bug sketches

After finding six moths in my studio in the other day (quelle horreur!), I took my wooliest sculpture down for an inspection. Didn’t find anything awful, but there’s a lot of interior real estate that I can’t really see. So I gave her another coat of acrylic and hung her back up.


The next night, I dreamed of finding a small blue beetle in an envelope in my mother’s attic. I took it downstairs to let it go in the backyard. Before I opened the back door, I peeked inside the envelope. The beetle had turned into a small dragonfly. Out in the yard, I held the envelope upside down and shook it. A large butterfly came out. It picked up a rubber ball that had been lying in the grass, and it flew away.

Because of that, and because my house reeks of polyurethane, I’ve been in the studio this weekend drawing bugs on scraps of canvas. None of them are bigger than six inches square. I’m using Sharpies, of course, but also various other kinds of permanent markers. And Wite-Out pens. Because apparently I am meant to be inhaling noxious fumes right now, one way or another.



A year ago I was having carpal tunnel issues and mostly doing blind contour drawings because it was easier on my hand. It was so much fun that I kept doing it. Now I’m constantly having to remind myself that I need to look at the surface I’m drawing on.

I haven’t seen any more moths since those six on Friday,which is both a relief and a mystery.

itch and ache

We know so little about the body. We know so little about anything. What’s really causing that pain in my arm? A scrap of left-over chickenpox that I’ve shared my body with for forty years? Really?

Have you accepted Shingles as your personal savior?

Shingles is not the savior. Shingles is the prophet, the voice crying out in the wilderness. Shingles is a necessary storm, preparing in the forest a way for the Lord. If trees are falling, it’s because they’re ready. They’ve been waiting for this. I see them and hear them. They’re really falling.

Now it is time for body and soul to write the song of itchy scabs. Unbearable fizzling carbonation under a steaming crust, transforming the ache into a new surface to meet the world.

It feels like there should be feathers growing in, shocking as a first pubic hair.

I dreamed I was pregnant with screams, but no: it was a nestful of broken sparrows, their wings the torn-off pages of calendars.