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, January 16, 2007

. .


The stop light and building clock, the spun glass of the tree that bends its slivered light towards the lamp mooning in its branches, less aura than bramble, less bramble than carousel at night. The tree shivers with its weight though the morning is still. Seven degrees and branches in the road everywhere cased in ice, for the trees are fragile in this. I almost hold my breath for them. And for the ice, which in every source of light is astonishing. And today they say light but no thaw: full sun, eighteen degrees.


But what am I about? This is looking awfully familiar.


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

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers