In the ellipses between drops of rain In the space between pale night’s end and grey morning I find you. I find forgotten things. Between lines of writing in the pages of books yellowing in drawers and on shelves, In the leathery slips between their bindings— And in the spaces between the notes of songs… Continue reading Spaces
The rain has stopped. The men from next door are talking neighborly, I can hear them now I’ve just opened the window. I like the sound of tires on the still-wet pavement as a car goes by. A quiet section of the city, this last handful of blocks before the cemetery bisects the avenue, not to… Continue reading Scaffolding for memory
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:
Music, in a lesser but similar way, is a memory trigger like scent / smell. Visceral. And a visceral response is a true thing, or at the least a real thing, which may be the same after all.
There was a cafe in the 10th where Zac and I had our first breakfast. It was run by a couple of elderly men, had a mural on the rear wall. It's a place I think my dad would totally dig; charming, very unmodern.
"Today’s homework assignment: In one hundred and fifty words or less, describe one of the happiest days of your life."* I'm a rich person to have a kind of option paralysis in the face of this assignment. It's a day I've written of before, but it stands out in memory. * * * A day… Continue reading A glance back before the changing of the guard at midnight
There was a woods across the street from the farm. On the far side of of a large corn field, then through an encircled meadow that remained un-tilled, too inaccessible for farming. A small woods through which ran a narrow, banked ribbon of stream. In winter it was the most beautiful place I could find. I'd make… Continue reading a long ago winter place
Today broke delightfully sunny but heartrendingly windy, and that’s a confounding combination. How I miss civilized weather. Awoke suddenly this morning to a distinct memory of listening to The Queen is Dead in my room at the farm on the record player my folks gave me when I turned 16. It was an all-in-one type,… Continue reading A sun-bright frozen Sunday
Handsome Red Late night at the farm; window open upstairs and a squeaking distant sound of coyotes through the cricket-song. Tig hears them too. They seek the feral cats that live around here (dinner). The new kitten, Piwaket, was one of same; a runt or cast-off, living on her own and scrappy as hell; my… Continue reading Writing steadies me, as does the farm
Strange and endless dreams early this morning—cross-pollination of recent work and a Netflix binge. I was designing an image program / slideshow that was, in its entirety, regarding serial killers— when young, where lived, etc. Gruesome (both the content and the schedule), wake-in-a-sweat stuff. Why must I work in my sleep? Not RESTFUL! Followed by… Continue reading Sleep, memory
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 