I remember a place called Jinu Danda
town like a nipple
on the lesser of two breasts
bumpy mountain retreat
sandwiched between China
and the ballsweat sub-continent of India
it had behind it
trails to 8000 metre peaks
and below it
rivers that ran to towns
cities, factories, and
dams
I looked up
neck craned at the impossible angle
of futures dreamed
with sweaty palms
and fell
tumbling down
into the river
the dam was sudden
splattered LooneyToon style
and drowned in reality
I craned
and craned
my neck
back and up
where I had been
what had happened to Jinu Dando?
that impossible point on an impossible bossom
breathing hope
or glory
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The Captain and I
The right cup of Earl Grey
oily with bergamot
tannin with Ceylon histories
swirls with overcast afternoons
in my Grandma's dining room
near the kitchen
where she dried her herbs
Outside: the acorns
and little Spruce cones
fell among her potato patches
waiting to be collected and jarred
to be stored in the root cellar
pirate treasure
building below the black-currant hedges
The same cup of Earl Grey
pitches and yaws
on the ocean
sliding like a drunken sailor
across the mess table
of my father's trawler
next to the oil-stove that's always hot
Outside: gear is spooling
flashers are spinning
tunes are whistling
but here inside
for a moment now
my cup of Earl Grey and I
stay and steep awhile.
oily with bergamot
tannin with Ceylon histories
swirls with overcast afternoons
in my Grandma's dining room
near the kitchen
where she dried her herbs
Outside: the acorns
and little Spruce cones
fell among her potato patches
waiting to be collected and jarred
to be stored in the root cellar
pirate treasure
building below the black-currant hedges
The same cup of Earl Grey
pitches and yaws
on the ocean
sliding like a drunken sailor
across the mess table
of my father's trawler
next to the oil-stove that's always hot
Outside: gear is spooling
flashers are spinning
tunes are whistling
but here inside
for a moment now
my cup of Earl Grey and I
stay and steep awhile.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Wine...and I watched Eat, Pray, Love...
Life lost me. Perhaps somewhere in the woods between Langford and Lithuania. Perhaps before, in university course loads and career misdirections. It wasn't the first time, and I'm nearly certain it won't be the last. The quest to find Life is somehow more defining of a characteristic for me than is the life I live itself.
Don't think of me as unhealthy.
Think instead of a traveler who's quest to free himself from the bonds of self has set him apart and to the shores of Turkey, Iran, India and occasionally the flaccid hanging dong of North America known as "Florida".
Once I even lost Life while searching for it abroad. In the overpopulace of mainland China I both discovered and rediscovered the grail of me. But when it slipped from my hands I left again and the jetstream took me further south. I even brought a camera.
In South East Asia I drank and wrote myself on riverbanks and road edges. I glimpsed the past and what might be of the future. I felt again, the fibers that made my chest expand and my eyes focus. They were in there, sure. But they were deep somewhere. Layers of city grime and humanitarian guilt clogged them up.
So I met a girl.
I didn't want to meet a girl because sometimes I feel that it was meeting a girl that left me lost in the first place. But I met one anyway.
She was strong.
Hell, she was even tough, but I felt in her something muscular and fibrous and undeniable. Hell, her musculoskeletal self pulled me right out of my little quest to find me again in all the wrong places. She pulled me right opposite and like an elastic in a test faucility it snapped right back, bounced, split, reverberated and came to rest right where I was headed away from. And here, here where I was headed away from I sensed a presence that I hadn't in awhile:
Me.
Me was sitting there, deep inside an unconscious ignorance that I had been ignoring. Here was Me and Me was Here. Here was Me with Her and Her was showing Here how to fucking step aside and let Me be. Nice. I liked that.
So I put aside the fight to find what I was looking for and let the world slide by; somehow just like I had done before, just this time without the Syrias, Finlands or dangerous near encounters with Bin Ladens. Here was some kind of love. Love for me and love for her and though I couldn't explain or rationalise it I knew it.
Cut.
Drift.
Be with her because she was the moment. She was the now. And now she is the now and I drift unconscious through the space and time around her; observer of the world at large. The world that drifts through and around me. Life, the essence that the Skeksis tried to distill in the Dark Crystal is the stuff I'm drifting through now, again. No more searching, because in allowing her to be I've found the life around me. She is my current and I am her sailboat. Together, we're reaching land.
