The barn cats, huddled and hungry, have not ventured forth to beg in the dooryard today. The stalwart horses, shaggy in their winter coats and snugged in blankets, have chosen to remain in the shelter of their run-in stalls— those hard-wired grazers who prefer to spend days in search of remaining blades of green beneath… Continue reading The crust of snow renders the clear sun blinding
Here's a scrap from one of my journals of youth. A page written when I was twenty-one, and newly out of college— my first summer spent in Brooklyn, as I'd always gone back to the farm in between the school years. Few of my schoolmates were in town that summer. I was broke, looking for… Continue reading The subtle mental nausea of homesick
I want so much to write. I’d like to be still for a day or two; to draw. To draw at a rate more like I was in October— daily. Or nearly so. To have space for things to percolate and bubble to the surface from below. Instead, I’ve been kept moving, pulled in multiple… Continue reading A pile of airy bones in an attic room beneath the pitched roof
I must quiet my mind. Sometimes it can be done with reading on the train. And sometimes it needs to be done by formulating, or finding, some clear thing out of the jumble of tangled strings and wires— the ones that formed knots in one’s head during the tumult of the day. Today was like… Continue reading After a day where a sudden drop in tempurature causes green leaves to fall like the piano needles from Charlie Brown’s xmas tree
Saturday evening, perhaps twenty minutes before the arrival of some friends, as I sat on the Queen Anne, a shadow shape limped into my peripheral. I said Mouse! And then my tone changed immediately as I saw him slump to a stop on the floor just a few feet from me, and close his eyes.… Continue reading A doubtful guest arrived just before those invited
I've been on a new trajectory. It’s great; it’s weird, It’s new. I love new. I also love Old. That’s neither here nor there. I’ve been feeling like a teenager again, lately. In the sense where I’m acutely aware how temporary so many people in one’s life tend to be. It’s not a judgement call;… Continue reading When time turns in upon itself, you question everything
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
In summer my fingernails grow like weeds— just grow and grow and there’s no stopping them. All that vitamin d; sunlight so I have to clip, trim, file. Sand down the edges that snag on my shirt or a neighboring nail. They’re long now, but instead of cutting, clipping, reigning in, I have the urge… Continue reading Summer swords
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 