if . . .

... we were returning from a walk to Azalea ridge ... a fellow walker had stopped on the bridge at trail's end ... a bridge from trail to street ... he was pulling what most, i believe, would describe as weeds ... wasn't sure if he was a worker or ... he stood up and continued down towards the bus stop ... he was singing quietly ... was struck by the genuinely beautiful melody and the pure voice quality ... listened to his warm, soft cadence ... he smiled as i passed and with joy shouted our "hello ... where are you from?" ... i replied and he nodded ... "ahh Canada" ... ... i asked my partner to invite him to keep singing ... after many requests he started to sing again ... my impulse was to record him ... instead after a minute of walking together i joined in following his pitch wrapping my tongue around the foreign korean sounds ... he stopped surprised, laughed with joy commending me on my voice ... we had, for a fraction of a second, connected ... his c...

after the rains this tiny creek becomes a torrent flowing  ... there has been a shift ... in my twenties walking the streets or forests of Europe, especially the Vienna Woods, was haunted by history ... longed the feeling of walking the land in Canada where even the urban wilds had a sense of newness ... of unforged paths not tread ...  ... certainly an illusion ... yet bathed in the illusion ... every return to Europe since that early first visit confirmed the weight of history, especially when in Paris and the surrounding landscape ... ... now walking the trails on the edge of Seoul a different sensation has taken hold ... am not walking with ghosts ... the carefully cared for paths exude a respect ... the past is not haunting - the ancestors support ... even living within ... the past is alive ... ready to be touched ... my feet listen to the stone placed which guides my passage ... the path willingly shares layers of stories to be honoured ... ...what has changed:  ag...

 … after an exhausting one and a half hour walk in 33 degree Celsius heat, through the streets of Gangbuk, Seoul we arrived at cafe Espere … Internet reviews attributed this site to not only be the best coffee in Korea but perhaps the world … really needed ground coffee beans … still it felt crazy to make the journey under the blazing afternoon sun ... but they closed at six on Sundays so we had no choice … or did we … … we entered sweaty & disheveled ...  asked for beans only to be told by server/owner/ceo Robin Yun (Chunggu Yun) they roasted every Tuesday and were essentially out of stock ...  as Ae & Robin conversed i scanned the choices ... only two small packs remained ... both lacked what i thought was worth the journey ... on the shelf there was the type of espresso maker i used which gave a glimmer of hope ... Ae & Robin came to my side ... he suggested La Piedra from Peru (Raspberry,Vanila, Chocolate) ... my mind rejected even the idea of such a coffe...

... the huge yellow bellied bird flew directly at you ... it was early afternoon ... bright ... yesterday had been dark ... the clouds had let you sleep ... not today ... the festering open sore on your ring finger from the burn of many days and miles ago worried you ... ... the bird flew at the window ... you gasped ... it wanted to peck at the sore ... you clean the sore with your tongue ... you’ve been told saliva is the best medicine ... you don’t remember who told you or if it’s true ... still you suck the sore ... ... mosquitoes silently sucked your blood at night ... you wake to mounds of red blotches ... don’t scratch ... press your nail next to the redness and make an exclamation mark ... you’ve been told that helps ... actually you just made that up ... yet you believe it does help ... ... how much of everything you say is made up ... you peel away ... this is what comes back in memory ... let time slip away ... the will to stop dying ... you don’t care if you ...

Puppet Workshop Documented Process: “Incarnation of the Imagination” 1.  (Find a Place) A. Black chair in right wall aisle to sit alone facing other possibilities allowing a more open feeling.   R . Under a table, trapped, wondering about Icarus, the power of the sun ... the artist.  2.  (Paper & Thread) A.   Ocean . The paper was an ocean and following my intuition created a figure with many thoughts but one longer thread gave the feeling of a single thought and one long thread on the head created the perspective of looking far to horizon.  I placed the figue on the vast ocean. R.  Boxcar Bob . Being a hobo in a train wandering the world listening to songs just like Bob Dylan. 3. (Add a paper cup) A. Tore the paper as waves transformed into many thoughts and as the figure entered the cup I wanted a window to follow thoughts but to make a window took so much work. Finally I had a hole a place for thoughts to enter. R It’s a sky train ...

... entering the gym doors of Gimpo South Korean Boys Schoo we found ourselves backstage ... Yura greeted us warmly ... she had the aura of focused calm yet excited pre-show anxiousness ... a contained nervous energy ... she smiled & exclaimed as i embraced her, “Enjoy the show!” ... ... i remembered long ago waiting with Henry & Susan, esteemed veterans of the stage ... Henry turned to me commenting - “only those who have been backstage can know this feeling” ... I recognized in Yura the apprehension, the vulnerability, the joy & the breath of time waiting backstage ... ... Yura for the first time was dipping her toes into the way of the actor ... ... we (her father, aunt & uncle) made our way to the designated audience seats ... we had been placed ob the gym stage ... the light & sound crew just behind us ... an impressive scrim, a line of facing white chairs and four towering lighting trees created  a formidable performance thrust space ... ... Odys...

... yellow, pink & orange walls shelter us from the heat as the air conditioner clicks on & off ... a place of contrasts ... garish lights & humble artistic center stretch outside ... clean swept streets & unkempt staircases ... aggressive drivers & exceedingly polite greeters ... wide, fast flowing highways & narrow, empty passageways ... buddhist temples, shaman homes & churches ... the one constant in clothes soaked in sweat is exquisite food ... everywhere in open markets to single small eateries ... ... probably only slightly different than any city anywhere but it is the place I now inhabit to experience the familiar as surreal ... here I am the other ... the naive wave to me shouting out "hi" excited they can use an english greeting ... an elder reaches out smiles & strokes my arm ... school girls on their way home exclaim "foreigner" ... it all happens "on the way" ... ... many are anxious to demonstrate the g...