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."

Friday, August 29, 2008

. . . . .


Del Rio, Emporium


Walking in fog: only the clock face on the building across the yards and the stoplight behind it shine through. It is like that with pain, too. It grows a veil through which the clock face floats up close with its silvery incremented pangs. I've been measuring pain since spring when my spine gave over to chronic spasms. Is it a color? Violet blue, like the fog in the trees' heads, everywhere. Is it a light? The ones in the closet flickering against the hum of their batteries. I am the battery.


Walked four miles. Made a pot of Earl Gray with milk. Ate a banana. Lifted on the Bean. Typed a schedule. Chatted with printer tech support about mysterious error-lit icon. Tried to describe it for a long time. Printer won't print. And is out of toner. Ate chicken and mozzarella. Lost focus.


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

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers