April 2013
1 post
January 2013
2 posts
excerpt from Hermitage
I thought it was appropriate to be reading about Smithson’s sites/non-sites in a place that is all too full of American history, that still has sand on the floor of a small, crouched building once used to house slave families. And now the farm is used to grow feed grains, which livestock can’t actually digest or assimilate properly, but damn does it make a burger. Earlier that day I had...
August 2012
1 post
beginner's mind
There are perhaps three kinds of creation. The first is to be aware of ourselves after we finish zazen. When we sit we are nothing, we do not even realize what we are; we just sit. But when we stand up, we are there! That is the first step in creation. When you are there, everything else is there; everything is created all at once. When we emerge from nothing, when everything emerges from nothing,...
June 2012
1 post
March 2012
2 posts
winter kill
We hit the deer going thirty miles per hour. It was snowing, we were being cautious. The deer was the reckless party. There were four of us in the car and we spilled out into the night seconds after the collision, staying near to the ground in case anything had happened to our bones or nerves or equilibrium. I say ‘our’ because everything becomes collective on a long journey. Our eating, sleeping,...
February 2012
1 post
January 2012
2 posts
the three registers
We came in wanting. Wanting! Milk and warmth. Pale light and oceanic sound. It’s what got us to talking. We murmured our want, screamed it. Moved towards it, grasping. This is how we began to perceive distances. The far-away. That which is not in our own hands. Every twitch of the eyelid in the act of looking, gesturing around emptiness. We came in with austere bodies aching for abundance. You...
December 2011
9 posts
essay
Excerpted introduction to “The Body of (Dis)content: A Lacanian Psychoanalytic Study of Murder & the Mother-Body in Medea,” one part of a dual thesis project entitled “The Book is a Body, the Palm the Page.”
To utter the name Medea is to evoke images like those printed on tarot cards: a woman collapsed in despair; a woman rigid with fury; a mother quiet with...
recommended
books:
How I Became a Nun : Cesar Aira
The Savage Detectives : Roberto Bolano
The Rings of Saturn : W.G. Sebald
The Importance of Being Iceland : Eileen Myles
Glass, Irony & God : Anne Carson
Hopscotch : Julio Cortazar
The Invisible Man : Ralph Ellison
Atmospheric Disturbances : Rivka Galchen
At the Gates of the Animal Kingdom : Amy Hempel
...
short poem: long feet
i have drawn detailed renderings of the circumference of your ribcage, tracing the angle at which one would chisel, trying to figure how to best crack it open, only hoping to settle down into your lungs like so much smoke.
how might i remove your soft organs. place them in jars, sealed until winter comes.
the last time i heard your heart it was beating its wings like a trapped bird. arteries like...
dear friends
creators/producers
musicians
comedians I & II
movement, performance, new theater
designer
artist
culture vulture
story
I.
Down to two dollars and eighty-six cents and all I want’s a cup of strong coffee like the kind my grandma used to let me sip when I was a small girl sitting on her lap while she ironed in her housedress, curlers in her hair, cigarette in her mouth. And then I’m thinking about how here I am wanting and broke and maybe the money’d be better used for train fare and how my grandma was the age I...
prose poem
To Virginia: My Arms Are Tired
I imagine you enjoyed the afternoon, when the sun begins to lean toward its eventual vanishing. I prefer the morning, the gradual turning of the sky, when waking is like swimming up towards the light through seaweed.
The day imprints itself upon the body, and time swings on, and we get older. I am getting older, I find it happens faster the closer I am to...