Don't think of me as unhealthy.
Think instead of a traveler who's quest to free himself from the bonds of self has set him apart and to the shores of Turkey, Iran, India and occasionally the flaccid hanging dong of North America known as "Florida".
Once I even lost Life while searching for it abroad. In the overpopulace of mainland China I both discovered and rediscovered the grail of me. But when it slipped from my hands I left again and the jetstream took me further south. I even brought a camera.
In South East Asia I drank and wrote myself on riverbanks and road edges. I glimpsed the past and what might be of the future. I felt again, the fibers that made my chest expand and my eyes focus. They were in there, sure. But they were deep somewhere. Layers of city grime and humanitarian guilt clogged them up.
So I met a girl.
I didn't want to meet a girl because sometimes I feel that it was meeting a girl that left me lost in the first place. But I met one anyway.
She was strong.
Hell, she was even tough, but I felt in her something muscular and fibrous and undeniable. Hell, her musculoskeletal self pulled me right out of my little quest to find me again in all the wrong places. She pulled me right opposite and like an elastic in a test faucility it snapped right back, bounced, split, reverberated and came to rest right where I was headed away from. And here, here where I was headed away from I sensed a presence that I hadn't in awhile:
Me.
Me was sitting there, deep inside an unconscious ignorance that I had been ignoring. Here was Me and Me was Here. Here was Me with Her and Her was showing Here how to fucking step aside and let Me be. Nice. I liked that.
So I put aside the fight to find what I was looking for and let the world slide by; somehow just like I had done before, just this time without the Syrias, Finlands or dangerous near encounters with Bin Ladens. Here was some kind of love. Love for me and love for her and though I couldn't explain or rationalise it I knew it.
Cut.
Drift.
Be with her because she was the moment. She was the now. And now she is the now and I drift unconscious through the space and time around her; observer of the world at large. The world that drifts through and around me. Life, the essence that the Skeksis tried to distill in the Dark Crystal is the stuff I'm drifting through now, again. No more searching, because in allowing her to be I've found the life around me. She is my current and I am her sailboat. Together, we're reaching land.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Bitchinest Vegan Enchilada Sauce Recipe
What's Inside:
- 3 tbsps vegetable oil
- 1 tbsp all-purpose flour
- 2 cups vegetable stock
- 1 dried Ancho chili
- 10 oz tomato paste
- 1/2 tbsp ground cumin
- 1/2 tbsp dried oregano
- 1 tsp ground black pepper
- salt to taste
Mirepoix Ratio - 2:1:1 (Onion: Carrot: Celery)
An Ancho Chili - Sweet and robust
Roux Blonde - a lipid and some flour cookin' away (keep stirring to avoid browning or burning locally)
Once your roux is cooked up, pour in your stock that has had that chili steeping in it (remove the chili; it's like a teabag to you now...but if you want to add more chili and body to this recipe and happen to have a blender of some kind you can just purée the thing into it all later). Use a whisk to blend together the stock and roux and watch as it magically thickens!
Now that you've got a solid flavour and consistency base going on, you're going to want to chuck in about 10 ounces of tomato paste and whisk it all together, at this point you'll see what your end consistency will be. Feel free to thin it out by adding a bit more stock (or water, if you've run out of stock) till you reach the thickness you want. Ideally, an enchilada sauce is thicker than a traditionally described French sauce cos it's meant to really stick to things.
Finally, you're just going to season this thing with the necessary flavours which are traditionally: Oregano, Cumin and Black Pepper. The potency of the spices in your cabinet will vary so feel free to adjust this to taste. Keep in mind that dried spices take a moment to release their flavours into a dish...so let 'em cook for a few minutes before adding any more. Then, of course, you'll have to season this with a bit of salt to bring out all the flavours (this one's up to you).
Enjoy!
Enchilada Sauce - ...this is pretty much what it looks like...Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Podcast - Autumn Ampersand Kaare
California, the land that is not Florida but has orange groves, the birthplace of Tom Petty('s music career, but not of Tom Petty), the land that is the theme of our podcast here...
