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

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

depth and volume


conceive of the volume! she snapped
slapping the water goblet to the table top
i was twelve
i had no idea
i only knew dry from wet
now go to the well and drain it with this glass
and then find what feeds the well and drain that!
she was tired
so was i
i was twelve and had no idea
she put on her boots despite dull limbs
went out into the winter's night 
latched the barn
cud chewers bawling that mournful hymn
while silver light turned white hills
to water


  1. Replies
    1. thank you for considering it, dirk.


  2. A stunning, profound photograph.

    Volume, depths untold, unknown, movement unceasing, mystery below -- and the fragile ephemeral sails of the everyday, almost out of the picture.

    To have lived one's whole life and made nothing but this photograph, one could pass on to the next life having been an artist -- someone who made a thing that in some way engaged or affected others' lives, at least the once.

    (And of course erin it's not the first time, you're a serial perpetrator in this department.)

    1. tom, you are too generous with me. it is the world which is art. i'm just standing here with my mouth open.

      i came across a phrase today i instantly loved in the charles wright poem "It's Dry For Sure, Dry Enough to Spit Cotton" - huge as all nothingness. i wish i had encountered it and remembered it and titled this post as such.

      to live one's life and to often have such opportunity to stand with mouth gaping - it is an artful life. that's goal enough. the generosity of another who moves intimately in the world, such as yourself, is additional bounty.


  3. The image of the twelve-year old and the old lady shouting orders...What would I say; what would be my reaction? I'm trembling at the lack of warmth in that exchange, knowing that, knowing how one person can bombard another with a concept so immense and foreign...
    The photo echoes that feeling.

  4. I felt like Rosaria, but I did not express it even in myself. I mostly felt astonished at learning in youth how things work, having so very little of that myself. I was just reflecting on it yesterday in fact. How distant I was from everything.

    With tears I sting with gratitude for your gaping mouth, and eyes, which have taught me much, now that my eyes and mouth have begun, just begun to open.

    The photo. Yes. This immense volume, which silences all but the most essential small voices calling at the edge.


"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))