Wednesday, December 1, 2010
I see objects much as I see words. They demand a harmony of arrangement, a certain space around them, and this in turn relates to the larger space in which they’re contained. A room is a page. A word is a hat, vase, or ashtray. My success in meeting this demand varies. I have good days, I have bad. And then I remember how a forest is related to the sky, the ocean to a vast life underground, wisdom to the heart, silence to chaos. I pick up an object. I set it down. It’s part of a song, a poem.
In the Forum: spinach and a well organized mess.