holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

如 (thus) 是

[M]y tendency is to gulp information off the screen in hunks, finding a topic sentence and then skipping the paragraph below it, snatching the big ideas and leaving the details behind. In Korean the word for this kind of action is heo-geop-jji-geop. I’m not sure, but I think it is an onomatope. At least, it sounds like one to me. If you eat gulping, hurried, barely chewing, this is the sound you make: heo-geop-jji-geop. And that is how I read most things on the internet, and by extension, anything on a computer screen.

Poetry as poop

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

The Bees Knees Blog

It is my dream that one day people will think of poetry as poop — we all do it. Some of us, like Charles Bukowski, seem do it more and with grater passion than others, but that doesn’t mean pooping excludes us. I feel poetry and poop are equally essential to our existence; there is no better sign for life than pooping and poetry.

Bringing the chocolate home

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

Drawing the Motmot

An order of their chocolate-covered candied orange peels and Ice Wine Truffle Bars arrives by Fedex in August and keeps me going at the place of his birth. Under a sweet spell, I draw the fallen-in foundation, buried in biomass, stones pushed apart by tree roots and shaded by hemlocks and hardwoods. The chocolate is very, very, very good.

Silent night vigil

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

Hoarded Ordinaries

On this night before Christmas—a night Christians see as being more holy than most—it comforts me to know that someone, somewhere, is sitting in front of a phone, invisible as God, ready to offer an empathetic ear to the lonely, lost, and distraught. What better vigil for a Silent Night in which both finches and owls fluff and hunker against the winter chill?

Apocalyptic dreams

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

Sherry Chandler

I dreamed I was taking clothes down from the line on a windy day and a sweat suit blown into my body by the wind wrapped its arms and legs around me like a child and held on. I carried it indoors and laid it on a narrow cot. The thing begged me to let it go, saying it would never really be Bob Dylan.