, but then remembered just how thin the line between something like that and OCD really is.}

I thank you all for your suggestions. Many of these I have tried, nearly all as a matter of fact…I believe the only one I’ve not is switching to a toothpaste without laurel sulfates. And now I have. Of course these things are much harder to come by out here in small town, Ontario, but one grows quickly accustomed to driving, and driving, whether one likes it or not. I believe the things I am looking most forward to about living in Davis, is the degree to which I will spend more time on my bicycle and less time in my car. There are enormous drawback of course, such as strip malls and suburbia in general, and drunken 20 year old college students out painting the town as they are wont to do, but we swallow hard these things.

So I am happy to report that after several nights where things actually grew worse, and lead to my taking some pain medication {toradol} that Keri found lingering from having teeth out, I slept far too many hours, ate nothing but soup and potatoes for days {5?} and so on, last night, I was finally able to eat. Tofu with vegetables, rice and a glass of wine. Do not underestimate the degree to which I enjoyed this meal. It was absolutely divine. Still pained, but at long last finally possible. Though said time and time again, and perhaps more importantly, experienced time and time again, it is amazing how much we take our healthy bodies for granted. Each time I go through some form of physical discomfort, I tell myself that I will acknowledge and be thankful for my health more often. Every day even. The same goes for any emotional turmoil. Keri and I go through something emotionally difficult, and I tell myself that I will live more in the moment, and remain constantly aware of how grateful I am for things. But then life tumbles in and we just come to accept it all. This, I believe, is one of life’s more difficult challenges.

It is also amazing how much one uses their damn tongue. I suppose this was a rather unique case, as the canker sore grew to the size of a small mammal, as a result of the clove oil I am certain, but I still find myself stunned at how debilitating these little oral disasters can be. Amazing. And whatever the potential healing properties of clove oil may be, jeff pitcher’s body says, “No. NO NO NO NO NO!”

And so today is the last day. Tomorrow I will wake, eat my breakfast, hug and kiss my wife, trying not to cry for the forthcoming absence, and drive away from what has been my home for a year. This time, I will head down a different way, crossing the border in Detroit, a city I’ve never seen, and in the arms of America I shall be. I just confessed to Keri yesterday, while taking what will be my last walk through the woods nearby for some time, that I always have trouble bidding a place farewell. I never really know how to capture and swallow the magnitude of such things, the ever present unfolding of a life. My life. And so I thank the place and say goodbye. I stand there, at the edge of the water and run the memories through my head. Swimming and napping and camping and playing guitar and watching the frogs jump away from my lethal footfalls. Shaking the snow from the trees, crushed over and limp from its weight. Throwing rocks on the frozen lake, and listening to it glassy whispers. And I will stand in each room of the house doing the same. The yard. The studio. I will breathe deeply and try to find the quiet, the stillness, impossible as it may be.

And then the road. I will push the car forward, the highway peeling back behind me, becoming my history, another story of a life unfolding. And I will eat. Anything but soup and potatoes. And I will await my wife, as patiently as I can, which is simply not all that patient. And then I will look back, and miss so many things about this place, that I took for granted. Just like my tongue, like my wife, like the very heart in my chest that beats. And I will try, each day, to find the depth of my gratitude for it all. Farewell Flesherton, farewell.

i caution you with the clove oil

The last few days {five or so} have been consumed by the greatest oral discomfort I have ever known. What occurred is simple: as many of you readers know, I seem to be unusually prone to canker sores, and suffer from them quite often. So, about a week ago, as is so often the case, one of these unfortunate creatures had reached a point of pain, whereby I begin attempting to numb it with a form of oral benzocaine so that I can actually eat. This time though, I decided on a different plan, as my mom had mailed me some clove oil several months ago, and I kept forgetting that I had it, every time the sores arrived. So I found it in the drawer, searched around for the little applicator stick {basically a very long and very thin q-tip} and dabbed away.

The immediate results were that the underside of my tongue {where the sore is located} began to bleed quite a bit, not profusely, but enough to be a bother, and then went numb. Blissfully, dazzlingly, stunningly numb. AND, unlike the benzocaine, the numbness lasted for what was nearly an hour. AND, it was reported that this clove oil business, actually helps in healing such afflictions. So, like a junkie, I was at that damn stuff constantly. Quick trips to the bathroom or the car mirror so that I could apply. The relief, a gift from the gods.

And then, much to my dismay, it seemed to be getting worse. So I figured, “well, this fucker’s a bad one…..i guess I should be more religious about hitting it with the clove oil.” Done. I greatly increased my clove oil applications for day two.

