On a cold, windy weekend I contrived a little garland of fabric flags— droll points affixed at intervals to a length of pale ribbon because the undraped window looked dreary and forlorn. Days later I looked at them, trying to gauge whether they cheered. Outside, the trees wore bright-gold leaves, a yellow burst against the… Continue reading fabric flags
From a congress of reeds along the water’s edge A white crane rose on a silent vector— horizon-wise...
Waning of summer month, end of beach weather month. Back to work and back to school month. Memory— no A pattern, died in the wool. Buckled-up books, backpacks, cardigans. Skirts and stockings and closed-up shoes that suddenly feel too tight. Early rising, hasty breakfasting— Tie your shoes and Don’t forget your lunch and The bus… Continue reading September
This afternoon after brunch Jon and I did some cycling around Rochester to some vintage and antique shops and secondhand book shops. Most of this haul was found at Small World Books, a shambling old house on North Street in which every room is walled with books, and several cats reside. We were in there no longer than… Continue reading Saturday’s literary treasures
Sometimes I feel as though I’m steering a ship with no map, no stars to navigate by, and the most frustrating thing is that there’s no way to even ask for a map, for stars. You’re just there, adrift in the darkness, hoping that the next piece of intel will crack some code, provide you… Continue reading Cardinal directions
We are not a nation known for nuance— apparently what’s implicit is not always obvious. But if a sensitive, painstaking explanation is what’s required, let what's viral be helpful. #BlackLivesMatterToo
I have a lot of pages in the notes app on my iPhone. Here are just a few things I found today while looking for a specific bit of info. Enjoy. "We live in time, and through it, we build our huts in its ruin, or used to, and we cannot afford all these abandonings." — The Angle of Repose, Wallace Stegner
Here is a portrait I did this week in memory of my horse, Red, whom we lost on Monday. He was 35 this year, and feisty as ever— now running and grazing in the Elysian Fields. I've been planning to write about him this week, but the portrait was a softer catharsis. Instead, I've unearthed what I wrote three summers ago, late one August night at the Farm:
It housed much of what I had been missing, as in the poem— symbolically, aspects of myself suffering some neglect. No mistake that the sprawling, feverishly researched and planned-for projects were the first things I unearthed.
It’s been six months. You’re still gone. Apart has become normal even to us. Absence is absence, but we get on. We’re fine, we're Good. We speak rarely, but feel every day. Maybe that’s why the silence. Words are too articulate— they make things real. I’ve been drawing, writing, living. You too. Past is past. I’m… Continue reading The away team wears grey ’cause they’re Away
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 