LAMENT FOR JACK LAYTON AND A DYING SUMMER

Tuesday, August 23, 2011/Monday, August 29, 2011

LAMENT FOR JACK LAYTON AND A DYING SUMMER

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

On this late August early evening,
The chill of the coming fall
Bites into my bare legs.

A shivering, icy chuck of detritus sits in my taut gut,
Refusing to be evacuated.
Too much activity around me,
Distractions pulling me away from my churning insides.

The lake is frosty and haughty,
Refusing to comfort me and speak to my soul.
Sadness and regrets tear into my sombre, cold flesh.

Twenty-four hours ago,
I watched the TV news.
Jack Layton passed away.

This afternoon, I ran into a lefty comrade from the Co-operative Housing movement.
“I’d have to say he was one of the all-time great Canadians,” she said.
I believe he really cared about the people of Canada,
As every Canadian politician should.

He wasn’t in it for fame, money or fancy cars.
Jack used his power and charisma to help you and I.
To fight for justice and equality.

What a contrast to our current mayor, Rob Ford
Who is truly an international embarrassment.
A bad joke on the people of this city.
Ford just strikes me as someone slightly dim,
Drowning in water too deep for his shallow intellect.

I feel distraught because Canada has lost a truly unique individual.
At least I know I’m not the only one feeling this way.
It isn’t fair.
Sixty-one is far too young to exit this churning, desperate planet we call Earth.

The sky is turning incredible shades of blue and mauve
As the exhausted sun decides to rest for the day.
Geese feed on the grass all around me.
A seagull sits quietly,
All puffed up against the chill.

Small white boats waft by in the lake.
Runners and cyclists speed along,
Hoping to stay fit and healthy.

Goodbye, Jack.
All I can say is thank you for your devotion and integrity.
Thank you for caring
And helping to make Toronto and Canada a better place to be.

I remember marching in the Labour Day parade,
Some summers ago.
We ended up prancing into the CNE grounds at the end of the day.
There was Jack and Olivia Chow in the stands,
Waving and smiling as we marched in
Wearing our light blue ACTRA T-shirts.
That’s how I will remember you.

Your smile and joyous energy, that day,
Was so encouraging and bright.
I felt proud to be an actor, a union member and a Canadian.
I will always keep that final image of you in my head.
Goodbye.
You were forever on the side of the working people.

THE 80s QUEEN WEST ART SCENE

Saturday, July 23, 2011

THE 80s QUEEN WEST ART SCENE

By Philip Cairns
Copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Thinking back to the 80s art scene in Toronto.
So much talent and optimism
Gushing onto wet, vibrant canvasses and paper.
New faces, fresh ideas.
Figurative Expressionism was the order of the day.

Painters and writers living off Canada Council grants.
Money seemed more plentiful despite a tight Recession.
Packed, exciting openings,
Crowded parties.
Hot, spinning couples churning out babies and masterpieces.

Galleries and small theatre companies springing up like mushrooms.
Where have all those bright, new faces gone?
Purple, pink and iridescent gold oozing out of tubes of paint.
Queen Street and the Cameron House seemed to be the centre of things.

You could go to 80 Spadina,
Wandering from floor to floor,
Full of galleries crammed with incredible, visionary imagery.
Charmed and surreal lights shone down on us.
Exciting theatre and writers exploding all over us,
Like the money shot in a porno film.
Now, middle age has grabbed us by the throat.
Death claimed many.

Some retreated into teaching,
But still trying to keep the flame alive.
Chroma Zone birthed a lot of energetic life, back then.
No one knew what lay ahead.

We were all gonna become art stars,
With hot-shot dealers selling our work all over the world.
Getting grants till we puked.
Hanging in the Louvre.

I miss those shimmering golden days.
We were Picasso, Liz and Dick, Brangelina, Dali.
Some fell by the wayside and disappeared.

Creating art is an Escher labyrinth.
One needs Loreena McKennitt’s yin and yang to thrive.
You have to paint the Mona Lisa, Monet’s “Water Lilies” and then float it down the lake, as well.
Where is the Canadian “Vanity Fair” or “Interview” magazine to promote us?

