[move through]

Sometimes we bump against a wall. The point is not to turn back

but to find a way to shift the bricks, or to become one with them

and they will allow passage. They will never grant it in combat.


A novelist and a photographer walk into a theater…

the literate lens

Mann1 Outside Symphony Space

Over the three years I’ve been writing The Literate Lens, few events have screamed “blog post!” as loudly at me as the one I attended last night at Symphony Space, in which Sally Mann, the acclaimed photographer (who, by her own admission, rarely leaves her Virginia home), was in conversation with Nashville-based novelist Ann Patchett.

I’ve loved Mann’s work ever since she blazed into the headlines with her 1992 book Immediate Family—I’ve followed her since into some strange and dark territory, and knew, from the essay excerpt published in the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago, that her new memoir Hold Still would be fascinating. I also loved Ann Patchett’s 2011 novel State of Wonder, which can roughly be described as a sort of contemporary feminist version of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. A photographer-turned-memoirist in conversation with a novelist—needless…

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When we are alone, we are most in-tuned with what is true. We are most able to tune

ourselves to the key of others if we so choose. Solitude is not a negative, it is necessary.

.deux. {NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 30}

.i am, therefore, i think.

.bury the illusion.
text in sub verse and
complete is oxidation
covertly offered diatribes
deep-space precipices
overlooking once angels lyrical
on spent time gained
illusion in professed confession
manufacture deeds masked in divinity
intoxicating dervish spins
until here and now diminish
songs of nowhere from
geometries sacred to lineage intact spiritually
to light of life given
deny not
do not deny given life
of light to spiritually intact
lineage to sacred geometries
from nowhere of songs
diminish now and here until
spins dervish intoxicating divinity
in masked deeds manufacture confession
professed in illusion
gained time spent
on lyrical angels once overlooking
space-deep diatribes
offered covertly
oxidation is complete
and verse sub in text

It’s the 30th and final day of NaPoWrimo. How do you all feel? I don’t know about you guys but I’m staying away from all things literary for a week or…

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The skin of this life is like that of the petal

It is so gently beautiful, but so tragically fragile.



“There’s a rail we could take” I said “if you still want to go?”

looking back to the tail of my words, I saw you’d already gone.

[Take me Away]

I would like to go, somewhere far away, inside of you.

I would like to learn the language of breaths, and how

they speak with your pounding heart, rapidly, when

we have only considered a touching of our mouths


Sometimes the skin is just pretending it is not hungry;

sometimes the bones are exclaiming they are fine without

holding the weight of another. They are both good liars.