According to experts, the answer is yes. It’s only the second known image of the poet, and the first showing her as an adult. ‘Tis a big deal, no? Still No New Pynchon Photo, but Here’s Emily Dickinson-The New York Times
Emily Dickinson gets a new look in recovered photograph-The Guardian
I know, I know. Autumn doesn’t start until the 22nd. It’s still ninety degrees where I live, but I can feel a change. The ceaseless seasonal breeze has returned, bandying leaves about in her dancing wake. I’m excited, but apprehensive; yet I know that summer will be back. When she arrives next year, this is the first thing I will do in wanton celebration.
If you cry “Forward,”
you must make plain in what direction to go.-Anton Chekhov
When I cannot write, I look up. Craned neck, closed eyes. I swivel my creaking chair, and open them.
Meditative whir and whirl
Rendered in black-and-white, like rubbed-away ink on a faded page.
*“…beating time along the edge of thought.”-Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Although hundreds of trees spread across the distant horizon like ink blots, the park adjacent to my flat is the only true green spot in this industrial neighborhood.
Pretty flowers and plants near the old workhouse wall that dissects my neighborhood.
I’m partial to the rust and dust and accumulated dirt, the graffiti and old buildings that litter the CW. The flowers are bright and perky, but they’ll die in service to the coming season. I like the good bones of the stone and brick structures, even if the edges are crumbly. They last, even if they are a bit shabby.
*I will be the gladdest thing/Under the sun!/I will touch a hundred flowers/And not pick one”-Edna St. Vincent Millay, Afternoon on a Hill
It lives on a shelf above my desk. I look at it when I need to loosen my thoughts, daydream.
House of card
The card was made in Nepal and purchased in Montreal, but it reminds me of Kafka, Prague, and my artist friend Jack. I wonder, do the windows creak when they open? I’ve never been dreamy nor drunk enough to find out. Pity.
DAY 199: MGM Posters The Golden Years
I came across this whilst wandering around Half Price Books last night. It called my name to the scream of a punk beat. “I’m yours, yours, YOURS, Maeeedezzzzzzzzzzz!”
Route 19 Revisited
How could I resist, especially on the eve of Joe’s birthday?
Route 19 Revisited, The Clash and London Calling
He would have been 60 years old today.
*From Clash City Rockers by The Clash
As of 6:00 PM Wednesday, this was the photograph I was going to post for my 35th Daily Diversion.
Yum! Tacos!
Last week, a friend opened an eclectic little taco shop in the neighborhood behind ours. We missed the official opening because we were out-of-state attending a family wedding/staring at the Toronto skyline. We’re hardcore devotees, though, so we made up for it by walking 3 miles round trip just to eat a few heaven-stuffed tortillas. Afterwards, when we rounded the side of our building, instead of seeing an empty street…we saw a police cruiser and a wrecker hoisting up a strange car. Then, this pitiful sight:
Innocent bystander
Our parked Durango was just collateral damage in the broad daylight shenanigans of a random heroin addict, who decided to shoot up whilst careening down the street in a too-fast car with her baby strapped in the back seat. RHA is in the county lock-up, the unharmed baby is with his/her Grandma and our (only) vehicle is likely headed to the great scrap pile in the sky. It was hit with enough force to move it 4 feet forward and 2 feet to the side from where my husband left it last night.
I haven’t trotted out Millais’ Ophelia for a while, but she is perfect for so many situations.
Until the insurance adjusters have come and gone-for good or ill-this is how you will find me.
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 