On Art

Perhaps a true statement: A lyric essay flows very quickly in all different directions.

It is interesting when we begin to think about organized thought, our brain as our map and our map [is] our brain. Follow exact directions and the destination will present itself as simply as it appears. 

If a constrained essay presents itself to us as a navigation system, a lyric essay presents itself as a fine friend and I driving a black Toyota pick-up down a cliff-side in search of an isolated party haven in the woods. We are laughing and meowing and screaming and rather dramatically unsure of the outcome. Occasionally a friend’s madness is wisdom, and an essay’s madness is adventure. Occasionally all things are reversible, and nothing is very much as it seems, and when we reach the bottom which tends to look like the top, we understand more about ourselves and of course we understand nothing. 

If we were to surgically remove our mind from our brain, I believe we would in fact have a concrete road map. Perhaps in doing so our lives would be simpler, the universe would be simpler, and we would know many things. The destination would present itself quite as simply as it appears. It often happens that we surgically remove our brain from our mind. The outcome is poetry, and our brain cannot begin to recognize it. Few of us have the strength to avoid our brain gnawing at our mind for long enough to understand any poetry at all. What our mind understands is the direction each individual travels. It understands this because it is aware there is no possible way of seeing it, only a hint at feeling its presence. But then few of us have the intelligence to mediate our brain and our mind in order to create organized art: the “lyrical” essay.

When first scribbled, the lyrical essay is the beautiful infinity of the mind. But, soon revised by the brain that desires to connect with many other minds, the essay becomes quality – organized train of thought. Indeed, something which does not exist, but renders that foolish feeling of experimental arrangement.

We may observe a painting, or an etching, or some kind of sculptural creation with much scrutiny. We may consider ourselves higher than what appears to be a third grade scrawl; superior of mind. We may be correct. What the artist has profited from may insult us because we have paid to see art in action. We have paid to see pure-organized-art. Bread & Puppet proclaims, “Art is FOOD. We cannot EAT it but it FEEDS us.” We need it, but we cannot understand it.

We are asked the question: “What is art?” We answer: “Art pleases us.” “Art is beautiful.” “Art provokes thought.” We are being asked the wrong question. If the question lies: “What is thought?” We answer: “Thought is pure.” “Thought is inspiration.” “Thought is art.” Have we now reached greater understanding? No, what we have reached is only more questions. Thought is art.

I draw in charcoal, because a mark is erasable but remains. I embrace the thick black chalk on my palms and elbows, ashen freedom. I etch and print, soaking up the smells of solvents and inks, and allowing them to saturate my skin. I type, correcting as I go, revising and cutting and pouring over notes. I am consumed, and it consumes me. I obsess. If art is food I am starving. If art feeds me I am over-fed. If thought is art, I am an artist, but if art is thought, I over-think. 

Some Silly Poetry for my Vermont Readers

Preserved Hours

The Vermont air was like a crisp green grape.

You settled into your snowshoes

The way one would a bed in the dark, but

You fell over with one easy step.

We unbuttoned our icy jaws.

I’ve never remembered why we laugh,

Forever uneager to expel the cliché.

We laugh like Katy’s black truck

Bouncing down the cliff-side.

Our boots stopped at the edge of the forest –

You were afraid of the dark.

We didn’t all know each other,

 You confessed with your teeth.

The canopy fluttered its hands inward, like

An invitation you’d never been offered.

You meowed to me with cat eyes

Exploring your surprised satisfaction,

Inhaling the blue darkness.

Snow crunched and flurried as we howled.

We laughed with our bellies,

Penetrating the hollows of the forest.

The woods were silent with shadows and nobodies.

Somnolent Summers

I believe in taking naps. I believe in long languorous sleeps. In the deepness of summer, when I wake up feeling stale and sweaty and dehydrated, I know my greatest peace. Sometimes I doze off on the porch in a familiar chair, sometimes in the sand with the little waves of a lake glazing over my toes, sometimes in the grass with the boy I love, or in a hammock with my best friend in the middle of the night. On very lucky days, I fall asleep surrounded by dandelions, my mind wonderfully muffled with wine. The ground is cool and the air is hot, and the vast sky is clearer than i have ever seen. The clouds move slow, and lull me to sleep. 

Often, I nap in my beloved red subaru on the side of the road. I wake up with a pinch in my temple, suffocated by my own breath with the deep, low sun piercing my eyes. But as the door opens, I gulp that first heap of fresh air, remember the function of my own legs and rediscover freedom. And simplicity. I drive home with all four windows squeezed inside all four doors, letting Vermont air and dirt twist and turn about the layers of my clothes and hair. I think about my dreams – when I nap I remember. When I nap my dreams laugh; they enjoy their time inside my head. They bring me clarity, and perspective. The day slows down, summer slows down, and the things I love stay in one place. Life’s finality melts away because the world is silent and patient, and so I nap.

Jack Frost Nipping At My Nose With The Promise Of Eggs

Recently, I was greeted by the biting cold of home. It happened almost instantly: my nose dried out, the skin on my knuckles started to crack like boiled tomatoes, and my eyes became watery with the sheer shock of the temperature. A splendid welcoming! The cold is different from the winds of Chicago, it doesn't take a single break to re-accumulate. Its jaws force us to cuddle up inside by the fire, which I must say is rather pleasant.
The moment I arrived home I had a great long sleep. It was five o'clock in the afternoon. I felt as if I hadn't slept in months, and I awoke to complete silence on my living room couch. I sat, and waited for the crackle of the fire to make its way to my thirsty ears. I looked up to the crumbling wood ceiling, and in a nasty web was a poor deceased fly. It hung ominously, but before thinking a beat on the unpleasantness of the thing, I felt a pang of relief to finally be in a place where flies can execute their short life-cycle. I had not seen a bug since August.


