This Moment: October 15, 2010 7:40 P.M.
The last blue shadow has merged into pitch-colored blackness. Blue light and white noise from the laptop are the lone sensory details. On the opposite side of this country a man, if he lives through the night, will have beaten his genes. His heart will be the sole survivor in a long line of men whose hearts have given up,on, or before their fiftieth birthday. Strange, that of all of his line, he, would live. Perhaps it is for his two daughters. One that lives with him, and for the other that lives upstairs, who doesn't remember that today is this man's birthday. And who can blame a child for forgetting a father's birthday, a man who long ago, forgot his daughter. The skies are crowded with planes making thier way over my house to and from opposites sides of the country. They fly through the darkness, but they are not blind.
Where I Live - Utah's Rocky Mountains in Early Fall
I took all three photos close to the mouth of Ogden Canyon. I used to bike this back when I was barely graduated from high shool and headed to college.
My Own Back Yard - Love Tree & Willow Tree Lane
Love Tree Lane.
Signs for the family's private lane. Mom had them made three years ago for their 47th anniversary.
Willow Tree Lane.
The Coffee Project: October 8-11, 2010
October 11, 2010. Back at Einstein's talk-shouting about the neverending King Lear scene.
October 10, 2010. At Grounds for Coffee. He is scandalized we must pay for a refill. A large man in a kilt ordering quiche and a skinny mocha.
October 9, 2010. At Dylan's since Grannie Annie's was overcrowded. A ride afterwards surveying his empire, discussing his hopes for his family and legacy.
October 8, 2010. At Starbucks. I'm reflected in the mirror. Love that he's stifling a laugh.
Poem Therapy at 1:49 P.M. - Hard Evidence by Timothy Liu
Hard Evidence
Timothy Liu
A room walled-in by books where the hours withdraw.
At the foot of an unmade bed a bird of paradise.
Motel carpet melted where an iron had been.
His attention anchored to a late night glory hole.
Of janitorial carts no heaviness like theirs.
Desire seen cavorting with the yes inside the no.
A soul kiss swimming solo in an open wound.
The self as church where the whores now gather in.
It is a fact that I must be shown evidence of something I do not want to see, at the very least, three times. It is also a fact that three strikes means you are out. The third strike came in last night an hour before midnight.
Sti-Rke! You're Out!
Timothy Liu
A room walled-in by books where the hours withdraw.
At the foot of an unmade bed a bird of paradise.
Motel carpet melted where an iron had been.
His attention anchored to a late night glory hole.
Of janitorial carts no heaviness like theirs.
Desire seen cavorting with the yes inside the no.
A soul kiss swimming solo in an open wound.
The self as church where the whores now gather in.
It is a fact that I must be shown evidence of something I do not want to see, at the very least, three times. It is also a fact that three strikes means you are out. The third strike came in last night an hour before midnight.
Sti-Rke! You're Out!
Poem Therapy at 1:04 P.M. October 8, 2010 -
Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog)
A. Van Jordan
Because a razor cuts across a frame of film,
I wince, squinting my eye,
and because my day needs assembly
to make sense of the scenes anyway,
making a story from some pieces of truth, I go
outside to gather those pieces.
Thousands of moments spooling out
frames of mistakes in my day.
As if anyone's to blame,
as if anyone could interpret the colliding
images, again and again, dragging
my imagination behind me,
I begin assembling.
I don't know anything, so I seek
directions, following the path
of ants from your palm, out
the apartment door to
a beach. Is this where I'm
supposed to ask if my hands on you
bend some light around shade? Maybe
I'm not ready for the answer. They say
art imitates what we can sculpt or write
or just see when we turn ourselves
inside out. I can't turn my eye away
from the sight of failure. The rain pelts rooftops.
I listen to the song, thinking
when the sun comes back,
beating down the door
in my head, I'll salvage whatever sits
still long enough for me to render,
before anyone knows what really happened.
I remember trying on many narratives growing up until finally one day the stories I'd been telling myself about my life became the truth, just as much as the stories my characters tell me, are true.
I'm beginnng to believe I've pieced my story, my reality, my life together in the same manner women used to piece and stich quilts together using remnants.
I suppose I'm thinking this way because I'm creating a new narrative and seeing the old story for what it is: frayed bits and pieces, that I stiched together until I had a large enough quilt to wrap around me and keep me warm.
Each time I've reinvented myself I've felt, this, this is it, this feels right. And I'm sure it did, then. It's time again to rewrite my narrative. The past is what it is, even the present is, and I can't and really don't want to change them, but, the future is the new story I'm writing, starting right now...
It was an overcast rainy day when Danna turned off her computer...
A. Van Jordan
Because a razor cuts across a frame of film,
I wince, squinting my eye,
and because my day needs assembly
to make sense of the scenes anyway,
making a story from some pieces of truth, I go
outside to gather those pieces.
Thousands of moments spooling out
frames of mistakes in my day.
As if anyone's to blame,
as if anyone could interpret the colliding
images, again and again, dragging
my imagination behind me,
I begin assembling.
I don't know anything, so I seek
directions, following the path
of ants from your palm, out
the apartment door to
a beach. Is this where I'm
supposed to ask if my hands on you
bend some light around shade? Maybe
I'm not ready for the answer. They say
art imitates what we can sculpt or write
or just see when we turn ourselves
inside out. I can't turn my eye away
from the sight of failure. The rain pelts rooftops.
I listen to the song, thinking
when the sun comes back,
beating down the door
in my head, I'll salvage whatever sits
still long enough for me to render,
before anyone knows what really happened.
I remember trying on many narratives growing up until finally one day the stories I'd been telling myself about my life became the truth, just as much as the stories my characters tell me, are true.
I'm beginnng to believe I've pieced my story, my reality, my life together in the same manner women used to piece and stich quilts together using remnants.
I suppose I'm thinking this way because I'm creating a new narrative and seeing the old story for what it is: frayed bits and pieces, that I stiched together until I had a large enough quilt to wrap around me and keep me warm.
Each time I've reinvented myself I've felt, this, this is it, this feels right. And I'm sure it did, then. It's time again to rewrite my narrative. The past is what it is, even the present is, and I can't and really don't want to change them, but, the future is the new story I'm writing, starting right now...
It was an overcast rainy day when Danna turned off her computer...
The Coffee Project: October 4-7, 2010
October 7, 2010. A better day. Conversation peppered with sob's. If he's swearing, it's a good day.
October 6, 2010. Coffee at home in the comfort zone. Rainy day by the fire.
October 5, 2010. Sixty-four years ago he was on a ship headed to Guam, with a stopover at his base in Hawaii.
October 4, 2010. Coffee after a day of trimming branches on their private Love Tree Lane.These are the week's photos. I plan to add today's and Sunday's photo on next week's photo essay.
I think these photos document his days. His face, and his shirt changes, (or lack thereof), tell their own stories.
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