the song 'teardrop' by massive attack just came up on my itunes and it was so perfect in the moment that i decided to watch the video. what do you know, the video takes place in a womb with a fetus, which i am fascinated with. heres some stills.

2 pm, new years eve party

nursing home, webster, ny

(today i learned that elderly people seem to be mesmerized by height. at least ten people asked me how tall i was & upon hearing my response nearly everyone subsequently replied 'you should play basketball!')

new work

journey to proverbial iceland

late december 2008

technological advance (click links below)

blind, yet seeing

vision amplifier

cellular reprogramming

a year in the quantum world

bat, googleimages
(bats are just wicked cool).

i think we should all work to create a new way of communication. one that immediately surpasses small talk and gets directly into 'more meaningful' conversation, meaning something more meaningful and intellectual.

i really hate small talk.

olivia bee - flickr.com

edna st. vincent millay

i was in a coffeeshop today eating lunch when a woman came up to me and asked me what i was reading. i told her poetry and she asked the author. charles bukowski, do you know his work? / hes a recent poet right? / yeah, he passed in 1994 though. / yeah, i think ive heard of him. i continued eating my lunch and reading but before she left she came up to me very ominously and said, 'enjoy your poetry, edna st. vincent millay thats who im going to go read. i like the classics, ya know' then she smiled and winked and disappeared through the doors of the restaurant. i take these encounters as small signs, small pieces of something that is building to a bigger whole. when i got home i researched millays life and have found that i really relate to her experiences and thoroughly appreciate a lot of her work.

found

simone de beauvoir (with sartre), googleimages

(i've been reading a lot about the relationship between sartre and simone de beauvoir. its a really fascinating companionship and i've become intrigued with beauvoir. the book in which im reading about them is called interpretations of life, it discusses how various contemporary authors/philosophers perceive life. its pretty interesting, the book (which is from the library) has suspicious looking blood stains on it though which is kind of disgusting and also strangely fascinating).

(i really want to see this film)

i asked a gypsy pal
to imitate an old image
and speak old wisdom.
she drew in her chin,
made her neck and head
the top piece of a nile obelisk
and said:
snatch off the gag from thy mouth, child
and be free to keep silence.
tell no man anything for no man listens,
yet hold thy lips ready to speak.

'gypsy' by carl sandberg

new work

found

kites!
by kite, polanoid.net

by kite, polanoid.net

pieces of christmas
webster, ny

which of us cares to walk
even if god wished
those retching waters where our souls were fished

for this new world? afterwards, we talk
in whispers, close to death
among these stones planted on alien earth.

afterwards,
the ceremony, the careful photograph
moved out of range before the patient tombs,

we dare a laugh,
ritual, desperate words,
born like these children from habitual wombs,

from lives fixed in the unalterable groove
of grinding poverty. i stand out on a balcony
and watch the sun pave its flat, golden path


excerpt from 'laventille' by derek walcott
(this poem is too good)

christmas eve
nani & dziadzis house
irondequoit, ny

i, with legs crossed along the daylight, watch
the variegated fists of clouds that gather over
the uncouth features of this, my prone island.

meanwhile the steamers which divide horizons prove
us lost,
found only
in tourist booklets, behind ardent binoculars;
found in the blue reflection of eyes
that have known cities and think us here happy.

excerpt from 'prelude' by derek walcott

today.
nursing home christmas party

(reminder of the hourglass)

One of his students asked Buddha, "Are you the messiah?"
"No," answered Buddha.
"Then are you a healer?"
"No," Buddha replied.
"Then are you a teacher?" the student persisted.
"No, I am not a teacher."
"Then what are you?" asked the student, exasperated.
"I am awake," Buddha replied.

by lia saile

(this is amazing)

by matt judas
polanoid.net

kristian
october 2008
(i am very fond of this boy)

the color of the sac and stinger of the scorpion
was red, and got its beauty from their poison. bare
feet ache with the threat, the eyes with praise,
the serum for revulsion. praise be, then, that
the armored teardrop searching on the tail
could miss feet, sting sight, and reconcile
death's stamping panic with a vision of form,
red at the point where chance and law join.

'barefoot for a scorpion' by alan dugan

christmas 2007

(i like the warmth of christmas time).