Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Cuban moments...
I would love to be back in Cayo Coco right now...
with the Horlorazzi of course!
Memories of 2007...sigh.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Andrew Lowes Photography
My childhood friend married an amazing photographer who hails from Australia. They moved back from Oz to Vancouver Island a few years ago and Andrew has now set up a studio in his home.
I just wanted to spread the word about Andrew's amazing work as he begins his business here on the south island. I admire his portraits and landscapes, and aspire to take such wonderful and moving photos.
Please visit his website: http://www.andrewlowesphotography.com/ and I hope you might consider him for your next family/maternity/baby photos.
I just wanted to spread the word about Andrew's amazing work as he begins his business here on the south island. I admire his portraits and landscapes, and aspire to take such wonderful and moving photos.
Please visit his website: http://www.andrewlowesphotography.com/ and I hope you might consider him for your next family/maternity/baby photos.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Once upon a time...
The Three Spinners
On her thighs, tall yellow grain shrieks her name.
She must spin, or learn to spin. She awaits
a book: How to Spin Gold. It is too late
for all that though. The miller’s daughter’s shame
unveiled if not for these three retched dames.
One fat thumbed, one flat footed, one’s lip eight
centimeters thick. They knocked on the gate,
offered special skills, grain to spun gold, came,
presumably, to rescue her.
But we
underestimate the quiet ones, blink
away wallflowers. Each woman drags
their dreams of a prince behind them in tea
bags. Dreams drip out, color their past loves, think
how does it pay to be an ugly hag?
©Shannon Horlor
On her thighs, tall yellow grain shrieks her name.
She must spin, or learn to spin. She awaits
a book: How to Spin Gold. It is too late
for all that though. The miller’s daughter’s shame
unveiled if not for these three retched dames.
One fat thumbed, one flat footed, one’s lip eight
centimeters thick. They knocked on the gate,
offered special skills, grain to spun gold, came,
presumably, to rescue her.
But we
underestimate the quiet ones, blink
away wallflowers. Each woman drags
their dreams of a prince behind them in tea
bags. Dreams drip out, color their past loves, think
how does it pay to be an ugly hag?
©Shannon Horlor
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
My future home...
I'll take this one...
Or this...
Or even this modern one...
There was also this cool haunted looking picture that happened when I forgot to switch my camera settings. Looks spoooooky...
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Melancholy...
All Those Grandmothers
I can see my grandmother's face,
her wrinkles in the logs we walk by
on Island View beach.
If I kissed one,
the salt would sting my chapped lips,
remind me of grandma's favourite candies,
the black salted licorice babies
I hate the taste of,
and I'd rather kiss you.
The driftwood is bleached, the lines
darkened and deepened as it rolls
over and over. You say
we'll grow old together as we walk,
my hand inside yours.
The tide slowly covers the sandbars,
washing over my feet.
All those grandmothers
roll back into the ocean, aging,
break apart silently in the waves,
as you put your arms around me.
I can see my grandmother's face,
her wrinkles in the logs we walk by
on Island View beach.
If I kissed one,
the salt would sting my chapped lips,
remind me of grandma's favourite candies,
the black salted licorice babies
I hate the taste of,
and I'd rather kiss you.
The driftwood is bleached, the lines
darkened and deepened as it rolls
over and over. You say
we'll grow old together as we walk,
my hand inside yours.
The tide slowly covers the sandbars,
washing over my feet.
All those grandmothers
roll back into the ocean, aging,
break apart silently in the waves,
as you put your arms around me.
©Shannon Horlor
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Democracy...
"Democracy is a device that ensures we shall be governed no better than we deserve."
~George Bernard Shaw
~George Bernard Shaw
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Cinnamon Peeler - Michael Ondaatje
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A beginning...
'Begin at the beginning,' the King said, gravely,
'and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'" - Lewis Carroll
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