Happy Monday. Be sure to wash, then retune. Before you work. Happy Monday! tsg

The line I think that we visualize a line, passing through space because we place it there. Line scribes a line, threading between what is seen and experienced what is known and unknown, but the real question is this a knotted line of imagining, this seeing that we do, or is it no thing -- just a figment of what we'd like to envision, staking our feet in the ground, eyes following where we would like to go. Tim Girvin DIA | Beacon |...

I've been looking at, collecting X. Why, you might ask. It's one of those things that you uncover from your memory -- something past and misted. But there. The X is an ancient symbol -- so old, its origin is forgotten. But what is it? It is the crossing; it is the crossroads, it is the place in which paths merge, lines connect, mysteries emanate. I can recall being in Bali, and there was a ceremony at the crossroads -- for them, it's a path of collision and danger; the leyak roost there,...

There's been wild and raging storms, surging up the coast -- gale winds, ripping rains. Then, silence. I look out over the waters, and it's still as ever, so quiet, it's like there's nothing there. Beyond the sighting cairn, the triangular arrangement of stones, that seems to survive storm after storm, wind running after...   This morning, Kingfisher, spies...

I was working back east, around Princeton and elsewhere out there, and came to this new modeling for Puma.  I really like the floors, which seem like they are made of some kind of silvery slop, hardened. And there are other really strange materials as well -- spongy stool coverings, triple thick plastics, cargo container for shipping the stores, that become POS, and the changing rooms; a new graphic language, then curious spreads to product -- like PUMA | Ferrari. Whacky music. I asked them...

scented this, darling? I'm loving this, more: Dzongkha, L'Artisan Parfumeur. Or Timbuktu. 

Quiet, the silent twins, mingled. They must be out wandering... Wishing well, all hallows day. tsg | princeton

I spent a couple of nights with my lover at the Gramercy Park Hotel, NYC, Schrager's collaboration with Julian Schnabel -- painter, filmmaker, now, interior designer. I found the space intriguing. What was it -- dark, deeply scented of burning firewood, and some other dense layers of fragrance beneath. But more? The description might lend itself to something darkly dream like, nightmarish, even; a vision of hammered metals, gigantically scaled chandelier, eclectic heavy furnishings, and...

Rather lonely here, noting the stacking of messages from me. I'll leave it at that, then. Reach, if any needs allow, for aid; reach, if any calls are heard, to offer it. I'll practice what I preach. wishing warmth, all > tsg

Out there, a heron calls its rattling, croaking call, which reaches far back in time -- a sound so distant in the symphony of the world that, perhaps, it recalls the auditory recoil of the time of the dinosaurs. Water drips from the madrona, old gnarled curling branches, a spatter on fallen leaves. And the water below merely whispers -- now, and again -- I am here, listen for me. I call you, to remind you -- I am here. My flashlight, reaches into the trees, and -- in the darkening -- captures...