Bethany at work in Kenyon’s metal shop yesterday. She and two other sculpture majors share a studio the size of a small townhouse. It has a twenty-five-foot ceiling and its own bay door for installation art. Bethany, however, likes to make miniature pieces. The new studio art building opened while she was in Japan.
in which God gets my attention through textual insight. I love taking photographs just before or after early- or late-day sunshowers: the rich, angled light hits its subjects full in the face, and the sky is a dramatically dark backdrop. The devil is beating his wife, in fact, just now – the sun and its […]
We used the pines other ways. We raked their needles for flowerbeds. We broke off their bark for sidewalk chalk. We threw their cones at one another. We knocked off their branches punting footballs. The pines took all of our noise and heat and memory and channeled it up, diffusing it through their needles. They also absorbed the resulting lightning strikes, channeling the sky’s heat the other way. Never a scream, never a word though entire childhoods.
The comforter is half-folded over with the upsweep of a snow bank against a house, if you’ll picture my wife’s edge of the bed as the house. Certainly, I am comparing a floor-plan perspective with an elevation, as it were, but you may ignore the rest of this paragraph: it may be worth your time instead to see the comforter just so. She made the bed before she left, and I have not disturbed her side of it except to take her pillow. She comes back Monday. The sheets are pink, and the top one entwines with a thin, cotton blanket, the sheet’s yin swirling with the blanket’s yang. Miles above them, the comforter’s displeasure is a perfect crescent.