fifth world arts

FINDING ZIBBY

Tales from the hermitage:

 Lino cut by starchy

Bean toothed winos shuffled by, as I stood bewildered in front of a bleak and tarnished hotel on Duncan street. I flipped the vets business card over rechecking the hand written address again and again. Hoping to see a different number every time, but this was the place. This had to be some kind of mistake, I reasoned to myself, else why would Jack Russell puppies be for sale in this terrible hell hole? 

A wall of darkness enveloped me as I stepped through the hotels main doorway and into what I sensed was a massive ornate ballroom.  Only through the hollow acoustics could I tell that the room was immense, for I could not see a thing.  All I could do was stand there at the entrance feeling exposed in an alien world, until my eyes began to adjust. Lurid smoke infested catacombs began to greet me, with dark boozehounds huddled over ancient and tired beer drench tables, like pigs at a trough. The pallid chamber was completely devoid of joy. Long ago, happiness had been knifed in the back, and dragged out and dumped in the alley. Through a weak pink nebulous light, echoed the haunting rifts of Led Zeppelin's, Kashmir. The smell of retch and puke mingled with piss and beer, chocked me to the edge of vomit.

YE PORKER STERN

Tales from the hermitage:

digitalscapes by starchy

 High in a young alder, silhouetted by a big harvest moon sat the dull, blunt nosed shape, of a large porcupine. His spiny extended quills radiated in shimmering halos of moonlight, couldn’t help but impress. For me, the remarkable vision encapsulated the complete spirit of the wilderness. However, that was as far as my admiration could stretch, for his intrusion could have serious consequences.

the LITTLE SCAUP

digitalscapes by Bill Stark

Rocking gently in the morning mist, my dock began to settle into its own easy equilibrium. The slightest movement on it sent up a slapping chain reaction of tiny water spouts. That ran off up and down the logs, making the most delightful sound. Even Zibby’s light patter created miniature spouts that followed her every movement. Trying to curl up in my frost laden chair with hot coffee became an art, especially when struggling to keep exposed feet tucked warm inside the heavy woolen blanket. Once safely cocooned and settled, we both settled in for our mornings contemplation.

the WATCH BEAR

Tales from the Hermitage:

Lino Cut by Bill Stark

 In long open shimmering leads, lazy cat paws stretched in soft rippling bands across the mirrored lake. It was like mother nature absentmindedly doodling, and concentrating her main weather patterns elsewhere. It was during theses easy summer days that I wallowed in the warm lake building the dock. The dock had become my dream platform, and apart from being cool and free of bugs, dreaming was my main purpose for building it. It certainly wasn’t because I was expecting company, however company did show up in the form of a young Black Bear.

Children of the Night: two

Tales from the Hermitage:

 As I descended the final rungs from the loft, a pungent musk enveloped me. In the dim twilight, I was hesitant to step into the fray, until I heard Zibby’s frustrated whinny grunts. Her unmistakable display of frustration, meant that she had lost the nocturnal hunter she was after. I had automatically checked the squirrel and knew it was safe, as I descended into the crashing and banging below me. 

CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT

tales from the Hermitage

digitalscapes by starchy 

Under the rhinestone pilled sky, nestled in the dark deeply silhouetted pines, my cabin roof had become the perfect landing pad. The Hermitage, whether occupied or not, always hosted the night games, that took place on schedule at twilight. It had long before my time, become home base for a night of tag and play.  I noticed when I moved my bedroll to the loft, that my thin cabin roof acted like a giant receiver. The intriguing and wonderful aspects of the forest night, opened up to me when I began sleeping beneath the hewed timbers of my magical cabin. 

RIVERS OF GOLD: chapter five

tales from the hermitage

digitalscapes by starchy 

 Shaking nervously on the edge of miraculous, I searched hard for my lost dignity. Looking about the woods, I felt deeply relived that no one had witnessed my ridiculous behavior. Brushing myself off and feeling relatively composed, I tried hard to assess the situation. I was technically rich, but even I could see that it would take a lot of time, work and money to properly extract this wealth.

the OLD CANOE; part two

tales from the Hermitage

lino cut by starchy 

Riding the strong prevailing winds the giant shore pines, resilient and elastic, swayed their massive heads inland. Under their wild and sweeping branches, the old canoe spun in rebirth, up and down in the dark tannin troughs. Zibby, never being in a boat before, took to it like an old seadog. She immediately gravitated to the bow and ever since, has become my faithful lookout. She seemed to be enjoying the water as much as I, and looked ever so funny with her Jack Russell ears flopping in the wind. 

 With undeveloped canoeing muscles, I decided not to challenge the wind today, and made my way back along the shore.  Although sturdy and well built, it was old and leaked like a sieve, it badly needed a recovering of canvas. A job for skilled hands and away out of my league. Although, I decided then and there, to learn how. My whole world opened with this discovery and as the boat knifed up onto the sandy beach, it felt as if all the tumblers had landed on Cherries.

RIVERS OF GOLD: chapter two

tales from the Hermitage

 Lino cuts by starchy

 Haloed in sparkling silhouette, the young hawk hung endlessly in its ethereal throne. Invisible in the morning sun, surveying its world. Indifferent to its flitting shadow, hunting tirelessly over the wet diamond studded meadow. Then, like a kite on a broken string, it banked off over the green shadows of the approaching tree line.

 Hidden in a dark leafy portal below, flanked by alder and aspens, a yellow shafted flicker called. It was an auspices beginning, as it was calling from the exact same spot in the thick bush, that Zibby and I were heading for. Only minutes from the cabin, we reached the tree line opening, our legs soaked from the heavy morning dew. I stood quiet at the entrance of the wood, listening, watching. Thankfully Zibby remembered her lessons and heeled promptly at my hand command.

RIVERS OF GOLD: chapter four

Tales from the Hermitage

digitalscapes by starchy 

Reflecting on sleepy eyes, firelight danced and played intricate patterns over the dew ladened tent. Soft crackling and exploding sparks were the last things I heard, until Zibby woke me in the cold pitch blackness. Piercing down somewhere into my happy dreamy subconscious, Zibby’s fear reached me. In that split millisecond between dream and reality, confusion reigned. This was where one learns to suppress fear, and reason, at all costs. 

RIVERS OF GOLD: chapter three

Tales from the hermitage

 digitalscapes by starchy

On this foggy detour away from the stream, it wasn’t easy picturing the Doc, even as a younger man, bushwhacking and prospecting alone in this wild land. I had the luxury of following a detailed map, and written instructions. He had neither, and still was able to make his way. His ancient axe blazes were few and far between, forcing me to rely heavily on modern technology rather than his meager trail markings.