not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

my mother fashioned me a dress
it began with a thread 
ended with a thread

my daughter sang me a song
it began with a note
ended with a note

this life gave me a body


  1. i'm always wordsless in front of your words... but i fell inside a warm feeling, always

  2. existence seems to be announced by such fragile clues that they are barely there, easily could not have been, are almost indistinguishable from non-being -- a thread, a note of singing, at the beginning and at the end, to lead us in and to lead us out ... i think of ariadne's thread that provides a way back out of the labyrinth, of music heard distantly, three streets over, to be followed ... it is a seduction, is it not? perhaps we are not so much thrown into life as seduced to trace the clues to the spinning place whence they came ...

    and the body the body the body :-) is it also just such a wisp, ever a flow, a tide, between intense presence and intense absence?? so it seems in looking at these pictures. the high contrast that enacts a balance between being and not (which is not a trick -- this is what real bodies do!!), the softness of the offered throat as seduction, inseparably vulnerable and invitation to intimacy (and warmth and breath and voice and pulse). so we flicker between beginning and end, between maze and knowledge ....


  3. James's words say it all!
    My immediate reaction:
    Erin is standing tall, facing the world with determination, her words are traceable objects, stitches and notes...
    I think of when I stood tall, and it goes back to when I was the happiest.

  4. the first photo just takes my breath away...the tender lines of your ear...such a gorgeous shot filled with mystery, loveliness and promise. xo

  5. oh, thank you for coming and looking. i can't add another word. i am deeply grateful for james' articulation.))))

    can you imagine each of us created from nothing? i wonder about, as marion puts it, the tender line of each of your ears. i wonder about the intimacy of being you. i do.



"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))