there is an empty house six miles down the road filled with nothing and soggy walls and floor beams that ache and ache from not being walked on in so long and they would creak and creak if they could, if only someone would come up the front steps and give them a good battering or stomping or stamping or maybe just a soft dance whether there was music or not and oh how the walls wanted music.  the house was an empty place filled with nothing not evens of all sorts, nothing not evens like wine and shoes and gushy, smiling children who peed on the floor at night because the bogeyman was outside, and nothing, not even air, and if there had been things inside they would have floated like birds, but there was nothing inside and even if there had been it wouldn’t have mattered because there wasn’t even light to see it with, and oh how the walls wanted light, because they were painted such a beautiful color

m

m

When it comes fútbol, I’m with the Argentinians.

m

PARIS, France

SAQQARA, Egypt

m

m

We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom.
We lived in the gaps between the stories.  —Atwood.

1:40AM

m

only part of my journey

m

m

He wrote me: I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember, we rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember thirst?

—Chris Marker, excerpt from Sans Soleil.

m

The distance between countries compensates somewhat for the excessive closeness of time.  –Jean Racine, 1672.

For my sister, who is now in Uganda volunteering at an orphanage for three weeks.

m