Theft of Hope

Thief with Good Taste

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Words
“Hope” by Emily Dickinson

Paint
“Woman” by Antonio Mancini

Theft of Meaning and Beauty
“Photo of Woman” by Me

When We Have Time

When We Have Time

We make things. Humans. Some of us make things even when we don’t have time. I aim to be that person every day but sometimes life breaks your brush or dries out your inks and sticks its ugly deadlines and lifelines in your face and yells that art isn’t important. Screw you, life. Get back on my schedule and we’ll be fine.

“Andrew at Mary Jane’s” Ink Print on Paper

Dead People with Eyes Full of Life…

Old photos like this fascinate me. This woman’s name was Vera Crichton and the photo is her mugshot take in the early 1920’s. She was 23 and was arrested in New South Wales for “procuring a miscarriage on a third woman.” I know the woman is long dead, but her eyes make me want to write a play about her. There is something in her stare that causes me to think that at any time she might speak. Or maybe it’s that she looks like she needs to speak.

Or maybe I’m a bit touched.

Oh, Colette. How did you know?

“It’s so curious: one can resist tears and ‘behave’ very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer… and everything collapses.”

– Colette

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