B55 … Wave 2 Vote

america spoke with forked tongue
differences lying agitated in the shadows between
closets filling back up with their dangerous secrets
the celebrations are almost over
people are slipping back into sleep
tracking is back on track
the war continues strategically masked well
and the whole world is winding down again



images and writing by patrick wey

B54 … The way is one of subtle change.

The way is one of subtle change. It is a struggle to see clear. A silent mind can feel its way thru the turmoil of a day. Masked people walking everywhere. No definite evidence supports this way or another. The middle way sometimes has difficulty to exist.
The day was slow when the presence against the calm appeared. You could feel the tension, the stress, the compliance forming. There were those that were convinced with a main street media persuasion. There were those that were not. There were those that attempted to be open to the many possibilities that arose, investigated alternatives. Many got caught polarized by the magnetic pull of their own desires/beliefs. There were those that didn’t give a damn. There were the many that just follow the many. The masked were winning in the short run but truth moves slow in the sludge of the road. The war of the post modern man is an illusion and extremely real but no one wins. Possibly we’re all being played, set up one against the other, it’s anybody’s guess. Ununited we fall. No one to trust.


A crow walks by the table outside the cafe looking for a treat. Pretty dogs walk their masters along the boulevard. A pleasant woman smiles from behind her mask to a passing stranger. The day is grey. Winter is coming. The beauty surrounding is slipping under the skin. Another moment, for the moment, is moving free. There is no end in sight.

images and writing by patrick wey

B53 … Jaurez St. Mexico City 76

Many years have torn and twisted thru city streets since i saw you here tearing down Juarez in a Mexico City paragraph. You were nothing more than a kid, a young man on the loose in a foreign land with dreams laying across the heavens like leaves floating around some boulevard tar. Times have changed, times have gone tight like night on a slim script. When i was young and you were me like some sort of character from a dylan rhyme, half hidden behind a loose freedom and scorns of possibilities dimming the road with tricks. I hid behind you without knowing what i was getting into; the road never lets all its iron claws out at once. There are dead ends down every street and paths way out of control from every alleyway. You took as many as you could, lived life deep into the rut of it all, highs for the sake of it, lows taken as a gift for the ride. Millions of moments have passed this way while i waited. I knew you would arrive like a destiny written in the stars, in the earth, in the apache cells of this brain.


Here i sit, alone, alone again. I have always been alone, no matter how many wander across my path. I sit writing to you. I remember it all somewhere inside, somewhere inside i can see every move you’ve ever made. The days in the bush, on the streets, in the bars, in the sweats. It all is cataloged in the books of the mystery spread out, floating across the universe in segments of dreams like fate. They fall into minds everywhere, become more and less and move continuously for as far as forever can go, that’s just the way it is, nothing is for sure but it is forever, as far as forever goes.

Main Zagolo Mexico City

B52 … WW3

Undisciplined Thoughts On A Mysterious Virus

one soft sunny afternoon after Uncle Albert finished off playing his electric violin down around desolation row he stated after much despair over a few treacherous turns that ‘the fourth world war will be fought with bows and arrows’………vision 20-20 vision

the cold gone silent

the colds gone silent and the order is twisting tight
the day light is turning dark, just like night
what was real will lie dead in the streets
this transfer of dreams is meant for keeps

broken, divided, mixed up, bound to die
“All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie’ dylan
no matter where you are or what you think
all the conclusions and evidence stinks

the intricate decisions placed all around
will tear your family and friends from solid ground
to enemies disciples of unimaginable schemes
and nothing will be as the way it seems

the winds will blow harsh on the rigid minds
to divide decide conquer and curse
but the open flexible ones may endure
this on-going forever-changing cure

Wet Winds Whirl

wet winds whirl around multi coloured leaves
sun splashed october blood fills the trees
masked cheeks walk worried in the streets
well hidden behind their desperate dreams

the day cursed by decisions from afar
confused, hung up by their conclusions
one pitted against the other hang on tight
everyone believing they’re the ones that got it right

don’t walk too far from centre
you’ll be in fire-site of enemy lines
no matter how well you investigate
the half broken truths will escape

by the time citizens wake up their starry eyes
the blood stained schemes will have disappeared
hidden and planned the opportunity will have gone
the mega-power will stamp us out like a fire in the sun

how many ears does it take to hear the faint voice of truth
when will the people come and gather as one
science is just a method directed by philosophies
as the truth sits silently in the sun

I don’t really know anything for certain. Concerning the world and the covidX9 situation. I find myself with far too many questions and not the appropriate time to investigate. I am not the detailed critical thinker with the disciplines needed to unwrap the data correctly enough to make an accurate conclusion. I will probably be forced to wear a mask and more and than likely be vaccinated whether i agree or not. This situation i believe is far more serious than being forced to wear a seatbelt or follow other society rules. Of course that is an opinion based on inconclusive data and the heart felt unscientific conclusions of a mistrust for the super rich, multi-glomerates, establishment and their puppets of governments and control world-wide. So therefore i am more and more locked into gut heart felt decisions as i move thru-out this world and totally preferred over hazy herd-like comfortable belief systems.
I do find the discontent, disagreements, name-calling, debates and argumentative situation somewhat disturbing in moments. I have not found one person, one website, one source of information ultimately satisfying and to my discontent at this point no accurate believable non-manipulated truth and i very much doubt that i will.
I see most with their hard evidence conclusions as lost sheep, desperately determined to hang on to their secure realities. Eventually it may be a matter of life and death with these firm believers from all sides, left right, up down, inside and out. There are many practical thinkers that realize that there are many possibilities of how this may unfold. It does appear to me that the rulers that are determined to impose lock-downs or the likes seem to have another agenda, it would be nice if i am wrong. I do find that the sincere scientists and lay people alike are much more open to alternative possibilities and often it is not their job but they do have expertise to different degrees in these areas, which i find more sincere and believable. But as anyone i can be fooled by statistics conclusions that have been manipulated in one way or another.
With all this being said i do hope and wish that things can turn out for humanity but there are so many issues and it does really seem that without some form of higher order intervention that the world as we may have known it will disappear. It has been prophesied in one way or another and if one is determined to have something to believe in, there is endless scriptures, philosophies, and sciences to stake your life upon.
I will continue to attempt to be open and scrape off any reminiscence of undying structures from my mind. I believe in the inconceivable attempt to live in the mystery that is no doubt the only true certainty, an oxymoron i know.
At this point unless there appears incredible factual evidence in support of wearing a mask or i am forced too, i will go mask-less when possible.

its a cold afternoon, blood’s runnin high
the truths gone silent into a darker sky
a war’s abrewing in the eyes of the masked
the no-masked are already being harassed
the colds gone quiet and the clock’s stuck low noon
in the streets in the homes in the virtual realm
you can feel the tension rise, war coming soon
the war of man, the war for more land
the war on the ground and the war of two hands
the battle between the insane and the sound
the masked and the unmasked
the believers in this and the worshippers of that
one against the other in a game from a far
all on this lonely planet flying around an unconcerned star

masked or unmasked
war or discussion
evidence or believe
science or business
control or freedom
sanity or stupidity
certainty or manipulation
fight or understanding
intelligence or desire
sheep or wolfs
black or white
accident or planned
deceit or honesty
conspiracy or ignorance
order or chaos
gray or grey

the mask that divides the known
from the long distance to the self
to the soul
possibly there is not one
no spirit no self
an illusion, a frabrication of thought
you can fool your mind and just believe
every body does, it’s convenient, safe, and it’s easy
perhaps it is simply a myth
a mass masked conclusion
you decide but you must decide alone

images and writing by patrick wey

B51 … Reflections of Death and Life

Reflections of my life pass before me in mounts of turmoil and deceit from the very ones that caressed my wounds while i was asleep. In the corridors of deep hidden revenge executions of the horsemen were carried out for little rewards. The temptations from the crowds discovered me here sneaking my way back to love, such a long road that leads nowhere if you’re careless. Memories scatter before me with quick warmth turning cold. This is the day death strung its web out like a knife, a trap and i fell. My friends left me here to crawl beneath the tracks, to hide to escape alone and find my soul shattered by my own imagination and light came in slow but left me here worn and old and tender in the heart for a few last breaths then left again. I don’t know if i ever came back, death stole my mind, took my heart and left my spirit floating about somewhere in an ancient glimpse of nothingness…….

