Thursday, January 29, 2009


28 January 2009

I trace the curve of my belly
too many times a day to count
with my eyes. I watch my skin
rise and fall in different places
than it used to, and I wonder
when these dunes will cease
to shift. My thoughts are prone

to solidify more swiftly
than the contours of my breasts--
from moment to moment,
I think, “this shape is It--
this is Me,” and the synapses fire


Then the wind picks up,
and the dunes shift again.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

the branch

28 January 2009

Wind whips the young, ice-glazed
branches of our slender sycamore sapling
out back, and I think hard at the tree,
“Hold on!” I suppose that one branch
is not so necessary in the larger scheme.
But that’s the branch upon which
my grandson will place his foot someday
to scale the limbs outside my window.
That branch will let my granddaughter
climb the tree a year or two sooner,
because the rule has always been
if you can reach it, you can climb it.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Untitled-- nude in acrylic

Nudity in art

I have received some criticism in the last year or so as my artwork begins to take a more sensual turn. I think there are a lot of people who tend to identify nudity in general, and portrayal of nudity in art in particular, as pornographic. I do not share this tendency, though the comments I've received re: my sculptures and a couple of my paintings tends to make me a little gunshy when it comes to sharing them. Nevertheless, my next post, tonight or sometime tomorrow morning, will fall under the classification of "fine art nude." Consider yourselves warned.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Newest painting

This one emerges out of some recent events--a little too personal to explain, but I think it's a cool painting anyway. I don't think it's quite finished. But it has a very fairy-ish, will-o'-the-wisp feeling to it.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

computer woes

My computer completely stopped working three days ago. It won't boot at all. We bought a new hard drive, because we thought that might be the problem and I wanted more space anyway, but the hard drive is apparently not the only problem. So I'm sending it off to Apple tomorrow and hoping (against hope) to have it back by the end of the week.

I fully realized how dependent I was on my computer, and when I realized the hard drive hadn't fixed the problem, I was *extremely* discouraged. It's strange that the internet has become such a presence that it almost feels like something I *need* is missing. I know it's not a necessity, and I'm fully capable of going without, but the psychological strain its absence causes gives me pause--perhaps I should unplug more often.

Thursday, January 15, 2009


15 January 2009

He thrives on stories,
epigram or epic--
hears them with relish,
tells them with an eye
toward making you believe
he was there,
saw it with his own eyes,
whether he actually did or not.
Who can tell? His joy is complete
in the sharing of experience
(his or someone else’s),
though he’d have you believe otherwise.
He is a lover of experiences,
but his addiction is reliving, retelling
an experience that never really dies

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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