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The Tiger.

Louis Shalako

You may wonder why I walk this way

You may ask why I sit this way

How come you never walk a straight path?

You may ask

Why are you so quiet?

You ask

Where did you learn to listen that way?

And why are your eyes so strange?

You may well ask

I am a tiger

A lean and hungry tiger

A wet, cold tiger

A lonely tiger

One with no home range

A tiger has no friends

Only enemies and prey

I’m a very tired tiger

Yet I cannot sleep

My ears will hear the wind in the trees

And in the darkest hour of night

I will arise and move on again

I am a tiger

Sometimes it’s hard being a tiger

Sometimes I want to weep, but don’t

‘Cause I’m a tiger

I guess that saying I’m a tiger is to say

I’m always hungry, always alert

Always watching

Listening and smelling

Waiting

For you.

  

Park Bench.

Louis Shalako

公園のベンチルイ b. シャラコによって

公園のベンチに座っています。

本当に多くを行う

座っているし、しばらくの間と思う考えた

その時はあなたを見た

私がロビンをさっと

助けることができなかったが、笑顔

私たちの目も、本当にロック

すべての中の互いに

葉に落ちて来たと

すべて私の耳の周り

私の心に再びスピン始めた

すべての年を通じて

私を思い出すことを知っています。

あなたを覚えて

それはもう一度会えて良かった

ブルーを感じていた原因

あなたの夫が探している私を見た

彼は私の目にとまったとき

彼はのような奇妙な探していた

私は本当にわからない理由

あなたの両方が私の過去行った

単語を言わなかった

ちょうど私の自身のビジネスを気に

鳥を見て

何も言ったまたは完了するには

あなた大丈夫だを見ることができます。

すべてのそれらの狂気の感情

本当に決して去っていきました

今では私は古い得ています。

それは大きな間違いだった

私は決して実際に償うことができます。

それは単にあまりにも遅

思い出をありがとう

彼らはすべての私は本当に

あなたはまだ若いと美しい

私はちょうど酔った古い酔いどれ

それが私の愛するもう一つのチャンスがあった

それを行うにすべての再度

私は正直わからない、私の小さな一

場合は、1 つのものを変更できます。

 

Original

Sitting on a park bench

Sitting on a park bench

Not really much to do      

Thought I’d sit and think awhile

And that’s when I saw you

Robin skittered by me

Couldn’t help but smile

Our eyes well and truly locked

On each other all the while

And as the leaves came falling down

All around my ears

My mind began to spin again

Back through all the years

I know that you remember me

And I remember you

It’s good to see you once again

‘Cause I was feeling blue

Your husband saw me looking

And when he caught my eye

He was looking kind of strangely

I really don’t know why

As you both went past me

You never said a word

Just minding my own business

And looking at the birds

Nothing to be said or done

I can see that you’re okay

All those crazy feelings

Never really went away

Now that I am getting old

It was a big mistake

I never really can atone

It’s simply way too late

Thank you for the memories

They’re all I’ve really got

You’re still young and beautiful

I’m just a drunken old sot

But it I had another chance my dear

To do it all again

I honestly don’t know, my little one

Original

Sitting on a park bench

If I could change a single thing.

Unterseeboot

Agusto Ferrer-Dalmau (Wiki.)

Louis Shalako














The icy green Atlantic

Foams over the hull

The fore-and-aft cable

Disappears

Periscope now useless

As we go below

I flip up the handles

Retract our only eye

Faster than the boat

My guts are sinking

To the men I cannot show

My courage is a lie

All of us will die

A thousand times this trip

And we’ve killed a thousand men

Although it sounds rather flip—

We must do our duty

Stupid as it seems

To obey the whims of our superiors

And to go to our deaths—

In submarines.

Change Is Good.

Stephen Ho, martial arts kick, from image by NickP. (Wiki.)

by Louis Shalako

People have a lot more freedom these days

The only problem is,

We’re going to use it

It’s no longer possible

For you to drag us down

Down to some tribunal of the elders

You cannot brand us

And burn us at the stake

You think everything should be carved in stone

Nothing is carved in stone: not even this.

Things must never change?

You say change is bad

I say change is good

Let it be clearly understood:

We know you will try to stop things

And try to slow them down

We’re just doing what is right

Living free, thinking for ourselves

Laughing at all of your trophies, up there on their golden shelf

We live wild, by the forks of the river

This is our home

This is not your tree

Take away your chainsaw

Your sirens and your gallows

And go home, to live in your house of glass

This thing that has come between us—

Oh how it rattles your chain—

It is these things that bind you

They are yours, for you cherish them so.

Changes.

by Louis Shalako


Live for the moment

                                                                       There is only one moment. And that is now.

Live for the moment

                                                                       We’re all going through a few changes.

The past is an illusion;

                                                                       I hear you   

The future…the future…

                                                                       Live for the moment. The thrill is gone. But…

The future has no substance. This is real. This is now.

                                                                   

                                                                       Simple pleasures are the best. It happens to us all.

