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A Bolt of Black Cloth


I imagined a colour the density of funeral bunting,

new 10

A bolt of black cloth,

a singed songflaring

A sudden black waterfall quickly dropping six stories,

dales 17 new

Unrolled from a balcony,

dense nights

The beginning of a voyage,

fire lotq

Negotiating darkness.


My father shopped at Dales for paper bags full of groceries,


I waited in the car listening to the radio,

people who knowwaiting in the car 1

I tried to describe a song called Eve of Destruction,


He looked at me in the rear-view mirror,


Columns of black smoke rose above the Pacific Ocean,

spark 2a ring

Like poisonous vines,

the projector shining

Morse code blinking through the darkness,

waiting in the car 1

At night he came home as late as possible,


Then looking again into the rear-view mirror,

new 10

He repeated the name of the song,

‘Eve of Destruction.’

dales 17 new

I pictured a wooden bowl in my chest,

parkinglotthe projector shining

Smoothed and worn by water,


& Climbing the stairs into this language,

a ring

Gazed, longingly, into a rear-view mirror.

new 10dales 17 newxxr

Patty Hearst in Hibernia

ph action

On April 15, 1974,

Patty Hearst,

A 19 year old university art student and heiress,

ph with a blur

Kidnapped by revolutionaries,

ph this too

& Suffering from

Stockholm Syndrome,

ph her again

Appeared on camera,

ph duality

Robbing the Hibernia Bank, (Sunset District Branch, San Francisco),

Alongside her new comrades.

ph final glow

Pulled into this place,

Across time & coincidence,

Into this name


Consciousness &


ph hearing in hibernia

Into, possibly, a

Type of


ph indelibly

In Rudolf Steiner’s slim volume ‘The Druids’

ph at sunset

He discusses The Mysteries of Ancient Ireland,

ph movement on stones

& the Mystery Centres of Hibernia:

ph psychedelic gravel

It sounds strange today that an older humanity experienced sweet after-effects of sleep in the limbs, the arms, right down into the finger-tips and the other parts of the body. But the research of the science of the sprit shows that it was so; and the genius of language has retained something of this, though in a crude and materialistic form. A sleeping-draught was once something spiritual, that is, sleep itself, and it was only later that it became an actual liquid draught in a material form…

ph actionph her again

In modern initiation we ascend from our ordinary ideas to spirit-sight, but in those days, while ordinary human beings passed from their dreamlike life into sleep, for which they cultivated a consciousness and experienced this after-taste, the mystery priests had the ability to feel their way consciously into sleep and so learned what this after-taste implied…

ph just like a woman

Her thirst for

draught of sleep,


A waking-dream of

Clouds or plants…

ph faceless carriageph actionph her again

 This was the consolation which the priests of the Mysteries could give their people in ancient days; they made them see that plants are not just beautiful but are permeated by the weaving of the spirit; that the clouds do not just sail through the air but that divine spiritual elemental beings are active in them, and so on. It was towards the spirit of nature that these initiates led the human beings who depended on them for guidance…

ph with a blurPatty Hearst yelling commands at bank customersPatty Hearst yelling commands at bank customers

Digitally collaged images include security camera footage,

An ancient navigational device,

A neolithic stone structure,

A stone carving,

(authors unknown).

ph with a blur

I do not claim copyright of the original images.

I have created a new composition

for non-commercial purposes

of parody or commentary.

Patty Hearst yelling commands at bank customersPatty Hearst yelling commands at bank customersph sombre

Nothing Is Real… Strawberry Fields Forever

as a boy

John Lennon & the gates of

Strawberry Field

Where he played

As a young boy…


(and still)

Nothing is real…

Strawberry Fields Forever.


Every year at this time

The hole

Where the spark of you


…it must be high or low,


Like a cosmic holograph,

Zooming into view,

A thumbprint,

Touching &

Sailing into the sound

Of all that is

Going down.

Rockabilly blues overlap into

A new dimension


You, again, deliver us into…


(and still)

Nothing is real…

Strawberry Fields Forever.


Steering through,


 Ornately fashioned

Gates of Perception…

Ah, Irish John of England,

Blake, Luddites and

Nell Gwyn,

Entering that space

Within your self,


In your absence

 You can always be.

Let me take you


Cause I’m going to…


(and still)

Nothing is real…

Strawberry Fields Forever.


Lyrics to Strawberry Fields Forever: http://letras.com/the-beatles/186/

Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles video: http://vimeo.com/75657441


I had a friend in high school who would wear all black clothing, as well as sunglasses, walk beneath a black umbrella no matter the weather, and hitchhike at night. He laughed that he wanted to make people wonder whether they had actually seen somebody or not. We thumbed a ride a couple miles to a diner past the edge of town, with small jukeboxes on the counter, spending all our spare change playing Strawberry Fields Forever. He was, of course, in black, the small town atmosphere verging on confrontational, and the music, even though coming from tiny speakers, aiming rays of otherworldly colours and sensations into one’s mind. This song has never ceased to touch my sense of what might be mystical. I know I am not alone in missing John Lennon terribly.

as a boy

Snowing Lightly & I am Looking for Pyramids in the Street


Clearly the street sign is warning me about pyramids ahead.


Maybe around the corner. By the school or the park.

magic world?

My neighbours say no. This is about speed bumps.

neighbours 2?

It’s simply a way of saying go slow. Drive slowly.


My neighbours tend to minimize everything.

her with stars?

