London

Underneath Waterloo Station, creativity blossoms. The famed graffitti artist known under the alias of Bansky hosted a stencil show he titled "The Can Festival". He invited more than 140 artists but also encouraged visitors to contribute their own touch to the colorful walls of the deserted tunell. ''I'm hoping we can transform a dark forgotten filth pit into an oasis of beautiful art — in a dark forgotten filth pit,'' Banksy was quoted as saying in the Times of London.
For pictures, click here.

An Evening With Charles D'ambrosio

I just returned from a presentation of Drummond & Son, one of Charles D'ambrosio's short stories from The Dead Fish Museum, read this evening by the author himself. The frankness of the writer was remarkable, as he read to a small room of people while sitting on the table infront, wiping the dripping sweat off his face. He had bicycled to the reading, and there he perched in all his grandeur, his clothing stained with persperation, his hair mussed by his helmet. His story was just as frank. Reality, the reality of the everyday, and the mystery that is found in each moment of the everyday, was vividly present in his work.
Charlie is an instructor at the Tin House Summer Writers Workshop, and lives in NE Portland. He has published two collections of short stories, (1995) and The Dead Fish Museum (2006). He has also published a collection of essays, Orphans (2005). His writings have appeared in The New Yorker, and The Paris Review. Powell's published an interview with him in 2006 entitled, Hop on the Charles D'Ambrosio Train, which you can read here.

Love Poem to God

By Rainer Maria Rilke


You see, I want a lot
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don't seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip for survival.

You are not dead yet. it's not too late
to open your depth by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.

The shrill cries of fledgling robins heralds the shift into late Spring here in the rainy land of trees. I have two nests within sight this year. One houses a very content couple of house finches. They have four beautiful eggs, and are as proud as peacocks about it. The father, with his blazing red cap and very bright eyes, sits proudly on the powerline and will let no one near. The other nest is the home for a family of robins: two parents, and a few very audacious young fledglings. The younglings are just learning how to fly and making a mess out of it. The last one to leave the nest was particularly befuddled. He dove at the ground, and then, in a frantic attempt to reach the safety of the skies, flew straight at a reflection in the window, and hovered there for a few minutes, vainly knocking himself against the glass. Exhausted, he was forced to retreat to the ground. It took a good five minutes of encouragement from his father to attempt flight again. At last, he reached the top of the gate and received a worm as a reward. Just as he was beginning to adjust to the gate and consider attempting the roof, a large crow attacked, sending both Mr. and Mrs. Robin into a frenzy of fear. Luckily, he missed the baby on his first attempt, and he did not get a chance at a second try. Both parents flew at him like flighter jets, swift and deadly. A pair of sparrows looking for a nest in the area joined the chase, and Mr. House Finch added his shrill screams to the general mayhem.
The crow did not stay long. I suspect he has a nest in the area himself;he retreated to a nearby pine and cawed his distaste for a good hour, but did not return.
The fledglings are exploring the outside world for the first time, and giving their poor parents quite a job of keeping them safe. Quite a mother's day for mama robin.

Toast

Toast is my latest discovery. Perhaps it is the simplicity of the beauty which attracts me. Texture and subtle color are more potent when they come from natural sources.

The Swell Season