Mist and Sun

In the garden the shapes melt and fur in the mist. Their shadows soften and their leaves kiss.
It is not so with the ghosts that flit through the body like needled threads. One cannot avoid them any more than the air can stand aside from the passage of birds.



What color is mist? Is it blue or violet or simply just a dissemblance of form?





..and then the sun turns everything to color leaning against black. One underestimates the charisma of black until green gets drunk in summer's seductive fold.

Peter Pan or pigeon

OK, you are either a confused Peter Pan, flying in on the daylight, or a curious NYC pigeon landing on my fire escape...




...peering at the lacy movement and wondering about the interior side...



Thanks to some narrative magic--the curtain peels its self into scrolled folds...



...and allows a contemplation of exterior/interior dark and light...

...relativity.



About face to color...



This is all due to three days of fever wherein all I did was watch 2 years worth of Doll House and wander the premises.

Wolff by friend

A friend from the old days when I taught martial arts comes by, and takes a few pictures. I always like the ones that have a mug shot quality...

Long Green Sentence

Again: Garden of Light

I think its finished. There were a lot of details that wanted soothing, color-lifting, and delineation. Probably will be clearer if you click to enlarge...

Charlotte's black board drawing

Garden of Light

RAIN

The other night I went to see Twelfth Night in the park. At the end of the (wonderful, very funny) play, the rain came down, glittering in the lights against the dark circle of over head trees as the cast sang a song with a rainy refrain.
This weekend I visited my garden. The bounty is thus:

why I live in NYC

Tonight I go to the Metropolitan Museum with a friend. We see Francis Bacon, we see Michelangelo's first painting, and we see Vermeer and Rembrandt. Then we go to the American Wing and look at old American rooms with old furniture. After that we sit in the cafe and drink wine, nibble on various museum food and watch the light descend through the multi-paned, glass, canted ceiling; various sculptures posed below. We go out into the still-light evening and take a bus across town and I take the subway downtown. In between all of this we talk and talk.
Could I kiss the sidewalk and tell the city how much I love it?
Meanwhile over Central Park--the light dazzles the edges of darkening trees as the streelights come on--I know this because I've walked through as it happens--not tonight, but still I'm aware of it even as I rush underground sitting close to strangers, but not quite (strangers-they live here, too).

when your garden times itself to your eyes

I thought I would miss the irises and the wisteria, the indigo's quick, deep & statuesque bloom, and the orange-fire burn of the poppies. But all of these and more waited for me to come back and pour my eyes all over them. The foaming, ferning green, the white water of huge goats beard, and the endless blue-violet of irises, both ordinary and butterfly....an exuberant, lovely, over the top and over my head frenzy...

I've been reading Ballard

Pink and Blackboard

Decadent Dalliance

Pancakes & the last two Dr Who episodes (before noon)
Wine and Yojimbo
Working half the day on the newest project that involves pink, gold, pearlescant paint & a blackboard surfaced table
Deciding and succeeding in not worrying about the economy's tidal influx into one's own little sand castle (even small time islands count here)
Reading China Mieville's The City and the City in between, and instead of everything else, right to the finish
Inventing sentences in Chinese as I walk the streets