During the Victoria long weekend in May Briana, Myself, my father and my son Solomon went on a short overnight boat trip from LaConnor to Hope Island. Hope Island is ridiculously close to La Connor, where we started and where my parents reside. Close as it was, it soon became the abode of trolls and pirate treasure.

I think the exploration of this little island (where incredibly, we got lost) was the highlight of the trip for litte Solomon. For me, it was wonderful to spend time with my Dad, Bree and Sol in a “magical” place. Pop is in St. Petersburg Russia right now learning to be a tortured artist. I hear he is feeling a little isolated. I am sure he is having a great time despite that but we miss him too.

Linked here is a Baby Name Reference Tool with some wicked kool flash-happy tooling. Check it out even if you are not getting into the baby racket. It is truely a blast to playwith. Oh Oh Oh! Let’s try Wagner! Wallace, Eunice, Beatrice! Ahh….. Instant gratification.

Check Baby Check Baby 1 2 3.

I had a lot to think about today. My little boy who is now five and deep into his adventurous imagination fills me with pride and a keen and sweet remembrance on the small boy that I perhaps once was. With his “ho-hooongh! Avast yer scurvy Pirate!” or his Potteresque “rengaurdium leviosa!” I remember similar pasionate mimicry for spiderman, St. George (cave! Sic Dragones!), Robin Hood (and his rocket bound analog) and of course, the below showcased, Hercules. Olympiaaaa!

It is not just a good time for a laugh at the past. It is also Father’s day and this is a day that occasions much thought. Solomon was with me this weekend and for that I am thankful. We played, worked on holding a pen and making letters, had a lesson in dog training, visited a toy train store near the corner of Carnarvon and 6th street in New Westminster where we had a lesson in economy, and we played outside under the very trees I played under when I was a boy. The whole thing got me to think about my Dad a lot.

He is in Russia learning how to paint. St. Petersburg has the l’Hermitage museum and a bunch of painters that tell old dudes from Washington State how to paint like you need the money. I remember him today because in my son I see the same convinced passion about imaginative play that I remember in myself. It is a type of play that is both hilarious to the outside observer and truly serious to the “inside eyes” of the little boy.

I remember not really believing that I was doing battle with the Sheriff of Nottingham but that the idea of the battle and the forces (bravery, justice, history) at play were important and real. I had to try them on, like armor (or a blue toga) to see how they fit. My seriousness, and now my son’s can’t be laughed off. I don’t have the answers but I know that it is formative. So much of this play for little boys is verboten today, often by well meaning caregivers and teachers that can not tell that the outward pantomime of aggression is actually a minute examination on the qualities of mercy and the difference between right and wrong.

I give my son free rein (mostly) with this, as I was afforded by my parents. While he plays under the same canopy as I once did, and as my father also played (and as it happens in the same hobby store where my father shopped as a kid) I remember this continuity. It is comforting, but I often feel as if I am parenting from another age.

Time will tell.

King Richard the Sly

Originally uploaded by Will_Tom.

Sunday was Solomon’s Birthday party with his Dad (me) and his Dad’s family. Part of my feeling is sadness that Solomon has to deal with knowing he has two birthday parties and two groups of family that do not interact. The other part of me is gleeful that I can throw him an unapologetically Solomon centered bash that caters to none of his (other families) special needs.

So Solomon is all about Beowulf and playmobil castles and halberd wielding barbarians running after fiery dragons (perhaps soon princesses). Thus we have ye olde themed birthday party. All shall wear crowns, helms or horns or if fair, the tiara shall adorn the locks of the maidens of yore.

As our family is, there was a lot of talking. There was also a lot of cake, interaction and way, way to many presents.

Yes. Richard always looks like this. Check the Flickr Box.

Vladimir Ezhakov "Morning"

Originally uploaded by Will_Tom.

My Bree en Rose is a beautiful reminder each day on why love should be an important part of everyone’s life.

La Vie En Rose

Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,
Voil� le portrait sans retouche
De l’homme auquel j’appartiens

Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose.

Il me dit des mots d’amour,
Des mots de tous les jours,
Et �a me fait quelque chose.

Il est entr� dans mon coeur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause.

C’est lui pour moi. Moi pour lui
Dans la vie,
Il me l’a dit, l’a jur� pour la vie.