Monday, December 20, 2010
Shutter Speeds
The endless clicking of shutters
has stuttered the words in my pen
where before
thought would undress
for the chance to find expression
in language
I am left dumb
and empty as the space
16 to 200 millimetres
between the last focal element
and the digital sensor
for the image rendered
is not imagery
it does not
as poetry
read
too two-dimensional to have voice
too .raw to express nature
too honest to have depth
has stuttered the words in my pen
where before
thought would undress
for the chance to find expression
in language
I am left dumb
and empty as the space
16 to 200 millimetres
between the last focal element
and the digital sensor
for the image rendered
is not imagery
it does not
as poetry
read
too two-dimensional to have voice
too .raw to express nature
too honest to have depth
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Tonsai, Yangshuo, Chiangmai, Halong Bay, sigh...
Dear Asia,
I miss you and your people and my people and my people's people who are all up in there.
Your rocks are nice, your opportunities are fruitful...if only I could seed my photography career there somehow...
I miss you and your people and my people and my people's people who are all up in there.
Your rocks are nice, your opportunities are fruitful...if only I could seed my photography career there somehow...
Thursday, October 21, 2010
What America Does
America: a land of plenty; a land of opportunity; a land of stuff.
This is what America has that Australia didn't:
$15 Mobile Phones
Strobist: bare 580exii with 1/2CTO gel from close right of subject
and slightly elevated, left fill from white bounce card (aka some
cardboard from Cindy's Halloween costume package). bare 430exii
with 1/2CTB gel bounced off ceiling. (The vignetting was done in
Lightroom though...)
Drip Coffee
Strobist: foolishly bare 580exii from 45 deg
right of camera and close to subject with
left fill coming from afore mentioned
bounce card. bare 430exii from directly
behind subject with wide beam (a few
metres back)
Pancakes (not crepes)
Strobist: Same as above, but back light is
set at 45 deg back left of subject.
Hybrid Revolution
Strobist: 580exii through 8" softbox 45deg
right of subject, 430exii with full CTO gel
bounced off back wall
This is what America has that Australia didn't:
$15 Mobile PhonesStrobist: bare 580exii with 1/2CTO gel from close right of subject
and slightly elevated, left fill from white bounce card (aka some
cardboard from Cindy's Halloween costume package). bare 430exii
with 1/2CTB gel bounced off ceiling. (The vignetting was done in
Lightroom though...)
Drip CoffeeStrobist: foolishly bare 580exii from 45 deg
right of camera and close to subject with
left fill coming from afore mentioned
bounce card. bare 430exii from directly
behind subject with wide beam (a few
metres back)
Pancakes (not crepes)Strobist: Same as above, but back light is
set at 45 deg back left of subject.
Hybrid RevolutionStrobist: 580exii through 8" softbox 45deg
right of subject, 430exii with full CTO gel
bounced off back wall
Monday, September 13, 2010
Carnivore Adventure!
Autumn and I are, right now, riding out the last few stressful packing days of our Tasmanian chapter. Before we bid this little island farewell though, we wanted to tick a couple of little achievements. One of these was to see a Tasmanian Devil and a Spotted Quol in the wild. Muthauckahs is cute afterall!
So, with an inquiry to the local carnivore expert, we determined a location in the south of Tasmania called Cockle Creek which promised to be rich in meat eaters.
View Larger Map
Here is the unfolding of our little adventure:
As with any good adventure, wine on the beach
was how it all started.
Then with a good head of lower-economic-
bracket house red, we pitched our tent...
...cooked up a feast of leftover soup...
...and set up a camera trap!
*Strobist: 580exII into softbox infront of and 45 deg to right of subject
430exII bare behind at 45 degrees to left of subject and elevated
~all triggered with Cactus V4
We used some ground up Kangaroo bits (read: "Roo Mince")
as bait for any carnivores brave enough to walk around the
tripods and ominous lighting equipment.
One of the Paddies was even a little bit curious about the
ground up blob of her (you can tell she's female by the
bulge in her pouch) larger cousin, making us a little
curious about the eating habits of these "so-called
herbivores" ...
...
The pademelons eventually gave up on the meat though,
generally freaking out a little when they got close enough
to smell it. And so we waited into the night...until it
started to rain and we had to pull down all the lights and
retreat into our tent (which survived the near-Antarctic like
conditions quite admirably). Without the lights, we didn't
stand a chance of getting a picture in the dark, so we gave
up and bunkered down for a cold night (well, I didn't
think it was that cold, but Autumn has Californian
blood and she found it pretty chilly...granted, as soon
as it got dark, the ground froze solid and winds started
harassing the tent).
...
Of course, in the morning the meat blob cum bait ball
was gone without a trace, save for some trampled bush.
