the dusk


I hoard the dusk
anxiously, not wanting
to squander one particle of light.

The day does not heal:
the night offers choices
without answers. The dusk is
the heaviness of suspension.

I cannot go indoors
without witnessing
the sylvan hills
green grey expiration.

only hope in the shadows;
they articulate and clarify shapes.
only take comfort in their interplay
and inbetweenness.


analytical thinking has been difficult for me lately. reading books hasn’t held my attention much. many of the things that i was once interested in don’t really hold me much any more. so i’ve been filling my time with new things. there is not much of a theme to them, other than just exercises or an interim experience while i’m waiting for something new to show up. quin_illustration_07quin_illustration_01

quin_illustration_06 quin_illustration_05 quin_illustration_04 quin_illustration_03 quin_illustration_02

yeah yeah yeahs, despair

been listening to this song a lot today.


Don’t despair, you’re there
From beginning to middle to end
Don’t despair, you’re there
Through my wasted days
You’re there through my wasted nights

Oh despair, you’ve always been there
You were there through my wasted years
Through all my lonely fears, no tears
Run through my fingers, tears
They’re stinging my eyes, no tears
If it’s all in my head there’s nothing to fear
Nothing to fear inside

Through the darkness and the light
Some sun has got to rise

My sun is your sun
Your sun is our sun

Oh despair, you were there through my wasted days
You’re there through my wasted nights
You’re there through my wasted years
You’re there through my wasted life

You’ve always been there
You were there through my wasted years
Through all of my lonely fears
Run through my fingers, tears
They’re stinging my eyes, no tears
We’re all on the edge, there’s nothing to fear
Nothing to fear inside

Through the darkness and the light
Some sun has got to rise

My sun is your sun
Your sun is our sun

Sycamore wisdom


I used to trust
The tree trunks
Against my body
The sycamore wisdom.
The pocket of silence
Amongst deconstruction

I once made a promise
I could not keep
And now I am asking
To be free
From this place

This body has never felt
So shackling
The only wisdom is the whisping
Wind through these sycamore leaves

All other words are lies

Coming back


Long ago i bailed on this medium prompted by certain life events. I had lost someone close to me by suicide. Not shortly after that, some very dramatic circumstances arose around a project i have been involved in. I had to close down here. I deleted years worth of postings. My thoughts were feeling too exposed.

Something seems to be coming back though. These last months i have been trying to take risks again. I admit it seems strange in the sea of information and social media – the iphone age has arisen since i abandoned blogging – to return again to this medium. I wonder if i will stick with it. Maybe long form blogging is not as dead as i thought, or maybe some trend will start happening again. But there are so many people in the world. So many things to look at. And it’s mostly visual information. And there is no theme in these words but the person writing them. I wonder what will happen. I don’t expect much of an audience.

Here are a bunch of loose thoughts i have been having lately.

Words and writing are something i think i am good at but they don’t change things. They are second to experiences. And this makes me feel sad because words are what i have plenty of. I can write and write and write but it doesn’t change. I can fill blank spaces with thoughts and perspectives but it doesn’t change. In fact, it makes things change less. It makes things permanent. Once something it said it can’t be unsaid.

I have this problem that i refuse to believe the past is gone. I dwell a lot on what happened. Especially in relationships. But I think there can be some positive things that happen from examining the past. I think about the sankofa bird particularly, which suggests that it is okay to reach into the past and find what you have forgotten. Still, perhaps i stay there too long. The past usually feels better, a safer and more comfortable place. A happier place. It holds the potential for healing but probably most of the time it just traps me there.

I feel brave enough to love but not brave enough to live in a world where love cannot win. I’ve always been willing to throw caution to the wind when it comes to caring for someone. I’ve been reckless and hurt because of it. Maybe i’m in denial about adulthood, but my work and practical life just pales in comparison to the possibility of love. I’ve spent a lot of time in a very pragmatic phase but i can’t deny that i am deep down a wild eyed romantic. I realize this is too much to expect from other people sometimes. Maybe as i get older i will some day too cave to pragmatism, close off avenues of love because it’s just not practical. I doubt it though. Love feels scarce. Not abstract love, but relationships where romance and emotional intimacy coalesce seamlessly. There are so so many mitigating factors that block those possibilities. Maybe the person isn’t attracted to the other person; maybe their job stops them; maybe the person doesn’t live in the same town; maybe the person doesn’t fall into some set of socially prescribed norms. Countless other things too. It makes me feel like love cannot win in this world for me. My imagination is pretty circumscribed these days.

Closure is really important to me on things. Graceful closure. Everything i have tried to do with the projects i have been involved in is create graceful transitions.

I hate how jealousy destroys things. I hate when jealousy wins. It feels so damned unjust that i feel like i could die from it.I bought a bunch of books this past month, but nothing really stuck save one: Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus. Prior to that i had been thinking of Orpheus and Eurydice, and lately even Cassandra.

The cold autumn descends. I’ve spent so much time in these recent years winnowing down my life, paring down, emptying out, opening up, that it seemed inevitable that something or someone would come fill me up here. It seemed like these cycles that have been coming around had the chance to break out into something new and amazing, but at the moment they are simply repeating. And that is sad.