an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

self portrait with loose hair

Went for a short run last night and remembered the smell of creosote in the desert. Watched Frida with Chris and Glenda--they hadn't seen it--and thought about her art again. The body in agony, the body in love. I am braiding my hair.


Not-running, about an hour out the back side of Sage Brook Road towards Naranja where a little bike path begins rolling towards La Cholla and ends so that I had to turn around, get enticed by a path in the wash that led to a tangle of golf cart roads, no one seeming to lead out towards the main road until I did find a street and a housing community, but not an outlet, except towards the desert and more wash and mesquite and cholla and there it went until my shoes filled with sand and rubbed blisters into my arches, but my legs held out and my lungs--who would believe it of my lungs?--could have kept on going...

I am letting my hair down.

"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers