"Why is the galaxy shoe in the water?"

two windows found on my walk home

found as is along 33rd St, Baltimore

found as is along Chestnut Hill Ave, Baltimore

We go to bed, but we don't sleep too hard.

We are crying out. We are black cats. We are lucky pennies. We are rotten food. We are cut zombie legs. We are building a raft. We are the ocean.

common rituals

knock on wood
rubbing part of a bronze statue

Abraham Lincoln state, Taylorville, IL

coffee

when it rains it pours

Hunger Games billboard on the green line Morgan St. CTA platform

* * * * *

Smoke

Hummingbirds make explosions in the dying white flowers—not only the white flowers are dying but old women are falling from branches everywhere—in smoking pits outside the city, other dead things, too, are burning—and what can be done? Few people know. Dogs have been lost in more than one place, and their owners do not love the Countryside anymore. No—old women have fallen and lie with their cancerous cheeks among the roots of oak trees. Everywhere, everywhere. And the earth is sprouting things we do not dare look at. And the smoking pits have consumed other unnamable things, things we are glad to see go. The smoke, tall and thick as mountains, makes our landscape. There are no more mountains. Long ago they were gone, not even in the memory of our grandfathers. The cloud, low over our heads, is our sky. It has been a long age since anyone saw a sky, saw anything blue. The fog is our velvet, our armchair, our bed. The trees are purple in it. The candles of flowers are out now. The fog is soft, it has no claws, not yet. Our grandmothers’ purple teeth crave. They crave things we would not even recognize anymore, though our grandmothers remember—they cry out at a bridge. Too many things to name are gone and we are left with this clowning earth, these cynical trees— shadows, all, of themselves. And we, too, are beyond help. Some only are less cancerous than others, that is all, some have more left, of their bones, of their hair, of their organs. Who can find a way around the smoking pits, the greedy oaks? Who can find a path to take among the lost and dying dogs back to where the hummingbirds, though mad, still explode the flowers, flowers still though dying?

-Lydia Davis, from "Almost No Memory", 1997

* * * * *

11/27/13

too far silly

11/28/13

pot of gold

pennies stuck in the fencing of a CTA platform

11/30/13

"she was blond and ironed"

Reebok brand cross-fit tractor tire

Michelin\Reebok cross-fit shoe

-

loving what you do is not a reason to be paid less than what your labor is worth (!)

12/1/13

 "off the bone"

"... the clock answers my questions about the time very well..." (from Examples of Confusion by Lydia Davis)

the},r (Google drive image/text conversion error for Smoke)

 

parts of the murals in El Taco Veloz, Chicago