The house caught fire some time right before midnight, not officially celebratory, in or out of the city. The grass by the barn lit like matches, the light travelling down the brown strands now glowing gold, ending the fiery phrase with a black period.
Zoom voice: This meeting is being recorded. Claire August: Oooh. Spooky. Daniela Silva: Okay, let’s start! For these first questions, you say if you prefer or do either this or that. Number one- Zoom or Google Hangouts? Everyone: Zoom. Daniela: Camera on or off? Everyone: On. Daniela: For me, it depends on when my camera
A window is a frame for seeing beyond the container of one’s physical and immediate space. It is a peephole that propels the gaze outward. Through it, without really moving, you can confront the same two trees, always there and ever-changing, appreciate the paces of birds and bicycles, recognize time in warmth and photons. The window is uniquely suited for daydreaming as it literally displays another place you could be, without requiring the action that would allow for a physical transference, as a door does…
Recently I’ve taken an interest in some of my neighbors in Pankow, the flying sort. It’s a relationship of some distance, me on my balcony, them in the clouds… so I decided to document them in drawing to make up for the space.
And indeed, I have noticed a biological metamorphosis; change my class to Reptilia, my superorder to Lepidosauria and so forth because washing has made my hands so damn dry. You become a reptile and the numbers start sounding reasonable and holy and something to worship. By the next day they mean nothing and we praise anew.
Lecce is a walled baroque city in the bootheel of Italy. I’ve decided to stay here alone for three weeks of break before returning to school. My travels and daily ambulation are for the high purpose of reading, writing, and drawing all that is around and within me, which, if I meditate enough, will be nothing. I write to stop writing.
What I can remember, however, every morning, is a dream. Not merely a memory of a memory hiding in the recess of a bad night’s sleep. I remember every detail. The color of the curtains in the room, the number of flowers in the vase, the dialogue, what I’m wearing, who I am. I can recall a maximum of three dreams from the previous night, but I average around two. But just like you probably have no idea what you ate for dinner a week ago, eventually the dream falls away. I make a point of remembering the ones I want to remember and I let the rest go. People always tell me to write them down. I’ve protested this practice. A dream is ineffable, not simply language, it isn’t just a story…
Clay and I took the train to Versailles on a sunny day. I hadn’t planned on doing the tourist attractions in Paris. I spent most of the time walking around listening to NPR, all the news from back home. I would stop in a café or at a park and write or just watch people