we all shine on into the mystic

it’s like butter melting into brown sugar or like listening to hendrix play  little wing  or hearing hope return to the voice of a friend or looking at an  ellen andreassen painting  or hearing my second youngest deliver a poem at a fundraiser for northern dene and metis trappers or smelling raspberries on a summer stroll or scrolling the photography of  mi vida landscapes  or the pinhole photography of  wenda salomons  or hanging out at  bleeding heart art space  or reading the poem  listen  by michael gravel or like playing with eliza or like all those other things I’d love to list that are now firing in my mind like the slow crescendo joy wail of john lennon in the  song we all shine on         it’s when the door opens here in the low-level bunker of credo coffee on 124 street and I feel the heat of the sun on my face  here  in the brittle days of february and see faith flicker alive like light from an old projector through the first frame of celluloid on the the cold walls of these concrete buildings and I can’t wait for the door to open again  for one more person to come through  for one more opening of the door before the sun moves west behind the cinder blocks and crosby stills and nash finish singing  helplessly hoping  and all these songs end because as morrison says we were born before the wind and we are younger than the sun and sooner or later after everything is said that is worth saying   we’ll sail into the mystic



ellen andreassen art


  1. The mystic harmony in your text provides soul to your selection of musicians and painters. My morning low has melted into the joy of song and art like watching butter melt into brown sugar.

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