currently living in a tree house.



As a child I have always wanted to live in a tree house, and this is the closest thing to that plus some added luxury. I am currently on the Pacific Rim of Vancouver Island staying in a cabin lodge, and the balcony, i kid you not looks off into a primal forest landscape, and beyond that, lies the ocean.

It’s going to be hard going back home. Everyone here is so wonderfully hippie dippy like me. I even saw a car with a Darwin Fish decal.

Before that I stayed with two wonderful friends Chris and Deb and their six dogs. I also drew a relatively good self portrait which I will try to take a picture of and post here later.

BC is home to me. The trees, the mountains and the Ocean all speak to me deeply. It takes all my reason to resist packing up my car and driving over here with my faithful hubby.


Where I want to go when I die.

art, frienship, loss, sucide

meeting up with Kit and Oya Oil on canvas 48 x 36 inches.

So, I’ve written quite abit about Kit, but gonna write one more post-because it’s what’s on my mind as I made this very large painting:

Dear Kit. There was no goodbye letter from you, sure wish there was. I wish I had the heads up, cause even if I couldn’t change your mind, I could at least enjoy more time with you. We could drive to the farm and hike through the bush, ’cause you said you’d like to do that. I could get that awesome borsht recipe from you. Cause, really, you could make borsht like no one else. It would make Russian women cry. Possibly, Leo Tolstoy would have cried, or at least. he would have written it into War and Peace. I would invite you to my garden, and we could drink wine, read tarot and laugh into the night. We could have done that. I would have at least said goodbye, I would have liked a good bye.  My Godmother once said that before going to bed you should say goodbye, because, when you wake up, that person may not be there anymore. Her husband died of a stroke, so maybe that’s why she told me that at the age of 13.

But going back to you, I’d like to go to an art gallery with you, I don’t care who’s showing.  I would love to have spent a whole weekend with you. I feel like I wasn’t as good a friend as I could have been, though Gods know, I tried. You did give me a wakeup call though. Friendship is precious, each day is a gift, treasure it, because it will be gone before you know it and all you have is the memory of that person in your life, that and their ghost. Speaking of which, you can’t see me but I painted the top of my head into the bottom of the picture. Cause when I die, much like in the movie, What Dreams May Come, (with Robin Williams) I’d like to meet you there, in that wood, so the both of us could hang out once more. Love, Lids

Kit Passed away.



raven in flowers final edit



My friend Kit did indeed take her life, as lovers often do, but I feel it was accidental because she wasn’t in the right state of mind. I think my heart was broken, because she was my best friend, what hurts more is she wanted to do More with me and sometimes I said no, because I wanted to go home and curl up in my blankets and just read a book. 

Friendship is rarer than love, when you have it folks treasure it, because not often does someone come along who “gets” you. Who is on the same level of creativity, who loves to watch the movies you love and loves to do the same things you love to do. Mostly, in this world there is compromise. So, after I have lost something dear to me, I look back and say “shit” how did that happen? I guess there are the stages of grief to contend with like some awkward buddies rubbing against you in the subway. 


I am trying to process this through creativity, I haven’t written a poem in years, though it’s what I took in University, so here is my poem to you Kit:

Firebrand hair
you drift like an ember
and foxes chuckle as they see your ghost.
Fire brand girl,
mermaid on a bicycle.
You, heart thief
deftly weaving flowers into my hair,
how dare you operate on my petrified heart,
rolling the stone to my tomb, with fay fingers one inch at a time
coming in, to that place of solitude.
you ignited fire in that dank place, 
and now that your gone, I can only keep it roaring
waiting for that day when I will see you again.

L. Knox