theparisreview:

Tied Shoe
When evening breaks upits mass of cloudsthe grass fire can be seenraising its smokesflowers come up in the ravinesa little of the day is leftas a boy in an iron-grey smockleans toward the ruts in the roadto tie his shoewith no boredom about lifeno trace of absence.
—Jean Follain, from “Eleven Poems from D’Après Tout.”Photography: Michael Rudd.

Poems for evening, I like them.

theparisreview:

Tied Shoe

When evening breaks up
its mass of clouds
the grass fire can be seen
raising its smokes
flowers come up in the ravines
a little of the day is left
as a boy in an iron-grey smock
leans toward the ruts in the road
to tie his shoe
with no boredom about life
no trace of absence.

Jean Follain, from “Eleven Poems from D’Après Tout.”
Photography: Michael Rudd.

Poems for evening, I like them.

Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.
Ernest Hemingway  (via elige)

(via raccoongalaxy)

AWP cruisers: draw a circle on your name tag if you’re into ladies, a triangle if you like the gents, and a smiley if you go for folks of any gender. Me, I find ‘em all sexy, but you do you. 

AWP cruisers: draw a circle on your name tag if you’re into ladies, a triangle if you like the gents, and a smiley if you go for folks of any gender. Me, I find ‘em all sexy, but you do you. 

The world has lost a couple of joy-bringers, and I feel all weepy and elegiac. Within minutes of waking up this morning, I learned that since I was last conscious and paying attention, both Shirley Temple Black and Leonard Knight had passed away. I’m sure you know about Shirley. Leonard is the man who build a giant every-colored, mountain for Jesus out of clay and paint out in the desert in California. It’s become a major folk art landmark and has appeared in several films. I first met Leonard in 2009, when I spent a month in Slab City, the squatter community next to Salvation Mountain. He was already suffering from dementia then, and on the short audio recording I made of our conversation, he mostly repeats the words,”Love is simple. Don’t get it complicated.” To have these two go on the same day gets me thinking about how people are connected. Shirley and Leonard were on earth almost all the same years (Shirley was 85 when she died, Leonard was 82), lived through the same wartimes, youth movements, art movements, cruelty, rock n’ roll, cults, gas rationing, perms, hysteria, joy, tupperware, life. Certainly Leonard knew about Shirley, would have likely watched her dance and sing in the movies when he was a little boy in Vermont during the Great Depression. I’d like to think Shirley knew about him too. In the version of the world I prefer to imagine, she visits him at Salvation Mountain. Stepping out of her car onto the hot dust, she turns and sees the impossible green and pink domes of the mountain. Leonard is there, holding one of his nameless cats. He and Shirley exchange kisses on the cheek. Wordlessly, he takes her hand and leads her up the striped path he spent years carving into the mountain’s face. From the top, they can see mountain ranges folding out on all sides. They can see the gorgeous, putrid manmade sea shimmering down in the valley. Puffs of steam from geothermal power plants rise gently into the blue. A light breeze lifts the hair off their foreheads and for just a moment, everything smells like peppermint.The world can always use another tap dancer, another technicolor mountain-maker. Sleep well, beautifuls. 

The world has lost a couple of joy-bringers, and I feel all weepy and elegiac. Within minutes of waking up this morning, I learned that since I was last conscious and paying attention, both Shirley Temple Black and Leonard Knight had passed away. I’m sure you know about Shirley. Leonard is the man who build a giant every-colored, mountain for Jesus out of clay and paint out in the desert in California. It’s become a major folk art landmark and has appeared in several films. I first met Leonard in 2009, when I spent a month in Slab City, the squatter community next to Salvation Mountain. He was already suffering from dementia then, and on the short audio recording I made of our conversation, he mostly repeats the words,”Love is simple. Don’t get it complicated.” 

To have these two go on the same day gets me thinking about how people are connected. Shirley and Leonard were on earth almost all the same years (Shirley was 85 when she died, Leonard was 82), lived through the same wartimes, youth movements, art movements, cruelty, rock n’ roll, cults, gas rationing, perms, hysteria, joy, tupperware, life. Certainly Leonard knew about Shirley, would have likely watched her dance and sing in the movies when he was a little boy in Vermont during the Great Depression. I’d like to think Shirley knew about him too. In the version of the world I prefer to imagine, she visits him at Salvation Mountain. Stepping out of her car onto the hot dust, she turns and sees the impossible green and pink domes of the mountain. Leonard is there, holding one of his nameless cats. He and Shirley exchange kisses on the cheek. Wordlessly, he takes her hand and leads her up the striped path he spent years carving into the mountain’s face. From the top, they can see mountain ranges folding out on all sides. They can see the gorgeous, putrid manmade sea shimmering down in the valley. Puffs of steam from geothermal power plants rise gently into the blue. A light breeze lifts the hair off their foreheads and for just a moment, everything smells like peppermint.

The world can always use another tap dancer, another technicolor mountain-maker. Sleep well, beautifuls. 

I love trains. And people. On my way back from visiting the illustrious Jamila Keba in Vancouver, I met many beautiful people. I met a professional flamenco dancer and a man who had just finished walking across the country. I met workers, vacationers, survivors, mothers, daughters. I shot some video and recorded some audio to make this little collage.

Special thanks to Keith, Glen and Kathleen.

Music: Laura Gibson’s “Sweet Deception” from her album Beast of Seasons.

ars poetica

anneboyer:

the NYT said “the poet’s work is to make a private vision public”
but fuck the NYT  

I’m the public vision
made private

 Jasper Johns said
a fork makes a better painting
than a painting makes a fork

but fuck Jasper Johns
from now on I’m eating with Guernica 


twenty first century girl

I was shooting a video of the Bucktown neighborhood for my job this weekend, a little real estate montage about how harmonious and lovely the neighborhood is. Here are a few things that won’t make it into the video.

1) Seen below a basement level window. Fly well, sweet winged friend, to the land where there are no hard pieces of sky.

2) He saw me admiring his cool bike contraption (which he designed and built himself) and asked if I wanted a picture of it. I said yes, and then he got very mock stern and threatened to sue me for my “beautiful, dangerous smile.”

3) View of the city from the bridge near the dump.

4) Evening sun on the dump.

5) This man saw me all set up with my tripod from the other side of the intersection. When the crosswalk signal turned on, he walked into the middle of the street and did variations of this face for about a full minute.

6) Only three reasons?!

1) Videos of where I am. 2) Observations of people and things near me. 3) Historical facts, images, and moving pictures. 4) Poems and shortish prose by others and sometimes by me.

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