MULTIVERSE

Recently, following a night of intense dreams involving persons long deceased and actions unexplainable, I was set to musing about the possibility of a parallel universe(s).

Have you ever travelled in your dreams to a place that you’ve been before, and been greeted as a long lost friend? Have you ever visited a place were once you lived, and imagine times spent, and wondered if time had continued in your absence? Have you ever turned left, instead of right, and pondered your future had you continued on? Have you ever travelled a stretch of highway and passed a vehicle identical to yours travelling in the opposite direction, and wondered about its occupants? When we die does another version of us occupying space in another universe, carry on?

I wandered down the street one day,

and looked down the hill,

at a place that I’d been before.

I imagined time spent in this place,

and events that happened, and 

wondered,

if time stood still, when

I moved on, or

if life carried on.

Do we exist in many places

like a film with its many frames,

moments of time captured,

while the movie carried on.

If I exist in many places

will my others, 

carry on, 

when I have reached my end, or

will my others fade,

like me. 

With no one to wonder,

no one to care,

no doubt they will,

like me,

simply,

fade away.

All of this brings me to the question of what happens to an artist’s work once he, or she fades away. Some would say what does it matter to the artist once he, or she, have faded away. But, as I age, I am concerned. Years of effort recognized, yet not recognized, by those in the know presents a problem for those that remain. I’ve hundreds of sketches, drawings, and paintings. Do I shred my struggle to be recognized, and go peacefully knowing that I tried, or do I simply let things happen as they may believing that this collection may one day find a home? Dilemma. Of course, if their exists a multiverse, and I exist in multiple dimensions, then my exit in this moment in time should present no problem…should it?

Recent sketches to add to my growing concern:-

Winter Birches   Watercolour

Tea Lake, Algonquin Park     Watercolour

Tea Lake Pen & Ink Sketch

KING OF THE CASTLE

King Of The Castle

A long time ago, when a child, I played a game called “King Of The Castle”. The idea was to fight your way to the top of a snow pile, or a mound of earth, the reward for which was your being able to crown yourself the king of the castle. I suppose that you might say that it was a way for children to be recognized by their peers, a game that we would unconsciously play for the rest of our lives. We struggled daily to be noticed, for those around us to recognize us, and include us in the challenges of everyday life. Then, we grow older. We’re shoved aside in the rush for others to claim the title of king of the castle. We’re forgotten. It’s probably one of the fears of aging,  being forgotten, treated as being invisible………

Invisible

The battery powered clock,

the one that you bought for your aunt 

when she went into the nursing home, 

tells you that it’s March the 5th, 2018.

It’s still twilight at 7:00 am,

or so the clock says. 

It’s difficult to know exactly, as you suspect that the battery is wearing out, 

not having been changed since your aunt died several years ago. 

You brought it  home to remind you

of who she was.

You stumble to the kitchen to boil the water for your first cup of coffee. 

It’s cold in the kitchen. 

Looking out of the kitchen window, the one over the sink, 

you notice that the thermometer on the railing of the rear deck reads minus 22 Celsius.

So much for global warming, you say out loud, 

but there’s no one to answer. 

You try to remember when winters were either judged to be too cold, or too warm,

with no thought to the weather signalling the end for life on earth as we know it. 

Was it five years, ten years, or fifty years ago?

You can’t remember. 

Having grown old, and no longer visible, 

each day feels like the rest. 

You do remember when you first realized that you were growing old, and becoming less important; 

as if your life had actually been important. 

It was a year ago, or so it seems.

Not important. 

You do remember that you immediately sat down at the kitchen table,

and wrote a poem about aging and becoming invisible, 

and that when you read it at the writing club, 

the oldest person in the circle, an old woman, disagreed with you,

arguing that when you become old you don’t become invisible; 

at least that’s the way she felt,

pointing out that she was 85 years old, 

and that she should know. 

You said nothing.

She had her opinion, and you had yours,

and neither was all that important. 

Outside it’s getting lighter.

A school bus rumbles by.

Time slogs on.

I’m Feeling Old

I walk down the street,

slowly.

I’m feeling

so     

      old.

I'm invisible you see,

I’m seventy-seven years old,

and told,

that I have little to offer.

Society has seen fit to stifle my being,

for being

so    

        old.

I’m seventy-seven years old, 

I’m part of the past.

I’ve seen miracles happen,

that have lengthen my stay,

but shortened your future

in so many ways.

I’m sevety-seven years old,

I have no future,

or so I am told, 

knowing,

only the past.

Tread softly young persons,

though the future seems bright,

the past catches up,

in the dawn’s early light.

EAS

Northern Ontario Landscape  Watercolour

Orphan Lake- Superior Provincial Park    Pencil Sketch