A poem by one of the founders of the League of Canadian Poets (no word as to whether he helped design the matching spandex costumes), 1964 Governor General's Award winner, Raymond Souster. It's good to know birds have these sorts of days too.
Bird With A Berry
A bird with a berry big as it's head tries to carry it across the back grass, gets halfway then drops it. When I ask him why he doesn't pick it up again he answers, "I'm just not in the mood and besides I'd probably only choke on the damn thing anyway,"
Which only proves birds are no better than humans at answering questions.
Daniel Lanois is a man who just doesn't quit. I remember watching him perform, a few years back, on the Canadian Juno Awards. Not even halfway into his song, his guitar amp failed. He quickly brought his guitar up just under his chin as he sang, tilting his head back between phrases so the mic could pick it up. He didn't miss a single note. Now, just a year shy of his 60th birthday and a mere 5 months after a motorcycle accident nearly took his life, the multiple Grammy award-winning producer & singer-songwriter proudly debuts the first album from his fresh-faced new collective, Black Dub.
Black Dub joins Lanois and long-time studio compatriots Brian Blade (drums) and Darryl Johnson (bass) with vocalist/multi-instrumentalist Trixie Whitely to create a hypnotic, intoxicating blend of reggae, blues, and soul. Their eponymous debut, released Nov 2, was largely recorded live off the floor in single takes. Blade and Johnson, possessing a chemistry forged through years of collaboration, lay down a sinuous rhythmic backbone for Lanois' masterful guitars, and spreads of soulful keys, while Whitely's blues-tinged croons and wails, ably supported by Lanois and Johnson, provide a raw, rich finish, every note dripping with soul. From the explicit dub of their lead single, "I Believe In You", through the slow-burn of "Surely", to the frantic ambience and three-way vocals of "Ring The Alarm", this is heady stuff - a sonic gumbo just made for headphones.
I love children's books. While I have yet to have any children, I have a small but growing collection of books that will absolutely be read to any children that I might have one day. In the meantime, I enjoy these myself.
Norman Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth, illustrated by acclaimed cartoonist Jules Feiffer, narrates the journey of Milo, a bored young boy who is swept, after passing through the titular tollbooth, into a strange land where concepts of language and mathematics are ridiculously literalized. He is quickly sent on a quest, accompanied by Tock (a Watchdog) and the Humbug, to rescue the lost Princesses Rhyme and Reason, who alone can restore peace between Dictionopolis and Digitopolis. Along the way he meets many strange creatures who obstruct his way including The Dirty Bird, a creature whose behaviour seems appropriate to recall as our American friends find themselves smack in the middle of election season:
Clinging to one of the greasy rocks and blending almost perfectly with it was a large, unkempt and exceedingly soiled bird who looked more like a dirty floor mop than anything else. He had a sharp, dangerous beak, and the one eye he chose to open stared down maliciously.
"I don't think you understand," said Milo timidly as the watchdog growled a warning. "We're looking for a place to spend the night."
"It's not yours to spend," the bird shrieked again, and followed it with the same horrible laugh.
"That doesn't make any sense, you see----" he started to explain.
"Dollars or cents, it's still not yours to spend," the bird replied haughtily.
"But I didn't mean----" insisted Milo.
"Of course you're mean," interrupted the bird, closing the one eye that had been open and opening the one eye that had been closed. "Anyone who'd spend a night that doesn't belong to him is very mean."
[...]
"Let me try once more," Milo said in an effort to explain. "In other words----"
"You mean you have other words?" cried the bird happily. "Well, by all means use them. You're certainly not doing very well with the ones you have now."
"Must you always interrupt like that?" said Tock irritably, for even he was becoming impatient.
"Naturally," the bird cackled; "it's my job[...]I'm the Everpresent Wordsnatcher[...]"
[...]
"Is everyone who lives in Ignorance like you?" asked Milo.
"Much worse," [the bird] said longingly. "But I don't live here. I'm from a place very far away called Context."
"Don't you think you should be getting back?" suggested the bug, holding one arm up in front of him.
"What a horrible thought." The bird shuddered. "It's such an unpleasant place that I spend almost all my time out of it. Besides what could be nicer than these grimy mountains?"
"Almost anything," thought Milo as he pulled his collar up. And then he asked the bird, "Are you a demon?"
"I'm afraid not," he replied sadly, as several filthy tears ran down his beak. "I've tried, but the best I can manage to be is a nuisance," and before Milo could reply, he flapped his dingy wings and flew off in a cascade of dust and dirt and fuzz.
"Wait!" shouted Milo, who'd thought of many more questions he wanted to ask.
"Thirty-four pounds," shrieked the bird as he disappeared into the fog.
Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Thursday, November 11, 2010 at 7:03AM 