We didn't find any tracks though, but the fellow pictured
below was flying awfully low to the ground, as though
his belly was laden with a lead weight, or, perhaps,
fist-sized ball of raw kangaroo flesh.
So, with an inquiry to the local carnivore expert, we determined a location in the south of Tasmania called Cockle Creek which promised to be rich in meat eaters.
View Larger Map
Here is the unfolding of our little adventure:
As with any good adventure, wine on the beachwas how it all started.
Then with a good head of lower-economic-bracket house red, we pitched our tent...
...cooked up a feast of leftover soup...
...and set up a camera trap!
*Strobist: 580exII into softbox infront of and 45 deg to right of subject
430exII bare behind at 45 degrees to left of subject and elevated
~all triggered with Cactus V4
We used some ground up Kangaroo bits (read: "Roo Mince")
as bait for any carnivores brave enough to walk around the
tripods and ominous lighting equipment.
Some critters (read: the army of Pademelons endlessly
patrolling our campsite) were curious enough about the
lights at least...
patrolling our campsite) were curious enough about the
lights at least...
One of the Paddies was even a little bit curious about the
ground up blob of her (you can tell she's female by the
bulge in her pouch) larger cousin, making us a little
curious about the eating habits of these "so-called
herbivores" ...
...
The pademelons eventually gave up on the meat though,
generally freaking out a little when they got close enough
to smell it. And so we waited into the night...until it
started to rain and we had to pull down all the lights and
retreat into our tent (which survived the near-Antarctic like
conditions quite admirably). Without the lights, we didn't
stand a chance of getting a picture in the dark, so we gave
up and bunkered down for a cold night (well, I didn't
think it was that cold, but Autumn has Californian
blood and she found it pretty chilly...granted, as soon
as it got dark, the ground froze solid and winds started
harassing the tent).
...
Of course, in the morning the meat blob cum bait ball
was gone without a trace, save for some trampled bush.
We didn't find any tracks though, but the fellow pictured
below was flying awfully low to the ground, as though
his belly was laden with a lead weight, or, perhaps,
fist-sized ball of raw kangaroo flesh.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Stories in the Fog
Today, after years of driving past Yak Peak on the Coquihalla, I finally managed to get a crew together to go out there, park on the side of the highway, hike into bear territory and climb the bastard.
So, up at 4:30 after a night of heavy electro dancing and King's Cup competitionery. Up to cat allergies. Up to a two hour drive up the hill and into the sunrise. Up and up and up right into the fog. Fog that would surely lift off; surely burn off as that great big ball of fire lit up the Alpine. Up and up through bear shit and soggy duff. Up to the anchors we couldn't see through the fog. Oh commitment, how you drive a beaten Cadillac of misdirection. To the top of the first pitch and into the rain. Drizzle. Windy slapping downpour...waterfall over 100% of the exposed face.
Turned tail.
And went home to dry out our gear and eat tempura donburi.
The evening starts with some harmless turntable music in the living room.
Less than 8 hours later, I am here...in a cloud.
Jake looks ahead to approaching storm fronts moving down the mountain face while belaying Christina to the top of pitch 1, where we'll later discover a waterfall and learn about the advantages of weather-sealed camera housing.
So, up at 4:30 after a night of heavy electro dancing and King's Cup competitionery. Up to cat allergies. Up to a two hour drive up the hill and into the sunrise. Up and up and up right into the fog. Fog that would surely lift off; surely burn off as that great big ball of fire lit up the Alpine. Up and up through bear shit and soggy duff. Up to the anchors we couldn't see through the fog. Oh commitment, how you drive a beaten Cadillac of misdirection. To the top of the first pitch and into the rain. Drizzle. Windy slapping downpour...waterfall over 100% of the exposed face.
Turned tail.
And went home to dry out our gear and eat tempura donburi.
The evening starts with some harmless turntable music in the living room.
Less than 8 hours later, I am here...in a cloud.
Jake looks ahead to approaching storm fronts moving down the mountain face while belaying Christina to the top of pitch 1, where we'll later discover a waterfall and learn about the advantages of weather-sealed camera housing.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
In The Muir
In The Muir
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 8th August, 2010
I visited a grove of giant redwood trees in Frisco. This is what I saw. Monolythes from another time, standing great and tall. (I think that's in nearly Iambic Pentametre, btw)
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Latency Adds Potency?