There was light flickering thru the swaying leaves, the street was dangling off the mountain hills like a snake and i was ready. There was moon light waiting on the crescent and the feeling of success was handy by the door. I walked out into the open air and thought, ‘yea, i can do this’.
My whole life flashed by in a few seconds, age had grabbed me by the edge of night and dreams left for the coast for another and left me dying slow alone without a memory to hang on to. I took a deep breath, scared with sunken eyes i screamed to the heavens below, ‘what the hell is going on’ and got up on my knees and cried for help to be true, real.

The day broke the silence and the moment held its position into the night. I got it right this time; love came tumbling down, sprinkled high energy all over me, the spirit of life tore my past to shreds and i was back on the track again. What a trail, terrible low valleys, trecherous mountain cliffs, non-ordinary realities twisting my mind from one end of the galaxy to the edges of the universe and then some. But i’m back in the saddle again, roaming the country side, slippin down the city side walks watching the masked men follow in line to the injection booth and the pretty dogs walking their owners for a shit. I got it all, sun spewing across my forehead and my black pants melting in the light, i couldn’t ask for more. Thanks god, thanks for the trip, thanks for the weird world you threw me into, thanks for my friends and thanks for my enemies too.
In the morning air i watch the birds flicker by, the humming birds in for a drink, the sounds of song all around and the green summer turning into amber autumn rust. I love the way the quiet settles in on the mind and how quick things can turn on a spec of time. There are moments i swear last forever, the soft sun melting my heart to the light. I love life this moment, this eternal moment, she owns me.

B50 … Stan-d – mourning my way.

death sets us apart, it brings currents and waves of uncertainties. it has its way of taking you down and around and up and out of site. death is my friend, tho harsh at times it ends things, keeps the universe in order. i hurt at times when i travel down the paths of forgotten loves knowing they can never return. i long for some memories to never end and to take me back to where they arose for ever. i cry at the thought of never seeing you again, never holding you tender in my heart, never hearing your little whispers from behind your eyes, never being able to feel those moments again. i love you death but isn’t there a way to move through this sadness with dignity and to honour you, your past, your life, your ways, without tears tearing up my delicate mind. i am strong and i can withhold the tests of time most of the time but there are moments where it all seems so cruel, almost demonic the way we are forced to hold on, then forced to let go. oh death, what is your motive, what is the nature of your life.
i am going to keep moving i suppose, nothing has ever stayed long enough to be certain forever, so i succumb to your ways and i will continue ending and playing the game of building with the architecture of thought that must believe in what it thinks, that it will never end. I love life and i have many doubts of ever loving you, death.

Stan M on my very first roll of film / …. TriX shot at 200asa 1970ish

In the background of my mind i see you there hanging on to dreams that just can’t let go. You in your love and your laugh that you sent out to us as a gift. I see the beauty that you carried thru the storms and the way that you laid down your wife to rest. I remember the early days when we stumbled our ways thru the jungle of the psychedelic sixties and the absurdity of its future filled with blasphemous trite. As we walked on thru the ending of the century we filled our homes with the best we could find; nature, flower gardens, friends and acceptance of what ever the world would toss our way. We did the best we could with what we had with what the earth would offer but in the end it all ended as it is. As long as i still have breath to breathe i hope to remember you, moments when we laughed, when we shared our differences and kept the embrace of our love intact. I will remember what you can not, for you, for me, for the the earth, for the way it is.

Stan, Ted Sajkowski, Tony Bezpaly and me on the wall in the back. I used to frequent this Starbucks Kitchener and where we’d meet occasionally. Missing or dead of the northward hoodlums from the old group are Joe Hiller, Allyn Wey, Don Tucker, Ted Zawadski, Les Krynicky and many others from the side lines.

Whom will be next is anybody’s guess. Some have come prepared, pondered on death more than others. Some are totally freaked out by just the thought of their world ending, some just don’t think about it much and maybe that’s best. Some have intricate conclusions of what’s next once the body gives itself up. We’ve heard it all. Stan would not have any of that. He walked this earth knowing it for what it was, ‘a mystery’, right to the end and most-likely beyond and as he would say when asked ‘what’s after’, ‘nothing much probably’. I got to know Stan more than the others, simply because i saw him more; circumstance. I’ll miss him of course, but he was ready for it. His body was well worn, abuse in areas for sure, but he accepted it for what it was, quite well.
Now, as others, I’ll just carry on. More than likely others will take the dive within the next few years. We are all getting on and death is always close at hand. They say you can get a glimpse of it if you turn your head extremely quick to the left. I think I’ve seen it a few times but it’s unclear, a mystery and that’s the way it will stay, at least in this mind and as an old friend used to say in times as these, ‘i know nothing, i say no more’.

Eternity engulfs wisdom love across the all encompassing great mystery as the sacred arms of death beholds us from the illusion of time. That’s just the way i think about it.

alone amidst the architecture
of thought and brick

I do understand the undeniable visions that cross all intellectual understanding with a certainty that appears one could never doubt. But as one mind can endure and experience many such encounters with the other-side, the land of spirit, the unquestionable knowing telepathically inserted into ones brain still ends up in the winds of mystery. It is the gift of vision itself that would lead a mind onto the ledge of doubt that can free the mind of this uncertain knowing. This leaves all rituals, ceremony towards discovery ultimately in the dark. There is no longer a need to search for what is always present. The only task may be to stop the wheel of certainty, absolute knowing, critical analysis dead in it’s tracks, with pure observation exempt from answers. The mind can move free with the intelligence of the mystery without the need for ultimate answers. Questions and answers remain in the field of the relative forever evolving, moving, adapting, changing.

This is good enough for me and until death will i part. This means nothing. The wind of time is ‘the mind’ and it shall end as i recede to whence it came. Thanks Stan, for the journey with you, i shall do my best to Stand with the wind within, till time disintegrates.

yyyyyy
yyyyyy

memories

Many slow and long and lonely memories pass along the way
trees sway sad in the evening breeze
the whole realm of past days encircles my mind
oh how i wish i was there now for all time

everyone of us has those moments, when remembered
‘the best that could ever be’
all of us certainly wish they could last forever
cept for the ones that lived in misery

one thing is for certain, i suppose
is that we have no choice, really, along the trail
no matter how many dreams you caress along the way
they all end, memories fade, it’s the same for every tale

so be careful as you walk your way thru life
be extra kind to the ones that need a hand
take the time to be true at every turn
love is all you need to understand

yyyyyyyy

listening to some old dylan rolling stoned along the mid sixties when things were opening up sleepy brains like falling into a bucket of morning coffee, an ice-cold river dip, a line of crystal off-white powder head on into the acid insight streaming flashes of electric waves, multi-coloured spaces everywhere along the black tarred streets all-thru-out cities of america, the world, blues wound up into overdrive, electric ladies, the revolution of love for loves sake. freedom spreading out into places where it could never survive, love condemned to death for being simple real right and true. that’s the way of the world; killers, it will end too and it can’t be soon enough; death is coming, coming for them and coming for you, there’s nothing we can do.

it’s time to let you go, let things move free. there’ll be others. i don’t think you get used to death, maybe numb, but death is death and dying gets you there and there are many ways of dying. some people are half dead all there lives, some brag about there dying everyday, some die with dignity and some never learn how to die at all. a part of dying is the loss of ego and possibly it would help if more people would loose there ego occasionally thru life to prepare themselves; to observe without the anatomy of thought presuming everything it sees. the art of dying is in the beauty of living free and freedom can only occur without the shackles of thought-based-knowing keeping you stuck inside the ground.

yyyyyyy

feathered dancers of the wind
ready

many, if not all indigenous peoples had ways of eliminating, calming the ego for moments, thru dance, substances, forms of vision quests, ceremonies. it was traditional to bring young men into manhood with ceremonies that melted the ego into the unknown where the mystery became present and dominant as the true nature of everything. one would develop trust and faith in patterns that constantly move, evolve, change. our society has become numb, afraid, robotized with facts about everything, disconnected from the free movement of the universe. people are afraid to die without some belief induced concepts to keep them safe, calm, certain, but that will die also. death, come and get me. i am ready to fade whenever you are.

writing and images by patrick wey


B49 … Stan Maciaczyk

We traveled a long way together. Stan was the sort of guy that was usually of a good nature. Most always had a way of making one feel respected, wanted. I knew Stan since 1963. We traveled thru the sixties with our youth bending to whatever was. He loved Dylan, as most of my friends did, he had great taste for music and found himself a wonderful woman for life, Cathy.

