Archive for April, 2009





Oil in Water from Shawn Knol on Vimeo.

Fluid dynamics

Pyramid Song

Can this song get any more tender? Like a lamb on the rocks, like a Russian astronaut, so far from Thom, from its safe tortured home, alone in a Dutch living room, in the bright of day, it can, it does.

Pomo Canyon, Shell Beach

I held the shell of a horseshoe crab. It was soft, which surprised me, but it hardened quickly in the sun. It brought to mind everything else that hardens and can’t be softened again. I wanted to bring it home to my son, while he would love it, before he becomes uninterested in such things. It stank too much in the plastic bag I put it in; I had to leave in the woods.

While I walked back to the campsite, everything I thought had the profundity of dream polemics, and it crumbled likewise in daylight, in ink, when I tried to jot down my thoughts in a notebook. The sun was warm on my face in the cold wind; in the trees, still shade and recalcitrant coldness. Ferns everywhere.

The red of the coals, the white of the coals, the black of the coals. The magical colors of all the world. The day and night and blood of the world. The lips and teeth and gape of the world. The coal I stared at was ridged or ribbed like the inside of the shell of the crab. It turned to ash, but glowed first, for a long time, and there were dark storms inside it.

Has your heart hardened against the chill sunny salty air of your grown up disappointments? Or do you keep it soft and strong, like a starfish, in what brine, with what impulse? What storms glow you in what starry forest nights? What dream calculus do you pursue, integrating fern spirals and taking the first derivatives of what still, aster-littered trails through what damp hush?

It came from within

I was standing outside a restaurant last night, waiting for a take-out order to be ready. It was about 8:30. Next door to the restaurant is a curio shop. The door opened, and a man leaned out holding a bell jar upside down against a magazine. He had captured something that he didn’t want to kill. He was setting it free outside. He lifted up the bell jar and sort of flicked the magazine up, to give whatever it was its freedom. I couldn’t see what it was. Moth? Spider? Earwig? I just know I was close enough that whatever he flicked got a hell of a lot closer to me than to him. I guess the outdoors is filled enough with things that crawl or fly or just generally move clickingly about me all the time. But somehow, the knowledge that there was one more of whatever it was out here now, something bad enough to not be allowed in there…it was distractingly skin-crawley.


Lines is my favorite new font.