Monday, August 31, 2020


I do not know why we speak of bad days. No twenty-four hours is bad on its own; it is just the time of day. This is much the way I lament talk of good and bad people, of good and evil. There seems only the spectrum of cloudy, gray hours and behavior that isn't readily pinned to cork above a label of what it is and excluding all it isn't. I am a joyously tormented human who experience hours of perceived worthlessness, hours of peace and friendship, moments of laughter and insight, and a good portion of the last fifty-five minutes in tears. I thought about my death today. I wondered when it will come and whether or not I will be the instigator. I felt longing. I felt despair. I captured three photographic images within thirty yards of my apartment door. I have embraced my youngest son, texted his three older siblings, enjoyed the wisdom, charm, and intellect of three friends, texted K— that I think she would be better off without me after she again attempted to squelch my voice. I am writing words. I am mercurial. The content will ever change. It was not a bad day. There are no good nor evil people. There is this moment, then this. Then this. Hickory-dickory-doc, the mouse ran up the clock. Vivaldi's Four Seasons through my headphones. I am waiting for sleep, waiting for tomorrow.

Sunday, August 30, 2020

Friday, August 28, 2020


Still practicing the tightrope. Some days I think I’m getting better.

My work has taken the shape of photographing South Provo. I am caught up, enthralled, or as K— puts it, obsessed. The shapes and textures here move my heart, give me a longing for the story beneath each layer. I get to know people, residents both past and present. I see their hopes and the dreams gone by. One wouldn’t likely find this place as rich and decadent as I do, but I don’t conjure from midair. And I mourn the passing of stories I can only just puzzle together.

I am in love with the south end of town. I want to see it preserved and cherished. I want to see improvements in the lives of the people without gentrification. My neighbors should not have to leave their homes for aesthetic upkeep. Maintenance should not require the influx of wealthier tenants. I don’t know who owns the land beneath me. I don’t know if that ownership goes to the core of the earth. But the bodies buried across the street are each allocated six feet from lawn to slumber. I would count the stones if I had a cool day to wander the cemetery grounds. It wasn’t five years ago it opened its hoary maw and swallowed and fenced another two acres. Accommodations for future guests. Even though the earth does not expand.

I love this place although I foresee leaving it. My final nestling is just years from the edge of our abode, before he springboards into a world so far from his imagination that he’s only seen it in movies. Isn’t it the same for all of us? I already miss what is not yet gone. And where to next? Where to?

“Might I,” quavered Mary, “might I have a bit of earth?”

Monday, August 17, 2020


I would like the attention span of an egret as opposed to that of an earwig. I'll leave it to the pachyderms to chew on that one. It's tough, but nothing like bronchial spasms. I hear wing nuts are easy to screw; it's all in the finger work. If the Queen of England shat blue, would any of us be surprised? I think witches might spell things out for us. They could tell us about the time the Earth was mud. God dipped his fingers in to shore up foundations, restore site. We all knew. Every pie a palace, a person. Holy temples both. Some hold fast like quicksand. Every line justifies how long you took to read it.