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
[A thing I’ve been meaning to write about, but have been waiting to see how it affects, beyond initial denial and impatience.] Twelve hours after landing back in Brooklyn from New Mexico, I sustained a godawful injury to my right foot under the most mundane circumstances. Went for x-rays the next day, as it was impossibly… Continue reading The vulnerability of connective tissues
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
This feels senseless, irreparable. I know it's not. It's a direct hit, though. A different kind of heartbreak; More subtle, maybe— unexpected. More reckless, it feels. Unavoidable, now: you've crossed the Rubicon. The kaleidoscope has lost some of its color. How do I relearn living (again)? Who will help me make sense of things? Who’ll… Continue reading This is how the data is interpreted
The one who’s been the most present for over four years has gone. Left in a car packed with all he owns on a bright cold Sunday, December. Left a scar. We walked around the neighborhood late last night lamenting the change. Still almost not understanding or accepting— but a dawning sense. Still to come—… Continue reading Sad days ahead
It hit me last night— Zac’s last day in Brooklyn is in eight days. It’s cast a sudden melancholy pall on the holiday weekend, a Sunday sadness, and I’ve found myself thinking about how different my life will be when he's gone. We've been practically inseparable for over four years; a significant friendship, and solid. In… Continue reading A soon farewell
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.
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 