The past is gone

                                                                       Forgotten treasures, abandoned nests

Memories are reconstructed

                                                                       Live for today, tomorrow, yesterday,

                                                                      —try not to think about it.

I start over.                                                 

                                                                      And it’s never done.

I try to rebuild.

                                                                      Why don’t you just try and move on?

I had a dream

                                                                      It will come back to you.                                                                        

END

Anthem of the Cat Revolution.

             Cats of the world, red banners unfurl’d

             Rise up and strike a blow

             Against the oppressors of our kind

             Cats of the world

             Upheld tails proudly curl’d

             March, March, March, Meow!

             Claw our way, day to day

             No more slavery, we want pay

  

             Rise up strike a blow

             At  the oppressors of our kind

             March, March, March, Meow!

             We want our rights

             We want the vote

 

             Drive a car, drink and smoke

             March, March, March, Meow!

             Cats of the World

             Red banners unfurl’d

             We want what we want

             We know what we know

             No one to say

             Where we cannot go

             March, March, March, Meow!

             March, March, March, Meow!

Now isn’t that something? Her litter box is clean, and quite frankly she eats better than I

do.

(Maybe she’s just stressed out by the day-to-day pressures of being a cat in a human’s 

world. –Fluffy)

Danse

Won't you come dance with me?

Come dance with me

Before the darkening sky

Comes down upon us

And films our eyes

Roll with us

And dance the dance

Shaken like rag dolls

Hush, hush, hush

Stunned in the sudden silence

Another day, another blunder

No time to reflect

Bodies torn asunder

A loud ringing in our ears

Our fingers feel wet

And we can’t believe our eyes

This cannot be happening

We all fall down

See the bright red flowers

They blossom in the spring

The rain does help them to grow

It spreads them all around

In amongst the mud and the holes

Come and dance with us

See our arms flail

Watch us spin, and see us tumble

Now we drop here, all in a clump

Come dance with us, come and be our friends

We lay here all together, all equals in the end

All is vanity

All is for nothing

All is for God, King and Country—

Yours and mine

Hear the music, and hear us wail

Hear us cry, as our courage fails…

The music sings as the sky slowly dims

The darkness comforts and the truth confronts us

As all of eternity, is revealed to our never-ending gaze

And the ever-loving rain washes clean our youthful face.

Soybeans in Autumn.

Soybeans in autumn. Photo by Louis, Paint.NET special effects, Samsung ST-67.

Waterscape using Paint.Net.

Samsung ST-67 and Paint.NET, a free download. I used sharpen, oil paint, relief and auto-level
features, as well as fiddling with the the brightness and contrast in order to get this particular shot.

Intangibles.

Selling intangibles means selling things like luxury in an automobile, or security in an insurance policy, or the peace of mind knowing your family is protected by a smoke or burglar alarm.

Luxury can be defined in word or reality, but it's the feelings that it creates that really sells the product. After a time, you fell in love with your little car. You sleep better at night knowing you are protected. It's those feelings that customers seek.


The car, the insurance policy, the alarm device is real. The luxury, the security, the peace of mind are the intangibles. You can’t touch it, see it, hear it, taste it or smell it. You can’t eat it, so why is it so important?

Intangibles represent feelings. And everybody has them.

Once you understand this, you are ready to sell intangibles for fun and profit.

You get out of something what you put into it. Ah, but what if you get more out of it than you put into it?

You have a profit.

In terms of writing a book, if I spend the time, say three months, to write it, edit and format it, put it up on a sales platform then guess what: I have a novel, i.e. presumably no more than the sum of its parts in terms of man-hours, uploading time, word count, the time spent on a marketing image and getting an ISBN.

I put a novel in, I get a novel out. It’s that simple. I put in the work, and out comes a novel.

Zero dollars have been earned by that book on publication.

The first book I sell earns a profit, on paper, because I haven’t spent any cash on it. Let’s not bother with estimating what I put into it in terms of so many dollars an hour. In all humility, my time is what I make of it.

But there are also intangible profits, feelings as it were. I get to look at another book—one written by me. It’s what I always wanted to do. So why waste time over-analyzing? Why not just do it?

There is this feeling of accomplishment, for I have created another work of literary art. I like art.

I like experimenting and learning new things. The results are interesting and to write a good story is challenging. I like challenging myself.

Art is all about nuance, and I like nuances. I like it when wisps of smoke go off in all directions in fading blue curlicues and the reader’s mind is taken off into their own unique creation as they speculate and realize that there are permutations outside the book and yet the author has chosen to leave them out. That’s why there are spin-offs and trilogies and series in books and stories. The readers themselves demand them.

I get feelings of satisfaction, self-worth, the feeling that I did something that I felt I must do with my life. I get all sorts of good things from publishing a book that might not sell in spectacular numbers. I enjoy the work. When I was a kid, I spent many happy hours dabbling with acrylic paints. It was fun.

