Words can paint, each letter, a bristle of a brush. The sentence becomes a stroke. Paragraphs shape objects. A portrait needs no beginning, middle, or end. When we look deep at a painting, we can’t help but wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles. If you look deep enough at portraits, close enough to pick out desire, they jump out of the frame. The frame is the story. Break out! Break out!
On freezing nights when the river settles, the reflection of city lights is clearer than the real lights. She views this better on the bridge, her winter pilgrimage. Colder than the air, she grips its handrail. Her hands pull away only at the moment…
Running through the mud, laughing like a feral forest child with no concept of language. My body, the only means of communication, flying down Macleay creek trail, passing the Witch’s House. I swear I float above the trail. Then on Wildwood, even the sounds…
Coyote Wall, Washington, February 2019. Click on image to enlarge. More images found here.
Two Windows Wildwood Trail, Forest Park, Portland Oregon, January 2019
Click on image to enlarge. Columbia River Gorge, January 2019. More images can be found here.
West Fork, Multnomah Creek, Larch Mountain, January 2019 (click on image to enlarge. More images can be found here.)
Klickitat River, December 2018 More images can be found here.
More images can be found here.
Forest Spirit, Klickitat River, December 2018
Click on image to enlarge. Taken at Cattus Island County Park, N.J. in November 2018.
Her arm, a light porcelain, marbled with a series of veins and arteries. Sometimes she thinks she’s cold, a stone. She takes a sacred bath, a bit too warm for many, candles burning messages into her sweat, to see through the cold, if she…
More images found here.