Leaving MOCCA, today,
Seeing all that glorious work on the walls,
And Rae Johnson and Andy Fabo,
Took me back to the summer of 1984.

Leaving the opening of “Painting Beyond the Zone” at ARC Gallery on Queen West.
Some of the same people’s work on the walls.
Walking home in the hot, refreshing night.
I had stars in my eyes and glitter on my eyelids,
Despite my crappy little part time job
And dark, Spartan, sweltering apartment.

Images of paintings swirl all around me.
Time zooms by in an elastic instant.
A time tunnel is a tragic place.

We were all part of something special.
Thriving,
Struggling to surface.
Pretty, slim,
Full of everything.
We thought we’d get it all.
Then life got in the way.
The real world opened the door a crack
And then rushed in, like a slow motion waterfall.

I miss seeing the light.
Life was a slurpy, wet Fudgesicle,
Oozing sugar and chocolate and wonder and hope.
Now things have changed.
Life just snuck in and throttled us while we were doing other things.

This is my new acting headshot for 2011.

Photo by the fabulous Maylynn Quan.

Check out my paintings and drawings on this site.

Please scroll down to view my recent paintings and drawings.
Thanks.

Acrylic painting #10 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Another coloured pencil drawing #2 by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Blonde Woman"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Another coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Clarity"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Still another coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Dame"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Another coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Deep in the Forest"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title-- "Smoky Chanteuse"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #5 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #4 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #3 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #2 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #1 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

ETERNAL AUGUST

ETERNAL AUGUST
By Philip Cairns
Copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Trudging and sliding through the newly fallen January snow,
I’m thinking wistfully of hot August walks by the lake.
Sun beating down on my bronzed, porous skin.
Sunglasses and baseball cap shielding me from the rays.

Watching a group of young guys laughing and playing in the warm water.
Runners and cyclists zooming by on the bike path beside Lake Ontario.
Wish I were back there,
That broiling site straddling my wistful reverie.

Instead, I wear 2 warm sweaters and a long-sleeved shirt under my dark gray winter coat.
Long, thick purple scarf wound tightly around my neck.
Turquoise knitted cap snugly covering my head.
Sharp bites of cold chew ravenously on my numb, curled-up fingers.
Firm legs like blocks of ice.

No bare chests to ogle as they walk by in their tight, cut-off jeans.
Today, everyone looks like a fur trapper.

I’m remembering many, many moons ago,
Dressed in a red snowsuit,
Making angels in the white powder.
Smoking candy cigarettes,
My breath swirling in the chilled air.

Building snowmen in the backyard.
Running indoors for hot chocolate and cookies.
Snow fights with neighbourhood friends.

Today, I’m longing for a sweltering August afternoon.
Arriving home with sweat drenched clothes from brisk daily walks.
Soaking in the warmth of the day.
Feeling at the peak of things.
Listening to the rolling rhythm of the tides.

No shivering at bus stops at 3 a.m.,
Coming home from work.
Slush splattered from impatient taxi-cabs.
Twisting my ankle in the colourless blankets covering the sidewalk’s flaws.

Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster making out on the beach
In “From Here to Eternity”.
Burt almost naked in his skin tight black swimsuit.
Deborah’s back totally bare.
Sweaty, carnal and erotic.

It wouldn’t be the same if they were recumbent in a blizzard,
Covered in fur from head to toe like two Inuit elders.
Prudish and chaste.
The wind howling round their butts.
No, not a classic love scene, at all.

In January, it would take them 10 minutes to undress
Before they made love.
Swim trunks come off in one second flat.

Give me eternal August.
Sweet and gentle.
Soothing sunshine every day.
Snow a putrid, distant memory.
No leaky boots to contend with.
No frosty penis from a late night pee beside an oak tree.
No chilled fingers and toes.

Just the soft swoosh of the green-gray tides.
Fiery red sun.
Packs of smiling faces playing volleyball in the burning sand.
Bare feet splashing in the surf.
The world a spinning prism of clear, bright crystal.