A Poetry of Moments

“Time there flowed with poetic speech, allowing for the most alien peace, and yet… there was an intensity of desire present. It was leaden and thick to me, though still disembodied. And really, in light of that most heinous form of yearning, it must be noted that the peace was not the peace of knowing that all things will be well. It was rather a peace of no knowledge, of un-knowledge; mistaken, the misstep.” – from A Mnemonic of Longing, an unpublished essay, 2002-2009.

“Those trees and grasses root into a series of dunes, which are phenomena both ancient and youthful, responding to the world, examples of the physics of particulate flow and erosion. From upon them they seem like simple hills, sinuous and open, breaking easily apart. They are basic structures, with the normal number of flora and fauna. From space they seem to make more sense, a domino-set of waveforms dotting the edge of that glacier lake. They are there in the old photographs on the porch of the Inn, as old as the first land deed, as old as America, as old as the continent. There is a comfort in that continuity, in that destiny of place and time; you feel as if it could always remain or always was. – from A Mnemonic of Longing, an unpublished essay, 2002-2009.

Both images above are from digital photos taken between May and August 2001.

Ten Years Gone

Ten years ago today – May 27th, 2001 – I arrived at Ox-Bow for a three month long fellowship residency.

It’s hard to express to everyone around me how important my time there was, how transformative it was, how much it has stayed with me and influenced everything that I am.

“It is a circus of cycles: rejuvenation and writhing. And each year new initiates take up residence even as the remains of those who had gone before continue a silent obliteration. To call its colors: all manner of greens and the diffuse, languid blues of late summer days, tinseled pinpricks of red and gold. It is a baptism of twilight and smoke, a romance – like long forgotten songs that still ring in the air – of memories echoing in a shell, of sounds muffled in the ear.” – from A Mnemonic of Longing, an unpublished essay, 2002-2009.

Above: The Ox-Bow Lagoon in the gloaming, summer 2001.