Monday, April 8, 2024

Two gathered hems


Lauren Manoogian


Thursday, February 8, 2024

The old streets, the old faces, the old conversations, the old ways of being known to others

It happens when you feel the other parenthesis, the one at the end, as it presses your skin, wraps itself around your chest like a tightening belt. You can still breathe, but not as well. You can still sing, but not with the notes you could hit before. You can still spit, but life has moved past the spitting stage. It’s when things fail to return to normal, that finally you get it: this is normal.

Gary Indiana, “Five O’Clock Somewhere” in the latest issue of Granta.

Saturday, January 27, 2024

Bust of the painter Andrea Mantegna


Saturday, January 20, 2024

Antoine Marchalot

Friday, January 19, 2024

Sara Issakharian

Truth or Dare (2022)

Everybody wants you and the wind howls (2021)

Forbidden Arms (2021)

scrabble (2021)

Tipped Trick (2022)

Here and Then There and Now (2022)

Cat o' nine tails (2022)


Monday, January 1, 2024


Harvesting wild clay, getting back into fermenting, getting back into comics, red light therapy, ume shiso rice, AM spin, PM hot yoga, the Alps, Ohto pencils, Lemaire layers, La Cuisine du Comté de Nice, silver (still!)

Tuesday, July 11, 2023

Try to reach out, but it's gone


Tried to point my finger, 
But the wind's blowin' me around

Wednesday, May 24, 2023

T.S. Eliot, "Marina," and a review

Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Those who sit in the stye of contentment, meaning
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place

What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger —
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.

Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.



Tuesday, May 16, 2023

Waxing and waning

Exek, "Some Background"


Maira Gall