If I lactate latency does it add potency
to the filigree melody of this post's symmetry?
Electrically?
I haven't written to myself on here in awhile, true. Here's the go down though, I did a self-portrait shoot to get my photo mojo going again and here's what happened, something not utterly crap!:
Canon 5D Mark II
remotely triggered, manually set master Speedlight 580 EX II (through a diffusing white umbrella) that then triggered a rim flash from a slave manual set Speedlight 430 EX II! And all of this was captured through my new 50mm f/1.4. Hot!
to the filigree melody of this post's symmetry?
Electrically?
I haven't written to myself on here in awhile, true. Here's the go down though, I did a self-portrait shoot to get my photo mojo going again and here's what happened, something not utterly crap!:
Canon 5D Mark II
remotely triggered, manually set master Speedlight 580 EX II (through a diffusing white umbrella) that then triggered a rim flash from a slave manual set Speedlight 430 EX II! And all of this was captured through my new 50mm f/1.4. Hot!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
India (And How She Helped me To See Myself)
The Dalai Lama distributed
his cup full of grace
and I
ceremoniously
accepted with palms up
body rigid, pushed through assembled masses
of exiled Tibetan New Years
to a waiting coach
with no suspension
seen off by a beautiful new friend
to rock nausea through my guts
but still I did not spill
Delhi in her finest bedclothes
stained in spots with pre-dawn
rickshaw drivers
and our coach stopped to kneel
at the feet of them
250Rs. (250% the going rate)
my fingers grate the sleep from my eyes
bargain for my right to 110%
tax for white skin
our second sleepless day begins
the cup full of grace
holding every silver drop
in a rickshaw hopping red-light "suggestions"
We stop
We are 5:30am (5 hours early)
to appointments
at Max Super Specialty Hospital
medical tourism headquarters
our driver moans for 50 more
me, two bags, a tired girlfriend
and a frothy cup of grace
ignore the pleas
50Rs. more
broken English that misses
the "magic" word
for undeserved surplus
Inside we fight our heavy eyes
order chai
receive "VAT"
pull the stopper
and slip a cheeky drop of grace
into soggy paper cups
we slowly sip
my belly rumbles
hunger?
bus-ride-busted bowels respond
and I shit my favourite underwear
while in an uncleaned hospital latrine
I struggle off the many too-warm layers
a mostly full cup of grace
waits on a cafeteria
table top
My a1/a2 vertebrae pop
so I XRAY a 3-day headache
nothing
1100Rs.
and a patronising patriarchal physician
the girlfriend pays 3000Rs. more
for hers
and nearly cries
there was a cup here somewhere
We hit the Hard Rock New Delhi
Mexican import bottle beers
and Nachos
FULL ORDER
my one-day late
Valentine's reprise
in an A/C shopping mall
away from the grey skies of smog
horns
madness
my tab on an empty pocket
I.O.Her 2235Rs.
but 2 beers is like grace
the kind that makes this 3.5-day headache
static-rumble loud
We catch a movie to avoid the crowd
I buy new headphones to drown them out
Sherlock Holmes plays too loud
we dip tissues in the silver stuff
and pack our ear holes
for tympanic protection
finish up
and arrange a battered auto-rickshaw
to the wrong railway station
which I discover after endless queries
(A working miracle in themselves)
muted by new headphones
filling the cognitive areas
left between
the scattered 3.7 day headache
...
ipod off and hidden
we ride the metro
on 500 grams of paracetemol
and 8Rs.
to Old (not "New") Delhi station
Engines and cars
and cabooses and cars
and engines
splash through shit-covered tracks
and on the edge of collapse
near falling in
the crowd and luggage
surge and scream
a man collapses under the press
I help him up
save his life
and remember the cup I'm holding
somewhat chipped
by the press of countless writing
people
Jump aboard 3 cars off
fight my 30Kg load
through upper-class passengers
to A1-12 and 44
opposite ends
penalised arrangements
for moments late booking
no matter
my sleepless battered brain
is 4 days deep
and I'm at my "seat/sleep"
jacket off
and pillow of dirty clothes
rolled
(for safety) pack away
passport, portable hard-drive
(with lifetime of pictures)
ipod
ipod?
card wallet?
