Columns by Artists and Writers
Bob Black / bq / Cem Turgay /
Fiona Smyth / Gary Michael Dault
/ Holly Lee / Kai Chan / Kamelia
Pezeshki / Ngan Chun-tung /
Tamara Chatterjee / Wilson Tsang /
+ Sculpture works (Shelley Savor)
MONDAY ARTPOST published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.
An Ocean and Pounds publication. ISSN 1918-6991. email to: email@example.com
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“Life is like a beautiful
melody, only the lyrics
are messed up.”
Join PATREON membership
Hans Christian Andersen
From the Notebooks
Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks, 2010-2022
Number 158: Spider Island (December 12, 2011)
Watercolour and pastel on paper
bq 不 清
六 度 分 隔 理 論
莫 非 你 也 相 信
鬼 神 的 存 在
在 於 來 自 房 間 內 裡 的
一 陣 風 或
難 以 想 像 的 寧 靜 ?
SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION
Is it possible that you also believe in
The existence of ghosts and gods
For from deep inside a room comes
A breath of wind or
An unimaginable silence?
就 像 男 人 想 像
穿 裙 子 時 的 感 覺 又
一 扇 門
無 緣 無 故 地 打 開
It is like a man trying to imagine
The feeling of being in a dress or
It’s a door
冬 天 和 春 天 之 間 並 沒 有
一 條 明 顯 的 界 線
正 如 兩 個 常 有 衝 突 的 國 家
卻 又 溫 柔 一 點 如
一 場 小 雪 中
There is no clear boundary
Between winter and spring
Like the one between two countries at odd
But a little gentler like
In a brief snowfall,
那 些 能 夠 止 渴 的 雪 花
來 臨 也 只 是 為 了
在 不 作 出 物 質 上 的
破 壞 下 迅 速 地
消 失 。 而 在 網 絡 上 爭 論
Flurries quench the thirst
And their being here is only
To disappear quickly
Without destroying anything
Tangible. And definitions resulted through
人 口 數 量 所 帶 來 的 定 義
多 彩 多 姿 如 一 百 顆
巧 克 力 : 九 十 五 顆 紅 色 的
兩 顆 紫 色 的 、 兩 顆
藍 色 的 , 只 有 一 顆 是 黃 色 的
Internet debates concerning population growth
Are as colourful as the hundred
Candies: ninety-five are red;
Two are purple; two are
Blue; only one is yellow.
David Lee Hoffman’s sanctuary to showcase his ideas about the environment sustainability: the Shower
Tower, the Worm Palace, the Tea Cave, the Tea Pagoda and so many more.
(videos, three episodes, total 16 mins.)
Nuit Blanche 2022
The child (and his void)
Poem a Week
Gary Michael Dault
representing runaway force
I proudly hold up
my small white horse
as if it were a sharp gale
blowing the opposite way
Note: the admitted oddness of this little poem
may be at least partly traceable to the fact
that it was entirely dreamed. Which doesn’t
happen very often to me. GMD
“Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – After a
long day of roaming the last of the historical
sights we skirted around the maze of passages
surrounding the Bibi-Khanym mosque.
Taking turns trying to maneuver the dainty
narrows between motor vehicle and merchant
carts. With great excitement we found a
little restaurant with a perfect view within a
stonesthrow of the majestic mosaic domed
roofs. We watched the evening sky illuminate
with its descending blue hues, eating hearty
plov, as a final farewell to Samarkand.”
Yesterday Hong Kong
Ngan Chun Tung
Woman Ploughing (Yuen Long, 1958)
8x10 inch, gelatin siver photograph printed in the nineties
Edition 3/100, signed and titled on verso
From the collection of Lee Ka-sing and Holly Lee
Untitled by Kamelia Pezeshki
19 Fragments of Youth, Athirst
“Have you feared the future would be nothing to you?”--Whitman
One month after my third birthday, the burning kite returned on the other side of the world:
history or luck, it is hard to say.
On the evening of June 29th, my grandmother sat on her red bucket, her hopes abloom,
as she sang a lullaby into a small red and blue envelope,
my name inked like web and tea-stain
onto the front of the 5-cent envelope in nervous, new letters
the shape of a calculus she had been diligently studying
as a way to fend off the inevitable,
for she’d learned as a child to write and to sing,
the way you raise incense before oranges and tarnished coins,
as an exercise in saving a life--gestural.
and poured her entirety into the pocket between gum and breath and paper.
She finished the final rhyme and breathed strange sounds into the flap,
as she sealed the triangle with a kiss of red candle wax
and whispered dreams stitched with incense and potassium and egg yolk.
Then, suddenly, light entered into her kitchen as a dropped spoon
and she turned and waited to make sense of the story unfolding before her
and paused, an accordion flapping love songs across the alleyway and of her:
And the fish appeared, like love or hail or premonition.
Just as in the year I was born, the eel again,
and it slipstreamed into her
life through the moldy kitchen and the fallow laundry drying:
dragon-light and eggplant hued,
and change burst upon the world and my grandmother waited to see where the eel would river to,
And circle it did, a few times in the corner until it spotted her red bucket, entwining itself
like wind around a tossed-aside styrofoam cup,
and along the shoulders of the bucket and she listened to its gasp
and she listened also to the frantic knocking of the neighbor’s threats and admonitions,
from whom it had escaped, in search of something more fundamental.
The water-bound seeks the dried riverbed for love.
The year I learned that my heart was not easily taken, I tried to give it away
along the tunnel of a peeling street in Taichung.
A boy walked up to me and asked me for a kiss, I smiled and thought of the River Lu:
frozen in winter and shifting beneath.
I let him kiss me and let him taste the river inside me but he was only concerned with my tongue
and breasts and could not hear the story I was trying to tell him.
I let him take what he wished and in his greed and deafness he didn’t comprehend what I was
willing to give:
the story of my life, caught up in wind and of horses and light like cricket song.
The next morning, I walked out into the light and I was free.
And in that moment, my grandmother placed my letter on the table,--
between an eel appearing and a letter embarking what really is the choice,--
and reached down and embraced the fish as her own,
body to breath, guttural language to syllabic hope,
and held it against her body and the eel softened
and my grandmother closed her eyes
They both knew:
the time had come,
when land and nation and certainty move and there is but soul choice
when one must be ready to depart.
death or reshaping or something simpler.
The this of the that and
the move through transformation out and in.
And we all,
eel and grandmother and family hope
and I have been ready ever since.
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Clouds (but no Mushroom Clouds), held at 50 Gladstone Avenue artsalon in
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