flying to eastern washington | storm emergent stormfinder --- out there when you are storm comes wind bound rain cast force driven I go there see that love that into the heart of storm unknown swirling whirl, into the soul of the whorl I go there will be there, in the eye of it. ---- 11000 ft. south central washington | tsg

Stone, found. I was working with the Reynvaan family on a project for their vineyards, and I'd been walking the ancient stone scattered grounds of their viticultural lands, with them. This land is powerful; this land is their land; this land is at the very heart of their work -- the grape, distilled. This terroir is a matching geology to the rough scrabble of the classic vineyards of Spain and certain regions in France; these stone bound regions create a version of growth that is strengthened...

Missed. There's a missing, in mist. But the beauty lies in what's not seen, scene, known. What I look for, is what's not there. But what is there, but not seen. There's something beneath. All ways. That's what I look for. Where sky meets water, mist conjoins, miracle -- redound. ---- waves come back ---- [Origin: 1350 1400; ME redounden < MF redonder < L redundāre to overflow, equiv. to red- red- + undāre to surge (deriv. of unda wave; cf. undulate); cf....

The recluse Since I was young, I've been attracted to the alone. That is, places that are lonely. And, too, being alone. People say -- how can you be alone? Isn't it...lonely? How can you travel by yourself? While I love being in, with other people, I also savor being alone. Being silent. Speaking nothing. I think this came from a time when I was young, that being alone was common and that exploring, finding things, objects in nature, engaging in fantasy was a common examination and play....

Finding fire. Liquid heat. Isn't that something, the character of flame, found -- licking and consuming; hungry and self nourishing? Shooting fire is a compulsion (along with starting fires). I like the study of fire -- watching it closely. But, like anything, it's hard to shoot, it keeps moving. And sparks, like... life. Easy to be consumed. Find fire, your self. --- T

Note to Greg Furman | The figured wheel by Robert Pinsky G. thanks for sharing this rich piece of writing, soulful, tormented, yet clear, in vista... his sweet self Which he hereby unwillingly and inexpertly gives up, because it is There, figured and pre-figured in the nothing-transfiguring wheel. Isn't it so, then that the spinning wheel... really changes nothing -- because it is change itself? That it rolls and moves and crushes, ornamented and made of the minerals of being, dust motes in...

Light and presence. A couple of years back, in being with my parents at their home overlooking the waters of Lake Coeur d'Alene, I'd sat up, sometime around 5 am, out on their deck, looking into the trees, and painting the light as it came through the grand pines, that reach skyward. And from that, I'd redrawn these visualizing a kind of spirit of light, coming through the trees, flickering the glimmering of the morning bound, rippled and water shimmer, warm light refracting. I was there a...

come back to me Some things go out, go out -- and they are gone, they never come back. Like the little ships of paper in Bali, the papered lit and floating sky cylinders in memorial in Thailand, the fired and floating vik drums of Scandinavia, the floating pyres of India, set adrift on the shore of the Ganges. They go out, they don't come back. I believe, in way, that they do, they always come back -- what energy goes out, there, out there, at some point, it returns. And perhaps that return is...

Pattering patterning | this morning Decatur; last week, NYC ---- There's a pattering, the patterning of sound, this morning. I'm writing about sound, I suppose, because it's pure black, this morning. You can't see anything, out there -- it's all blackened sound. But all morning, since sometime past midnight, it's been raining. Here, that's meaningful. The island house is designed as a kind of echo chamber for sound. The overhanging galvanized structure captures sound from above, and scoops it...

Dense, the sound. I was so tired, this morning. I'd arisen at 3.30am --NYC. That, after 3 hours of sleep; I'd worked till midnight. Past then, I suppose, half past. Then I'd boarded in Newark, flying away before 7am, EST. I got into Seattle 5.5 hours later, taxied to Queen Anne, then bolted northbound. Island bound. When I arrived on the island, getting organized, setting myself up, there was a rough, dense, scratching sound -- a scruffing, roughing, scuffing sound. It was like there was...