These paintings make me feel calm (Nigel Van Wieck).

I’m loving Nigel Van Wieck right now. He feels like a modern Edward Hopper (who incidentally had a summer home very close to where I live, who painted the farms along the road I drive to work on ). I like the shapes of people’s bodies that he portrays, the positions they’re in. And he’s alive right now, living and painting in New York, which means we can purchase prints for eighty bucks, follow him on Instagram, wild but true.

*Please note that I technically know nothing about painting except that I love paintings.

To the PointTo the Point

The Wind Can See

The Wind Can See oil on canvas 24x36 inches a


Escape oil on panel 20x24

Holding the Heavens

HOLDING THE HEAVENS oil on panel 16x20

Q Train


New Model



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Autumn poem (Edward Hirsch).


by Edward Hirsch

Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees
In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance,
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything
Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s
Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment
Pulling out of the station according to schedule,
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet,
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us,
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets.
And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

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30 One-Liners (Joe Brainard).

More time is spent at the window.

You go along from day to day with summer all around you.

Stores tell all about people who live in the area.

Others have already written what I would like to write.

Today the sky is so blue it burns.

In the country one can almost hear the silence.

The four seasons of the year permit us to enjoy things.

Smear each side of a pork chop with mustard and dredge in

Have always had nose stuck in book from little on.

What defines that feeling one has when gazing at a rock?

It was in Costa Rica I saw my first coffee plantation.

Happiness is nothing more than a state of mind.

Money will buy a fine dog.

A new program is being introduced by our government.

On the whole he is a beautiful human being.

A lake attracts a man and wife and members of a family.

We see so many different things when we look at the sky.

Male early in the day.

One can only go so far without potatoes in the kitchen.

A mother is something we have all had.

Every four minutes a car comes off the assembly line they say.

Foamy waves wash to shore “treasures” as a sacrifice to damp

High density housing is going on all around us.

I could have screamed the day John proposed winterizing
the cottage and living there permanently.

I am a very cold person here.

The year of the white man was a year of many beads.

Loyalty, I feel, is a very big word.

Perhaps in our mad scramble to keep our heads above water
we miss the point.

Why must we be so intent on destroying everything we

Winifred was a little relieved when they were gone.


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Smith Mountain Lake Wedding Getaway Vacation Poem.


I can’t stop thinking about those farms and silos buried
beneath the lake. Rooms full of water, doors swinging
on their hinges with each passing boat above. Never in my life
had I boated to lunch, never floated on a neon noodle
in the summer darklit water watching fireworks break apart
above my head. First I was living inside my life, chucking stems
to the chickens, fetching flowers at dusk, and then I was there:
the lake, a single bed, rooms full of brothers and wives,
a couple to marry, my hand held and adorned with henna,
the screams of cicadas, unceasing. Artists draped in metals
they’d bent into form, hats and towels strewn on the deck
like clothing stripped by lovers. A husband kissed his wife
in water, the raft between them bobbing gently. A woman
with a mohawk danced beside her lady’s braids. A toast was made,
a dream was told, a glass refilled. I was but a single set of legs,
unbuoyed and unburdened, free to roam at will, gently moving
through the spider threads that draped between each couple
in attendance, dewdrops of their pairings landing on my arms,
my ankles. I watched a belly held to feel the kicking; I handed
cups of bubbly to each person in the room, I picked a chigger
off the inside of my toe. I ate the food they fed me, I lingered
on an edge of dock to marvel at the sunlight floating in the water,
I swimmed some laps, I swished the ice cubes in my cocktails,
I wore a skirt and spoke the wedding words in front of everyone,
boats tearing through the water just behind. I watched
the married ones exclaim in summer heat as the shining faces
of their familes encircled them in hugs. In the company
of teachers I talked of names and ways of being; I laughed
with jewelers, I spoke of herbs, I threw away the memory of never
having known these people and gave them all I’d brought.

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A day in the life (a poem).

June 30, 2015

I am living in Vermont
I am living in my head
My twenties ending like a delicious
episodic television binge
where plotlines are vague & details ecstatic

America my country has legalized marriage
the week after I legalized my own
In a month I will legalize
the love between two people
overlooking a lake in Virginia

My hands & feet are dirty
Be not mistaken I’m nobody’s heroine
Not brave enough & only medium-fast
But have you seen my garlic patch
But have you watched me sleep for hours

Godlier & godlier I’ll travel forth
The sun when it’s out, the moon when it’s round
surround me & cram me
into the single sweet envelope
called my life

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“I Should Know Better” (poem with candy in it) (mine).

I Should Know Better

I grow my own food
& make my own pickles

I make my own yogurt
I make tomato sauce from scratch

but every time I leave a hardware store
a video store a country store a magazine shop

I want to put a quarter
into that crusty candy dispenser

selling Mike & Ike’s (which I don’t even like)
or peanut peanut M&Ms or Skittles

I know that candy has been in there for years
But I just want that one small handful

of cheap & attainable sweetness
I can’t help it

I want those candies
I want them bad


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Sprung (poem) (mine).

The lilacs will be here any minute

Forsythia is happening and so is coltsfoot on the roadsides

Daffodils are happening and little blue flowers I don’t know yet

Breakfast & dinner outside is happening

as the roosters chase each other inside their fencing

Grass is greening fast with full moon energy

The tomato starts are waving at the brassicas in the porch breeze

It is time for a hat with a brim that goes all the way around

It’s time for dandelions for dinner & ramps for lunch

The violets just showed their shy purple faces yesterday before the rain

The marsh marigolds are practically everywhere

Spring is touching us all with the a wand invisible & bright

fairfield porter

“Schwenk” by Fairfield Porter, 1959.

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