FUCKING POCKET SLASHED (new jacket)
FUCKING BANKCARD
FUCKING MONEY
IPOD
gone
CUP OF FUCKING GRACE
cracked
just a few drops left
cut my lips
on the rim
knock back the contents
graceful nightcap
dream of nothing
nothingness
emptiness
...
8.6 hours of gracefulness
to grey morning skies
slipping by this tinted window
grace used up
so the Wala sells us cups of chai
and my addled mind
fits and seizes
my epilepsy tablets still packed deeply in
this dusty rucksack
I dump hot magma chai
all over my crotch
too dehydrated to construct even a tear
I lay back
close the curtain and fall
forward into the next destination
Darjeeling
where I'm dreaming visions of Himalayas
unpeopled
unsupporting
snow covered
and cold like home
2.1 weeks of beard growth
are itching
anxious
naturally gracing my face with warmth
existing untrimmed as is
simply 'is'
I 'am'
this and that 'are'
i order another chai
no spill
no fit this time
and the silver stuff inside
slides down easy
the ground is creaking
or clacking
below
there are
2156 Kilometres
and a lifetime to go
his cup full of grace
and I
ceremoniously
accepted with palms up
body rigid, pushed through assembled masses
of exiled Tibetan New Years
to a waiting coach
with no suspension
seen off by a beautiful new friend
to rock nausea through my guts
but still I did not spill
Delhi in her finest bedclothes
stained in spots with pre-dawn
rickshaw drivers
and our coach stopped to kneel
at the feet of them
250Rs. (250% the going rate)
my fingers grate the sleep from my eyes
bargain for my right to 110%
tax for white skin
our second sleepless day begins
the cup full of grace
holding every silver drop
in a rickshaw hopping red-light "suggestions"
We stop
We are 5:30am (5 hours early)
to appointments
at Max Super Specialty Hospital
medical tourism headquarters
our driver moans for 50 more
me, two bags, a tired girlfriend
and a frothy cup of grace
ignore the pleas
50Rs. more
broken English that misses
the "magic" word
for undeserved surplus
Inside we fight our heavy eyes
order chai
receive "VAT"
pull the stopper
and slip a cheeky drop of grace
into soggy paper cups
we slowly sip
my belly rumbles
hunger?
bus-ride-busted bowels respond
and I shit my favourite underwear
while in an uncleaned hospital latrine
I struggle off the many too-warm layers
a mostly full cup of grace
waits on a cafeteria
table top
My a1/a2 vertebrae pop
so I XRAY a 3-day headache
nothing
1100Rs.
and a patronising patriarchal physician
the girlfriend pays 3000Rs. more
for hers
and nearly cries
there was a cup here somewhere
We hit the Hard Rock New Delhi
Mexican import bottle beers
and Nachos
FULL ORDER
my one-day late
Valentine's reprise
in an A/C shopping mall
away from the grey skies of smog
horns
madness
my tab on an empty pocket
I.O.Her 2235Rs.
but 2 beers is like grace
the kind that makes this 3.5-day headache
static-rumble loud
We catch a movie to avoid the crowd
I buy new headphones to drown them out
Sherlock Holmes plays too loud
we dip tissues in the silver stuff
and pack our ear holes
for tympanic protection
finish up
and arrange a battered auto-rickshaw
to the wrong railway station
which I discover after endless queries
(A working miracle in themselves)
muted by new headphones
filling the cognitive areas
left between
the scattered 3.7 day headache
...
ipod off and hidden
we ride the metro
on 500 grams of paracetemol
and 8Rs.
to Old (not "New") Delhi station
Engines and cars
and cabooses and cars
and engines
splash through shit-covered tracks
and on the edge of collapse
near falling in
the crowd and luggage
surge and scream
a man collapses under the press
I help him up
save his life
and remember the cup I'm holding
somewhat chipped
by the press of countless writing
people
Jump aboard 3 cars off
fight my 30Kg load
through upper-class passengers
to A1-12 and 44
opposite ends
penalised arrangements
for moments late booking
no matter
my sleepless battered brain
is 4 days deep
and I'm at my "seat/sleep"
jacket off
and pillow of dirty clothes
rolled
(for safety) pack away
passport, portable hard-drive
(with lifetime of pictures)
ipod
ipod?
card wallet?
FUCKING POCKET SLASHED (new jacket)
FUCKING BANKCARD
FUCKING MONEY
IPOD
gone
CUP OF FUCKING GRACE
cracked
just a few drops left
cut my lips
on the rim
knock back the contents
graceful nightcap
dream of nothing
nothingness
emptiness
...
