Saturday, November 30, 2013

He Has A Way With Me

Song by Blossom Dearie - Remix (click picture)


Thursday, November 28, 2013


The art of Francesco Balsamo


Wednesday, November 27, 2013

I'm a big Kathleen Edwards fan, and her album Failer is near and dear to my heart.

My favorite song (click picture)


Photo by me (Polaroid Spectra with Impossible Project film)

Tuesday, November 26, 2013



The monster's through 
taking orders.
He means it,
by god.
Act II, scene III and
he won't be there.
The girl will just 
have to scream without him,
break her own neck,
tear off and eat
her own arm, for a change.

Maybe he'll get a job
at a convenience store,
work nights,
sleep late.
He can be the one to say, 
"Have a nice day,"
smile and wave at kids,
face bills.


Monday, November 25, 2013

So Sad 'n Pretty

Photographer unknown
Song by Gillian Welch (click picture)


Drifting In Space

Cover of Form Magazine 1969
Song by Trentemoller (click picture)


Sunday, November 24, 2013

Only Lovers Left Alive
I admit, I'm really not keen on vampires...

...but I could totally get into this movie.

Only Lovers Left Alive trailer (click picture)

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Miss Havisham's Table

Playing with our new camera.


Before Dawn

Photographer unknown
Song by Martin Nonstatic (click picture)


Friday, November 22, 2013

The Wrong House

The Wrong House

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.

Photo by me
Poem by A. A. Milne

Girly Things Make Me Happy

I have a bit of an obsession (addiction) with the vintage full slip + sweater + long socks combo. I own a ridiculous amount of all three and would buy more in a heartbeat. I have loads of my Mama's slips from the 70s - by far my favorite era for clothing - and if I go into a thrift store I always make a beeline for those strange lovelies. If I had my druthers, it'd pretty much be all I'd wear.

Fuck real clothes.

A great Etsy shop for vintage slips
The best sock site EVER

Song by Koop (click picture)

Thursday, November 21, 2013


Expired Polaroid 600 film from the 2010 Pumpkinrot Tinies: B is for Bretchen photoshoot.


Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Excerpt : The Last Scarecrow

It started in the year of the crow infestation, the black beasts picking the crops clean of every budding dime and nickel. Three scarecrows made of sacrificed shirts, work-worn jeans and mildewed hay were erected across the fields - hopeful figures against the great dark growing tide. The sun was lost behind the feathered wingspans, and the crops began to wither and drop, long rows of corn staggering to earth like old men.

The creatures did not eat the poison grain set out for them, and a shotgun blast became ammo wasted as they seemed to turn deaf ears toward the sky. The farmer looked out at the black ocean from his upstairs bedroom window and then to the three still figures on the horizon. He lowered his head and there it lingered for quite some time.

He took to making scarecrows night and day, and in a month he had a dozen spread out across the acreage.

The crows continued to eat but at about that time a certain madness set in, and the rows became littered with blind, dying birds. They had taken to pecking out the eyes of their brothers, and their screeches of anger and cries for mercy rolled across the fields. Black feathers fell as they tangled  midair in a murderous rage, tumbling to earth scratching and clawing and dying. In two weeks' time they were either dead or had flown off, singing a strange and mysterious song as they went.

That had been 40 years ago.


Photo by me (Polaroid Spectra)
Excerpt from my short story The Last Scarecrow

Let's Just Go, Shall We?

Photographer kelly_rae
Song by Tango With Lions


Tuesday, November 19, 2013

You're Dreaming It

Photo by me
Song by Jeff Grace (click picture)


Monday, November 18, 2013

Wouldn't You Love To Love Her?

I watch American Horror Story. Of course I do; it's twisted, mesmerizing, delicious and full of hidden psychological razors - I admire that. So having an old friend emerge from an episode was a warm and pleasant surprise - Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon.

I was  3 years old when the song came out. I don't know when I became aware of it, but it was a song that played often in our house during my childhood. I remember my Mama, with her long brown hair that went all the way down to the tops of her thighs, singing the song as it played on the turn table. Strange faux gray wood paneling in our dining room, a wall of plants and the hum of the plant light behind her as she swung her hips from side to side with her eyes closed. She was beautiful.

Later the song always showed up at the oddest of times, times when being reminded of home, and centeredness and self were in tall order....Rhiannon would roll in from a passing car, from the jukebox in the corner (yes, I grew up around those), over head in a critical care waiting room, from the "classic" block on VH1 playing in the background.

So when it poured from my TV into my livingroom the other night I couldn't help but smile. It was as if a lifelong girlfriend had come bounding through the door to throw her arms around me and kiss my face all over.

And how right and wonderful it was the other day as Rot and I drove in the early hours with our coffees that she was on my iPod, had been there for years. He was sweet and let me hit repeat as the world began to wake and the fog slowly burned off around us.

