Episodic watery visions. The soothing shores of Astotin Lake come into view as we emerge from time to time on our path through the woods. Imagine bees, berries, bison, beaver, birds and a poodle.
Wherein a woman walks and muses. The shape of the woods sounds like birds. Writers abound. The stories cross oceans and wave. All this to try to stem the tide in her head of climate catastrophe and the rise of authoritarian regimes here there & everywhere. Keeping a world on self-destruct at bay.
27 July 2019 Today feels very bleak. (A hasty draft journal in time.) Bleakness breeds hasty remedies. Cultish solutions seem tantalizing to thoughtful people. The news of the day is all about the bitter tyrants winning. All over the world. I am caught up in meditating on a death. In the public sphere, the global… Continue reading Give Me Too Much: An Ode to Excess
22 September 2018 When you’re drunk it’s so much fun—Your stories don’t make sense. An early fall has strung The elms with yellow flags.Anna Akhmatova "i feel like a stranger" says the woman across the tablewhose glass of wine is alwaysthe first of the evening. The second evaporatesin the mind before the swallowof her "disappearing… Continue reading “i feel like a stranger” (my mother’s brain)