8.6 hours of gracefulness
to grey morning skies
slipping by this tinted window
grace used up
so the Wala sells us cups of chai
and my addled mind
fits and seizes
my epilepsy tablets still packed deeply in
this dusty rucksack
I dump hot magma chai
all over my crotch
too dehydrated to construct even a tear
I lay back
close the curtain and fall
forward into the next destination
Darjeeling
where I'm dreaming visions of Himalayas
unpeopled
unsupporting
snow covered
and cold like home
2.1 weeks of beard growth
are itching
anxious
naturally gracing my face with warmth
existing untrimmed as is
simply 'is'
I 'am'
this and that 'are'
i order another chai
no spill
no fit this time
and the silver stuff inside
slides down easy
the ground is creaking
or clacking
below
there are
2156 Kilometres
and a lifetime to go
Canadian Man
Met an man
of Canadian nature
bent knees
bent back
the split palms of labour
he called himself Chris
the machinist
he held up those hands
singing psalms of praise
to a Northern life
lines like river valleys
dissecting mountains
pouring down
converging at the wrist
and rooted there
"here, you see"
and he pointed
finger to flesh
"ignoring the rest
the widest crease is here"
beneath
the tendons worked their way
and the digits swayed
branches
counting
falling and rising
"Belgium, Hungary, Iran, Syria, Lebanon, India, Latvia, China, Estonia, Finland..."
and on and on he went
fingers bent or straight
and still the tendons slid
and bulged
and dipped below the thickness
of the wrist
strings bouncing
humming:
East coast Gaelic shanties
West coast hard-core ballads
Yukon caribou wails
and all
under winters' white wash
muffled static
always there to hum
in a moment of silence
always there
of Canadian nature
bent knees
bent back
the split palms of labour
he called himself Chris
the machinist
he held up those hands
singing psalms of praise
to a Northern life
lines like river valleys
dissecting mountains
pouring down
converging at the wrist
and rooted there
"here, you see"
and he pointed
finger to flesh
"ignoring the rest
the widest crease is here"
beneath
the tendons worked their way
and the digits swayed
branches
counting
falling and rising
"Belgium, Hungary, Iran, Syria, Lebanon, India, Latvia, China, Estonia, Finland..."
and on and on he went
fingers bent or straight
and still the tendons slid
and bulged
and dipped below the thickness
of the wrist
strings bouncing
humming:
East coast Gaelic shanties
West coast hard-core ballads
Yukon caribou wails
and all
under winters' white wash
muffled static
always there to hum
in a moment of silence
always there
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Sky Over Landspace
Sky Over Landspace
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 20th December, 2009
Time's are a changing as things fall into place.
An obsession with climbing internationally that started nearly two years ago in this same place (Hampi, India) has come full circle to fruition. I'm trading in my plans of going to the Mid East, Europe and Africa for a full two year committed climbing tour, driving through the Americas with three lovely people and potentially a load of sponsorship. I've been reminded to be more creative so let me just delve into the touchy-feely:
The water has taken it's time to wear away the burs and borough through. Two years plus and pushing five more. This life of travels wears one smooth, leaves the hardened core of genuine ambition clear. I am ambitious in this only. My life falls together; photography, climbing, friendship and love. The measure of success is only in your ability to spot a line, to harness coincidence as omen and pursue happiness.
To test and test and test myself against the campus of every opportunity. And so I return to the Americas.
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Edge Of Reality Is A Frayed Nerve
The day before my 2 year anniversary of leaving Canada I'm waiting for visiting hours at a Northern Thai prison. I sit in the grass discussing manifest psychology and drinking iced coffee. A woman stalks the crowd outside, hawking colourful balaclavas. The sun moves a little and steals the shade I was using. Jesse and I compensate.
The black vinyl seat of our rented scooter is getting too hot in the afternoon sun. I feel dehydrated and my right hand has an unidentifiable stench about it. Hand sanitiser is too pussy for a seasoned traveler, so I rub it into my hands when the crowds attention is called away for an announcement of the prisoners who have lined up behind the bulletproof glass. Our friend's name is called out in Thai. We hesitate. It's called again, this time with the prison guard flagging our attention.
