le mur dans le
miroir Reading a bilingual
edition of Emily Dickinson’s poems, circulating in languages.
Daydreaming. Hearing about all the deaths on the news. Lifting your
head and lingering on the flashes of light in the place. In the afternoon
getting up from table and heading off to write in the room serving as
a studio. Walking to the Alyscamps in Arles, then seeing a host of tiny
white flowers in mid-air in the marshes, one morning. At the age of
54, I’m embarking on new research, reading my writings, putting
images painted or otherwise on shelves, building units. I’m very
aware of “unforeseen” things, juxtapositions, and things
that are permeable… These encounters may
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