as light

oh, momentless

to roll up in curves
that what my body
aspires to be

for it is how I lie.

and
fleeting
in all directions

if only to remain
motionless

For in the field
do not think
about the field.

learning to fly (lesson three)

True faith isn't true faith if it isn't tested every once in a while.

nice cd cover # 12

Editors - In This Light and On This Evening

happiness # 55

memory

and the soft, autumnal nostalgia

that ensues.

once more, in black and white

Hotel Existence

"When the wind blew on him, he would inevitably laugh and start cursing, making a great fuss about it as he shook his stick at the elements. Even in the winter, his preferred haunt was Riverside Park, and he spent many hours sitting there in silence, never dozing off as I expected he would, but just listening, trying to follow the things that were going on around him: the birds and squirrels rustling among the leaves and twigs, the wind fluttering through the branches, the sounds of traffic on the highway below. I began carrying a nature guide with me on these trips to the park so that I could look up the names of shrubs and flowers when he asked me what they were. I learned to identify dozens of plants in this way, examining leaves and bud formations with an interest and curiosity I had never felt for these things before. Once, when Effing was in a particularly receptive mood, I asked him why he didn't live in the country. It was still rather early at that point, I think, late November or the beginning of December, and I hadn't yet grown afraid of asking him questions. The park seemed to give him such pleasure, I said, it was a pity he couldn't be surrounded by nature all the time. He waited a long moment before answering me, so long that I began to think he hadn't heard the question. 'I've already done it,' he said at last. 'I've done it, and now it's all in my head. All alone in the middle of nowhere, living in the wilderness for months, for months and months... an entire lifetime. Once you've done that, boy, you never forget it. I don't need to go anywhere. The moment I start to think about it, I'm back. That's where I spend most of my time these days--back in the middle of nowhere.' "


- Paul Auster, Moon Palace

my spot

i wrote about it here. thought about Loomings all over again. went closer to the water now. almost a year ago. and the silence.










and a golden beetle rested on my arm for about ten minutes. in the sunshine together.

standstill

Nothing roots here; all is a glimpse
this serene April lasts so long
and still nothing grows but the heat
We must be living in a monolith

Take us over the obstinate river; we'll close
our eyes and make them look like coins.
We have brought monks in our intentions
to cast off their pride

Nothing grows here; even the houses
seem no longer houses. The passing
of time carries an ill-born child
And the glimpse is like a monolith

the man of the crowd

"Even to a boy it was clear he was not happy with himself, more inclined that morning to see the shadows than the sunlight. In time I would realize that this was his gift as much as it was the burden that would destroy him. He heard the groan of life in common things that other men scarcely noticed--a tree bent in the wind, a floorboard creaking, a trodden stair, a door eased shut, a bedspring, a house at night. He heard the sigh of life in leaf rustle, wing flutter, the flicker of gaslights, in pulling on his trousers, dragging a brush through his hair. There were times too when a trickle of steam spoke to him, the rain tumbling off roof shingles, a trill of laughter, steam from a teakettle, the way Virginia sipped her soup.

In all this and more he also found the pleasures of life, small pleasures, strophes, moments when the ubiquitous groans and sighs became almost comic to him, a cosmic joke. But this surcease never prevailed and scarcely lingered. He heard the darkness of approaching night, the rasp of Virginia's breath, and soon he was attuned once more to life's chorus of protest, its murmured song of misery."


- Randall Silvis, On Night's Shore

happiness # 54

a rainbow-colored kite