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."

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

winter my secret

"A depressive moment: everything is dying, God is dying, I am dying." --Kristeva

View from my porch in fall on a day when the sun warms the floor boards on the south side of the house and I think of lying down in the light with my eyes closed, the last of summer showing pink through my eyelids to my eyes where the overcast days, the godawful lonely days spent in this house and on this porch, are stored with the old panic and despair. My lot: the church and its parking lot across the street in plain view, the church-goers leaving their cars loading their cars, they believe. The leaves are changing they are dying, and I will watch it happen again from here, this year, from the chair by the door where I feel least agitated by emptiness--inside if I am out, outside if I am in--for the house is most empty when I am wandering the rooms, all my rooms, arranging and rearranging the smallest things, and find no one living there.

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

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


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