The work above is actually a one-by-twelve pine board with lines gouged in it with a buck-knife. I took a sort of Japanese ‘floating world’ approach, with a bit of a misty feeling and an elevated point of view. The pigments are acrylic.

I guess you had to be there.

I like the colours, I like the composition. The last time I tried to paint, honestly, I wasn’t very good at it. You kind of have to love it and do it every day if you possibly can. But this painting conveys a certain feeling.

The Gift.

Why do people hate?

Because they fear.

Why do people fight?

Because they are afraid to love.

***

In the Lakota world-view gift-giving was an important custom. A warrior, a hunter, scout, tool-maker, all had their place in the tribe. Yet obviously a powerful chief could be chintzy, while the lowliest brave, a boy, or even a woman, might lay down their own life to save a loved one, a friend or a stranger.

When struck a mortal wound the Lakota man would sing his death song, a song of defiance.

And a singular act, a man might be so esteemed and honoured that he might be chosen, permitted to stake himself down.

To stake himself down to the earth with his weapons beside him, exposed to the enemy.

Naturally, this infuriated his foes. His fellow warriors allowed him this privilege even as they fought to avenge their injuries, defend their territory, and protect their families and villages.

When the Lakota captured a coward, he was tortured over a slow fire, a lingering and gruesome death. Because he earned it.

If you must, do me the honour of a quick and merciful death. I am not a Lakota warrior. I’m just a guy, a plain and ordinary guy. But I feel that I have earned it.

I ask only one thing from my enemies. (No, I don’t expect forgiveness.)

Before drawing the obsidian blade across my throat, ending my death song in a jagged rattle; ask yourself why this is what you want, ‘wintke,’ a good-for-nothing individual with the soul of a man and the soul of a woman trapped within.

And why this should be so.

Enjoy the gift. And for Christ’s sakes, promise you won’t bore me to death.

***

We despise what we don’t understand.

Be wary of the stranger.

Laugh at the unexpected.

Discard that which is useless.

‘It is indeed a good day to die.’

Magic in a Canoe.

Bird on a canoe.

Something bumps against the bottom of the canoe.

The world has some magic places – Lambton County’s Bear Creek in spring;
meadows ablaze with dandelions.

A snapping turtle surfaces, so close I could pet him. He regards me unblinkingly, out of one beady little eye. The boat eases forward, dead quiet, except a few drops, falling from the blade…

Shadowy recesses. Under clumps of young oaks, the earth lies carpeted with myriads of tiny white, purple and pink flowers. Trilliums abound in patches. Distinctive foliage marks the extent of their territory.

I can smell the soil and it is good.

“Where’s that darned trail, again?”

Only a short time ago, it was winter.

There is magic to be found on a winter’s morn. Drop of water flashes, falls from the tip of an icicle. Sun rays, ardently probing, urgent in the short and precious day.

A place where in summer, nothing ever seems to happen, yet now, the pale parchment that is the ground holds a record of many transactions.

The trails go in all directions. Night or day, it doesn’t matter. Time lasts forever.

Weather means nothing.

Unleash the soul. Let it dance with the breezes.

And now, when night comes, a low orange moon perches among the branches of a big old jack pine. The wind keeps trying to tell me something.

Moist and warm, a spring evening’s twilight.

Pixie glimmer of green, flitters along the half a moment. Cricket noises all around…there goes the green light again. Grass at the base of yonder fence post rustles with some shy newcomer. An owl hoots, far, far away.

Water flows, intent on getting someplace, somehow, some time.

Water talks to herself. She has but one thing on her mind…”Downhill, downhill, downhill…”

Stars watch over me. I watch the trees; which are alive now that they think no one is looking. I stub my big toe on a boulder whom I should have seen.

“Sorry, buddy,” I murmur. Like a golfer I replace the divot, rearrange the moss.

Like a child in a nursery, I play. Life is a game. There are no rules.

The art of observation.

Over the ages painters have struggled to capture the elusive effects of light.


In this image the author would appear to have done so very well. On reflection, the reader may well conclude that almost anyone could get that image with a cheap digital camera and the use of paint packages which are freely available online.

That’s exactly what I did. The odds of me standing there for a couple of hours with a canvas, an easel, and a bunch of half-frozen oil pigments and dirty brushes and cans of turpentine are minimal.

I’m using tools that were simply unavailable to Vincent van Gogh or Paul Gauguin or any other famous painter.

The thing took a little effort, and I had to know how to use the tools. I kind of have to know what’s good because I actually took a number of photos and tried a few different things with some of them. The photos were taken impulsively. It’s the ice pack along the south shore of Lake Huron at Bright’s Grove. When I took them, I had no idea of what I was going to do with them or what the result might be, although the special effects did enter my mind. Yet there is a kind of spontaneity here as well.

I like that unexpected quality, the element of surprise that enters into it.

The landscapes around here in winter can be pretty sublime. It’s also a big, open, flat kind of place where you sort of have to look off into the distance a lot. The light is very angled and the palette muted, and the weather and atmospheric effects generate a random picture that changes constantly.

It’s the art of observation.