In the morning I was disoriented, and not entirely certain what to do with myself. I stumbled downstairs, surprised to meet my mother there. The coffee was the first thing to go on. Then I pulled out a small frying pan with a wobbly handle and took great pleasure in heating it up with some olive oil on the stove. I made myself eggs. With extra drippy yolk - possibly my greatest source of happiness. A thing so infused in my taste buds that I had to tattoo it on the back of my neck. I smothered my toast with pesto and oil and placed my eggs on top. I immediately washed my dishes (something I never used to do while lounging at home) and wandered to the couch to sit again by the fire. The coffee smelled heavenly, and felt at home in the tight grasp of my fingers. I took a large bite and the warm sunny mess came dripping down my chin and onto the plate. The salty tang of an old love affair was practically unbearable, but I was starving for more. It was not a breakfast to sustain myself or to build my energy. It was a reunion.

Full Bellies and Snug Slumbers

Seasoned Plum Summer

window face.

Perhaps Cakes?

Plentiful Pies and Knives.

Smile, Emoticon strangling,

Eat Radishes.

Be Radical.

Alimental Adventures in Autumn!

(But seriously how beautiful is my state?)

It's officially fall here in Chicago and as the sun struggles more and more to conquer the Sears Tower, I find myself missing the incandescence of my Vermont hills in the morning. Of course a detailed description of the foliage this time of year would be completely and utterly useless to most of you readers who can achieve that perennial fixation by any given Robert Frost poem, or of course any of the bazillion postcards that are produced every Autumn. So I'm here to share a different obsession of mine. 


Have you ever been fortunate enough to participate in apple thievery? Well, let me tell you... it's quite popular among Vermont natives (this Vermont native, at least.) Being that there are so many orchards across the state, there is bound to be one right next to a road, right? Well yes, in fact, there are a plethora! I shock even myself with the reality that I only discovered this gem of an idea this past fall, right at the heart of my last year in the green mountains. 

It's easy: Just drive that Subaru up at a snails pace (being as stealth as you possibly can be), creep out and climb onto the shoulders of a particularly tall friend, and grab everything in sight. They may not be the apples which receive the most nurtured love and care, but they are precious apples all the same and should not very well be wasted - left to rot to the core only to plunge to their ultimate demise among the dirt and the weeds of those lonely back roads. And so we save them from this humiliation and present them with a hearty and satisfied life. It's far more of a service, really, than theft....


You may ask, what do we do with these sacred little gifts from our kind orchard keepers? Do we devour them all at once for the sake of instant gratification? Do we bake them into pies and tarts? Do we turn them to jams and butters and smear them on toast? Apple cider? Turnovers? Crisp? All delicious ideas, but were I faced just one more time with a sack full of apples and the infinite forrest free for the taking I would have no choice but to turn to an old friend, the ever confounding Hobo Apple.


On a cool, breezy New England day nearly a decade ago, my brother and I were hijacked into apple picking by my dear mother. Little did I know that it would turn out to be one of the more memorable days of my childhood. Sure, we picked a few apples, climbed a few trees, and fiddled with the cider press, (which alone would have made for a rather pleasant Autumn day) but the joy of the afternoon was born in a barrel. Not a barrel of apples or cider or anything logical of that nature that would typically be found at an apple orchard, but fire in a barrel, similar to the barrels you might catch a glance of in the back-alleys of these Chicago streets, keeping our locals warm. 

*(Come to think of it, this revival is proving to be more and more plausible....)

Crowded around the barrel were several adolescents with apples on skewers, and after further investigation, my brother and I uncovered the Hobo Apple.


Cored and stuffed with cinnamon & sugar, or occasionally Vermont cheddar cheese, the Hobo Apple is roasted over a fire until it becomes slightly charred, and nicely soft. Now of course this recipe can be modified to suit the needs of, lets say, an oven, but in this case the truth is, the integrity of the Hobo Apple suffers. Plus, where's the fun in warming your cold, wind stricken hands in front of a toasty oven light?


As it is now, I may be simply forced to sacrifice two integral steps in the process: No apple thievery possible in the city without ripping off honest farmers market salesmen, and I do believe barrel fires in my dorm room would be frowned upon.

If You Still Wonder at the Power of Food, Try Italian

Each and every time I take a sip of wine, a very distinct reel of images pokes its mischievous head out from the depths of my memory. I float right back to Florence, (an immediately blissful place to exist) where I peer up at the sky through tall grass. Sunlight peaks through a dandelion to tickle my cheek and I am surrounded by laughter. There are brilliant people all around and for once, I am not taking the moment for granted. 

Our picnics were taken very seriously. We collected cheese and bread and prosciutto, nutella and strawberries, grapes, olives, no forks or knives or spoons. We had no knowledge of the correct wine to drink, so we paid very little and drank both red and white, then red again for good measure. There was no need for glasses, we intended to share the moment completely, as family. We sat in a circle and beamed at one another, already discerning the significance of one afternoon. Sip then pass, and try to remain calm if you are skipped. 

We were dreaming together, and it was as if time were offering us a precious gift. Three times we returned to the hills to drink our wine and share our cheese and break our bread, but as the years persist, the moments have become woven together with affection. Now, we are in love with one simultaneous breath - captured and set free.