Taken at Don Tuckers house before he painted this Dylan image from a poster on the wall with Ultra-Violet colours that would glow in the dark. We thought Stan stole Dylans nose.

Stan survived, he never took on crippled beliefs for the benefit of comfort. He stayed true to the void to his last days. He never attempted to convince anyone of anything. I’ll miss you Stan, your laugh and all your ways.
Stan passed a few days ago. He turned 72 in mid august. That was the last time we spoke. See ya Stan and as you would say, ‘probably not’, then we’d laugh.

Stan and Cathy on one of the many outings we shared…
Stan was in love with Cathy to the end…

B48 … beauty and her love

She moves in beauty with her love wrapped carefully within. Like a tender woman she touches your soul with her most intimate glance and you melt inside her wounds like a martyr.

In the dim city where people travel tight, little room for long-time and pressure on the skull to get it right. A young woman walks by inside a tee shirt with her philosophy spelled out across her chest like a scripture, ‘sleep less, dream more’; i’m thinking’s it’s backwards; too many dreams, too many worthless homes; a crow caws from the side-lines, hidden in the streets. 

The moka house cafe on cook st. Pretty girls stroll by, at least that is what i see but at another glance i see a whole lota people so deep-dreamin by they hardly notice what is developing within their skulls.

A little boy in a real big body revs and roars his harley as he speeds away, the pot-bellied-guys standing by with their coffees held loose like a beer, look at the kid in the street and boast about something to each other while bicycles quietly skim by down around the cafe, the hot spot this covid-afternoon.

I see the coffee attendant handing straws to clients but he won’t touch my travel mug, says it’s the law. I pursue it then stop, force him to pour my coffee from his handled paper cup to my thermos, which he at first refuses than i encourage him and he does. There is a lot of crazy rules unsupported by the by-law officers just yet, but they’re getting there. Soon we’ll be in order; but harleys will continue to agitate our numb nerve cells with their concealed muscle. It’s a beautiful sunny cool afternoon and the tattoos keep walking by like human bill-boards advertising messages somewhat too deep for this mind of mine that sits nicely disturbed behind these eyes wandering.

With her facebook smile hanging in the screens with her ripped jeans and tattooed cartoons and her pierced soul she glides thru hell like a heaven. From a new section of town, cafaid in the midst of the jungle i sit pondering stuff.

the town from below

I realize i have been un-encouraged to write for a future when i am no longer here watching, looking. I, somewhere inside have assumptions, presumptions that we’re all going sooner than we’d like to believe, an apocalypse of sorts. I catch myself on this and begin a new chapter addressed to the ones not here just yet. No more threats of stabbing-echos from friends, enemies, aquintances and family. Not that they had much to do with words that find me but they’re around and that’s on me. I realize once again that death is just around this long last bend. Age is painting more texture on this canvas-face, sculptured rusting bones are being chiselled out by the winds of time, cells are getting lazy in the night. I know in the sphere of things time is expanding and slowing down, an outwards spiral to the heavens of the unknown. I’m scared in moments of such magnitude but most of the time i just let silence guide me to the slow calmness of pure perception. This is where it all began and so will it end.

as an object of art – a selfie of sorts

The loves that have brushed up against my heart i have remembered and they also will fade. There are things that needed to be said that had not been, not found in moments to exist. I know it is a common belief that there will be moments after the body ceases to exist to say things that had been misplaced, to do things that had not been done, to live again in a new way. There are those that believe we have been here before and shall return. There are books, scriptures, ceremonies and perceptions and visions that have told some so. Others believe what others have experienced and live their life with someone else’s presumed knowing. I have been one of those with definite visions telling me things as if from another level, a higher plane, a truth, the truth. Possibly if it had stopped at a few, i would still be a strong believer in simple synchronicity but i have had too many non-ordinary moments and with vision herself honouring me to question the validity of the very tool itself that had produced these visioned-belief systems. So now i feel i know that i know nothing for certain and the closer one may get to the great-mystery the more mysterious it all becomes and belief is just a wind in the night, cherish it for the moment but keep it moving, let it breathe. I am not saying that life is absurd, or meaningless or too dreadfull to continue. I think that we have all been conditioned so thoroughly as a must to know why, when, how and what it is all about with a tool that finds it extremely difficult to accept that it simply is not capable of ultimate knowing. The search itself has destroyed the simplicity of love that man could and can and does to some extent experience.

I may have loved others more or deeper than my present love, but it is becoming apparent that this love now is more valuable and more sincere as it moves thru the twists and turns of these last years. I never expected to end up here as most people in this life, and infact i never really expected to end up anywhere in-particular. Tho i do think that i had expected i would be more financially secure with the arts and entrepreneurial projects that i had pursued. Not so, at least of late, but the game is still in motion.

From this balcony, now, in down town Victoria i could imagine i was in just about any city on this planet. Recent apartment buildings scatter the view and if one doesn’t look too close at the decorations and furniture of the balconies, i could be anywhere. In my mind, i am everywhere i’ve been and more. Life is like a long branch on the big tree, many tributaries not taken but remembered and many a folk gone off up and down dead ends, out of site, simply ended along the trail, but you alone must walk, crawl, run to your end, with or without dignity, with or without the belief of knowing, in torment, in calm but the end is inevitable, quick or slow.

non-manipulated selfie

Life is beautiful and many of us know this. That must be why we continue on, with the luggage of belief, the torment of relations, the treachery of doubt, it is this , this love that carries us on. We know somehow, that it exists, that it alone makes us walk, in heaven thru hells along the canals of ignorance, the arrogance of knowing, the surrender, the almighty surrender that gives us faith that it is just the way it is and that is just good enough, beautiful mysterious life, beautiful eternal love; call it what you will.

Images and Writing by Patrick Wey
All Blog Images For Sale…..follow the path….contact me direct if you wish.

B47 … Death is coming for us all

Death is coming for us all, even the comic book people will have to go, none of the dreams will keep them here; here or there, this dream dreamin will fade to black like the nothingness in it all. The tattoos are meeting and melting later this evening amidst the flesh and bones of the dreamers, the ones with purpose and the ones with none at all. The philosopers, the predictors, the smooth slick thinkers to nowhere and all the ink-ones are gathering for the great celebration; the rock and rollers too, the classical dressed, the know-it-alls foaming from the heart and everyone whom is someone will be there, death is picking a few for the door prize and love will be spread upon the cake. 

I was thinking my pen was alive and i was just a machine typing as fast as the ink would flow. I could hardly keep up with the stream and many times lost site of the shore-line as i flowed fast past with hardly a thought to remember. Writers do that sometimes, doesn’t make sense somehow but from another plane it fits like abstracts expressed in moments of creation and disintegration. Writing with shapes of things like a painters brush disguised as a pen.

A price you pay for living long and before you know it the only friend you have left is the pen. The laws of the streets can’t be beat but you can twist them and turn them like you can anything else, either to flow with the current or against it, like life or death. Ink is so much like the wind, you can tangle it around the trees with any form you make, but you can’t stop it. A writer writes. (period)

Images and Writing by Patrick Wey

B46 … when i first laid eyes upon this scene

When i first laid eyes upon this scene, i knew it didn’t fit, outa time, outa space, a completely new world, a woman in a time that was not quite there. She leaned against the past like it was hers, a place close to her heart, a world not quite done with, one that needed a little more time to evolve smooth. I could have sworn i knew her from the way she smiled thru the air, the way she gleamed thru that space and time sitting still like that, made things surreal, real, unreal. There, with her leopard skin jacket flowing in the ages like a piece of a puzzle perfect in the right place at the wrong time. Yes, she held my glare, i couldn’t let go, i forced myself to capture the moment like a person does when seeing something so unusual, tempting, it must be right. There you have it, the look the space the time, all wrapped up into one unique scene while time fades like it does for a generation or two….

Mural with Sasha in Chemanis
Vancouver Island BC

She came like many others of the fare complexion looking for the new land, a place of adventure, something different, security; possibly secret dreams unfolding in some distant horizon of her mind. Things change, little people become historic symbols, wall-scape murals depicting fiction disguised for the pleasure of the common folk, or something like that.

She could have been a queen in another life time, a peasant, a gypsy or an early settler, even an indian, a crow; anything is possible when you believe in that sort of stuff. Times and murals, fantasies made out of brick and paper, paint and illusions in the minds of the perceiver and in the words of the writer, ‘everything is twisted when you’re winding around the trail like a dream of a scene that doesn’t exist’. Yea that’s life on the coast, fairy tales hanging off the walls and no one seems to notice, the street is strange, desolate but in perfect tune with the deserted pavement and the magic just keeps pouring in like a mystery in a smile. That’s her, the one, the perfect one, almost real amidst the world; smooth, delicate, the new woman.

