Photography
-
Lowell Buried
What a garbage year it’s been! Shockingly (at least to me, given how endless and abbreviated it has managed to feel all at once), we’re already well past the halfway point.
-
August, 2024
Claiming I’m “still alive” would feel like an overstatement, but my being living or dead doesn’t have anything to do with why I haven’t posted here in a while.
-
September 2023
If we were not so single-minded/ about keeping our lives moving,/ and for once could do nothing,/ perhaps a huge silence/ might interrupt this sadness/ of never understanding ourselves/ and of threatening ourselves with/ death
-
August 2023
The crickets sang in the grasses. They sang the song of summer’s ending, a sad, monotonous song. “Summer is over and gone,” they sang. “Over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying.” The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days…
-
July 2023
The weather was fine. They took away his teeth, white & helpful; bothered his backhand; halved his green hair. They blew out his loves, his interests. ‘Underneath,’ (they called in iron voices) ‘understand, is nothing. So there.’
-
May 2023 / Last Summer
The psyche is an ineradicable and errant theater through which the world comes to stage and right itself. We may yet know ordinary unhappiness. While the world is in error, the psyche will be too. A Tragedy of Errors, A Comedy of Terrors, Parapraxis
-
The Mapmaker and the Late Night Cashier
In every act of communication with others, this privacy of the imagination is ruptured and its products intermingle with other products to take on a form that exceeds our own private reach. From the moment that these products emerge into circulation to create friction among one another, sparks of enthusiasm, horror, incomprehension or disruption may…
-
March 2023
What a damn fool thing. He hangs at the bottom of his blood’s avalanche, 300 years of western swamp-Yankees, and can’t manage but some nervous truce with their Providence. A detente. Ruins he goes daily to look in are each a sermon on vanity. That he finds, as weeks wear on, no least fragment of…
Not Enough Time 