Rupture was the strongest current this year—fray, shock, unmooring. Yet somehow beneath it all, continuity still flowed; and I saw this…
Raising a glass of goats milk to the 29th year. another birthday
I’ve been working on this series I’m calling “Pocket Nature Diaries” to help feel more connected to the PNWs native/naturalized bugs, animals and plants — hopefully you do too!
October is of the Orb-Weaver! She’s a beaut
#fieldguide
apricots squeeze themselves in palm
sweet, sticky liquid drops down graceful gullies
delicious droplets, swift in wind,
spin unto clouds—a taste of memory
no one remembers being made
Apricot Hour
She was a machine
of silk and shadow--
each motion clean,
calculated,
of choreographed ease.
Performing grace
without pause.
But even silk frays.
And the slowing came.
Limbs hesitate,
unthread.
Her inward turn
of trust and necessity.
The universal internal--push and pull.
Unwitnessed
divinity.
She emerged.
softer
unmasked
alive
This mini doc has been on my mind recently. Ground Score Association is located downtown on NW Broadway and Couch--check them out and their ingenious recycling!
Thank you to the team:
Direction and Interviewer -- Me
Camera Op -- @onewheelcamera
Camera Op -- @candace_chiaroscuro
Camera Op -- Charlize Sledge
Audio -- @kai.tillman
In 1869, under a veil of morning mist, James Bates made his way to a secluded valley in Missouri. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth, the hills quiet but alive with promise. He carried with him little more than determination—and a rumor whispered by travelers: land was being offered, vast and untouched.
No one knew how he had come by the means, or the connection, to claim such an opportunity. Maybe the vast history of our family purchasing and selling ranches. Some said he had once crossed paths with a Union officer during the war; others believed he’d discovered something—an artifact or knowledge—that gave him leverage. Whatever the truth, by year’s end, he held a parchment in his hands, sealed with authority and bearing the unmistakable signature of Ulysses S. Grant.
The land, now his, stretched far beyond what they could yet tame. He and family worked silently and diligently, carving out a life in the wilderness, yet never speaking much of how the land came to be. The deed was kept safe, locked away, its story a secret that only deepened with each passing year.
In the power of your molten eyes,
tenderness shimmers morning dew
heavy enough to stream a few.
Beneath, thunderheads whisper
of longing dreams;
caressing tense seams.
In the depth of your gaze,
I assume your rays.
Enough to flow through this tie,
as morning dew meets I.
I trace the lines of my longing
to a thin and equal beat
This air stands empty, containing fragmented dreams—
traced and rewritten
In liminal space, I surrender
Freedom sighs rise and fill
heartbeating echoes through shadows
I pulse
a new weighty presence
in the blush of something real, I tread in a sea of wheat
the winds run wild while their horizons blur
roads unravel, distant, beguiled;
unravel miles of whispers only wanderers incur
fade into quiet grey
How yummy.
In a river of silver,
we drift towards something deeper.
Your hands steady the current while you sleep; softly, swiftly
And a silver moon reflects as I look toward dawns to come.
Where silver meets Earth, I’ve found a place to anchor
River silver, carry us home
