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, August 31, 2005

leaving arizona

The God Babies

Little feet go tete-a-tete art with a wild thou, Potter, potter potter potter potter. Could be rain, too, this winter's slow sleet breaking out all death, all spring's acomin', then all summer again, little baby, all give us a song, all wild and heart-stop threshold and stark tree blow, my baby, thou and the monster hurt no and no no and no and no and though (we’ve had a harsh season) there is only one view from here (the tree mesh, the sky-lit net all limbs all dearly white and black) and though it is quiet here my thou, I see the wait, the closer walk, the art with thee that art: your feet not far behind.


Am going back to winterland tomorrow, am packing, sorting photos, already missing my little ones, my Glen. Am telling myself: chin up, be brave, there's a world out there and you must live in it, you are one of the lucky ones.


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

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers