Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
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The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki

Ranunculus by Osheen Harruthoonyan

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Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault

5 a.m., July 16, 2020
light this early
in its bluescreen bloom
of near-indigo
falls behind trees
still black
with scrapings
of night
a bluetooth morning
fastening itself
to damp trees
a scrim of weak
new light begins
and deteriorating
long before
it can stiffen
into daylight
as the plants
in the garden
yearn towards
this thin blue light
they need
to taste
the change
the way we need
and breakfast
soon enough
the sun
will come
burning on
this fluid
will fall
into the wholeness
of day heat
with pokes
of sunlight
bearing down
toughening the air

Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

We Found A Safe Place Away From The City

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by Fiona Smyth

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by Kai Chan

Spring Drawing 12, 2021 watercolour on paper

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DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0723-2021

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Holly Lee - NIGHT OWL SONATA (in one movement) “Both Branson and Bezos migrated from planet Earth …..”/ Lee Ka-sing -Photography works in dialogue with Leung Ping-kwan.

From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.Number 95: Moonstone (October 18, 2012)

Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 85

Today (Saturday July 24) I received an email from our friend Brian Flack.  Brian is a poet, novelist and publisher.  He lives in Prince Edward County.  His email began "You might be interested in this" and what followed was the following delightful note from Zelda Sayre to her soon-to-be husband, Scott Fitzgerald:

On July 24, 1918, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Sayre went on their first date... She was 18.  Many years later she wrote to Fitzgerald about the occasion:

"The night you gave me my birthday party ... you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn't I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best."

'Fragrant phantom."  "Soft conspiracy."  Agreeable trees.  Very nice.

Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Madagascar (March, 2010) – After our musical evening jamboree, I spent the following day cavorting mostly with the younger generations, being pulled in multiple directions at the same time. Images can be deceiving; the beautiful soul with the intense stare, demonstrating a determined sense of strength, also presented the largest smiles. I snapped a couple shots before waving goodbye, as our pirate captain beckoned us back to the barge to continue floating towards to sea.

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by Cem Turgay

Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

Two Trees: flags for sunrise

Even in the dark recesses of bramble and cave, light spiders in
and allows the moon to thread a silver'd path,

So, there you are.

Faces gather time along their edges, sprockets of light pitched around thumb-bowed shadows, the way milk rims the lip and bottom-dip of a glass, the way bone sediments sentiment pitched from the age and voice of the earth, the way glass and stone color from exposure. We speak of time, we speak of faces, we seldom speak of the cauterized and coalesced into some odd unknowing. How is it that we distinguish one face from all the others?

How is it that we speak of others and ourselves through an algebra of memory or of the faces that we have seen or known distinguished into certainty? What else is there in our knowing, at the heart of the well of our remembrance?

An algebra of memories.

And the years slip like breath along the edges of our skin, an abundance and a reckoning, the firmament spreads wide, like a gap-toothed space, dark and unending. Pitch and Pale above, all that which twined and coursed through you, comes forth like small accumulations.
And then.
setting our hearts,
flags at sunrise,
the body burnished by the choral of teeth, ice and wave(s)
and all the double-dutch, dice-rolling bones,
that coining, that coming and you there in the corner window dipping:
swelter the light that spiders across the lip-upcoming and the knot turn:
you guarding and going:
the tree bent like the pouring of tea,
your heart most magnificent, buckling,
sighting for miles, round miles.

the large victories meaningless of taste, the smaller
disappointments inked forever on the tongue,
as the mind reels
this need for electric fingering; the heart’s luminous touch; the imagination’s space and scampering,
in and of this world, and occasionally

And the body flagging fresh and vital, nutrient of light.

Tonight, with our head tethered by ache and slightly addled,
Shortcomings as a plate of eels prepared for a wok,
how should we prepare and savor not forsaken.
And we alighted.

The cooking and the reckoning of disappearance.
To toss something out, gone and waving, these rhymes
The fed, the alchemy of losing, some terminal imbalanced art:
our governance.

Dangerous scurries working magic,
Our life yesterday and the world’s openings
The secret of magical beasts
The poetry of the unheard breath:
Two women turning show tunes into ecstatic jazz, where ice crackles in a glass
Run blue.

We reconcile the beauty and the sorrow of the moment when we dance with the dead and sit down to eat, and later make it back home even more replenished. Where the eyes trail,
The heart follows.

Loved stirred as recipe, history written by slaves, plantation bound, kitchen caught or freed. Can you recognize the shadows of the voice in the hand-written stories: recipes as our truest voice and poetry
for we feed one another as story,
we hand down recipes to retell stories of joy and pain
and the Sun bleeds into the beating chest of you.
This final night, and off the sky is flight bound
And then,
The setting of  hearts.

Flags at sunrise.

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The Raw and the Cooked, MYTHOLOGIQUES
(A column on the culture of eating and cooking)

by Kai Chan

In restaurants or in cookbook pictures of clam dishes the shells are almost always included. Clams in shells make the presentation more special, hence more enticing. Recently I have
adapted to steaming the clams and discarding the shells.
Wash the clams in cold water and then let them sit in the water for about half an hour. Put the clean clams in a deep dish and put it into a steamer. I don’t have a steamer, instead I boil about an inch of water in a cooking pot, put two disposable chopsticks at the bottom with the water and put the dish of clams on top, and cover the pot with a heavy lid and keep the heat on. Check out the clams from time to time and pick out the clams that are open. This way the clams will not be over-cooked. Over-cooked clams tend to be tough. Use a utility knife to remove the meat from the shells. At the end, there would be a dish full of clam juice. Let it sit for a few minutes and then carefully pour the juice into the dish with the clam meat; leave out any gritty particles. At this point the clams with the juice could be kept in the fridge for a few days.
One of my favourite dishes is Pasta alle Vongole, spaghetti with clams in chilli sauce. Cook chopped garlic and hot chilli in extra virgin olive oil, then add the prepared clam juice, when the sauce is warm, add the clam meat.  Add the cooked spaghetti to the sauce with a handful of chopped parsley. Serve hot. For two people, one and half pound of Manila or Little Neck clams would be sufficient.


The Raw and the Cooked, MYTHOLOGIQUES is a new column on the culture of eating and cooking, with contributions by various authors. The column name is borrowed from the title of a book by Claude Levi-Strauss. It is spontaneous, a little amusing but serious at the same time.


(Breakfast area and small shop)

Located on the second floor of an art space, INDEXG Bed and Breakfast has 4 guest rooms, all with ensuite bathroom. Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists, art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different cities visiting and working in Toronto.

50 Gladstone Ave, Toronto

ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication


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