the dogs got kicked off the bed, so i bought them a bunch of huge dog beds that take up literally half the room, which makes me glad. but moby ate one last week and i sewed it. i love the red string and the shape it draws, a shape made by necessity and not for any design.
The doctor says, the dog groans.
The dog knows we are having a fight.
He pushes his nose into my ribs.
The earth quakes. All that I want to believe.
The dogs growing in fluid eggs inside their mothers.
The weight of a needy dog asleep on your asleep lap.
The dog shivers to keep himself warm.
All that goes forward.
The dog that didn’t bark and then after she died the dog barked.
Zoom and the dog is different. Grow.
i am so glad these are in the world. (from resurrection fern.)
floating, strange, specific and nonspecific, young and wise
(photograph by Vogue photographer Tim Walker)
(and I wish i could link to one photograph on his website, in selected images “Otis Ferry and his hunting hounds.” So many dogs!)
after two days unable to draw because of the pain shooting up my neck, i got to go to the studio today. it still hurts, but tylenol is this miracle i just learned about.
i had a dream last night about these drawings i did, but i had never done them in reality, and they were all these cut-out drawings all connected with string, and some things that weren’t drawings but more remnants of drawings, and shadows of drawings, and some of the drawings were inserted into the wall. a ton of string spun around everything and connected it perfectly. it was a beautiful mess. so today i cut out some drawings. i only wrote string on my hand. also on my hand, a reminder so that i can continue to do this art thing: trust.
i’m trying to figure out what this space is for. i want it to be beautiful and kaleidoscopic, complicated, varied. i want it to feel like our house: strange things on the wall, stacks of books, clippings from magazines, funny conversation, art, writing, dogs. and i want it to be personal, to be exactly me, but also i want rosie to be able to read it. this is tricky. the past two days i’ve been on my back with some strange muscle strain that ignited from the stupid fertility drugs, and i want to remain very hopeful about the-baby-thing, and i want to stay very peaceful and positive, and also there are five big potholes. i find myself wanting to turn here to analyze this, but don’t know how to do this while also writing something that a teenager can read. so intead the photograph below, the cranes led by a human. nature helped by man. the doctor with the petri dish.
saving all the most fragile things:
they are my canary in my mine.
is it that bad things happen in threes i hope so
or maybe three bad things equals one good thing i hope so.
i tried for several days to be a calm incubator
but the universe threw three darts.
the fourth: on my back today, sharp pain behind my lungs.
i am all body. i drift through three worlds: pain, a book, and sleep.
i am still an incubator. i am still an incubator.
in the first weeks of a human embryo, it grows a tail.
we all look like weathered driftwood or beach glass in the beginning.
(image found in this article)
