Category Archives: later prose

Thanks. Anonymous

Someone wrote the other day (or I heard, somewhere) something like, “Intimacy is where truth meets love.” I can’t credit the thought, or say it just as I read or heard it. But I’m grateful for it. So here it … Continue reading

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Reading on the wind

When I fell for one of Ben Lerner’s recommendations in New Yorker Magazine’s The Best Books of 2013, Part 2,  Geoffrey G. O’Brien’s poetry volume “People on Sunday,” it was partly because I haven’t read poetry for two months, and partly … Continue reading

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Objects of Desire: A handful of plums

Like I want to close my eyes and sleep past the end of time right now, that’s how Macy felt, at the point where my story of her begins. To see her then would have been like watching one of … Continue reading

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A story about me

Thomas Hardy girl-woman, spiritual sailor, seasoned hunter. That’s me. But I won’t tell you this. When I was a kid, a parent blew the magic away from an improvisation in a chair. That taught me to keep my stories to … Continue reading

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Silk jacket (wip)

She was smart, lost and afraid of being both. Hunting for allies. she tried to catch me by leaning against a doorway to chat for a quarter-hour every day. “Come, sit,” I’d say. When she would came in, she’d pick up … Continue reading

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The man in the purple shirt (wip)

What a storm. Dark, choppy river, big whitecaps riding the cross-currents. In many places, the water is higher than my ankles — I might as well have left my shoes home. There are mini-floods everywhere. Going past tennis courts, lighthouse, … Continue reading

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Tere liye, life goes on…

Present moments: listening to this still — it came in via Outlandish‘s Facebook feed. I’m still a little open-mouthed at how ebrahim / @eebsofresh wraps his voice in, out and around the lyrics to make something totally new of the … Continue reading

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The sloop on motor

In this story of then, long ago, there are just two of us:  a man, wet through, in soaked purple shirt and running shorts, fast-walking through stands of lush trees tossing down by the river; and me, lounging against a … Continue reading

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No words

Please, don’t speak when I’m making art or thinking about palettes with no greens, pigment granulation or studio space.  I won’t hear you.  I’ll deflect your conversation.  Don’t wait for me, I have no words.   share?

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Heaven

In Kieślowski‘s Heaven, cinematographer Frank Griebe: the way his eye sees the architecture of people, as well as of buildings… …the way he shoots light, masses, volumes, voids, angles and implied motion…   share?

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High summer, mid-afternoon

Then thank you, oh food delivery service, for running out of local peaches and cornish hens last night, so I ordered Finger Lakes plums, curried chicken salad and chocolate cookies. Then thank you again, for running out of chocolate cookies … Continue reading

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What my hands made once

Early school days: A dirndl skirt of unbleached muslin printed with a floral pattern in indigo dye, my first hand-made creation, made from cloth given to me by a textile factory manager when my father took me on a factory-visiting … Continue reading

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Questions, answered

For me, movies are a fantastical experience, and when the moviemaker doesn’t honor his or her participation in the world of fantasy, I get bored. On the other hand, movies always raise realistic questions for me, like: Who cleans up … Continue reading

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Confusion

Cr — t and cr — t both have wickets. One’s boring, the other’s chess on the run. Croquet’s wickets I confused with cricket’s, as a kid, so gave cricket a miss for too long. Love it now, though I … Continue reading

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Sketches

I think of plans as promises. Since, all too often, life’s crazinesses interfere with promises, my solution is compromise – I don’t plan tightly. Instead, I sketch ideas share?

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Words and art and design

My words come from my heart. I find it hard to write words when I’m analytical. Yet my daily, paid word is often very analytical. I have an even deeper problem when it comes to visual art. I have to … Continue reading

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