a preoccupation with texture and light
. “There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border that we cross.” ~ Divisadero
. Dreams about black water.
. A warm biscuit, wild blueberry jam, hot coffee
swirled with cream
On a porch somewhere
Overlooking mountain valley mist.
Cravings and cravings.
. Now the redbuds and tulips. The dogwoods are still green in their infancy, but it won’t be long. Lucy has a new spring haircut.
. The tactility of yellowed paper. Ocean-worn wood. Calloused skin. Cold cast-iron. Again.
. Mary Oliver, always finding me.
Everyone wants to know what it means. But nobody is asking, How does it feel?
The words coat my thoughts, a slick of hot motor oil.
. A touch of melancholia.
. Anatomy of a violinists bow: cheek, chamfer, ebony liner, lapping, frog mortise, parisian eye. The way the bow hair frays and becomes filaments of movement, an extension of music, of body.
. Did you find your osage orange?