Writing and Images by Patrick Wey

B45 … rain

it’s the rain that has me mellow
its washing effect that cleans my soul clear
has me wandering undisciplined
watching in new eyes
thinking thru the heart
i love the way old memories dance about
concealing their faces
sliding back and forth
between the furniture of the streets
the squish and slap off the black jungle trails
against my ears
in tune like a long day
slowly fading into an evening air
the rain scrubbing the tears off the buildings brick
off the dark deep tar to the horizon
and trees gasping for breath
relieved and speaking soft again
it’s the rain
it has its glorious way
embracing breath as water

B44 … gelatin floors and melting walls

gelatin floors warping up against melting walls of tangerine wind blowing words of multi-coloured cellophane into thick tunnels of mind. the strained history of man wrapped up into little packets floating memories deep across crevices of inner lobes. i demand an explanation, and many come then no sooner slip down some other crack into forgotten terrains of brain.
a wall appears fast moving abasing the cliffs of my lonely love and drowns in a sea of pointlessness. what is this all about asks a desk of dust thirsty dictionaries and worn umbrellas fly by in torrential rain of bulky thought; the whole universe is in chaos and i believe in answers.

doomed and forsaken i leave for a surreal cafe on a nearby shore, the roads smother me with hope and the people in the know direct me to well-welded sides. finally i feel almost whole again, complete, possibly pure when you enter wearing a silver cloak draped over some-thing uncertain and with a dark dagger hanging from your inner ear, you ask for a light; it’s a big joint and you offer me a toke and i say, ‘no thanks, i’m stoned on life’ but i take one anyways.
things change, everything is normal again, boring, purpose everywhere. i move thru walls dangling off my sight, books and books with faces, manipulations, lies being promoted like sermons and poems made of delicate strings of weak memories and real distant love fading fading thru-out the virtual dreams of mistaken heavens. i escape. i don’t look back. i can feel the trail on my heals; i slow down breathe deep, keep hidden as best i can, knowing it may all blow over but ready to take it as it comes or doesn’t; broken fences lying dead against the horizon.

Images and writing by Patrick Wey …. Images for sale

B43 … from the banks of a dream

from the banks i watch
quietly i stop nothing
the noice of the world
the arrogance along the trails
the deception carefully packaged
in love tainted with the absurd
all things moving within the grid
the mesh of power and control
my simple love drowning slow
there is no way out for this
no way to extract the simplicity
and lay it on the road

the streets are filled with fear
beliefs blooming from the curse of time
people becoming saints and scholars
with a magnitude of madness hidden
like a cancer does when it conceals itself
as love dying to live within

i walk on thru these lies on the walls
the blatant clasping for the likes that makes me sick
out to the forest where the truth is simple
nothing much more than a moment at a time
to remind you that infinity is eternally present
the smell of summer pollen in the sweet air
the vastness in a view
the taste of fresh huckleberries full of life
birds sneaking thru the forest
activity always moving perfectly
like a dream, my dream

writing and images by patrickwey

B42 … birthday time

i’m a rat according to the chinese calendar. there is some truth to all that i suppose, whatever truth is? a few days back i turned around 72 times across the path of the sun whipping thru space at speeds we’ll never know. what speed is the universe travelling, a parallel verse, a dylan verse? what is speed anyways? a concept of relativity useful for keeping things’n perspective but where deep-science is concerned things get very dice-c. anyways i want to thank all the folk that hurled happiness my way for a day that comes but once a year if your lucky, i suppose that’s what we can call it, luck.
i had a wonderful time travelling around the main land of bc with my remarkable significant other. we roamed around the highlands of the okanagan and had a few very cool dips into its lake. All in all life is what you make it, and we made those days just fine, really fine, extraordinary; we caressed rain sun wind , we had it all and the spirit of gratefulness followed us around like a magnet, a scent of purity in oh so many breaths of true-life and we inhaled it all, a trip well done……..happy birthday, yes it was, thanks once again this earth, this beauty, these moments that fly by so quick..thanks friends, foe, relatives, sometimes life is just so good, almost a sin to mention it.

‘selfie squared’ … a reflection along the way …

B40 … mourning for the loss of a year of writing.

I lost a year of writing. Laying words on a page is not like other arts; photography, painting, carving, music. It is more vunerable, exposing naked your heart, leaking your soul into the air of thought, into the space of feelings. You can intellectualize your position and be exposed for what you are not. You can cry for mercy for the guilt hidden behind your verbs. You can paint love with dashes of adjectives that transcend time, with continuity that erupts emotions into a frenzy. You can hide behind the phrases common for the times, slip out of the torture of your soul with a well manicured paragraph or two. 

Writing is hard, a dance between the intellect and the heart, the poet and the philosopher, the scientist and the craftsman, the wordsmith with nothing really to say. One can lay camouflaged with leaves from an old oak, clouds from a gray damp day. What ever writing is, it is personal no matter how things are said; if you’ve learned how to read between the lines, that’s where the juice is, the energy that runs the show. But all in all nothing is really revealed for certain, every word can ramble down eternity road and every sound will echo endlessly whether you let it or not.

I lost a year of writings, as these, thru incompetence and stupidity between myself and a mac repair shop here in Duncan. I almost lost hundreds of hours of image editing as well as tons of other important computer related content. All was eventually retrieved accept almost a year of writing. I had to remind myself of others that have lost all in fires or floods or have nothing at all to loose. None the less it did disrupt my mind and had me face death once again as in the hundreds of times that other circumstances have had me do. Eventually i’ll have to leave it all behind and the consolation of leaving a legacy often does nothing much for my weary mind. I am a traveller, an adventurer in the cells of this brain i call home. It will all die and i refuse to accept common after-life believes simply because it makes me feel well and alive with some truth to call my own. Bullshit, we made it all up, mankind is a living lie. Memory as thought changes, bends, attaches, dismembers, but it is as unstable as the wind. It is not necessary to know what you can not know. It is alright to realize reason is not the ultimate tool of knowing and knowing as eternity, just keeps flowing on. There is nothing to hang onto, no ultimate security, no dream that sits perfectly still but all is pure that way, all is just what it is, nothing more and nothing less. We need not embellish perception simply to fit it into our molds, break the sentence with a hammer of love………..stop, start, meaning will find its silly claws, it is the nature of thought, memory, words. I love and hate writing, it frees my mind and cripples my soul. It resurrects me when i’m low and soothes my heart when the existential pain of love leaves me.

I will miss the words that suffered upon the pages now erased into the virtual space of trash. At moments they fly by tempting me to struggle for their existence, but i won’t, new words can never replace all the moments my fingers needed the serenity of the keypad, but that my dear mind is the way it is. Goodbye to those rooms where realities once stood and now nothing more than a few disintegrated fragments faintly falling across the screen of my mind with ease and occasional hesitation.

I own nothing not even these words, death is coming for all of them soon but until then my fingers will stumble across the table of thought and scribble more sense where ultimately nothing really matters.

Words are like water dunes upon the surface of the mighty seas, they weave in and out of existence like meaning does.

Painting by Meghan Sims of Patrick Wey

B39 … dying in isolation

i’m down around the end
there is no word to please me
no wound deep enough to hide within
i have nothing left to be
the people are all away from here
there is no one to see me
the trains have all died
the flowers are crying as rain does
there are a few smells remaining
and a cluster of thought by the bridge
but other than that everything else is gone
just some resemblance of me
and an empty suitcase of dreams
quiet by the long stairway
this is where it all begins to end
not with some enormous gathering
but with a few drops of rain and a forgotten caress
this is the way things end sometimes
almost silent almost invisible
like it never was
like meaning fading slow
across a terrain of scattered memory
into a horizon
of pure beauty

images and writing by patrick wey

B38 … It’s time that we sat down and….

It’s time that we sat down and talked. The trees are weak, earth spoiled, sky dirty and people clinically insane and you want me to buy your news. I’ve been up and down your facebook drama and the live leaders dying in rusted air. What could be so important to take me away from this dream embedded in my brain. The silence surrounding the noice, the beauty against this madness. 

