My paternal grandmother, May, was the first person in my memory to have linked the term “doctor” and my name together. I don’t know if a doctorate in education was what she meant, but one must follow their passion. She was also the voice that I remember around the nickname, Jacey Spacey, which she called me often…for good reason, as I was very imaginative and could lose hours in my created worlds. For as long as I knew her, there was never a companion. She was a self-reliant, complete person that shared her love of music and art and baking…
Sound sets ground humming —
worms writhe from my brother & sisters
onto bleached white surfaces,
laughing clouds of ash, rising
powder of anti-gravity.
Everything afraid throbs tirelessly
against windows unseen.
Washing uncertainty suffers me &
pastels pour from torn sky.
Across stringed lights ants march
to resemble the form nights take,
always beginning as blood
orange Turner sunsets black.
Vertigo yells us inside, high again &
future mountains made to steal air
burn shallow breathing fire &
planes crash endlessly as prayer.
(Originally published by Words Apart in 2015 and in my digital chapbook out on Epigraph in 2017.)
“While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.” — 2 Corinthians 4:18
“My hunch is that the affective outline of what we’ve lost might bring us closer to the bodies we want still to touch than the restored illustration can. Or at least the hollow of the outline might allow us to understand more deeply why we long to hold bodies that are gone.” Peggy Phelan (1997)
I have been thinking about presence…
Quite a few of poems selected have been published individually throughout the past four years, but this collection (and the sequencing) took a little time. The most impressive piece of the whole work for me was the wonderful cover photograph and design. Thank you to Lianne Guerra Jepson and Thomas Doughty for lending their amazing talents to create such a striking cover.
David Lynch always returns to important influences in his art, as evidenced by the childhood memories found in the text and imagery of his paintings, the obsessive focus on stark contrasts of light and shadow in his photography and cinema, and a deep reservoir of knowledge of the space in which he works. As a director, for which he is arguably most known (although he is a musician, writer, painter, photographer, and more), Lynch creates what appears to be a complete vision that incorporates references as disparate as jazz (think, Fats Waller in 1977’s Eraserhead), Transcendental Meditation (Dale Cooper in…
When reading articles via the internet, it’s probably a good idea to just steer clear of the comments section. This is especially true when reading something that is related to issues of equity or accessibility for all. Trolling in the form of racist, sexist, and other fear-fueled rants can seem like the dominant mode of communication of many participants in this space. It can seem as if individuals are talking over and past one another, and communication is not founded on true dialogue.
Dialogue, Paulo Freire asserts, is an “existential necessity” that is inherently a vital part of learning (1968…
“Every creative act is first an act of destruction.” — Pablo Picasso
“I believe in a deeply ordered chaos.” -Francis Bacon, interviewed by Melvyn Bragg in 1985 (Link to Video)
I don’t write reviews in the traditional sense. I’ve learned how to critique a work of art through a proper university program. I’ve always known that art can open up one’s world, increasing connections across many facets of human activity and expression through the ages. There are times when this feeling/thought is present as I am interacting with a work. This short piece (or quasi-critique) is about one such instance…
Maybe reflection is the best thing
To be a reminder of color & light
Something to hold us in the rain
That seems to keep falling in love
With this green city again & again
Purple petals fall from flower pots
Hanging outside of grey windows
Everything living breathes the steam
Rising from the slippery earth sliding
Our shared history into the sea
A curtain of white capped peaks
Women & men walk halos here
High above Seattle’s hidden streets,
Purpled squares were embedded
In the sidewalks to let the light in
under a tent in a former military fort on Staten Island
& finished with my fastest time at the distance to date.
But, now I am drinking my fourth Scotch
three years & many morning runs later
& I am exhausted.
I won’t rise early to race tomorrow.
I’ll have a slow morning planned
Enjoying the quiet of our bed.
Anna is not drinking Scotch.
She is drinking Zombies.
We’ll both need more time to digest.
Desire can drive one to overeat
Consuming everything in sight
As one would a lover’s flesh.
The things we love we devour.
Time takes what is left.
We know this but do not dwell.
We should enjoy ourselves.
Mornings with the undead are
few & far between.
“Those who love wisdom must investigate many things.” — Heraclitus
“I write-and talk-in order to find out what I think.” — Susan Sontag
In 2014, I graduated with my doctorate in education, and this seemed miraculous to me. A sustained focus, logical arguments, and the synthesis of an area of literature were inherent in the task of writing a dissertation, and I didn’t feel like I’d ever be able to live up to this challenge. As a child, I felt most comfortable with image and sound based communication. Music and visual art are such a large foundation for my thinking…
Always in the process of becoming. Always learning.