Dreams and other broken things... Linda Moore I walked through rooms that once were my life and saw the scattered, tattered, torn debris... In the din of silence and musty, darkened nooks I saw my innocence cast aside and the sweetness of my youth. I bent to gently hold in hand to sense of what had been when light itself from unknown source illumined that room, and I saw my dreams cast upon the ground... and other broken things.

Alberta Pamela Bragg This province has magic skies that soar forever clouds that pattern themselves to infinity colour of the grasses, maroon, magenta and brilliant golds and the sounds, city sounds, Country sounds meshed together. Set the cruise and drift over landscapes that are dotted with tall elevators. All this is new and sometimes too big - too open Like all my secrets are bared for everyone to see. I grew up where the ocean skirts the mountains where I confessed my soul to the lapping waves and feasted on the mountain peaks. I thought I could never adjust to the separation yet the more I learn about me the more important I value to be open - like the open skies of Alberta and of the open seas of B. C. We are one.

Malibu Sands

I remember warm, wet sands of Mailbu. We watched as tiny birds, time-stepped in perfect formation, doing what tiny birds do. An exacting performance to the percussion of rhythmic waves. How do they know to do this? Do they grow weary in the sameness? I wonder, would they cease to exist were it not for the doing? I was spellbound by their life as it unfolded before me. Flitting here, there, in formation. Focused, determined. Fulfilled by the very action of doing what tiny birds do.

Were it all so simple. Clearly defined parameters. Focused. Determined. Fulfilled by the very action of the doing. Perhaps.

I remember you pointed down the coast line. See there, you said, the advancing shade line. Or was it the receding sun line? You said those homes over there would soon be in shade, as the sun, its doing done, moved on to seascapes other that this. I wanted to watch but all I could see were the changes going on inside of me. The parameters changing, the doing done. The heat of the daylight sun moving on, leaving in its void the serenity of the late day shade. That time of comfort and peace, just before dark releases questions of its own. How could I not love a man who cared or even knew that those homes would soon be in shade?

And I remember we sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, alone, yet together on still warm Malibu sands. You said we did not have much time. We needed to talk. So we sat, in solitude, words unspoken, yet understood deep in the very fiber of our being. I saw where skyline met origin of the sea, empowering it to do what seas do, rhythmically build in non-existent perpetual motion, the coming in and going out of wave upon wave, until that energy, so great, must by design, be expressed upon the very edge of its existence, dissipating in exhaustion upon the warmth of the earth.

And I drank of this beauty. I was compelled to remember this moment. My moment of solitude. Alone yet together. My own personal skyline somewhere gives birth to the origin of rhythmic, perpetual motion, the coming in and going out of self. The doing. The very meaning of my existence. My very life.

Again, I am compelled to remember this moment. To drink of this beauty. Alone. With you. What is that energy so great within me that must be expressed upon the very edge of my existence? Where is my warm earth who will receive me and dissipate that energy before I am lost in the exhaustion of my doing?

Without a Clue Corey Welton So what do I have to say to your people? your 2 pack a day poseurs wearing black and drinking pepsi on the stair     case? They know it all Youth? What is youth? "I dunno, my was stolen from me by the shadows of facist institutions and lonely, sorrowful, angstful bastards of society" they breathed in my essence took what I gave but demanded yet more. Charity is good? Not in my case. Here, I ate what I was given but spat it on the shoes those shiny shoes of the breadwinner "Be yourself" I hear, but myself is my past beware my past of Southern heritage and slavery and civil war and plantations and... and... and I fear those who still think that life is still just that. So your kids, your precious jewels your twinkles in they glowing eye of glastnost sit in consumerism discussing why MTV shows too many commercials and why "grunge" is "chic" but are stuck, too, to your ways of doing things: mannerisms, Dear Abby, and the Catholic church rolled into one great Taco Supreme And you wonder why they're confused?

inside out Jess Morrissette byte by byte by byte by byte trickles down my ISDN line-spine telling each part its tasks. looking, breathing, touching, feeling reduced to electronic pulses working themselves through diodes and chips. inside The Box I see in 16.7 million hues. every multimedia flower is pixelated if you look. information is brought to me more than Man can conceive I process it bit by bit and delete what doesn't fit. telecommunications--reaching out to others sharing information at the speed of sound microprocessors thrashing, more is absorbed. outside The Box there is one bug despite the trove of facts and figures we still have to worry about Compatibility.