You have our attention, the world is rotting, the soul of love itself is evolving into a cancerous tumour in the minds of man, stabbing the heart of god itself, man is turning numb and colder. Everybody is a critic, a writer, an artist, a spiritual scientist now, everybody it seems has the certainty of thought strangling the life out of life. Nothing left but to walk alone, cry for the miserable, breathe deep and focus on nothing, for that alone is unattached to this dilemma.

Sure i will help you when i can, place a few words on your dampened heart, give you air when your lungs collapse, but don’t ask me to surrender to your prayers, your dreams, the madness of this world, the insanity of this path. Carry on as you are, i will dodge everything i can, but in the end, it doesn’t matter who you are, who i am, from dust to dust, just do what you must, we may meet again, we may not, the wind blows for no one and all, hold what you get, fly when you can.

Images and Writing by patrickwey

B37 … The war of the sacred, the way of the warrior.

Rosetta – a great friend

The path to evil is camouflaged with the flowering aroma of sacred words….to fake it is to make virtual roots in sacred soil.
This Pipe that i have carried has travelled to many spaces since this ceremony mentioned in 1996 and it has passed many prayers back and forth thru the space we call spirit. Auschwitz, Poland, Tower of London, Ireland’s pagan sites denigrated by the saint of patrick, America south to north, wounded cities, injured land, crowded prisons, ceremonies of sweats, vision quests, rain and sun dancing; it has been busy. It has carried thought focused in reverent ways, selfish ways, desperate ways, asking, telling, demanding, praising, crying, honouring, many ways and possibly the answers of our ancestors prayers are the realities we are now living. I feel that after many journeys thru the fields of grace that the most beneficial prayer is one of no prayer at all. To honour the life we carry with listening to the great mystery with no intervention, no human thought creation attempting to get what we feel we need, want, deserve……………simply listening without intention.
This is my opinion, feel free to criticize or compliment, it has no lasting difference to the scheme of the mystery. This is what the Pipe has conveyed as i have interpreted, there is no path to truth, to love, to the great mystery. My prayer is the prayer of the coyote, the crow, the birch tree, the waters, my prayer is beyond me, we are irrelevant in the winds of the silent forest. I am you as you are me, thought and prayer separates us, listen to the drum of heart, the wordless knowing in the space between. Your walk is your prayer, your breath is your gratitude, your doing is a blessing or a curse, it is up to you ….

Vern Harper – a great friend….

Images and writing by patrick wey

B36 … isolation

Falling into sketched hands down a canvas wall
i have no answer to these actions
my dreams are beyond myself
i am not in control
i am not the i i knew
things have changed
the horizon is a wall
painted with fragile clouds
stilts hang my head in shame
across a cold cold landscape
and is erased unwound as a ribbon
to the solemn wind of words
scattered across the valley
syllables desperately forming
into long sentences of meaninglessness
then tearing themselves apart one by one
into lonely letters disintegrating across a universe

Images and writing by patrick wey

B35 … Desolation Row

Years ago I recall reading in one of the many books, album covers or some interview, but somewhere, that Dylan was asked if he was the President of the US what he might do. He said, “the first thing i’d do is have every one memorize ‘Desolation Row’ and”…. that is all i remember. And now that we all have a little more time than usual, you might want to give it a listen. It’s not too late to feel a little desolate. I often felt like yelling out the last verse and occasionally i did.

‘Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke
When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke
All these people that you mention, yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name
Right now, I can’t read too good, don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row’

Sasha feeling a bit of the ‘Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands’ along some ‘Desolation Row’

The complete lyrics to ‘Desolation Row’ by Bob Dylan

They’re selling postcards of the hanging, they’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors, the circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner, they’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker, the other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless, they need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight, from Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy, “It takes one to know one, ” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning. “You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place, my friend, you’d better leave”
And the only sound that’s left after the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden, the stars are beginning to hide
The fortune telling lady has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel and the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing, he’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight on Desolation Row


Ophelia, she’s ‘neath the window for her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday she already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic she wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion, her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood with his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago with his friend, a jealous monk
Now he looked so immaculately frightful as he bummed a cigarette
And he when off sniffing drainpipes and reciting the alphabet
You would not think to look at him, but he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin on Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients, they’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser, she’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read, “Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on the penny whistles, you can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough from Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains, they’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera in a perfect image of a priest
They are spoon feeding Casanova to get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence after poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls, “Get outta here if you don’t know”
Casanova is just being punished for going to Desolation Row”

At midnight all the agents and the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone that knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders and then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles by insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping to Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune, the Titanic sails at dawn
Everybody’s shouting, “Which side are you on?!”
And Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them and fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much about Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke
When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke
All these people that you mention, yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name
Right now, I can’t read too good, don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row

Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Bob Dylan
Desolation Row lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Songtrust Ave, Audiam, Inc

‘desolation row, it’s everywhere’

Images by patrick wey

B34 … we the virus or 5G

Healthy cooperative life generates itself with life-energy, when the environment becomes unbalanced the insurgence of the enemy towards life invades, death-energy life forms, the virus is believed to be one of those, there are others but this one is swift, under the radar, and can be deadly dangerous. That is its job, presumably.

This planet of smooth skinned apes has turned what was a plentiful regenerative balanced accumulative system of life forms in war with itself. In the name of nature life moves evolves becomes more specific, complex with time.

‘Babies Wail to Sixty Cycle Hum’ a line from my good friend Wayne Masters back in the late 60’s.

Man has manipulated the very structure of the molecules with an energy force that nature solely uses for death, explosive dissipating energy, the movement of water and matter in an outwards direction. When this explosive, death-giving energy is in abundance, healthy life begins to die. Life and death is the cycle of existence, but there is a natural unequal balance in which this process occurs. Organic planet earth-life is accumulated thru the over abundance of implosive energies created by the natural inwards vortexing of water and air, thru forms as veins of animals, the sap of trees, the whirling and twirling of water and air over land and sea. 

Dew levitating on the tips of grass…

Water, the carrier of memory, the consciousness of mother earth, moves to enhance its energy in an inwards vortical direction. This pacifies oxygen, increases velocity, moves towards the anomaly point of plus four degrees celsius of water. This inwards vortical direction is the temperature regulator of the earth.

Man has attempted to straighten out this direction with barriers along rivers, creeks, damns obstructing the natural flow of water and generating in all aqua-life stagnant environments for pathogens which increases the risk of unhealthy life to every living cell on earth.

The outwards direction of our explosive technology is in constant need of fuel to continue its energy output. The minerals, fossil fuels, nuclear substances is the toil of mans dilemma creating wealth and control for a few of the many.

The virus today is an example of the detriment our unnatural energy systems has created from the processes of producing foods, fertilizers, drugs, all utilizing a heat explosive outwards motion process of creation which is not the way of the cool whirling motion of natures medicines, foods in abundance of life enhancing energies.

There is something very sinister about this world lock down. I have a gut feeling that what we are being told is not what really is happening. That our inside fears, precautions, suspicions are not unjustified. There are many possibilities that the super wealthy are up to something that will ultimately gave them superior control and in the process the elimination of the weak, useless, unnecessary crowds of people that are of no further use to the machine that the peoples blood and sweat have build. 

circle beneath the skin

We and our ancestors built the factories, the machines and the machines that are now building the machines that are now thinking the thoughts, doing the deeds. There are too many of us. They are not willing to support us. There is a lack of work, more unemployed everyday, we have become outdated, a commodity to be eliminated. This must be done in a very strategic way not to allow us to unite and take back what is ours, our ancestors, our right. They have the money the time the expert intelligence to strategically eliminate many of us with out our proof. Load vaccines, make it impossible to move freely without one, control the movement of each person on this planet. People have become numb, entertained, comfortable in their beliefs. There is little that a few can do.

Divide and conquer, separate us, make us desperate, have a disease in place, one that is not easily  detectable of its source or nature and bombard areas of earth with unhealthy wave technologies that disturb the very cells of life strategically and can be directed to specific areas at will. These technologies have been in place for decades in top secret files and most of us know that. G5 is well on the way, an ultimate explosive system of control and destruction in the view of progress.

Lock the population down, make it a crime to be in public, no groups, screen and filter the detrimental communications via the internet and eventually disconnect it, possibly knock out the hydro in pockets, create a civil war, eliminate masses of people.

Possibly this is not real, not true, who knows, and what does it really matter, or does it? Possibly it is time for the earth to wipe off the parasite that has killed many species thru the antagonistic ways of man. There are natural ways of energy systems that do not depend on the refuelling and raping of the lands, veins and arteries of fuels and minerals and therefor the unneccessary control of a few over the many. 

