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."

Monday, January 15, 2007

week three


Three days of freezing rain and the trees are glass in the street lamps and the roof tops are sheets of slick dry ice. I wanted to wake to snow, as promised, the one to three inches that would pad the lake of ice between the back door and the car which we crossed at least twice arm in arm with trepidation. Now it is almost an impossible crossing. And so cold even the snow is fearful.


I am looking again at her: I think it is a her hanging from a noose. I think she is pregnant, her legs curled beneath her. A Madonna with Child. A nursing mother. A blood splattered birthing. She may not be there at all, suspended from her rope in the frame as I saw her. I happened on the scene. But having seen it, I can't now unsee it, a bit of wire dangling from a chain, its twists and turns incidental, no. The form has purpose, is suggestive, is meant to bring the eye to see a head, a neck, a body in the length of line--I am convinced. This too is how line works.




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

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers