You won’t believe this, but I just signed up as a Bush Team Leader for the Bush/Cheny ’04 campaign.
Apparently, they don’t care whether or not you are an American, or whether you even live in the USA.
Am I the first left-wing Canadian Bush Team Leader? I guess that fills a niche in the “coalition groups” section of the website. I’ve always prided myself on being a party of one.
Thanks to John Dumbrille for putting me on to this site that led me to signing up. May I should join him in the zendo to clear a bit of the insanity from my monkey mind.
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I have been tripping on these amazing images at Fractal Recursions all evening. There are dozens of images here plus some fascinating animations. They remind me of the hologrpahic experience of meditation, peering into a clear blue sky and seeing more blue nothingness reflected deeper and deeper.
Enjoy.
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— James D. Nicoll
Found at Redwood Dragon via Reflections in D minor
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Every Year the Salmon Come Back by Robert Davidson
by Jorie Graham
I watched them once, at dusk, on television, run,
in our motel room half-way through
Nebraska, quick, glittering, past beauty, past
the importance of beauty.,
archaic,
not even hungry, not even endangered, driving deeper and deeper
into less. They leapt up falls, ladders,
and rock, tearing and leaping, a gold river,
and a blue river traveling
in opposite directions.
They would not stop, resolution of will
and helplessness, as the eye
is helpless
when the image forms itself, upside-down, backward,
driving up into
the mind, and the world
unfastens itself
from the deep ocean of the given. . .Justice, aspen
leaves, mother attempting
suicide, the white night-flying moth
the ants dismantled bit by bit and carried in
right through the crack
in my wall. . . .How helpless
the still pool is,
upstream,
awaiting the gold blade
of their hurry. Once, indoors, a child,
I watched, at noon, through slatted wooden blinds,
a man and woman, naked, eyes closed,
climb onto each other,
on the terrace floor,
and ride–two gold currents
wrapping round and round each other, fastening,
unfastening. I hardly knew
what I saw. Whatever shadow there was in that world
it was the one each cast
onto the other,
the thin black seam
they seemed to be trying to work away
between them. I held my breath.
as far as I could tell, the work they did
with sweat and light
was good. I’d say
they traveled far in opposite
directions. What is the light
at the end of the day, deep, reddish-gold, bathing the walls,
the corridors, light that is no longer light, no longer clarifies,
illuminates, antique, freed from the body of
that air that carries it. What is it
for the space of time
where it is useless, merely
beautiful? When they were done, they made a distance
one from the other
and slept, outstretched,
on the warm tile
of the terrace floor,
smiling, faces pressed against the stone.
I have added another collection of selected poems to the sidebar on the left. This one consists of 18 poems by Pulitzer Prize winner Jorie Graham. These poems, like the poems in the other three collections, were all gleaned from the web.
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Over at CBC Radio 3, they are running an online look at three comics from Kwagiulth artist Gord Hill about life in the uirban jungle of downtown Vancouver. Unfortunately, CBC doesn’t make it very easy to link to the piece, but follow this link until you get to the “Urban Legends” feature.