Fast forward. It is the middle of the night. I am home from the beach. My wife is in bed sleeping soundly, and I wake to a searing, twisting, pain in my mouth. I taste blood. I grow concerned. I lie in bed, pressing the little travel clock light, and holding it down to the pillow to see if it is actually blood. Can’t tell. I rise and go into the bathroom. Click the light and let my eyes adjust. Raise my tongue at the mirror and find myself stunned. “Oh my god. Oh my god. What the fuck?!!$!#!@!?” Apparently, my tongue did not much care for my incessant clove oil regiment, as the canker sore has quadrupled {?} in size and the entire region around it is swollen, red, and disgusting. What was once a ladybug sized nuisance, has grown to a nickel sized terror. {or perhaps a quarter, i don't really know as i can't see the whole thing} And for two more days it grew. If it weren’t so painful, I would think it was really quite funny. Although I will say that keri and I have been laughing quite a bit at my nearly unintelligible speech.

And so I rest. I finally slept last night after two in a row with no more than an hour or so, and I spend my day sitting on the porch reading, trying not to think about the fact that I will indeed have to eat again today. I told myself if I didn’t sleep last night, and it was bigger still today, that I would go to the emergency room, before my tongue fell out and I starved myself to death. That said, it doesn't really feel any better today than yesterday, but I'm feeling hopeful.

All that, and car packing. It really is amazing how much you can fit into a car when you feel determined. Stuffing socks and boxer shorts down into every crevice. Above, a painting from my view on the beach, still in my clove oil bliss.

The moral? I caution you with the clove oil. Some say it works, but go slowly my friends. slowly.

this very sun

as the light comes down over the front of the house, falling gently upon the clothesline, i sit in an old, tattered rocking chair, drinking sangria. the light squeezes in through the dense trees, and lays itself strongly onto the prayer flags, which have turned color by the hand of this very sun. keri sits in another green chair only feet away, writing by hand as i type. i wonder, would the world be a quieter place without all of the computers. the clicking and humming. today in the woods, more dragonflies. the irradescent blue ones with the black fabric wings. skirting the lake, and laying belly to water-top. i saw the endless mosquitos and the deerflies, a thing i am glad to have known. it is strange to read a novel from one of your favorites, {jim harrison} and have no experience with the bugs they write of.

the ice in my glass clanks. the cat purrs on the porch. flies buzz the compost bin.

a few nights ago, i sat at the same table as keri and drew the same polaroid camera. is it just my hands that cannot make it look the way my eyes see it, or do i see it differently? i believe there is no answer to this question, for if art were not entirely subjective, i suppose it would be rather dull.

on another note, for those of you following the tour de france, this site is my favorite...have a look.

sangria to mouth. swallow. the cars rush the highway, off in the distance. the tree leaves, swish together. cricket legs. dogs. small ones. yapping.

all fly by in a blur.

While in California during the first weeks of June, Keri and I decided {largely upon my urging, though she was and remains enthusiastic} to kick a soccer ball around the back yard at my folk's house. Of course as most things do, our backyard kicking desired more space, and evolved into a bit of park kicking. As my wife, relatively nascent at this activity, did learn quickly how to put some force into her kick, she has been slower in developing accuracy. Needless to say, I suffered a broken finger from this sunny afternoon in the park. It is amazing to me how much one uses their pinky, and how much one doesn’t realize this fact before they break it. Such it is with all things I believe. We take them for granted. I do report that she is growing more and more adept with each time out.

And today, as I have typed many times on this journal, the rain falls. A cat sits by my side, and I can still hear the birds from my place on the porch. Perhaps they sing for the rain, and the onslaught of worms. And the Tour De France has begun.

Struck by the beauty of keri’s journals {really, they are AMAZING!!! They are what I have always dreamed of mine to become} I’ve begun drawing and painting in my own. I tend to grow frustrated with this, as my drawings always seem rather awful to me, but I do enjoy watching the pages turn from black and white to brightly colored. I’ve not really drifted off into the world of collage yet, as it seems every time I try that, the results are even more disheartening. My collage tends to just look like some stupid things glued on paper. They don’t even seem to have that childlike magic that so often comes with the haphazard feel of collage.

So for now I stick with the pen and the paper and the paints. The men on bicycles who ride faster than I could ever imagine riding. They really are a wonder of the world. And not just Lance Armstrong. All of them. Igor Flores of Spain, who is currently in 189th place, is after all only a little over 12 minutes behind. While he has no chance of winning, the race, there are very few humans that can ride a bicycle like that. An astounding feat. Just to be there. Someday, I intend to be there, on the roadside, watching them all fly by in a blur.