When I was Small the smallest of all the ones I called Bigger and Elder would frown at the mud on my dress as we drove into town but when meadows next beckoned I followed the call when I was Small. When I was Klee Wyck my blood ran so quick. With my brushes at Massett I knew it was good where the old ways survived, where the totems still stood, where light filtered through, where mosses lay thick when I was Klee Wyck. For the paint never dries when you open your eyes to the dark. When I put on a show sharing all that I know the society ladies reacted with sneers. “That’s the crudest artistic pretension in years.” So I kept the shadows, where charwomen go when I put on a show. I faltered and fell like a mouse in a well where the doctors were stern and my birds were all flown there was no face I knew and no colour my own like a penitent waiting for heaven or hell I faltered and fell. But the paint never dries when you open your eyes to the dark. He offered a ring if I’d do the right thing I was fond of him, true, but I knew in my heart there was no room in marriage for freedom or art. I couldn’t accept though the decades might sing when he offered a ring. In my caravan free just my monkey and me I can dance to the wind, I can paint until dawn till the moon has her fill, till the city is gone alone in the chapel of forest and sea in my caravan free. For the paint never dries when you open your eyes to the dark.

1. He promised her a castle, a castle on a hill a castle built of stone and dreams, whatever she might will Come with me a-sailing across the ocean blue A new world is a-waiting, a better world for you He started as a foreman but soon he owned the mine he started as a worker but owning suited fine The fortune he was seeking was hidden underground where coal seams lay a-waiting, a-waiting to be found They labour in the darkness the men who work unseen far from the summer breezes, far from the forest green They labour in the darkness, the men who mine his wealth They buy it with their leisure, they buy it with their health 2. The colony’s best craftsmen are working day and night to build a sultan’s palace, a palace of delight With ebony and marble they’re working night and day to furnish an illusion and sweep the dark away A poison gas is flowing and pooling in the dark It waits but for a moment, it waits but for a spark The coal cars are a-waiting, we can’t hold up the flow So grab your pick and shovel and take your place below A master in his kingdom a laird of mine and mill If you don’t like my wages another miner will It waits but for a candle and then the mine will blow and who will count the bodies a-waiting there below? 3. But death that comes to miners comes to their lords as well A ticket to redemption no man can buy or sell. Before the castle’s finished, this monument in stone the laird is dead and buried. She’ll live in it alone A castle on a hilltop, a castle built of bones of miners’ blood and marrow, of widows’ cries and moans A castle on a hilltop, a castle built of coal of many an orphan’s nightmare, of many a miner’s soul Across the sea from Scotland and down around the horn Out to Vancouver’s Island, where fortunes will be born Come with me a-sailing across the ocean chill and I’ll build you a castle, a castle on a hill.

I love the way you play that song If you teach the chorus I’ll sing along It’s new to me but I’m keen to try because my utopia is DIY DIY, DIY my utopia is DIY It’s new to me but I’m keen to try because my utopia is DIY When the pails are full we’ll go home and shout “Crank the tunes, get the jam jars out” What we don’t can we can bake as pie because my utopia is DIY DIY, DIY my utopia is DIY What we don’t can we can bake as pie because my utopia is DIY Chopped up veg in a mixing bowl Fermentation is how I roll Time and culture will make it fly and my utopia is DIY DIY, DIY my utopia is DIY Time and culture will make it fly and my utopia is DIY There’s a coastal route that I need to hike We can reach the trailhead by bus and bike We’ll pitch camp under the open sky and my utopia is DIY DIY, DIY my utopia is DIY We’ll pitch camp under the open sky and my utopia is DIY Our potluck future, our common dream The platform of an improv team What we make ourselves we don’t need to buy and my utopia is DIY DIY, DIY my utopia is DIY What we make ourselves we don’t need to buy and my utopia is DIY You don’t learn to swim by staying dry “Make and do!” is my rally cry May I bake and knit till the day I die because my utopia is DIY DIY, DIY my utopia is DIY May I bake and knit till the day I die because my utopia is DIY My utopia, my utopia, my utopia is DIY.

