it’s late June, and I am 1/15 lucky ghosts featured in Ghost Proposal’s beautiful tenth issue.
remember: grief is a byproduct of being alive. it is my constant companion, and reminder to love you right now, instead of at some distant plot point in the future.
i feel like a moth riding a train, a part time water taxi, and a ripe nectarine filling an office with its scent.
“Since I have already decided that sweat is romantic, friends, let me say that I also have a crush on the feeling of night air cooling the sweat off skin when a body pours out of a hot and packed space. I am beginning to have a crush on crystals, I think. Definitely obsidian, but perhaps a few of the others that look like miniature caves. And, yes, I have a crush on memories that were surely not as beautiful as I have made them out to be. Because that’s the whole trick. I’ve had crushes on all my friends, and if they don’t have one back on me that’s fine because I’m still going to text them at unfortunate and odd hours of the day with some useless miracle that I couldn’t possibly keep to myself. So few of my crushes speak back. I am cultivating my comfort with unanswered desires, and it is going well. I have room for so much more. I say a prayer. I fall in love.” - Hanif Abdurraqib
It was an accident that I found the exhibit. I knew the museum was there, and was using it as a mile marker on my run, actually - but figured it was closed. However, on Wednesday nights from 5 - 9 PM it is free and open to the public (or $5 if you would like to see the special exhibit.) I didn’t have anything on me but my hotel key card and phone, but figured that the gallery would have plenty else to offer, and it did.
I stood at the entrance of the Agnes Pelton exhibit, squinting in, hoping the attendant would just let me in. He didn’t get the hint and I don’t mind paying for art sometimes, so I wandered the gallery’s permanent collection for a bit, and found a spot upstairs that allowed me to see her exhibit with slightly more clarity. I figured I would come back next week, when I travel to Phoenix again for work.
On the way out, I noticed the gallery attendant had changed, and started asking questions about how long Pelton’s work would be up etc. and how often the gallery was open late. We had a good conversation, and this attendant did take the hint: she gave me her ID and told me to take it to the front desk and ask for a free ticket to the special exhibit. Goofy smile on my face, I loped up to the front desk and pretended to be this very kind woman’s sister-in-law. The proper admissions sticker pinned to my sweaty shirt, I breezed into the exhibit and got as close as I could to all of the paintings, involuntarily “ehhhhooohhh”ing at many of them. Like a real creep.
Anyhow, here are some terrible, sloppy photos I took of Agnes Pelton’s work from the Desert Transcendentalist exhibit at the Phoenix Art Museum. I could simply grab clean images of these paintings from the internet, but then how else would you know how crookedly I love to capture things :
Another mostly unknown spiritually engaged modernist who was clearly a contemporary of O’Keefe and potentially Hilma af Klint (knowingly or not - I haven’t done my homework.) I am especially geeked to have found it by accident on a run in the desert night where it was inexplicably raining giant fat rain drops (??) I was running because it’s something I pick up from time to time, and also I had been feeling a bit lonely.
The desert is an accidental place. By that I mean - it is not somewhere I saw myself working, living, loving, experiencing. I’ve been an “ocean person” (yes I’m ROLLING MY EYES AT MYSELF.) But it’s also not somewhere that feels easy or possible to access without careful consideration, preparation.
A few years ago work brought me to Phoenix and Mesa, originally - and an uneasy attraction grew. Work continues to bring me here, and I have a love/hate relationship with it. So much of the area is sprawl : Bare and ugly, superimposed with human trash and pain. Superficial ideas of beauty are pasted over the sublime. Creosote, giant saguaro and the Superstition Mountains rise behind sun bleached parking lots. Strip malls with failing businesses that only look habitable, not welcoming. The landscape evokes boredom, even. Which for me leads to loneliness.
Turn on network television and watch COPS - I promise you’ll witness a sad situation unfolding in Mesa, AZ soon enough. The desert lures me because it does shine and vibrate, but it is difficult to hold. You get close. Are you there yet? Are you in it? Get on the ground, watch for poison and spiny plants or animals. Watch for fangs and carcasses and high rocks that drop off suddenly. Are you there? The desert is poor and rich and arid. The desert refuses predictability. The desert wants to absorb you (me.) It feels as though being a visitor, I could never come to understand it, which really is just an invitation to try. Whatever it means to me, I do long to take up residency in all things especially open, challenging and beautiful. Unexpectedly, the desert may have (a part of) me.
(“as an unintended part of a course of action”)
I’ll be reading at the sema reading series next month, alongside John Myers ( Smudgy and Lossy, available from The Song Cave.)
Friday April 19th, 7 pm at Neckar Coffee in Boise
it’s refreshing to practice something you are not only not good at, but bad at. it’s refreshing, and it’s freeing, and it’s fun. i am not good at many fun things that i deeply love doing, including sometimes, the act of having fun. including also, instant photography.
I bought myself this camera before visiting my friend and her family in Australia in 2018. I wanted physical memories.
what happens is an item, person, or scene of interest makes itself known - then I take out the camera, a point and click instant camera with rectangular slats of film. the body of the camera is held awkwardly, in matte white. the aperture is slight and dim.
I try, cranking the dial knob to the recommended setting for the light, careful to avoid the mysterious HI-KEY setting. i adjust by some inches, press the button and the picture reveals itself, a frame slowly rising from beneath the black hedge.
I give it five minutes to develop. I give it five more minutes in the event it takes ten minutes to be at all impressive.
it’s inevitably the same as all the other photos: color sapped from the overpowering flash, details in the back or foreground hazy in an uninteresting way. viewed all together, the photos harmonize into a bland catalog of indistinguishable point and shoot photos.
I have since lost all of the photos from Australia, but I will describe some here: sunlight hitting a bright red chair in a half-abandoned office building, deities carved in white stone, flies aggressively lobbying for our toast, the graveyard by the sea, my friend’s son - sleepy with his ring of yellow hair, a multi-colored sculpture designed to catch wind off the south coast.
the other photos i hold again and again. i visit them, in their pleasant stack in my memory box. I rearrange them, tacked up at my office. particular photos of loved ones, i stash in places only i will think to look. in locale specific to me. it’s sentimental.
(perhaps my photos from Australia are in a stash so secret that not even I am allowed to know. I think they must be all the more enjoyable for their utlrasecret status.)
i hold the photos and some detail of the process swims up. the nudge of joy as I remember the annoyance of the condition they were taken in: of a spitty rain ruining the lens. or the sun overpowering my line of vision, as the camera strap tightens haphazardly around my wrist as I struggle simultaneously with my water bottle and backpack - impatient as ever, shunning any attempt at one-thing-at-a-time. a punishing wind knocking strands of loose hair into my face and eyes.
all this for bland and greyed out ocean, faded beach blankets set back from the shoreline. a single crack of sun shot over a rock, the blank pink of a late flowering bush, the recognizable curve of a stranger’s elbow.
the reward in a harmlessly greedy stash of what, in its mediocrity, could only be mine.
"The poet is not there only to share a poetic communication but to stimulate an imaginative speculation on the nature of reality."