The best truths are found between moments, plants growing in the cracks

excerpt from Flores Raras by Marcela Solier

To write is to begin
a process of thought, my
mind wanders down
a path of which I cannot
tell the destination

from my sketch book, 2012

…out of curiosity I entered a courtyard and into Europe; a church sanctuary, 10 000 preserved stained glass windows; an atmosphere of Catholicism without the fluff?


from my sketch book, 2012

“We asked the captain what course 
of action he proposed to take toward 
a beast so large, terrifying, and 
unpredictable. He hesitated to 
answer, and then said judiciously: 
'I think I shall praise it.'”

- “Praise”, by Robert Hass
Robots watch the moon too

pinhole camera and text


Can a square be made a circle?
Can different roads come together?
Acute is the remorse for the lost way,
in faltering steps of my return.
Reluctant, my cart turns back.
Muddled among the errors was the way.


Shun Li
An entry from a French courtyard:

I caught the door before it closed behind the Parisian woman. The French are a very private people. Their apartments in the city block off the street, creating deep courtyards behind them. As I push the door open, I find myself in a courtyard boarded on all sides by five story apartment buildings. Walking across the unevenly laid stone, I sit down, get my camera out and wait for the sun to create shadows. I hear water drip from a spout across the courtyard. A church bell is ringing— it is eleven o’clock. I hear a set of footsteps in a staircase. A woman on the fourth floor opens her window and stares at me; she knows I do not belong here. She is on the third now and pulls the curtains aside to continue staring at me. She does the same on the second floor. 
It turned out she was cleaning the stairs. Normally I would have said hello, but not a word is exchanged between us. I have noticed a kind of constrained silence while traveling in a foreign culture. I try not to speak so that I am not labeled as an outsider.

[photograph of the courtyard from journal entry on 26 May 2012]
Remember when my walls were draped in darkness? It was there in the shade of the moon and the silence of a darkened room that we felt our minds wander, and then somehow allowed imagination to be overwhelmed by the light. 
- Goethe, My Time in France, 1831
A midnight walk along the chalk cliffs of Eastbourne
Journeying to La Mancha
"Hello" says the road
Opaque  by  andbamnan