+ + + After I posted this (elsewhere), a friend quoted the Wallace Stevens poem, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird," to wit— II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. So now I rather look at these guys as blackbirds. Enjoy the poem.
Day ten: At an inland edge of town there remained vestigial freight rail tracks, seldom used. Occasionally in the night the reedy and wistful tune of a passing train crept into dreams, both sleeping and waking. + + +
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Day six: Here is the Victorian era mechanical cherry-stoner that she unearthed in the manky little potting shed, hidden almost entirely by vines and brambles in her new back garden. Its insect-like appearance startled the breath out of her upon pushing the door open. + + +
Deep into the night under the same moon, the stevedore carved away at a piece of meerschaum, his replacement stone for scrimshaw bone. Salt and sea were in his blood, and old traditions are sluggish to die. This is what he carved. + + + .
Just beyond the bordering fields, some rook-splay deer hopscotched across the rocks and pools of the marshland beneath a waxing gibbous moon. + + + Below is the sketch that precipitated the finished drawing. Sometimes I can't tell whether I prefer the quick sloppy sketches or the clean finished drawings.
In early fall that she finished moving into the house. It’d seen better days, but its bones were strong, and she was determined to bring it back to life. As she was cleaning, she came across a leathery old box in an upstairs room; retrieved it from the shadows of a closet. + +… Continue reading Day Two: she moved house in the early days of autumn
An old box was hidden on the top shelf at the rear of a little-used closet upstairs. There it waited bound in butcher’s twine, its secrets to be uncovered. + + + I can't believe it's been a year already! And yet a very full year; how much has changed. Welcome to Inktober 2018! If you're… Continue reading Day One: a forgotten box tied with twine
First: you may disagree, but I don't demean a beautiful wood grain by referring to it as white noise. Sometimes the most powerful tonic is a meditative white noise. It's one of the things I love about the hustle-bustle of this town. Everything retreats as you wander; as you dive inward for a moment— take… Continue reading Here’s ink— doing a physical take on white noise
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 