O sleepwalking nation, arise in your ranks and drive to your offices, churches, and banks. Pick up a script, we’ve assigned you a part. Mumble your lines till you learn them by heart. O sleepwalking nation, don’t worry your head with biased accounts you might have once read. We’ll teach you a truth that’s so simple and clean you’ll never have questions or doubt what we mean. O sleepwalking nation, remember your pills Obedience prospers but negligence kills. The doctor is waiting, the experts know best. Go study all night, for tomorrow’s the test. O sleepwalking nation, the pablum is good so take a big helping, you know that you should. Don’t worry if sometimes you spill on the floor. We’ll package it up as a gift to the poor. O sleepwalking nation, we value your views. We’ll mould you a world that’s whatever you choose. The longing you’re feeling, the flavour you crave will shape what we feed you from cradle to grave. O sleepwalking nation, there’s enemies near but leave it to us and you’ve nothing to fear. Our spies are among you, they’ll root out the rot and see that the hidden subversives are caught. O sleepwalking nation, you’ve earned your gold star. The teacher is pleased with your progress so far. Repeat the right answers, make sure that you pass and one day you’ll sit at the front of the class.

Though you’re bigger now than I am still I want to wrap you in my arms I want to draw a circle in the sand that will protect you from all harm I want to shield you with my own mistakes from every pain I ever knew But I know that just as I did you’ll have to find your own way through. When I see your inner beauty I feel a rush of joy inside I want to shout aloud to all the world I want to share my welling pride I want to paint a banner with your name and raise it high for all to read But I know that too much watering will flood the budding seed. And it’s the sweetest kind of terror watching while you come of age knowing all the battles you have yet to wage. It’s the sweetest kind of terror watching while you come of age knowing all the battles you have yet to wage. Once I thought I was your teacher now I see how much I learn. Once I played the intrepid leader now I try to take my turn Once I hovered close for every step that you ventured on your own but I know that part of growing up is learning how to walk alone. When the changes flow too quickly I want the rush of time to slow I want to freeze this moment in its frame I want to never let it go I want to build a cabin in the woods where we can dwell forevermore but I know the stream needs freedom if it’s to reach the ocean’s shore. And it’s the sweetest kind of terror watching while you come of age knowing all the battles you have yet to wage. It’s the sweetest kind of terror watching while you come of age knowing all the battles you have yet to wage.

breath of the planet, once locked underground is escaping a mouth, through the ages held fast without sound now gaping wrenched open by fire unimagined by those who first tended flame at the hearthstone, this spark they chose and defended cry, you can hear it heat, you're so near it spells all broken a new god has spoken what marks us as human, what boon or what curse do we carry what force drives the animal dreams to disperse now so wary kindred are sundered, fruit of the land has been taken miracles woven by mind and by hand godforsaken cry, you can hear it heat, you're so near it spells all broken a new god has spoken breath of the planet, once locked underground is escaping

There’s a silence when I’m stumbling over all I haven’t said and it feels like fate and it’s far too late as we lie awake in bed and the distance that’s between us could swallow centuries and stars but I know if I could find the words I could melt these prison bars There’s a silence when the melody that held us in a trance has trailed away and the light of day wants to lead its fateful dance but we’re still bathing in the moment of this oneness that we feel at the core of our emotions at the heart of all that’s real. And there’s a thousand kinds of silence of the mouth and of the heart when we’re closer than a whisper when we’re continents apart when the lines have all been spoken or we haven’t said a word when the chimes we’re hearing no one else has heard There’s a silence when we’re both immersed in our parallel pursuits and we can hardly find a moment to nourish our shared roots I might mumble words of greeting you might drop some well-worn phrase but we’re both aware that the bond we share is licking wounds these days There’s a silence when we’re lying here and all that I can do is gaze in wordless wonder at the loveliness of you and the minutes fly like angels bringing blessings from the sky and the joy that we’re both knowing is enough to make me cry And there’s a thousand kinds of silence of the mouth and of the heart when we’re closer than a whisper when we’re continents apart when the lines have all been spoken or we haven’t said a word when the chimes we’re hearing no one else has heard

