Exiting a shop hours after first dark, to a bluster and a faint mist. People clutching scarves to their faces; hunched into the wind for the first time of the season. A single letter in a lighted sign gutters, soon to die. It's following the leaves. Always I look for the poetry in winter, at the… Continue reading november thirteenth
A temperate autumn in New York. A fine season of walking for hours, walking and solving. Despite some t-shirt days, summer is long ago and a blanket of full dark arrives by half five or sooner. So: walking is more inward, seeing nothing unnecessary to navigation. I need to clear my cache. I’ve been unravelling some tangled… Continue reading deliberate transit
I need to exercise. I need a shower. I could use some groceries. I want to ride my bike; I want to clean the fish tanks; I want to write a bangin' blog post as I've been neglectful the past few weeks, largely on account of traveling. Been mostly away the past two weeks. Delightful,… Continue reading In my mind, it was always ‘ceiling’ wax
A sudden downpour— Shrieks erupt across the street, the playground empties.
I ordered Chinese food for lunch yesterday, and my fortune said Good news will be brought to you by mail. A few hours later I was headed out to pick up some things, and when I checked the mail, there was an envelope from a friend overseas! Inside was a beautiful double-sided card, collaged with all… Continue reading On revisiting good things (and people, places)
When I watch the fishes in their tank, that crystal stillness, set apart from the rumblings of the city out the window, the filter-soft bubbles cascading, the plants breathing to them— I see only their ballet. They are water, they are breath, they are words that will never be words. They are also the rumbling.… Continue reading They are also the rumbling
Coming through the window— BBQ, coal fires, wood fires. And in the sky's dome, the incandescent moon, waxing. A reflection of infinity can fit on the rim of a teacup.
She was always sending us loaves of her bread and every time she sent them off, she'd call at seven in the morning and talk for an hour. Graham bread. When it got moldy we used to call it Graham Green.
Only yesterday I took bags and boxes of things to donate to Housing Works, and already a new pile has begun to accumulate in the hall. I can’t stop deleting*. Next, soon: a harsh, realistic editing of the wardrobe. (I wear only a fraction of what I own— what's the point?) Time to delete some of… Continue reading Rituals. Looking back and springing forward—
I've just read Ali Smith's introduction to the (surprisingly recent) English translation of Tove Jansson's Fair Play, which I suspect will be a new favorite. Among other things, it's about editing, in art and in life— an ongoing making and remaking of things, of days. An excerpt from the introduction: The book opens, then, on a simple… Continue reading ‘Fair Play’
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 