Given the shiftings and obstacles and reappointments of time and priorities that have effected me over the past month or two, I am very grateful to receive news, messages, word that what work I am able to do is being read, is given attention.  Thank you!

Yesterday I received a message from Michele D’Acosta that she had nominated me for the “One Lovely Blog” award, I was surprised and ever so grateful.

Receiving this award asks that the recipient tell readers seven things that they may not know about the creator of the blog:

1.  I’m a parent to seven children.

2.  I’m a new graduate student in library and information sciences.

3.  I adore theory.

4.  I’m a classically trained vocalist and pianist.

5.  I love all things peanut butter.

6.  I have very few friends.

7.  I long to be a published author.

Then the recipient is asked to recommend to the readers 10-15 other blogs that he or she finds compelling or necessary:

I’ve recently found it necessary to pare down the blogs I follow due to the time constraints my life imposes and a feeling of overload in providing each blog its due attention.  So I’ve had to think hard about what blogs seriously enhance my existence that I engage.  I will pass a few of them along here.

Adventures in American Writing

Searching to See


draw and shoot


unwanted advice


the hour of soft light


maurice sapiro

Want Beautiful


Lady Fi

Dark Pines Photo

We Need More Time to Stand and Stare

my daily art display

lisa thatcher

Christian Mihai

that’ll have to do…as I go over my list of blogs I follow I realize there are SO SO SO many whose news/thoughts/artifacts/messages are meaningful to me.  But to list them all!  So follow the leads and find the good stuff!

A sincere thank you to all who take time to engage my thoughts and stuff.


Grammaring Perseverance

Grammaring Perseverance

“A grammar is an on-going system of relationships…a system which is always in the process of articulating itself – not simply changing, but actually making itself up as it goes along”

-Ron Loewinsohn-

            My hand trembles when I move to write.  Time changes.  What is called perseverance, equals age.

As beautiful to me now, she.  More.

I refuse her loss on any terms.  In any context.

I investigate the language of inquiry.  Always a difference of relation.

Never expect to be heard.  Nor heeded.

Language makes itself up…and it goes along…articulating itself…again.

With this hand, along the incalculable curve of her hip, my palm records cellularly, but never repeats.

Lef hand entangled, her thick head of hair, tomorrow otherwise, should it work its way out.  Or ever want to.

The side of my knee prepositions her thigh, slides into a phrase, shaping a passage, not as if the surface is ever the same, yet no doubt it belongs, only, to her.

My ankled feet, like bony whips, eager to explore, inadvertently pain – the slope of the pedal, bolt of the swivel and up the liquid skin and calf.

It will leave its bruise, its passioned impression.

Everything becomes an aching to know.  Everything is on-going process.

Systems of relations.

When perseverance oppresses.  Again, again, not emptying the land, but altering it.  To cause the seeking, redundancy, both the wanted and the wanting wear.  Tools whittling down, different structures, various nerves, must learn again, of course the surfaces having changed.

My thigh registers her buttocks, elbow in her neck held by shoulder.  For lips to memorize her ear, only that moment.  I rely on her contours similarity hour to hour, so that details are not lost, just renewed.

An eroding resource, yet we are layered, and wrinkled through the timing.  What preserves?  Naught but the process itself, for which our charts are made.  Remade.

The motion does not cease.

As the curves to the apple, subjective object of measurement.  Objecting a subject to a sensual scrutiny.  Not unlike remembering, or illusion.  Information, an obvious verb.  Whether coming undone or accruing.

That began in the perseverance of my quivering hand.  Once connected, steadied by context, the grid of associations and leaps.  The world is a boundary to trace, to follow along, diverting the dots and the dashes, the lines and the colors, reenacting the tracks.

A stumble is anything but halting, more like surge and accident and a reaching out to stay.  My fingers tend to fumble through the filaments – those once vocabulary now a tangling stitching of signs.

To be decoded, recoded, as it were, what hollow mouth or aural labyrinth does not effect?  We know of no recipients, no audience, only sometimes, luckily, co-conspirators, co-creators of a co-event, called (sometimes) knowing, (sometimes) conversation, (sometimes) simultaneity.

I’ll reach out, my hand tremored right down to its core, its code, its quarks or its atoms,

and find a steadying or pattern, metaphors of richer entanglements that may not be explained

my qualia, slight blue lines on pallid vacant surfaces, directing possibilities.

In-formation – that everything that is, in its multiplied becomings, as discrete as my flesh traversing yours.

A continuous severing enabling us knowing – our grammaring, our ongoing, its enclosure.

“At the ‘inmost heart of each thing’ is an ongoing process, an unfolding which is its identity”

-Ron Loewinsohn-