Gathering some really old negatives of gramps to get developed.
i have a hard time articulating the feeling of loving someone who is no longer on this earth - someone who is not family, but instead, one of the sparkling, extraordinary people with whom i choose to surround myself. it’s like loving a ghost. dust. like loving a train after it’s left. i know this isn’t the last time i’ll feel this way, but this first one is so hard.
I have writer’s block. As such, I wrote a poem about it.
Here is an excerpt:
“Stretched, still, sore. Bleeding pens and open
books, a flutter of words, a murder of
sentences.”
Despite the “bleeding” line, the “murder” means a flock, like a murder of crows. A whole murder of sentences, circling overhead, taunting.
Writing about writing is both absurd and enlightening.
Russian Burlesque!
Photographer: www.helenaplatonova.com
Costume designer: Asya Zhukova
Costume Idea and model: Alice Shpiller
One word…WOW!