What songs did they play on that ill-fated day when the fabled Titanic went down? Did a cellist suggest that a waltz would be best while the helmsman looked on with a frown? It was afterwards said that the passengers’ dread had been greatly allayed by the ragtime they played but still nobody knows the selections they chose in that moment of fear, when the sinking drew near and at last it was clear they would drown. What songs did they play on that ill-fated day when the fabled Titanic went down? What songs did they play on that ill-fated day when the fabled Titanic went down? Wallace Hartley, whose voice and whose musical choice were renowned, was the head of the band. It was he took the lead, the survivors agreed, in that time of such need, far from land. Did he rashly pretend that it wasn’t the end? Were they fools to persist till the lifeboats were missed to remain on the deck in the midst of the wreck till they died with the crew when the ship split in two? Or did honour and custom demand that they play to the last, till all refuge was passed and go down with their music in hand. What songs did they play on that ill-fated day when the fabled Titanic went down? Margie Collyer averred that the last song she heard from the lifeboat she’d managed to board thus escaping her fate at the young age of eight was a hymn in the praise of the Lord. Harold Bride, though, sowed doubt when he put it about it was “Autumn” he’d caught as he rushed for his spot for two tunes by that name were to vie for the claim. Was it worship or schmaltz, was it hymns or a waltz? No one knows, for the cold waters poured through the breach in the bow, till that once-noble prow disappeared and was never restored. What songs did they play on that ill-fated day when the fabled Titanic went down? Wallace Hartley was drowned, but his body was found with his music still strapped to his chest. There were thousands who came to remember his name when they carried him home to his rest. The immense mournful throng was a half a mile long and the churchyard it rang with the hymn that they sang. If you’re there, you can search near the Methodist Church and discover his tomb where the details of doom are engraved with a song he knew best. The debate, though, is moot, for the dead remain mute and their deeds are their only bequest. What songs did they play on that ill-fated day when the fabled Titanic went down? What can music achieve? What do players believe when they share a good tune with the crowd? In a world marked by pain, does some purpose remain for the rainbow arched over the cloud? As our Juggernaut screams, fed on dismembered dreams bearing true for the ice, is the tune worth the price? Is it time to close shop, let our instruments drop, or else should we play on, though the lifeboats be gone, should we warble, unbridled, unbowed with a smile on our lips and a swing in our hips still bestowing our beauty aloud? What songs did they play on that ill-fated day when the fabled Titanic went down?

For the crime of bringing fire hidden in a fennel stalk Zeus decreed eternal torture, had him chained unto a rock where the eagle tore his liver, tore it bleeding from his side till the Titan screamed in anguish but, immortal, never died. So Prometheus is punished and awakes each day to pain to the knowledge that his torment will be carried through again but though racked by his oppressor, still the god remains unbowed and he speaks to those who listen and repeats his vows aloud. So the hope of all is waiting till the tyrant Zeus is downed till the prison chains are broken and Prometheus unbound. Prometheus unbound, Prometheus unbound till the prison chains are broken and Prometheus unbound. Now Pandora’s jar is open and her hope sustains the earth With Prometheus she hearkens to the race of mortal birth but a new force is unleashed, brought forth by Zeus to blight the land to upset the planet’s balance with insatiable demand and the hungry they are many, and the wealthy they are few and the force that he’s awakened Zeus himself cannot subdue. It’s the gyre that feeds on feeding, spreading miracles and pain it’s the hollowness that grows till life itself is held in train so the planet stands in peril till an antidote is found till the balance is recovered and Prometheus unbound. Prometheus unbound, Prometheus unbound, till the balance is recovered and Prometheus unbound. Are the cycles of renewal broken now beyond recall? Does the flame of inspiration burn but in the master’s thrall? Or are ancient ways of knowing born anew in modern form in the dreams of the oppressed who ride the headwinds of the storm? Or are seeds of new beginnings latent even in our times, in the crowd’s determination, in the poet’s potent rhymes? Or are days of hope approaching on the strength of common ground when the sparks shall be rekindled and Prometheus unbound? Prometheus unbound, Prometheus unbound, when the sparks shall be rekindled and Prometheus unbound.