To see what is there. No more.
To speak what you see. No more.

No caveats. No excuses. Not even fancy, literate, well-crafted ones.

To be able to experience truth.
Before it became a complex, stretched thin, hologram.
Before it became political, the hunted, the hunter––the uncatchable.

Picasso has famously said, “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, a lifetime to paint like a child”. He speaks about his objective this way, “I aim at deeper resemblance, more real than real, thus becoming surreal.” It seems to me, in his sculptures, his paintings, his plates––all his art he was attempting to enter essence. And record it.

Bathers Playing With A  Beach Ball

Entering essence seems a tall task.

Given our lifestyle. Most of us at least, especially those of us with kids, within commuting distance of a city, with patience-challenged personalities. Not to mention death. The agonizing beauty of love. Too many chocolate brownies. The internet. Hormones.

But children get it. Picasso sought to see like a child. One of my very favorite poets and essayists, Naomi Shihab Nye, pays homage to this in her poem, “One Boy Told Me”.



Welcome. These posts will attempt in some way to evolve the conversation we have with ourselves, with each other, with art, history, time, poetry, love, chocolate–pretty much anything that seems worthwhile!

What if our stories were not carved in stone? What if historical events were not? What if we could evolve these stories? Turn them upside-down? Inside-out? Provide a new context? Engage in a new conversation? What if we could rebuild what is broken? What if instead of bombshells raining down over Berlin, it was poetry?

Since 2001, the Chilean art collective Casagrande has been staging “Poetry Rain” projects in cities that have suffered aerial bombings in their history—cities like Warsaw, Berlin, Santiago de Chile, Dubrovnik, and Guernica. In Berlin in 2010, thousands gathered in the city’s Lustgarten as 100,000 poems rained down from the sky. The poems, dropped by helicopter, included work by 80 German and Chilean poets.

What if on 9/11 what filled the sky was a migration of monarch butterflies?

Two years after the Twin Towers fell, my husband, Joe, and I were driving down the West Side Drive, past the meat-packing district when I saw what looked like debris falling from the sky. The image broke my words into silence. Then we got closer and the debris was not debris at all. Hundreds, maybe thousands of Monarch butterflies were beginning their 2,500 mile migration to Mexico.

Perhaps we are being given signs all the time on how we can evolve our conversations. Perhaps our stories are made of clay.