19 May 2016
The sun has been here lately. The insects are singing. The red, black and yellow dragons are jumping off of the wall and into the dirt.
28 November 2015
She will be born at any moment.
Cold outside. Turkey dinner. Red buildings.
Remember when walked along the shore?
29 April 2013
Looking out my window,
gray sky hovers ground and neighborhood.
I will walk out
and with wonder,
after my coffee is gone.
20 May 2013
16 October 2013
You were born by the sea
26 July 2014
The air is warm. The sand is red.
12 September 2014
Belonging here within and beneath the map.
14 November 2012, Documenting Space
I never sent Angie that image of three euphoric women- wet bodies reaching out from the sea. A Secret History of Women and Tattoo and The Dinner Party on Judy Chicago sit above Pamela's letter boxes that share a window sill with a white necklace, mason jars holding dead candles, and a photo of seagulls flying out of azure blue water. The filament in that bulb is exposed and brilliant; thin branches coil together outside. A bird draws a circle that who-knows-why kindles my memory toward images of blood-stained clothing piled on church pews. In odd simultaneity I remember the ecstasy of digging my hands into garden dirt last summer. Does that hot pink scribble on my painting function next to the letters? How is Cyndi before her performance? An abrupt car noise halts my thoughts; an invisible something tickles my foot.
The kettle is screaming.