20091105-16 (bird)

Like abandoned children, we live as perpetual newcomers to order. A list is a closed circle, a barricaded museum where everything in the world is rumoured to exist, but where nothing can be found. I think I'm coming down with Dr. Derrida's Archive Fever.

20090819-54 (bird)

I try to dream up birds as balm, as salve against the grit of the moment. I get as far as their beaks, at which time they are scoured away by the wiry wind.