"The art of photography is deliciously impure:
its aesthetic triumphs and traditions are inescapably enmeshed in the messy world of work.”
- Peter Galassi

photography from last summer - oh for the sun

sounds of today: here

loving photographer Mikael Kennedy & his work
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.


O that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
- Hamlet, Shakey

Tightness twixt the eyes and that chilling quiet of an evening. Hamlet is haunting and somehow as inexplicably mesmerizing as the last time I read it four years ago. Anis Mojgani and bright skies and aching stares and gravel underfoot. I'm dying to go to the Portland Poetry Slam at Backspace, but so tired - limbs like liquid - and so all of you, if Anis will indeed be there, go for me.

woodcuts from here


Painful back, blisters, and ink on everything! Above: pictures from printing yesterday. This is a letterpress weekend - bookplates to finish up & invites to print & Richard III to read; oh so proud of the creation coming forth: ISBN (Informal Society of Books & Notions) will soon arrive in Portland - more to be posted on that subject anon.

Oh how the rain sounds light as a lover's word
and now and again she's afraid when the sun returns
- Iron & Wine

Above: the fruits of a very long 5 hours of printing yesterday: my first bookplate. Completely exhausted now of course and rueing the bygone time as I attempt to write a rather troublesome paper. But so in love with letterpress. Watch this & have a restful end to the weekend...


I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
- Czeslaw Milosz, Dedication

It is on nights such as this with darkening sky and skipping thuds of basketballs outside, that I can taste the coming summer evenings. Poetry and papers and headaches and tangible, pastel, rising quiet: the longing for something. What is it, that deep mover that pulls and turns us? It is mesmerizing how man in his own pattern, his own quirky Roman nose and narrow eyes, his own nervous fingers, writes out his own path to that Infinite. Gentle Being, move in me. Crow those piercing notes and have an end only when I'm quaking and crying and knowing.

pics above: Ian McKellen and Dylan


our ears are too small
for our hearts to understand the humming of these sentences inside of us
- Anis Mojgani, The Branches are Full and These Orchards Heavy

too too chilly outside – and reading Titus Andronicus doesn't help. Eating my children in a pie is not how I would fancy passing my afternoon. These days I am in continuous reverberation; the voice of Anis Mojgani moves depths that only T. S. E. has ever touched in me. listen. On a completely different note, here for show and tell: Nerd Boyfriend. love it.