Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
various, seperate, and numbered
1.
She seldom stops scanning
Walking past a fir
I hear her say
“Smells like Turpentine”.
2.
I tip the glass of apple cider and finish it off
And the sediment streams down to my mouth
Looking like the long trunk of a pine
3.
Sundials are ubiquitous.
A perspectival perch gives one
A sound view of diurnal
Near and farness.
4.
I follow the traces of your breath, closely
Rendering you as every moment’s memory
From where did we each come?
Attatchment.
I think about the mountain
Everything was on sale.
The Antique shop
Was to close on Friday.
Dividing upon entrance, we sifted through the debris
Myriad of minute gestures
Small stones left behind on someone else’s shelves.
A noise of silenced memories.
I believe I got a bargain on the handmade book crafted
From printer paper and wallpaper,
A boy with a feather in his hat cut out and pasted on the cover.
The other book with illustrations of plants
prefaced with a quotation:
“Do you not think that all life comes from the mountain?”
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Craiglist bARTer project
Cheesy name, but a working name.
Back in April I bartered a watercolor portrait of a guy who wanted to replace Cosmos Kramer's image for his, in a poster. I bartered this portrait for an orange weed-wacker so I could straighten up my back yard before moving. This transaction would instate the first of a series of the Craigslist Barter Project.
Currently, I am working out the next dealing in the series. So far it looks like I will be drawing a picture for a tattoo in trade for four wooden pallets to build a compost pile in the back yard with.
I'm not sure how I want to exhibit this series. I'm picturing an installation of sorts, with the various objects displayed around the space alongside adjoining documentation of the process, and evidence of the already absent art that was bartered. Perhaps I could get in touch with the people I worked with and see if they would send up the work for the show, but somehow, I think that the "arts" absence is more powerful. . .
I am thinkiing about creating a new blog site for this project only, to track the process of comings and goings. This should be fun.
Friday, August 22, 2008
RIP RIO RICO
Peter asked me “how is your place in Arizona”
me: it is big and cool. a mess of packaging materials right now, and the center of our lives in Rio Rico. We are excited to be leaving. It is very isolating down here, and substitute teaching is a painful way to make money. though, of course, the weather is pleasant, as I'm sure it is up there.
Rio Rico.
Our house, a cool expanse of ceramic tile and thin windows which rattle when the train heads north or south alongside the I-10 marked in kilometers, taking Chinese plastics down to Mexico, bringing furnished cars and firm produce to the north. Coming home from the middle school where Alexander teaches art in a room without a sink, crossing over the bridge, we feel it quaking from the weight of the semis stalled by myopic city planning, we wait silently for movement or a collapse. Semis line the city like sections of a great wall packed with waxed produce boxes of stickered mangos and tomatoes, oranges. The produce distributors and the schools. And a golf resort that sells land contracts to Midwesterners ready to retire to the sunny southwest.
I take myself to schools in the district to substitute for teachers. The kids are cruel and disrespectful and the only solace for me is the 12 dollars. I am an anchor in muddy water, waiting to take my shoes off and sip beer at the end of the day, trying to give out a lesson that was left, amidst a storm of Spanish words without leverage. Every new day they ask, “Miss, do you know Spanish” And I always respond, “un pocito”. I love to leave campus and sit in the hot dry car, letting the heavy warmth blanket my nerves.
The cockroaches crawl out of the drains, sprint across our floors. Next month the tarantulas will want to come inside from their hibernation in deep burrows along our house’s perimeter. Cling lays on the brick patio in the evening watching the migratory birds, and feeling the dry grass prickling through his thick fur.
Our neighbors are loud, always with something. Their cars speed through the court into their gravel driveway and skid to a halt, mariachi inspired pop music provides entertainment for their whole property, blasting through car stereos that cannot cover the bass notes, and too, rattle our windows. Their trash is offensive, excessive. Their dogs are aggressive. Every time they open or close the door to their huge American truck, they let the car alarm sound luxuriously, as if proud of the working device. The little girls through stones at our wall when they are not ridding around their flat tire bicycles.
Last week I bartered a watercolor portrait of someone for a weed-wacker, and now we can help even out what the cows have done for our lawn.
me: it is big and cool. a mess of packaging materials right now, and the center of our lives in Rio Rico. We are excited to be leaving. It is very isolating down here, and substitute teaching is a painful way to make money. though, of course, the weather is pleasant, as I'm sure it is up there.
Rio Rico.
Our house, a cool expanse of ceramic tile and thin windows which rattle when the train heads north or south alongside the I-10 marked in kilometers, taking Chinese plastics down to Mexico, bringing furnished cars and firm produce to the north. Coming home from the middle school where Alexander teaches art in a room without a sink, crossing over the bridge, we feel it quaking from the weight of the semis stalled by myopic city planning, we wait silently for movement or a collapse. Semis line the city like sections of a great wall packed with waxed produce boxes of stickered mangos and tomatoes, oranges. The produce distributors and the schools. And a golf resort that sells land contracts to Midwesterners ready to retire to the sunny southwest.
I take myself to schools in the district to substitute for teachers. The kids are cruel and disrespectful and the only solace for me is the 12 dollars. I am an anchor in muddy water, waiting to take my shoes off and sip beer at the end of the day, trying to give out a lesson that was left, amidst a storm of Spanish words without leverage. Every new day they ask, “Miss, do you know Spanish” And I always respond, “un pocito”. I love to leave campus and sit in the hot dry car, letting the heavy warmth blanket my nerves.
The cockroaches crawl out of the drains, sprint across our floors. Next month the tarantulas will want to come inside from their hibernation in deep burrows along our house’s perimeter. Cling lays on the brick patio in the evening watching the migratory birds, and feeling the dry grass prickling through his thick fur.
Our neighbors are loud, always with something. Their cars speed through the court into their gravel driveway and skid to a halt, mariachi inspired pop music provides entertainment for their whole property, blasting through car stereos that cannot cover the bass notes, and too, rattle our windows. Their trash is offensive, excessive. Their dogs are aggressive. Every time they open or close the door to their huge American truck, they let the car alarm sound luxuriously, as if proud of the working device. The little girls through stones at our wall when they are not ridding around their flat tire bicycles.
Last week I bartered a watercolor portrait of someone for a weed-wacker, and now we can help even out what the cows have done for our lawn.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
hai ku
Plucking a myriad from
My wool sweater
Little seeds without names
Silent moon gazing
We sit for hours
Feeling pagan origins
An empty can and
Aggressive breeze
Make music in the vacant lot
My wool sweater
Little seeds without names
Silent moon gazing
We sit for hours
Feeling pagan origins
An empty can and
Aggressive breeze
Make music in the vacant lot
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
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