I think this time they are wrong.

blue night?

They say I have no idea what they saw driving up here tonight.


That I have no idea what they have been through.

ice pyramids?

That in the short time I have left I need to be more open to the experiences of others.

old photo?

I said ‘What?’


In the public domain photos of Wikipedia Commons I found a link to images of cultural expression in Finland following World War 2:



Gestures Simply Slip Out and On by Heather Cadsby


Turtles are very old, have no teeth.

Not lost, never had. Not fearful


of first-person singular.

No turtle turmoil. A reptilian gaze


is fixed on us as you

adjust the focus.


This is our assignment. A singular adventure

to create a life list for ourselves.


Something outside ourselves. Before

we do ourselves in. Copulation


requires an hour underwater.

Aye aye aye.


But the good part is a start.

So get your picture.


We’ll call this one painted

and turn the page


as if that’s all we need

to know it all.


Heather Cadsby is the author of four books of poetry. The most recent book, Could be, was published by Brick Books in 2009. Her poems have appeared in such journals as The Antigonish Review, The New Quarterly, PRISM international and The Best Canadian Poetry in English (2008).


William of The Nile

montage a

The Pharaoh taught William

How to manipulate

Vibrational fields.

montage e

& William Blake taught The Pharaoh

How to bake with plums,

& How to shake free from ever-unchanging

 Sacred taboos.

montage b

The skin of the plum

A portal,

As deep and dark as royal magic.

montage f

(I do not own the copyright to the original images/ William Blake artwork/ the art of ancient Egypt, nor do I claim such. I have created a new digital work for purposes of parody or commentary under fair use provisions.)

montage a

Autumn, late

and helmet
I remember when she said,

I’m sorry to interrupt your relationship

With Bob Dylan.

this now


In Rome, do as the Romans do…

two figures

The tourist marvels at the intricate figures and stories on carved stone columns in Rome,

sporetwo figures

Imagining a stonemason/carver scooped up by the Roman Legions and brought as a slave with his family alongside for his ‘new’ life,


He pictures the artisan/slave at work chiselling when a small stone chip flies up hitting his eye.

sculpture and no

He lives nearby and walks home to his hut, where his wife daubs at his eye with a cloth, removing the object.


The tourist turns to go, and after walking a few seconds,


Sees a couple involved in some first aid type of situation.

trailing line

The man is wearing a camera around his neck,

slave 2

And the woman is wiping at his eye with a handkerchief.

aanew face

The tourist tells his traveling companion about this coincidence and she says ‘Maybe they’re not here.’

some sculpture

I’m remembering a trip to Italy in 2001 like it just happened.


I wasn’t originally involved in what turned out to be an Italian-Canadian art education initiative: a visual artist and a musician visiting schools in the north (near Bologna) and the south (Pozzuoli – on the coast south of Naples).


It was soon after 9-1-1 and I think somebody got cold feet.

new facetwo figures

In spite of being stressed about the idea of flying I took the advice given, such as, Are you crazy? Pass up a paid trip to Italy?

sporesome sculpture

It was of course amazing.

two new

The synchronicity of this event has puzzled me ever since.

distant past

Archival ink drawing in my Moleskin sketchbook & details of Roman sculpture (Wikipedia)

some sculpture

Exposing Utopia




Cry instead


I cry instead


Sometimes I cry instead


 Sometimes I feel like crying


 Sometimes I feel like crying so


 Sometimes I feel like crying so I


 Sometimes I feel like crying so I hate


 Sometimes I feel like crying so I hate instead.


Sometimes I feel like hating so I cry instead.


In this Theatre of the Absurd ~

Wearing my white robe like a mystery play ~

Little Dixie hangs in the air like heat ~

A clanging wagon rolls into Ferguson ~

Chains dangle ~

Big House at the bustling hemp and cotton plantations ~

Seeds of the Civil War germinate ~

Human cargo brought up from the deep south ~

Captives cross the vast ocean ~


Every shift I struggle for minimum wage ~

Swimming as fast as I can, barely afloat ~

Buying Christmas gifts at the dollar store ~

The mall feels like some kind of science fiction movie ~

Taking place inside a wooden ship ~

Who does the captain work for ~

Did Big House ever fill my pockets ~

Seeds within my civil war germinate ~

Do I hate ~

Do I cry ~

Do I expose utopia ~



I found the Klan image on Wikipedia ~ I do not claim copyright for the original photograph ~ I am recomposing original images using it under non-commercial fair use provisions for purposes of commentary or parody.



November 22, 1963

I used excerpts from my mother’s journal(s) in some of the poetry. The Super 8 footage is from Kashmir & Europe in the 1960s courtesy T. Nanavati. I remember watching the family black and white television the night of the Kennedy assassination with my mother. The haunting never left me. The Beatles had not yet arrived. The war in Vietnam, ironically enough, was just about to kick in high gear. My father spent the weekend deer hunting. Years later, reading Robert Bly’s Iron John, this hit me like a sledgehammer. Although I view the event through a political prism I choose to deal with it in the context of mythic time.


Director: Steven McCabe
Director of Photography: Eric Gerard
Editor: Cliff Caines
Chanting: Sandra Phillips
Electronic/ambient music: DreamSTATE
Narration: Lynn Harrigan & Tanya Nanavati
Performers: Preethi Gopinath/Tanya Nanavati/Nicole Pillar/Paula Skimin
Poetry: Steven McCabe
Sound & online: Konrad Skręta



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