Photo by me (Polaroid 600)
Song by Fleetwood Mac (click picture)


Saturday, November 16, 2013

Tired Places

In The Corners of Fields

Something is calling to me
from the corners of fields,
where the leftover fence wire
suns its loose coils, and stones
thrown out of the furrow
sleep in warm litters;
where the gray faces
of old No Hunting signs
mutter into the wind,
and dry horse tanks
spout fountains of sunflowers;
where a moth
flutters in from the pasture,
harried by sparrows, 
and alights on a post,
so sure of its life
that it peacefully opens its wings.


Poem by Ted Kooser
Photo by me ( Polaroid Joycam)

Friday, November 15, 2013

Wednesday, November 13, 2013



Maybe one morning,  walking in air
of dry glass, I'll turn and see the miracle occur--
nothingness at my shoulder, the void
behind me--with a drunkard's terror.

Then, as on a screen, the usual illusion:
hills houses trees will suddenly reassemble,
but too late, and I'll quietly go my way,
with my secret, among men who don't look back.

Photographer unknown
Poem by Eugenio Montale


Monday, November 11, 2013

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Excerpt From A Series

I Heard An Orchard Bell Call The Ploughman Home

What lights the windows with a light 
so much like twilight?
The red dove takes the dying leaves
to the place where nothing returns.
October is burning the briars of August--
see how the trees part for the form,
the scythe.


I wrote this poem several years ago as part of an MFA graduate course study on the works of Wallace Stevens.
Photographer evil robot six

Autumn Morning

A busy day for us, but it started just right with coffee, a scenic drive and snapping some pics.


November Jackos

This morning's porch.


Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Poetry of Bertolt Brecht


This then, is all. It's not enough, I know.
At least I'm still alive, as you may see.
I'm like the man who took a brick to show
How beautiful his house used once to be.

Photographer unknown
Poem by Bertolt Brecht, 1940 - The Darkest Times

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

An Old Love


So this is fear.
The dark spider scuttles away
over the underboards.
I watch the blood bead on my skin
and think rapidly:
the last dollar,
the last piece of bread,
lightning sizzles under the door.
Whether it hurts or not
I imagine it does.
I remember a bat caught years ago
in the attic, how he tried
among the swung brooms,
not knowing we would let him go.
I get up to walk, to see if I can.
So this is fear.
The trapdoor
unnails itself; in the dusk
the curtains move
as though the wind had bones.

Photographer ET's Photo Home
Poem by Mary Oliver


Tuesday, November 5, 2013

I Kill What I Catch

Photographer unknown
Song from A Serbian Film (video not work safe)


The Hotel Winter

Not a deer
remains to be seen,
nose to the ground or bounding.

The trees let go their silhouettes-
snow still holding fantastic shapes in the air-
but have taken with them the nests.

The snow on the road stays on the road
in perfect silence.

Telephone wires still line the cold,
but the receiver, lifted,
is vacant,
an object held to the ear like any other.
Why listen to a hairbrush or a pen?

The staff has vanished, leaving
the hotel empty, though the lights are on,
the tables set with linen.

And if a few guests wander with
puzzled expressions,
they too are among the soon-to-be-vanished.

With them their thirst and hungers,
their scents and laughter,
the warm hollows
they leave on pillows and chairs.

Now the chairs are receding,
now the bad paintings.
And if we find ourselves lingering,
for some conclusion, some perspective,
that too is gone,

along with the view of the extinct volcano,
along with the washcloths.

Photographer unknown
Poem by Jane Hirshfield


Monday, November 4, 2013

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Untitled Poem

Here, the unopened room.
Before me
this lock.

Inside it a spider sleeps as
outside winter rages on and on.
Delicate dreams twitch his spindly spider legs.

I am no destroyer 
of such things.

The key stays hidden,
pressed to my flesh
and burning.


I wrote this poem within the last year.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Friday, November 1, 2013


You entered through the rain-swollen door.  Buckling sideways. You, not the door. The smell of wood and water permeated from your pores, mingled in your hair. Your hands left residue on the walls, stains on my clothes, dampened my eyelashes. Bog boy. Limbs like sticks. Bits of bark fell, nestled themselves under pillows, spread themselves across the kitchen floor.  Fine silt settled in the bathroom sink, layered the bathtub where ghosts of your fingerprints marked your wanderings. Light was caught in puddles that dappled the dining room floor, as twigs like boats drifted from shore to shore. You slipped into my bed, rooted beneath yielding sheets and into the mattress. The gentle groan of slow expanding wood your only voice as dried leaves, thin as the hollowed shells of dead insects, rolled across the bedroom floor—lazy  meanderings beneath the slow push of a fan.

This is one of my older poems.
Photographer unknown