А la recherche du temps perdu When I saw how the new sun shone,I opened all the morning to her. When I felt the heat of midday,I turned my face to feel her warmth. When her exit cast a wake of diamonds on the sea,I sailed in pursuit ’til they sank out of view. When… Continue reading In Search of Lost Time | no regrets
And, at long last, here, I write something again. Don’t think I haven’t longed for it; time without writing makes a ruin of me. A mere responder rather than a decided adventurer. Time— without time to think, to write— renders me a to-do list, at best. Ugh. And I’ve been feeling a right failure of… Continue reading How life makes failures of us all with sunshine, and the gentle rapid passing of time*
I want so much to write. I’d like to be still for a day or two; to draw. To draw at a rate more like I was in October— daily. Or nearly so. To have space for things to percolate and bubble to the surface from below. Instead, I’ve been kept moving, pulled in multiple… Continue reading A pile of airy bones in an attic room beneath the pitched roof
I've been on a new trajectory. It’s great; it’s weird, It’s new. I love new. I also love Old. That’s neither here nor there. I’ve been feeling like a teenager again, lately. In the sense where I’m acutely aware how temporary so many people in one’s life tend to be. It’s not a judgement call;… Continue reading When time turns in upon itself, you question everything
In summer my fingernails grow like weeds— just grow and grow and there’s no stopping them. All that vitamin d; sunlight so I have to clip, trim, file. Sand down the edges that snag on my shirt or a neighboring nail. They’re long now, but instead of cutting, clipping, reigning in, I have the urge… Continue reading Summer swords
The wires are a connective element; a conduit of civilizing electricity, yet there is an insistence on isolation inherent in the design of some of the houses here. Beyond an eye toward privacy, they sometimes feel fortress-like, extending a feeling of invitation only to those already familiar; only to those whose homes they are.… Continue reading An architecture of isolation
There is a hum in the wires. It's faint but if you close your eyes it’ll find you. It was there before the wires were strung, but in them it found a conduit. It's elemental, but not the way you may think. It’s not the wind, either. Those forces are altogether different to what sings… Continue reading The hum in the wires
There is a room full of young women lounging in or at the edges of inviting pools of water. The room has an otherworldly atmosphere, with dim, colored lighting and biomorphic curves in the walls and ceilings. It feels, looks like a grotto; like some ethereal rendering of a subterranean brothel. On low ledges all… Continue reading Elegant instruments, arrayed in bowls
One of the reasons I enjoy poetry is because it comprises all of my favorite ways of making. It’s creating images with words, yes; a kind of storytelling. But it’s about so much more than just the correct or precise words —more than denotation or connotation— it’s also about design. It’s about how the words interact… Continue reading The shapes created by the spaces between things
My subconscious has been working on a thesis for me lately; broadcasting things which on the surface (flattened and simplified by my waking mind) appear disparate, but on closer inspection are stitched together by a continuous thread. Its thesis is about crafting sensible (or at least legible, recognizable) solutions, guides, codes to amorphous and unformed problems.… Continue reading Things bound with waxed sail thread and resin
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 