Hunted: 10.17.2016

Continuing my words + image trend…two quotes by Bukowski that have lately haunted and hunted me, and my photographic response…

like the fox
I run with the hunted
and if I’m not
the happiest man
on earth
I’m surely the
luckiest man


Oh yes

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
too late.


Posted by Gabriella

Hunter: 10.9.2016


“The Lonely Hunter”  by William Sharp

Green branches, green branches, I see you beckon; I follow!
Sweet is the place you guard, there in the rowan-tree hollow.
There he lies in the darkness, under the frail white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he is sleeping now,
And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may crown his moon-white brow:
And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden hollow
Wherein he dreams I am with him — and, dreaming, whispers, “Follow!”


Green wind from the green-gold branches, what is the song you bring?
What are all songs for me, now, who no more care to sing?
Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a shadowy place;
White is the hunter’s quarry, a lost-loved human face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow of failing breath,
Led o’er a green hill lonely by the shadowy hound of Death?


Green branches, green branches, you sing of a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-young, sun-ripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, “Follow, oh, Follow, Follow!”

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing.
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.


Posted by Gabriella.

Wild Geese: 10.7.2016

Looking for inspiration for this week’s theme I came upon a favorite poem by Mary Oliver, then paired it with a photo that has nothing to do with wild geese. Or does it?


Wild Geese


You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.



Posted by Gabriella

WATER IS LIFE: 10.01.16

Posted by: Shannon



Apples: 84%

Me: 50-65%

tissue, blood, and bones

all holding water

all holding water

all needing water

to be supple, to be strong, to bend instead of break

to grow ripe, to ferment, to create and destroy

to protect, to nourish, to carry away the pain

down the river

down the river

Playing with Fire // Squirreling // Precipice: 10.3.16

I turned our last three themes into cues for a three-part short story. That was fun.


Playing with Fire

A voice feels like a secure thing, safe in our throats humming up and down our vocal chords, but we lose them all the time. The first voice I found was at the grocery store, bumbling and buzzing, stuck in a pile of lemons. It was easy to catch, like scooping up a moth battering itself against a window. All the way home it burred and ta-ta-tummed in my pocket. It was warm in my hand and tickled my skin like an owl feather. I tried to let it go, honestly I did, but it was lost and befuddled, clearly missing its person. Once it felt my warmth, it clung to me. I had to keep it.

It was a deep voice, a man’s, a little rough from smoke or shouting, with a soft Scottish burr. It hummed tunelessly, maddeningly, for hours on my pillow. At 2 am I sealed it in a mason jar and stuck it between bags of dried beans in the pantry.

In the morning, I considered the jar with puffy eyes as I sipped strong coffee. As a child I had loved to chew things – I’d suck on plastic Barbie shoes, gnaw the salty ends of my glasses, bite my fingernails to nubs. It was an intense compulsion, a hunger, and I felt something like that now as I listened to the muted voice from inside its jar. I wanted that voice.

I unscrewed the jar. The humming briefly became louder, then muffled as I jammed it into my mouth. I tasted wood smoke and musty wool, bergamot and spearmint. I coughed and gagged.  It was like trying to swallow a milkweed fluff and I gulped for air, eyes watering, until it settled itself in my throat.

The next time I coughed, it was a deep Scottish smoker’s rasp. I laughed, astonished, with throaty chuckles that were not mine. A little puff of something flew out of my mouth and landed in my lap. It was my own voice, bewildered and shrinking from the light. I carefully tucked it into the jar. I narated my actions as I washed the dishes, recited little bits of poetry, told myself some knock knock jokes, anything to hear the bass viola coming from my chest.

But I couldn’t go out into the world like that. Dislodging the voice required something close to self-inflicting the Heimlich maneuver while in downward facing dog, with a long rest afterwards. With relief I sucked my own voice back into my throat and went to work.

I barely made it til lunch. Faking digestive troubles, I spent the rest of the day hunting for more lost voices.


Like any diligent forager, I began to see my quarry like bright acorns among the weeds. Lost voices were snagged in the wire of shopping carts; tumbled into lint traps; wrapped in a delicate husks I would peel back before pushing them into my mouth. I thought of them as orphans which made capturing them feel more altruistic. It wasn’t as if i could staple posters to telephone poles, “Found in laundromat, Silky Female Spanish Accent, approximately age 40…” I didn’t see any posters begging, “Have You Heard Me?” The voices needed me. Soon I’d moved all of the cereal and pasta out of my pantry and lined the shelves with mismatched jars holding a chorus of flittering Found Voices.

I became skilled at switching them with one forceful thrust from my wind pipe. Alone in my apartment I’d I put on a different one each day, sometimes two. I had my favorites: the Italian boy who sang like a lark; the girl from Brooklyn who tasted like strong coffee; the British woman who was perfect for reading Harry Potter aloud; the wistful caramel tones that tasted of pure con artist.



My collection became…unruly. When I opened the front door and switched on the kitchen light, they would caterwaul and screech in gibberish, vying for my attention. I had to put sound-proofing foam pads on the pantry to keep the cacophony from filling my apartment. I began to notice that some of the voices I never wore, like the woman who barked the simplest questions or the young man who whined like an oboe, were fading, hardly moving in their jars. A voice, I concluded, must need to be active to remain fresh.

The whim of the voices started to fade. I found many gave me a terrible sore throat, an allergic reaction, that lasted for days, making even the most beautiful voice a croaking wheeze. I couldn’t keep the collection active enough and some of them were definitely dying, fading into a puff of ash at the bottom of their jars like spent incense.

I unlocked the pantry one morning and heard only the faintest whisper from my collection. It was time. With my own familiar voice in my throat, I filled an industrial-sized rubberized tote with every jar. They hummed and hey’d with curiosity and worry while I brought them up the elevator to the roof. The jars clinked as I lugged the bin to the edge. One by one I unscrewed the jars and shook the wisps of voice into the wind. I watched as they drifted off, milkweed-down floating all over the city to tangle in treetops and snag on powerlines. Maybe they’d be plucked down by another collector, or a surprised mute. Maybe they’d drift back to their own person. Or maybe they’d just fade away to dust, a murmur in the sunlight.




Water is Life: 9.27.2016








Posted by Gabriella.

Turning: 9.20.2016

And that fast, in a blur, once again the seasons change.


Posted by Gabriella

Precipice: 9.12.2016

Poised on the verge of another fall, in more ways than one.






Posted by Gabriella.


Squirreling: 9.5.2016


  • hiding something of value in a safe place
  • moving in a restless or inquisitive manner


Posted by Gabriella


Playing with Fire: 8.29.2016

With gratitude to Dancing Shakina, who created this beautiful batik tapestry that serves as the banner of my new castle, and tells any who approach everything they need to know about its solitary lyrical long haired mistress, keeping the flame by playing with fire.


Posted by Gabriella.