I don’t know for certain, anything, i just think thoughts and write them out, possibly they will be discovered and eliminated, possibly they may entertain a few, insert a few more questions. I understand that this world is addicted to statistics, formulas, wars and is controlled by fear and loves the answers involving angels, gods, demons and facts. I offer little. Think for yourself, answers are lying everywhere. An unhealthy planet is bound to end up dying unnaturally. That is just simple common sense.

The few at the top of the chain are so greedy they’re willing to deceive and sacrifice the many for a a few more links, knowing they may be discovered and mass massacres could evolve into an ending that death has never seen. The self fulfilling dream secretly evolving in the minds of man. From the red man to the saints of world religions the legacy is awaiting patiently to be fulfilled.

Man Toils in the Sweat of the Machine

A few of us watch the wheels burn while saviours scramble across the global micro waves like heroes from a burnt-out book. We don’t know, they don’t know but they can make things happen just the same. Truth lies still in the gutter and on the alters of earths hells. The poor the sheep the masses caught in the struggle to survive while the mighty kings of the digital madness waiver in an absurd glory only a madman could entertain.

This is the way of the world, the way of man. we watch, we listen, we move when we must, we do the best to survive. Prophesies have been waiting, time is moving in our hearts like a knife. Be observant and walk on.

‘visions from the people of the earth’

Images and Writing by patrick wey

B33 … one thing in common

The human race has one thing in common now, the virus, virtual and real, that is so apparent, but it makes us realize that we have a lot more in common and we have been mistaken, misunderstood, even dangerous to ourselves and others. They say in order to love others you need to love yourself. This time of being more alone physically is giving humanity an opportunity to learn this difficult task of loving ourselves and possibly truly loving others. It’s a symbiotic relationship, this love stuff. It is difficult to stick to your hearts intentions while many criticize your every move but that is the nature of the game, to weave in and out of the push and pull of others and keep on straight thru the pathless road. Now is the time to face death, that one space we all must enter, that dark and light terrain that no living creature truly knows. To exit from here is the one job no one can avoid. Help your neighbour, your brother, your sister, the four legged, winged ones, everyone you come in contact with to move with grace, in dignity. Life is short and in times as these one must realize we are all delicate and deserve what little love we may find to allow to pass freely about. No sense in any other ritual, simple caring from the heart is all that is necessary, stand your ground and give that sacred energy its home; your silent heart.

Images and Writing by patrick wey

B32 … I should have left yesterday

I should have left yesterday but it was more than i could do. Your tenderness and sweet lure, your soft words wrapped up in delicate promises; the walls could wait, let some other man be the martyr. I stayed, but much too long, days turned to years and now freedom by the door lies smothered in mould, wasted in tears, dead.

That was yesteryear. Times have changed, things whirled down a different tube. I lived thru the blues of the thirties, the rock of the fifties, dylan in the sixties, i lived thru the scattered jazz rollin across the rebellion, across the oneness dreams, across the distortion of the molecules, the plastic era, the one way, the christ consciousness, the darma minds, the whole lot of it all rusting rushing down the avenues of the modern day, LSD, 5G and what have you.

I come here without mind, my heart flattened out like an ancient stone. Stretched out along some creek waiting for the truth to find its light, waiting for the night to awaken, waiting for the hard rains to dry, for time to find its space here amidst eternity.

I’m not so unique, just like you, some of you that travelled the quiet road full of noice and nonsense and twisted decoys. We made it thru so we thought but here we are structured in a world messed up and impossible to read and here we are surviving, heading down towards the last train.

I love you i suppose with your miracles and angels and gods and demons. I’m gonna walk right on like nothing has happened, keep my head on straight, stand up to the last dream, no curse can keep me from meeting the end, open.

I’m gonna keep my promise no matter how much hate hits my guts, i’m gonna keep true to the roots of my veins, let my heart tell my story no matter what.

I’m not black, red or olive and most of the time i don’t feel white, german, italian, british, mexican,  just human, the last of the wanderers, a true seed, the mistaken, a dot stretched off the page…………………….

Images and writing by patrick wey

B30 … Mother Gaia WaterColours

Chiang Mai Thailand

She has influenced the greatest artists from Leonardo DaVinci, to Picasso, certainly Cézanne, without doubt Feininger, the expressionists, impressionists, even the abstract painters; Malevich to Emily Carr, Norval Morrisseau to Modglianni.
She, in all her wisdom is the basis of all art, her water colours are the glory of the earth, the colour and shape of consciousness itself.
I have been honoured to document a few of these paintings, from the crevices of St Paul St. Montreal, the puddles of NYC, to name a few, the water-surfaces across Europe, the canals of Thailand, the wetlands of BC and the alley ways of Ontario Canada.
Everywhere i go she confronts me to document her art. It is a mission i was chosen for to expose the beauty in the pure and the polluted waters of the earth.

St Paul St. Montreal

More – Patrick Wey Water Reflections

Images and Literature by patrick wey

B28 … there are those

there are those that demand nothing but the air of happiness
that would live in illusion to satisfy this desire
defend it to the gods, the creations of creation
there are those that see only destruction
the despair of life and the absurdity of destiny
there are those that are too weak to be
and those that move between the limits of ecstasy
like a reflection from a drop of a passing rain
there are those that want what they can never obtain
that can never accept the wounds of reality
that act out a love as if they own it
project images onto well designed walls
live on the outside of the inside of it all
these are the people of the world
these are the movements along the avenues
the virus gone viral down the halls of the surreal
a world ending just beyond its birth
time slowing down inside the mind of man
like an autumn maple leaf falling
blowing across the endless forests floor
thru the uncertainly of shadows

Image and writing by patrick wey

B27 … america

the Badlands of South Dakota

angels of mercy hiding in the wounds
masters leading walking behind
the one and only goddess falling
with the hope of life dying in the ruins
this is america worn and deceived
this is the way to the heavens
this is the way of the lord

the simple dream the simple way
thru the forests and the plains
man and her inventions
from saints and shadows, time in space
the maya moves slow behind
along patterns in the mind

the raw beauty of your melting eyes
scriptures written all over your skin
as silhouettes of truth caresses the sands
of your miraculous body
i surrender within

here i make my stand and demand
a few smells of lilac, a taste of peach
from your delicate hands
and entering your heart
i see the angel is you
america
the land of illusion
the promise to be free

Alabama USA…just passin thru. the 90’s.

images and writing by patrick wey

B26 … she builds rooms

she builds rooms for nitemares
constructs them out of spelling mistakes
ruffled feathers and worn-out nouns
cars have feet in her dreams
death is feeling guilty for ignoring her
she lives on hiding in the wind

writing and image by patrickwey

B24 … Sierra Kachina 29 on 29 – could have been.

Click HERE and start a slide-show of many Sierra pictures – up in the top right corner.


Today on the 29th of Dec. 2019, Sierra would be 29, she has been gone 4/1/2 years. Time is irrelevant where tragedy lives, she knew that, i know that, many understand.
These are some of the many photographs i took of her in her first seven years. Then we were seperated for 17 years. This disturbed her, molded her, confused her, devastated her being. She struggled, wiggled in and out of this world. I entered back into her life six months before she left for good. We connected patched up what we could but in the end it was the medical world that took her breath away. She told me all, her life, the way she saw it – on video.

This story is much more than i could ever present here, too complicated, sensitive and needs delicate time.I hope to create a documentary as she would have wanted.

She mentioned, ‘anything that could help others not to have to go thru what I went thru’.

I loved her like no one else in my life, i lost her twice. She was a miracle, so many amazing moments being with her.

My Mother and Little Sierra

below – written by Sierra

I wish I were a bird,
So I could fly away.
Wish I had wings made of glass, blow my problems away.
Etched into stone, I’m grounded.
My broken wings won’t let me fly.
All my body in wanting, chasing that sky high.

All she wants is to be free,
No warning will she heed,
‘Unleash this beast!’

‘In my soul,
It’s making me ill
It’s getting hard to breathe, I’m feeling unwell.’

Redemption at it’s finest,
Credentials of a ciminalist,
‘Exorcise this demon with-in my chest!”

I have a hunger like an unfed wolf, eating at my soul. Emaciated, starving, hunting the high. Like a demon in my chest, it cries out in demand on satisfaction. “Feed me!!!” It cries. “Feed my desires. Fuel my pleasure. Take my hand, I’ll make everything better.” But high is a four letter lie. Once is never enough. Once, twice, thrice, only quells the beast in a temporary fashion. Just as quickly as it’s quieted, it’s demanding attention again with a ferocity only seen in the depths of hell.

