A path of fallen, frozen red Maple leaves slowly slides and eddies before me like a stellar star cluster, while I remain still.

Like a La Scala, the old one in Milan, I spend a sleepless night reviewing repertoires, operas, songs, stories, but it's inconclusive.

-
A River
of Stones

A poetry of what we do in our ordinary hours. I find the process of film interesting, especially relationships between characters-those interconnections, in their imagined and real manifestations. Sometimes (when I make myself get out pen and paper) I pause a film and quickly sketch the characters. These sketches are not meant to depict the actual film or actors in any kind of realistic way, or even be recognizable. They are dramas, really, to which I add my own words. You can imagine what is happening. If anything, these simple pieces are meant to be evocative: springboards, synchedoches, inductive rather than deductive, they need you to finish their stories.

Poem Paintings

(I had thought to collect my artpieces with poems, words, where the visual and verbal combine, that I've uploaded to Picasa, but, ahh. So it's growing of its own accord. :-)

the thickest boughs, heavy with Titanium white spread with a fat brush - no paint falling out of the sky at the moment

'The Sun Falls Before Dark,' 17.8cmx 23.9cm, 7" x 9", India ink, pencil, archival paper.

...the sun falls before dark,
folds of grace.

(written in the bridge: 'walls, walls, walls, indecision, indecision'; in back of bridge, 'dirt, dirt'; on the grass, 'grass, grass.' etc.)


'The Sun Falls Before Dark,' the barebones sketch, 17.8cmx 23.9cm, 7" x 9", archival ink, archival paper.

I drew it in near-dark without proper reading glasses with a Micron 05 pen that I've not used before. (The finished one up top was drawn in with India ink, and coloured with Castelli-Faber watercolour pencils.)

Who are they? what is happening?

The train slices the Wedgewood blue and white,
a metal icicle.

Blowing snow dust glitters,
ghosts sweeping the windows.

My wandering thoughts crumble in the reflections of a mirror placed between the snow landscape and white sky.

-
A River
of Stones

My habit is to turn off the heat every night. After the power failure at dawn this morning, man it was frigid, I am reconsidering.

(I live on an upper floor in an apartment with electric heat. Très expensive! The heaters are controlled in each room by a thermostat. The lowest setting is 5˚C. A lot of heat travels upwards through the building. My daughter and I both have winter weight down duvets that are super warm. If the heat is on, she will open the window, even in the middle of winter! I have a heated blanket that I use to warm up my bed, though even on low it is usually too hot for the whole night. However, a 3 hour power failure in an already cold apartment was downright frigid. When the electricity came back on, I turned up *all* the thermostats to 20˚C for awhile, just because.)

At night I turn off the heat, crawl under a heated blanket. The room air is grey at dawn, the cat, dog and I, shivering, cold, a power failure.

-
A River
of Stones

...the wind whispers ice, waves of snow blow, a few streaks of fragile light. These old lovers, a poetics of winter.

-
A River
of Stones