Et d�s que je l’aper�ois
Alors je sens en moi
Mon coeur qui bat

Des nuits d’amour � plus finir
Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place
Les ennuis les chagrins s’effacent
Heureux, heureux � en mourir.

Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose.

Il me dit des mots d’amour,
Des mots de tous les jours,
Et �a me fait quelque chose.

Il est entr� dans mon coeur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause.

C’est toi pour moi. Moi pour toi
Dans la vie,
Il me l’a dit, l’a jur� pour la vie.

Et d�s que je l’aper�ois
Alors je sens en moi
Mon coeur qui bat

As sung by Edith Piaf

Wagner painting

Originally uploaded by Will_Tom.

Some of you may have seen the photo of Wagner (the wunderhund)after he had experimented oil paints. Now you see him again!

This time Bree was leading a child’s art activity and chose a favorite subject for the Opus Caninus.

Here he is In an original work by Briana Doyle in tempura. I think it remeniscent of a Tintin cartoon.

Jocelyn has chided me saying “Why do you post poetry that is not your own? Rather you post poems by others. It is their words that ornament the paintings you post and not your own and yet you also have words.”

Well, the intent of her comment was the same if not the actual phraseology. I response to her (and what brother could refuse a younger sister, really?) I post here Not My Worst Poem by William Tomkinson. It is actually called Monument and it is inspired by reading a book of poetry by Montreal writer Louis Dudek.

Approach now and read for these are my words:

Monuments

Monuments are puzzles
That try to convince
That there was past civic energy
Industriousness, equity
In that they raised these Colossus’.

Find me one then
Uncorrupted by
Flattery, vain blood,
Fatal power, or oppressive
Fervent religion.

Or that are born of wealth
And for that are
Boasts of stone and steel
Patron and pomp to chiseling artists,
Now nothing in our minds.

So many plinths and pillars
A congealing scab
over the wounds of war
Garlands of grief
Like and Arch Triumphant

Still, struck still am I
By a limestone edifice
Standing in beauty
And making a mockery
Of the crumbled bones of its builder.

William Tomkinson 2000 (ish)

Kurbanov "Time of Memories"

Originally uploaded by Will_Tom.

Here is a painting that reminds me of some one I know. I will leave it to her to figure it out and comment. Ohh… The mystery and suspense.

My pointy elbowed father (who paints with paintbrushes regardless of how long his eyebrows grow) gets very excited about things. It is perhaps possible that he only gets excited about being excited about things but I will leave that. It is enough to say that when I was growing up (I still am so says I), he would often say to me (in a way that let me know that his demeanour alone should change my ways and put me on the narrow path)that I should be excited about things. I should find something that really impressed me and embrace it and let my excitement for it rule my temperament. This excitement (with some other mysterious potion called ‘practice’) would lead to my happiness.

Well to a greater or lesser degree I did what I could considering the barriers to entry. Still I see what the old man is able to do with his excitement and I am glad for him. This painting is not by him. It is by Kurbanov and it was poached from a website sent to me by the geezer himself.

So, who do you think it is?

Untitled by Richard Tomkinson

Originally uploaded by Will_Tom.

He should probably just call it “Lighthouse”. Another oil painting by my Dad Richard Tomkinson. I really like this one. Perhaps I will steal it. I am perhaps the world’s best art thief. I walk out of my parent’s house several times a year laden with priceless canvases. I have quite the collection of my dad’s work.

Here is a poem:

Early Morning

Something that never was,
that now is
and that again will not be­­

of which I am the observer
(who will also not be)
but who observes as from an eternity
of no time
the moment now,

the salesman who made a deal,
the young woman who paid him,
the red-lipped college girls, bold, a bit shy,
the counter girls on a coffee break,
the macho men,

all milling about unconscious
of one another
unconscious of the hand of time

that makes all things vanish, all fade,
all suffer change.
And they live today as if they were forever,
when they are here only for a day.

And I observe, and I am like them
only for a day

Louis Dudek

Mona Lisa by Richard Tomkinson

Originally uploaded by Will_Tom.

This is a treatment of the Mona Lisa by my father Richard Tomkinson. I am not sure about the seam on the girl’s forehead. Bree says it is thus on Da Vinci’s also.

I have not yet talked to Dad about this one but I am guessing it was a project for a class or something like this. If you are reading Dad, comment and explain.

Enjoy!