in search of lost time

I prefer not to be governed by anything that outpaces my pulse. The ticking above my wrist would confuse my blood – which is my true heart?  My life is slow and gentle – somnolent. There is time to look, and feel, and dream. It’s not a luxury, it’s a choice. We choose our taskmasters….

the weight of words

      Sean tied my manuscript with satin ribbon…I have a few manuscripts I need to get out into the world. The one above is my manuscript for Self-Portrait in Blind Tones – a collection of essays and prose. Here’s an excerpt of my lyrical essay ‘Prospecting,’ about finding gold everywhere, despite being in exile,…

obliviousness is bliss

My older daughter & I snapchat constantly. This one makes me giggle, it’s so ME. I’ve never worn a watch, and the calendar hanging in my kitchen still believes it’s August in February. I’ve engineered a life for myself that doesn’t involve time pieces – a life that allows me to do what I want,…

ghost tones

My mixed media pieces are always inspired by derelict, delicious Florentine walls –  shabby palimpsests tattooed with bruises and graffiti. I have a strange hobby – collecting chips of pigment that curl and crumble from buildings. I use a little make-up brush to sweep the colors into tiny containers so I can place them in…

spreading the love

(Attribution: Screen shot from the Atlas Moon Kitty blog) What serendipity! Today while I was googling one of my old poems, I came across the Atlas Moon Kitty blog which features a quote from one of my prose pieces entitled “Night Cycling.” I’m so honored to have my writing featured on Atlas Moon Kitty’s wild and playful…

broken poetry for broken times

Like many of you, I feel the need to bear testament now more than ever, to memorialize lost lives in the face of so much terror. Every day is scarred, and sacred.I often write about the wabi-sabi beauty of broken things, particularly the Japanese craft of Kintsukoroi – reassembling and healing shattered bowls, vases, and mugs…

the influence of my kiss

John William Waterhouse   If ever a prose-poem spoke to me, or OF me, defining my adolescent self  (who was in love with Hesse’s Demian) it is Baudelaire’s Favours of the Moon. I can always sense people who bear the same invisible moon-mark, members of my tribe. We find each other and glow in the shadows….