Returned from the snow farm for the last few days of the year’s closing book. Serene here, too— quiet and white-blanketed. Few people are on the sidewalks, chilled and brittle. The emptiness of the playground today: a witness to the mercury, its height diminished despite bright sun. And here we meet our fabricated bookends for… Continue reading Our hopes such as they are, invisible before us, untouched and still possible*
It’s double-quilt weather and icy lashes weather as the wind stings saltwater rills from our eyes. Shoulders hunched, we retreat into our hoods like sheltering caves. Convolutions and subtext slip away like shingles from a roof during high winds. Faced with the elemental force of cold, our needs simplify. Just as hunger renders food delicious… Continue reading The water pipes upstairs froze overnight
The trees and shrubs appeared to have sprouted from a vast eiderdown quilt that settled over the viewable acreage overnight. Happy Winter Holidays and snow days for all who enjoy that sort of thing!
The severed heads had been put on pikes for all and sundry to see; made examples of. The unseasonably warm autumn weather made grotesques of each— death masques submitting to rot and gravity; to the punishments meted by the state. Passersby turned their heads, and covered their faces with kerchiefs, but there was no ignoring… Continue reading There was no ignoring such a noisome spectacle
That’s what some few of we Brooklynites call Manhattan— the ‘Hatters*. Also, Work Island, The Big Town. Often accompanied by a groan (implying the MTA, etc) I’ve been spending a fair amount of time there the past few weeks, and it’s been brilliant. I’ve had to re-calibrate my perspective; always a healthy pursuit. Seeing my… Continue reading Some tall ones in the ‘Hatters
Out the front window near my desk, the swifting plash of car tires; drips dripping off the curled iron of the fire escape. Out the back window, where the trees climb higher than the roof, rain soft patterings on wet leaves; there is no wind today. The leaves have not even begun to consider a… Continue reading Rain soft patterings on wet leaves
And then there are parts of town that don't quite feel like New York at all. I'm always looking for what elements are the disparate ones; what are the real culprits that make it feel different. Sometimes it's scale; of buildings, of the street or space around the buildings. But sometimes it's something more invisible.… Continue reading The swishing of cars and in the distance, church bells
The wires are a connective element; a conduit of civilizing electricity, yet there is an insistence on isolation inherent in the design of some of the houses here. Beyond an eye toward privacy, they sometimes feel fortress-like, extending a feeling of invitation only to those already familiar; only to those whose homes they are.… Continue reading An architecture of isolation
There is a hum in the wires. It's faint but if you close your eyes it’ll find you. It was there before the wires were strung, but in them it found a conduit. It's elemental, but not the way you may think. It’s not the wind, either. Those forces are altogether different to what sings… Continue reading The hum in the wires
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 