This morning a bitter cold settles in around the bones and creeps inward through doorways and windowsills. For all of modern technology, there is a rim of ice on the inside of the windowpane, rising. Ice and water move differently than we’d expect. There is gravity, and there are icicles. But water also builds, grows …
There is a passage in Dostoevsky, in the Brothers K, where Demitri’s lover is visiting him in prison. He has a conversion moment. He falls to his knees and asks her forgiveness. I don’t know if the agency of his grace being a tender hearted woman means anything or not. I reckon it does. I …
The light, now, is white. White on the highway, alabaster clouds, bone colored sky. Sun is nothing if not a seared hole in the atmosphere. On the corn, the light pools. It looks like light flashing on currents of water. The fields are my ocean, my sea, my distance: on the hottest days, the humid …
It is only passion that makes us worthwhile. A thunderstorm darkens the day before it’s yet night, and the world closes in around my little solitude. The rain nailing the windowpane with its million small hammers, negating the sky, making it all one soggy atmosphere. It takes courage, I think, to take such questions seriously: …
