Thank you, my fate

Great humility fills me,
great purity fills me,
I make love with my dear
as if I made love dying
as if I made love praying,
tears pour
over my arms and his arms.
I don’t know whether this is joy
or sadness, I don’t understand
what I feel, I’m crying,
I’m crying, it’s humility
as if I were dead,
gratitude, I thank you, my fate,
I’m unworthy, how beautiful
my life.

— Anna Swir
Translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan

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A long favorite. "I'm unworthy, how beautiful/my life."

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Today was so green and all new, reading Larry Levis out loud, tea in a thermos, kolačke (which is 'cookie'), Maulpoix also ("Love, after all, is our only task, our only duty;" "What is the difference in pronunciation between 'laugh,' and 'love'?"). Even the BBC couldn't have predicted this.

Robert Frost: In composing a poem, I am packing up to go a long way on wings.

This is a long way on wings, too. The difference between Masters (taught) work and Ph.D. (self-directed) work--it feels a little isolated. Structure provides the distinction between productive and unproductive (depressing) isolation. I've been writing and drawing daily, and beginning next week I'll be working on my scholarly writing daily, too.

Out my window I can see the clouds move across the landmass.

Once I saw a fox in the parking lot.

Lavender, the moon rising through mist so everything softens.

Here

All present and accounted for. Turbulent flight and five-hour bus ride. Still trying to get my bearings. Thanks for your well-wishes. No regular internet until next week. Talk to you soon.

Joseph Beuys, I like America and America likes me, 1974

Not ironic nostalgia; a genuine longing for objects that are real and have been made.

I am for an art...

I am for an art that is paper, plastic in its adjectival sense; art of fragility; an art that is ephemeral, passing, transient; I am for an art that makes naughty jokes behind your back; red-nose art, walnut-ink art, brushes-my-dad-used art.

I am for the art that rusts on the driveway until someone picks it up.
I am for an art on winter nights with snow cover and no class in the morning.

I am for the art of living in the always-ending world.

Huang Yong Ping • Kiki Smith • fluxus • Joseph Beuys • Paula Rego • William Kentridge

Kiki Smith, Blue Girl, 1998

exactly

(And everything is hush and fallen snow,
purple the snow makes sky, the way a streetlight glows.)

That's what I meant.

(Text from here; the poem is "Bedtime." Photograph by R. Schneider, from his flickr.)

[Rufus Wainwright, "The Tower of Learning."]

Always makes me feel like I am getting off the TGV in Gare de Lyon, smelling that first air, knowing I'm in Paris--the curling ironwork of the station. Then into the night. This is the music video in my head: city dark, and the Métro waiting, and the rush of cars on Blvd. Rochechouart, and the Russian grocery store, and the lights on the river.

One of my favorite things about England is its proximity to France.

Your favorite things are helping me be excited to go. Thank you for them.

your mailbox

[Like last year, I'm embarking on an eastward journey. Unlike last year, I'm not taking my sewing machine. I'm cleaning out my studio, getting rid of a ton of scraps and bits of fabric. I'm not able to send numerous packages this year, though; instead, I'll send it all to one person (randomly drawn--you pay shipping, about 6 dollars) on Wednesday. If you'd like a chance, leave a comment with your favorite anything to do with England, and your email address or website. I'll draw the name Wednesday morning my time.]

(26th and Chicago, Minneapolis)