Albrecht Dürer, Young Woman Attacked by Death; or, The Ravisher, c. 1494
I’ve never understood about boredom. I realise that with time and repetition all pleasures can run out. Yelling in our cots and watching them come to hover over us anxiously; sex; TV; reading; long walks on frosty afternoons if that is the sort of thing you like; drugs, even; everything palls, eventually. But how can anyone be bored when there’s always death to think about? Every day. Every hour. Don’t you? All the rest is just evading or glossing the real subject of our lives. Here’s Beckett, the maestro of death: ‘Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and the going. From the word go. I too shall cease and be as when I was not yet, only all over instead of in store.’ (From an Abandoned Work, 1957)
Snatching the eternal out of the desperately fleeting is the great magic trick of human existence.
— Tennessee Williams (via berfrois)
There is unknown dust that is near us
Waves breaking on shores just over the hill
Trees full of birds that we have never seen
Nets drawn with dark fish.
The evening arrives; we look up and it is there
It has come through the nets of the stars
Through the tissues of the grass
Walking quietly over the asylums of the waters.
The day shall never end we think:
We have hair that seemed born for the daylight;
But at last the quiet waters of the night will rise
And our skin shall see far off as it does under water.
Of course it is.
ALL BITCHES THIS IS MY HOME TOWN TAKE A FUCKING SEAT WHILE I TELL YOU THIS STORY. GET A BOWL OF POPCORN BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS DOPE
IN THE 1940’S PORTLAND WAS PUTTING IN LAMPPOSTS AND FOR WHATEVER GOD DAMN REASON THIS ONE NEVER GOT FILLED.
IN 1946, DICK FAGAN, AN AMERICAN IRISHMAN WHO WROTE FOR THE OREGON JOURNAL, GOT BLOODY FUCKING BORED AT HIS JOB AND WOULD LOOK OUT HIS WINDOW ONTO THIS SAD EXCUSE FOR ROAD CONSTRUCTION HOLE. ONE DAY HE SAID “FUCK THIS” AND PLANTED SOME FLOWERS.
HE WROTE ABOUT THIS NEW FUCKING PARK AND SPOKE ABOUT HOW LEPRECHAUNS LIVED THERE AND SHIT. MOTHERFUCKING LEPRECHAUNS IN THE MIDDLE OF DOWNTOWN, WHAT THE SHIT.
HOLD ONTO TO THE EDGE OF YOUR SEATS BECAUSE THIS RIDE GETS EVEN BETTER. THIS PARK HOLDS A GUINNESS WORLD RECORD FOR BEING THE SMALLEST PARK WITH WITH INFORMATION SAYING “It was designated as a city park on 17 March 1948 at the behest of the city journalist Dick Fagan (USA) for snail races and as a colony for leprechauns”. MOTHER. FUCKING. SNAIL RACES. BITCHES.
IT’S EVEN BEEN PIMPED OUT OVER THE YEARS
HO HO HO MOTHERFUCKS WE CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS HERE
WE CARE ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT.
THE BEST PART IS THAT IT EVEN HAD OCCUPY PORTLAND PROTESTERS
SO I HOPE YOU FUCKING LEARNED SOMETHING TODAY ABOUT TINY ASS PARKS.
THIS IS AMAZING.
My arrogance knows no bounds
And I will make no peace today
And you shall be so lucky
To find a woman like me
Today neither will the East claim me
nor the West admit me
Today my belly is a well
wherein serpents are coiled
ready to poison the world,
and you should be so lucky.
All I have is my arrogamce
I will teach it to lean back
and smoke a cigarette in your faces,
and you should be so lucky
No I will make no peace
even though my hands are empty
I will talk as big as I please
I will be all or nothing
And I will jump before the heavy trucks
And I will saw off my leg at the thigh
before I bend one womanly knee
I am poison
And you will drink me
And you should be so lucky.
Jet lag and muscle ache.
I have begun a new creative project in the wee hours - one called Fortune Sites, which I hope will become a chap book I can send to beloved presses.
Working on a flash fiction called ‘effigy’ and eating theraputic just-baked cake.
Sleep is a stranger rn.
Weather. There it is on the stairs in loose pages of snow. We walked a few miles in it yesterday to develop film in the last remaining darkroom on Earth. Just kidding. All the other darkrooms are so dark we can’t find them. We will have our own darkroom soon, somehow. Tell the windows to shut up. Grow a sink from a drain.
Me right before or after giving a reading at my open studio, The Banff Centre.
You can’t see from this angle but the studio was packed (hence Jeff Mair tucked away in the corner). The photographer Amy Dryer was standing on a footstool to take this.
I read from my novel ms Flesh of the Peach, and every bit was mildly salty, full of longing and sexual tension, so slightly difficult there.
See more about the open studios here.