a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
“Is the spring coming?” he said. “What is it like?”…
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…”
― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
“Oh, look how beautiful the sun is shining through the trees!” I said, drunk on the last golden light of evening glowing through the golden leaves of the ginko trees.
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I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet it in a garden. — Ruth Stout It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. — Charles Dickens In the…
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Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to…
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There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
after completing messes of men, the first part of my photography project inspired by mewithoutYou’s brother, sister, cranking the second part out was surprisingly easy. as part of this shoot i learned about betta fish and discovered just how many things cockle burrs can latch onto. [and how cold 40-degree weather can be — thanks…
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i’ve talked before about my love for mewithoutYou’s album brother, sister, and my desire to “illustrate” it, so to speak, through photography and other media. a desire four or five years in the making finally got off the ground last march when i did two shoots based on “messes of men,” the first song on…
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the following photos illustrate the story of ingrid … but what precisely that story is remains for you to discover. innocence abroad and the gogglette bring you … the spy who stayed out in the cold.
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poetry sings the untold beauty
the desperate value of things
“… I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be.” — Joan Didion, Slouching Toward Bethlehem
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Last autumn when I got to do a talk about “the art of noticing” — the relationship betwen wonder and the act of creating — one of my friends asked what my creative process was like. My first thought, honestly, was “what process?”
Read Morethere was a man named art garfunkel
whose trousers were starting to rumple
the spring-glad trees
have loosed their blossoms
mother bun thinks it’s fun
to nest beneath the tool shed
drip drip drip drip (is that the raindrops or the sink or my nose?)
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when i was a child
i wanted all the answers
thinking if i knew what was ahead
the waiting somehow surely would be easier
at the white house on the corner they’re having a tree cut down —
a perfectly good tree, by the looks of things, with pale green baby leaves bursting from the branches —
if i dream it long enough, often enough
will that make it real
this apparent dearest wish
of my subconscious soul?