Like a Rabbit in the Headlights

That's life, that's what all the people say.
You're riding high in April,
Shot down in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune,
When I'm back on top, back on top in June.

I said that's life, and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks,
Stompin' on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down,
'Cause this fine ol' world it keeps spinning around

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself, flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.

That's life
I tell ya, I can't deny it,
I thought of quitting baby,
But my heart just ain't gonna buy it.
And if I didn't think it was worth one single try,
I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself laying flat on my face,
I just pick myself up and get back in the race

That's life
That's life and I can't deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won't buy it
But if there's nothing shakin' come this here july
I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die
My, My

It's a melancholy day as we wind up the summer. That's okay I do melancholy well. To me melancholy is a kind of satisfied sadness. A sadness that deliniates the end of a moment casting it in the sunset glow of nostalgia.

This was the last weekend of 2006 that I will have spent at the cottage. All in all it was a great one. A summer thick with memories; those that run deep like gnarled roots of previous generations, and those that are new shoots of this season, and all twist and twine together weaving a new pattern that I can call the summer of 2006.

Yesterday was cool and breezy. The sky was vivid blue that struck me all the more in contrast to the gray and fluorescent lights of the office I've recently adapted to. A few ice cream clouds passed by, a raven or two spread her black wings and croaked, the scent of the red pine needles that blanketed the ground seasoned the air.

I enjoyed hearing my mother's stories of friends and family and strangers. Mom is of a generation before TV when story telling was a conversational skill. People today largely don't have the patience to engage in that I find.

Down around the bend there has been a large log home with well kept grounds and log fences all along the perimeter. By the size of it it clearly belongs to someone with money. Last spring the father of the family that lived there shot himself. The story is that he was a wealthy stock broker. They say that he and his wife, once took a trip through Montana and saw a home that they loved. The cabin, the cottage, the ranch, that they built in Bristol along the Ottawa River was a replica of that Montana home. The couple had two daughters and all the milestone family events took place there. Weddings, anniversaries, graduations. As a stock broker the man made a fortune, and lost a fortune and made yet another. They say. The cottage home with it's waterfront and private beach is up for sale. It's the last house on the Pine Lodge road just on the other side of the Charlie Russell Canal, but that's another story as storytellers say.

Songs of a Season

Here are the songs of the season:

1. Summer's CauldronGrass:XTC
2. Buggin': Flaming Lips
3. Summer Blowin' Town: Ron Sexsmith
   
4. Silver & Gold: Neil Young
5. Kathy's Song: EvaCassidy
6. Love's Been Good to Me: Johnny Cash
7. Going to California: Led Zepplin
8. Hissing of Summer Lawns: Joni Mitchell
9. Incinerate: Sonic Youth
10. You're My Best Friend: Queen
11. William it Was Really Nothing: The Smiths
12. Take A Chance With Me: Roxy Music
    
    
    
    

"Well I love you in the autumn most of all, when the leaves come tumbling down"

It seems that the golden age of blogging has come and gone for the Glob and Wail, however the Glob is still a 'place'I am fond of. It will be around for some time even if it means I don't make daily entries anymore.

It's been a memorable summer. Tonight I can feeling it winding down. It's a chilly drizzling Sunday evening and I realize that soon I'll be starting my third fall in Ottawa. Autumn has always been my favourite season. More so now, as it was two autumns past that the paths of Leslie and I came upon a common road. Those were days of exploration for me in my new city, walking along the Rideau river, cascades of coloured tree-tops tops set against an icey blue sky-sea where disinterested clouds sailed to invisible empires. Among the reeds I saw two swans and thought of Yeats and the Wild Swans at Coole and in my ear ran verses from Pagan Streams and It was the time of the Autumn Mix and "Things Will Never Be the Same", and they weren't. But that was all to come still, though it all had been set in motion. The music said something about ourselves that the other appreciated and so did the changing leaves and the wind, and the moon

In those days we discretely wrote a single mail each week. Sunday nights I would take Luna for an extra long evening walk along the tree lined streets with their old manors and the smell of burning wood on the cool air. Those nights I anticipated a reply from Leslie and more often than not my anticipation was met with fulfillment. Then came hand written letters and I think at that point I let myself dream dreams that came true.

I know that spring is the time of renewal, as is New Years which falls in the depths of winter, but for me it is autumn. Autumn brings me back home. It is the season of reflection. A time for me to appreciate everything good that has happened and to start anew. A time to look back on summers glow and prepare for the long dark winter by harvesting all the warm and comforting things that make our lives meaningful.

Let the Golden Age Begin, let the full moon rise, let the circle be unbroken,

Up on a hill, as the day dissolves
With my pencil turning moments into line
High above in the violet sky
A silent silver plane - it draws a golden chain
One by one, all the stars appear
As the great winds of the planet spiral in
Spinning away, like the night sky at Arles
In the million insect storm, the constellations form
On a hill, under a raven sky
I have no idea exactly what I've drawn
Some kind of change, some kind of spinning away
With every single line moving further out in time
And now as the pale moon rides (in the stars)
Her form in my pale blue lines (in the stars)
And there, as the world rolls round (in the stars)
I draw, but the lines move round (in the stars)
There, as the great wheels blaze (in the stars)
I draw, but my drawing fades (in the stars)
And now, as the old sun dies (in the stars)
I draw, and the four winds sigh (in the stars)

There's a rhythm under the song
And it beats for the old and the young
And it pounds in the back of the sun
It's the sound of one drummer, one drum

There's a rhythm, it's subtle yet strong
And it moves all the wallflowers on
To the dance floor that holds everyone
To the sound of one drummer, one drum

Dance, for the time marches on
Off to a war that can never be won
To the heartbeat of drums

There's a rhythm not cruel or kind
Though you feel that it's left you behind
Is it justice or you that is blind
When you don't see it coming, how come?

Montreal July 2006

Life in the Valley