Inside, Ikiu is remarkably happy, but the cigarettes we bought him cannot be passed through the speakerbox. He asks for 200 Baht as the timer goes off and he's drawn away from us. We oblige and he smiles. The two actions have no correlation.
Outside we transfer our money in. I recognise an old face from a distant time when I traveled here before. Peter is white, old, morally bankrupt and someone I could never trust. I like his stories. He tells us that Ikiu is in the can with his good mate, that his uncle is connected to the local mafia and that the motive of his crime was vague. The police exaggerated, but he did chase someone down with a Samurai sword on his scooter. I think of Kill Bill immediately. A new fondness for Ikiu sweeps over us.
Later we will join Peter for whiskey.
The black vinyl seat of our rented scooter is getting too hot in the afternoon sun. I feel dehydrated and my right hand has an unidentifiable stench about it. Hand sanitiser is too pussy for a seasoned traveler, so I rub it into my hands when the crowds attention is called away for an announcement of the prisoners who have lined up behind the bulletproof glass. Our friend's name is called out in Thai. We hesitate. It's called again, this time with the prison guard flagging our attention.
Inside, Ikiu is remarkably happy, but the cigarettes we bought him cannot be passed through the speakerbox. He asks for 200 Baht as the timer goes off and he's drawn away from us. We oblige and he smiles. The two actions have no correlation.
Outside we transfer our money in. I recognise an old face from a distant time when I traveled here before. Peter is white, old, morally bankrupt and someone I could never trust. I like his stories. He tells us that Ikiu is in the can with his good mate, that his uncle is connected to the local mafia and that the motive of his crime was vague. The police exaggerated, but he did chase someone down with a Samurai sword on his scooter. I think of Kill Bill immediately. A new fondness for Ikiu sweeps over us.
Later we will join Peter for whiskey.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Hookerville
Hookerville, aka Datang, is the border town/slum/sprawling bordello of sin and kareoke between Thailand and Malaysia but mostly in Thailand. It's also the town where we spent our last evening on this, our epic journey to extend our Thai visas.
Hollywood Club
Oscar's Entertainment Palace Complex
Helo Bangkok
Erotic Kareoke
A Line Of Ketamine Off A Hooker's Ass
I also bought black market Gudang Garam Indonesian Kreteks for a buck and a quarter.
Hollywood Club
Oscar's Entertainment Palace Complex
Helo Bangkok
Erotic Kareoke
A Line Of Ketamine Off A Hooker's Ass
I also bought black market Gudang Garam Indonesian Kreteks for a buck and a quarter.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Lonelily
It's raining on Tonsai
I'm flashing 7a
Rolled cigarettes burn away the afternoon
I think about the phone numbers I don't know anymore
and wonder where to find them
Humidity halts tattoo healage
I contemplate a year on the road
Things cycle back to tendon strength
I drink a Sangsom Soda to burn off the cold
Emotions roll around and sour in the cheap whisky
I blog
I'm flashing 7a
Rolled cigarettes burn away the afternoon
I think about the phone numbers I don't know anymore
and wonder where to find them
Humidity halts tattoo healage
I contemplate a year on the road
Things cycle back to tendon strength
I drink a Sangsom Soda to burn off the cold
Emotions roll around and sour in the cheap whisky
I blog
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Me, I'm A Ramblin' Man
Ramblin' Man by Lemon Jelly...loving that tune all up and down the world these days. Here's a poem I wrote on a bus while smoking hand rolled cigarettes and trying to decipher Kerouac:
We're going, we're going
where?
hold on
stick head out window
of moving
bus
catch
breath
velocity forced
wind down throat
gasp
fight word out
Suph...an...buri?
How do you spell that?
"Chao Rai?"
"Lok Sip Baht!"
"120 togedder"
We're going, we're going
where?
hold on
stick head out window
of moving
bus
catch
breath
velocity forced
wind down throat
gasp
fight word out
Suph...an...buri?
How do you spell that?
"Chao Rai?"
"Lok Sip Baht!"
"120 togedder"
Friday, September 4, 2009
SEAHORSES!!!!
SEAHORSES!!!!
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 4th September, 2009
He Xin and I have finally finished our mad UNICEF assignment...I'm just posting off the photos now...it seems that these photos view a bit desaturated in web browsers, but the originals are all a lot more sun pumped. Anyway, look at how mad cute this kid is. Chinese children could be the new source of renewable energy if we can only figure out how to distill "cute"
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