Sierra Kachina

More writing about Sierra from my past….patrickwey

309 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/29 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
Sierra Kachina left at 24, would have been 28 today…born into a world almost to the minutes of 100 years after the last massacre of the NA Indian at Wounded Knee ……here is wiki-info of that event…….https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wounded_Knee_Massacre

Words about Sierra since she had gone: no one can feel the pain of loss of another, it can tear one to the depths of the soul and lift one higher than life, death.

Writing words you will never see
editing pictures you never saw
killing dreams we never met
living around lies tangled up around us yet
crying alone into fading memories
a busy numbness surrounding often
and you and me ending again
this time forever ending within
i see this thru vague scenes
that crumble into one another
drenched in pain and love
as they move along the trail
with a crippled weakness into the day
and words to you i will never say
i write to no one but the stream
of endless dreams across the purple sky
the universe that comes in clear
the universe that closes when the dream ends


Without You Sierra
sometimes it tears tenderly to my heart
sadness where it has never gone, goes.
years passing without you
your little heart and mine
twisted into each other like time
i gaze across the highway to the grassy fields beyond
the silent wind bends around invisible canyons
straight into my mind
your essence emanates soft and deep into me
with dry tears i caress the moments slipping by
there will never be anyone so true to me as you
our bond was woven by the mystery of love
no one can alter what was so clear
that alone gives a graceful comfort
this pure sadness against my path
your delicate sense breathes life into death
i need no promises, commitments, no proof
we knew we were special
a love so rare so true so threatening
we lived thru this with the most fragile of hearts
now thru this fading silence
with nothing but the humble caring of the wind
i love you with your tears upon me
nothing can harm you now
you are safe from this world
and all its misery
i am seeing this with my hidden pain
as i walk on without you….


There are few words left to say
i know in my heart there are no ears of yours to hear
what can never be said to you ever
you’re gone and love feels so empty without you
i have learned that this world is even more cruel than imagined
fake everything lures everybody into so much of little worth
they have little room for real tears
no time for true sadness
only shallow laughter and smiles against the rain
ultimately they are afraid to face their own mortality
they need to blanked it with tender wit, swift gestures
hidden desires leading secure beliefs to selfish love
They are the lost children of the american dream
stretching across every continent
desperately hanging onto every note from the popular song
caressing comfort with their broken bodies
falling alone down into cancerous heavens
to worlds they could never be
They are my brothers, my sisters, my friends and my foe
they are the celebrities cared for more than neighbours
more than the blood across the land
more than the mother in the land
the father of the other hand
the truth scattered into words
blasted against the walls of your brains
and in this context everyone is to blame
the dilemma of the human insane


In this beauty one must weep. The overwhelming understanding of pain from loss is so sad it is beyond comprehension. It goes so deep one can only cry tears from memories dying and the letting go of its truth, its reality. Admitting that it is hard to live life one must let go of the dearest feelings; all the tangled ones and all the gentle and soft ones. It is hard to see this in the air, all the clusters of memories contained in one soul and spread out across the minds of the people. The close ones the distant ones the collective ones, all of different quantities and depth, moving in and around as a dream does.
When one dies and the entanglement of thought-energy floats thru the atmosphere as a spirit would, the visions of these holographic scenes may be more real than a normal reality appears. This is pure vision with no interpretation from a past, a future, just the endless flow from one scene to the next. The magnitude of this impression is life altering.
You can feel the waves of peoples thoughts and dreams, with their spirits creating intricate delicate holographs of varied scenes floating thru the forests along creeks veins like an epiphany from ‘nature’, the creator of all known. I cried, knowing i had to let go to live. It will come in small doses, not as to destroy me, little by little till i carry on alone. This may never happen. This is the dream, the dream will change, the observer will be altered, vast death is the nature of all this. It will come regardless of what one does. It is this movement in life that sees this death and the illusions of dreams as necessary branches to this tree, as life is a dilemma.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————
the days go by and you fade beyond my will
every step another distance without you
memories slip in and out of the air surrounding here
some are peaceful and serene and others are dark and deep
when the pains you felt, lived through and died with
punctures my heart like a knife with tears
the road curves up ahead and your presence is near
there in the pale afternoon where your love lies
and the sunset full of your colour
there are the photographs and your remnants scattered about
there are memories hanging on the walls without you
you meant everything to a few left behind
and they struggle down the path alone
and there is no answer fit
to why you left the way you did
no conclusions can soothe this heart
it is what it is and love and you are one
there is nothing along the cove
to replace this shore on eternity
memories will continue their journey across the universe
and fade into the void beyond
but for now there is nothing left
just you caressing this heart
and a spirit feeling this

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

my heart aches for you
your simple smile your delicate wit
your ways and your life living
i miss you terribly so
i am so sorry i did not do enough to save you
to help you in any way i could
to share everything i have with you
i never expected it would end so quick
what a fool i was in moments i could have done more
could have poured my heart unto you
given my every touch of love
i am so sorry, forgive me
nothing i can do now for you
i am lost at moments crushed with pain
devastated to my very being
like a boat without water
and a soul with out life
i am alone lost and numb

i see the road the way and the things to be done
i walk with one foot in the desert and the other on unknown land
i am a man stranded with no home no future no dream
i remember your breath searching for air and your heart for warmth
i walk i walk i keep walking
there are moments joy slips by and noise ceases
there are those that say too much and those that can’t listen
the ones with ideals overloaded and the ones crawling down the avenue
i miss your presence, the weight in your eyes
the truth your lips concealed
i miss you, your simple love
i miss you

i can never be free from you
you are a part of me
some of you is inside of me
and i shall die like that
you and me are a memory
that will be as long as forever is

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

little angel up-against the tomb
on a road red as heart
spirit fallen from the sky
with no clear answer why
and with tombstone tears
a wounded kachina cries
“for simple love i live and die”.

“i’ was much, much too young to die”
————————————————————————————————————

I wish i could say what can’t be said
and do what can’t be done
i wish i could do magic
and bring back what’s gone

i am loosing the words to say much or anything at all
now is not the time to

we all want to know what can’t be known
it is the nature of thought
we all want things we can’t get
we all want teachings that can’t be taught

there is no easy way
to heal a wounded heart

you can fly high and dig low
you can tell yourself sweet little lies
you can tear yourself apart
with things you wish you’d done
but there is only one thing that can really help
hidden deep within the heart

—————————————————————————————————

A wave of pain struck on edges of dreams formed long ago

I know i have to write this experience out sometime soon. It is too bizarre and hideous in areas that must be written in detail to fully understand the depth and shallowness of the situation. I venture to say that Sierra died at the hands of relatives and friends and doctors that made decisions to act or not act with self imposed desires emanating from their conditioned minds without much depth to see the outcome of this simple and sincere life of Sierra Kachina. No one is to blame and yet we all are. I don’t know where to start. The beginning they say but there is no beginning.

Raw reality stripped from all its glory
naked truth condemned to hide beneath the rugs
the way it was the way it is
the way it is going to be
silence against the noise of mind
love hidden in the shadows
nothing is as nothing was
everything comes everything goes
imaginary waves upon the shores
where something ends something begins

Sierra Kachina
i think of you often in so many ways
i wish i wish i wish but to no avail
if only this and if only that
you would be alive and i know it’s true

you questioned so many times
of what you would be like if only
we had not been separated at your little girls age of seven
if only we could have continued to be as father and daughter
what confused decisions tore us apart
what guilt hidden in minds separated us
why did that have to be so
what did we do to deserve such fate
is the truth worth anything now

will the prosecutors suffer as i
can anyone hurt so much
so deep for so long, my little mind
never really mature, stuck in your arms
safe and warm from the dangers of life forever
i missed you so much my father and friend
and no one could understand
and now i am gone forever
cept the memories in the minds of who’s left
twisted and torn and true and soft
some will feel the pain of abandonment as i
some will continue to ignore the facts
and continue to lie with their crafted smiles
and embrace the illusions they’ve made
for me i have gone and now you my friend write my legacy
i forgave everyone, it was in my nature
but i felt the pains of their decisions that tore my brain apart
from street and legal abuse i walked thru hell alone
tormented people are made of this
this guilt and anger hidden beneath
in minds not willing to see
i loved you all regardless; my mother, my husband, my aunts
my dear sister, my fathers and uncles
all my friends that couldn’t really understand
what i myself could only feel but not comprehend
why, why, why were you taken from me
it doesn’t make sense…..
how simple is love
this love severed but never dead
i am grateful it had found it’s way home
after so many years and for such a short time
and now i leave once again to let you walk on alone again
to face every breath without me
cept for what little is left in memory
but i am gone
gone forever with dreams
never shone

