This exquisitely sad and spooky ruin was in its glory on a rainy day in early November. The signs (in this detail, visible in the lower right) were hand-stenciled, and warned “Danger of Death.” Perhaps the signage came a few centuries too late for the humans. Quite incomprehensible to the plants, though. Clearly, the...
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WRITTEN IN PARIS. With a relentless procession of holidays emerging from the sepulcher, we stare into the gullet of familiarity, of tradition. Some chew into a turkey neck with a gristly soupcon of delight. Others reel off in a mad jig of horror at the prospect. This is what we do, and this...
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WRITTEN IN PARIS Introducing Bumblemoth’s ”MAN ON THE STREET” in Paris, who just this afternoon has magically captured the sentiments of the everyday beautiful people of Paris concerning the upcoming artistic collaboration between ancestrally linked German artist Paetrick Schmidt and the gal-about-galaxy Quintan Ana Wikswo. This incipient project involves ghosts of dragons in the...
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WRITTEN IN SERECOURT Discovered human bones late on a winter’s afternoon, whilst walking amongst the upheaval of the ancient cemetery of Lamarche. To which box beneath the soil do they belong? Or were they once fur-covered?
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It’s powerfully cold here, with thick opalescent mist that has ceased to lift throughout days that offer only a few hours of light. Depending on my mood, it’s merangue, or a cataract. Opaque. In the fields next to the house, the flock of tender-eyed sheep are soaking wet, with wool coats that seem to...
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I’m living in a very old structure atop the Haut de Fee – or Hill of Faeries – it’s possible to learn more by looking into the Celtic fairy mounds, which were places of great enchantment and creative power. Prior to the Celts, these faery mounds were typically burial mounds. Like KRYZIU KALNAS in...
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I went to sleep last night watching the stars over the North Atlantic, as the jet barreled through the skies towards Paris. Tonight, Paris is a saxophone dampened by a red velvet fog, where I watched the moon rise from atop the Eiffel Tour. Tomorrow it’s an early sojourn to Gare de l’Est to sort...
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I have trouble with Wyoming. Sure, its natural beauty is beyond comprehension. But the incessant gunfire places scenic vistas a little lower down on my list of preoccupying priorities. The Black Forest was lovely too, I’m sure, as all the witches burned. My trouble with Wyoming surrounds the prevailing attitude towards what I’ll call...
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The first secret I remember keeping was this woman my grandmother telling me she had bought me my grave. A grave of my own, tucked under an English Oak tree in a small cemetery in a small town in Virginia. The plot was small, and there wasn’t room for everybody, but back then there...
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