Driving home along the highway
yellow moon hanging in the sky
sounds so romantic but it’s true
everywhere i look i find you

I walk along the beach and see you in the sand
i pick up a purple stone and find you in my hand
high in the sky you fly within the clouds
trees are made of your likeness all across the land
such a sacred child in the body of a woman
you were just like me, a melancholy man

For hidden guilt and shame of things they couldn’t face
And unaware to me i’d been accused and convicted of things i never did
It was simple and easy to hide the evidence, me, and live a lie into eternity
but to their surprise and your demise, little sierra died
and now they have this tragic reality hanging from their neck
they can’t escape the truth of what’s been done
and only an apology might shine some healing light
but until then they will feel that deep darkness in their skull
how long will it take, time can’t even tell
i am not counting the days, i hardly care anymore
my little girl is gone and i don’t give a damn what people say
nothing is going to change anything anyway
people can hide but they still have to pay
that’s the nature of this way
you can fill your brain with whatever you want
fool yourself and fool the world
but in the end karma will knock you down
where ever you hide
where ever you lay
get your self a good alibi
a judgement day is on its way


we would have had such a lovely birthday time today…..always thinking about you.
Image circa 1996……writing, last 3 1/2 years

361 … everything ends, nothing is complete

361 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/19 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
Dog and Shadow runnin free in the centre square of Wroclaw Poland.
Spent a few weeks there back awhile with a dear freind that i met in London England. Few weeks could compare in my heart within this short life of mine. I know it may appear with all these images i display, that all i have left is memories, but that is not so. I just happen to have documented most of my life before the iphone belittled the challenge. The negative truth of the past has a way of caressing the future with more of the same, if you demand to run free like that dog no matter what terrain presents itself. Well, that’s the theory.
I committed myself to this challenge of an ‘image a day’ to a blog almost a year ago. This is coming to an end in a few days. Everything ends, nothing is complete. Just as with the scenes not documented in the eyes of humanity, many of my images will lie dying unseen unappreciated cept for the love and time and toil of my doing. That can be sad, that can be a revelation, that is up to me / you.
Image circa 90’s Wroclaw, Poland
#poland #wroclaw #dog #patrickwey

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Patrick Wey

360 … Unfinished sketch of an Irish man

360 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/18 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
Unfinished sketch of an Irish man whom lost his hat on a movie set……
He crossed the scene from some other time zone but it didn’t make any sense neither here nor there. The same issues were laid out across the streets, now and then. The world and all its dreams were going to go along in its own way no matter what. The stage was set the take was shot, reality edited, exposed, a medium where innocence dies. You could attempt to fly high with transcendental airlines and meditate yourself numb or just soar low with the rest and get your fare share of the mess. It didn’t matter in the long run to the gossip from the avenues, it had not altered for centuries and wasn’t about to shift drastically now. A better time, a better place awaited, the romance envisioned would recover from the turmoil behind closed doors, or so thought thought. They want it all clear as day but it ain’t that way in reality. There are no words that will set them free, it’s a trap, it’s a condition in the mind, everything will talk itself out across concrete tables and end clearly unclear as it always does when prime temptations are evoked. That is just the way it is, so get used to it, spend your time wisely or not; not everybody can win. He walked across the set again and again tryin to get it right but he never did; there was no right, just the remnants of a hat lying half dead on the walk-side in a scene for more lost lovers to dream upon.
That was a day grey that ended short on a vacant timeless road in some forsaken town in Ireland mid century with his name concealed and the story split like time shatters in the middle of things unclear and ends with no end, no script left to the story line, no dream to dream upon. Cut, end.
Image circa early 90’s Ireland, writing last night.
#Ireland#patrickwey#streetphotography#losthat#oldcars,

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357 … My good friend Doug Biggs

357 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/15 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
My good friend Doug Biggs against two shades of grey many days ago.
We’re both on the west coast though we don’t get to see each other that often. We did a lot of travelling together in this life time. Life just keeps on keeping on. Good shot of Doug, seriously serious.
Image circa 80’s i believe

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Patrick Wey

356 … James Hodgson‘s mother

356 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/14 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
James Hodgson‘s mother, a wonderful woman. I got to know her more than most of my friends parents. She was one of those that could do no harm and see no harm. Never heard her say a bad work about anybody. We could use a few billion more like her.
Image circa 80’s at the Waterloo Farmers Market
#patrickwey

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354 … We met in the magic of the day

354 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/12 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
My friend Pola Amber from and in Poland. Ola and i go back a long way into the depths of the soul. We met in the magic of the day and ended thru the twisted circumstance of intuition. Love flew in and out of the breeze like snow dreams on a windy trail. The night came soft and the air went still. I remember things from the road but the trees have turned cold and winter is long here in the mountains where thought spreads across the valleys like dreams made of light air. Time has written this poem and occasionally she sails across the heart. I watch in pure silence not to ripple the waves.
Image circa early 2000’s
#poland#portraits#patrickwey#women

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Patrick Wey

352 … If i was a Lewis Carroll

352 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/10 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
If i was a Lewis Carroll, this young girl would have been my Alice. Took this image one day having a walk in the woods with a friend in Ireland. This is her daughter and she was so delightful, polite and clever and inquisitive about everything, just like an Alice. By now i am sure she must have fallen down numerous rabbit holes and had many incredible happenings with this twisted world and all its mathematical realities.
The background is almost equally as important to a great portrait as the subject is. The background has to fulfill the subject just as the past presupposes a future with the now, it is the foundation of the mood, the love on a heart, the depth of a surface. I love the way there is just enough blur to the trail as if the ‘Alice’ just bounced into the scene from some strange adventure holding this curious grin about her. Life is lovely, mysterious and simple…..occasionally.
Image circa late 90’s Ireland
#aliceinwonderland#lewiscarroll#ireland#patrickwey#portrait#younggirl

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351 … The Worthen House Cafe

351 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/09 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
The Worthen House Cafe, Lowell Massachusetts one of Americas oldest taverns, established in 1834. Taken with my minox, you can see it in the photo stabilized in my hand on the ledge of the washrooms urinal divider. Many poets, writers, artists and common folk drank there from far back into the 1800’s. A favourite bar of Edgar Allen Poe, who visited frequently and is rumoured to have written some of “The Raven” within its walls. Others including Jack Kerouac and Allan Ginsberg frequented the place. There were many and i was but one amongst the ghosts. I am with my deceased friend John Mulligan, a character in deed. John was an amazing gold smith that i first met in Kitchener On. Canada and we instantly became great friends, along with his wife at the time, Miriam Stump. Eventually because of circumstances of things that are now legal he fled the country back to the USA, to his childhood home of Lowell which is also where Jack Kerouac spend his last years. These were days when we both drank…..too much, but memories seem to surpass the negative of those moments. I visited him a good half a dozen times in Lowell area on my way back to Ontario from NYC. John was a ruff scruff sort of sailor gentlemen type with many stories, some good, some not so good and i miss him all just the same.
‘Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.’…Jack Kerouac
Image circa 80’s
#jackkerouac#edgarallenpoe#lowell#worthenhouse#patrickwey#allanginsberg

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350 …Rubin Hurricane Carter

350 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/08 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
I knew that Rubin Hurricane Carter loved horses by the lyrics in Bob Dylan‘s song entitled
‘Hurricane’, ‘And ride a horse along a trail’. When i went to photograph Rubin i suggested to go out by his horses. I wish i had spend more time that day. I had taken better portraits in my career but i was honoured to get to know Rubin and the opportunity to capture a few moments of his life after he was finally released from 20 years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Rubin was a gentle powerful soul and we had a few very intimate conversations which i’ll take to the shadows of the other side. When you’re in the presence of such a man the shallow seems to fade into another level where silence has the last word.
‘Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much
It’s my work, he’d say, and I do it for pay
And when it’s over I’d just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
…..And ride a horse along a trail…..
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse’
Full Lyrics – https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bobdylan/hurricane.html
YouTube Song and pictures – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGMSfiH850o
Image circa early 90’s at his home at the time outside King City north of Toronto
#hurricanecarter#bobdylan#rubinhurricanecarter#patrickwey,

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