library
an ongoing record of awes and beauties from which i will never recover — and never wish to
130 · (august 2026) i trace the contours of the darkness in search of the outline of everything, and here and there the loop closes and i find an edge and every time i do i leap across it so that i may rejoin the pulse; there is nowhere else for me
129 · (july 2026) on the other side of the end of everything, there is something stranger than nothing. pure potentiality; reach this place, and it all starts over again
128 · (july 2026) we are not meant to survive contact with reality; you and i are of the nature to be devoured by time. forever was never in the cards. gone so very soon, and yet here we remain, if just for now. what shall we make of this infinitely thin moment? either way, the time will pass
127 · (july 2026) eventually, everything fails, including your body, especially your body, first and foremost your body. there is no last line of defense, no protection that can permanently endure contact with being. it's not going to last forever. it was never going to, nor should it. the time passes and we are stirred to act in defense of our aliveness, lest it be nullified by the indefinite languor of inconsequentiality. to live is to prepare to remember what it was like before you were born
126 · (july 2026) walk far enough upstream in search of the waters' beginning, and on the doorstep of the source, you will be greeted by a committee of vultures; they will regard you as the evening sun floods your eyes, and ask without words--your admission to the inmost resting on your answer-- "how much dying are you willing to do in order to go on living?" they will allow you to go forward so long as you actually know
125 · (july 2026) i can see a lot of life in you / i can see a lot of bright in you
124 · (july 2026) there is no thing that cannot wash away
123 · (july 2026) no one is going to save you, nor will anyone stop you; it is, terrifyingly, exhilaratingly, up to you
122 · (july 2026) eventually the flatness folds in on itself
121 · (july 2026) thence we came forth to rebehold the stars
120 · (july 2026) clinging will never set you free
119 · (july 2026) the experience of growth has more in common with the seeming asphyxiation preceding the sob than it does the release of letting go into the weeping; by the time the tears fall, the most important part has already passed
118 · (june 2026) none of this will last forever, nor even for very long, and that is so, so okay. the aliveness of the moment is granted solely by its passing. there is no rescue from time, and you do not require one. you are already home; in fact, you never left
117 · (may 2026) in the late fifteenth century, an acorn sprouted in an old growth hardwood forest and grew into a healthy young oak in the coming years by luck, it continued to grow stronger and taller over decades, and then a century, and then another, and another, and another, and yet another more to reach the present, all the while standing staid as nearly all life around it was consumed and irreparably redirected by the colonial cataclysm. over the course of a life now better measured in fractions of a millennium, perhaps no period may be more perplexing from its sagely vantage than the dizzying exponentials unfurled in the industrial era. in the century approaching its half millennium of living, the air on its leaves rapidly grew thicker with carbon, the groundwater on its roots came to taste more and more of strange chemicals with time, the pollinator cycles wobbled and the once buzzing rhizomatic network went quiet, the sky was crisscrossed with cobwebs as machine sounds increasingly pervaded all registers of volume, and the night itself ceased to be fully dark. you and i may be younger than this tree, but we too know what it is like to live in a world knocked on its side by exponential curves going vertical. deep time wears on, but the agglomerating entity steering all life on earth sideways from its occasioning choreography has hijacked the present, holding us all hostage by conjoined dependence and disempowerment. it will go on, faster and faster and faster… until it can no longer. we ought prepare ourselves for the grief; it is later than we realize.
116 · (may 2026) there's a full moon rising, lets go dancing in the light
115 · (may 2026) wonderful and wise, this snapping turtle... she was already decades older than i am now at the time of my birth. i met her in the last leg of her yearly walk back to the swamp after she had dug her nest and laid her eggs in the hills last night. she more than anyone else in these woods knows what it was like in the before. before the light pollution. before the roar of the single prop planes. before the subdivision and the weedkiller in the water. she knows.
114 · (may 2026) in the distance, the floodlights of a logistics fulfillment center and a retail complex twinkle, and eighteen wheeler engines roar from the interstate out of view. but here, right here? here there are just leaves of grass whispering and crickets singing within them, fireflies above and bat shadows too, and preceding all of this, my heartbeat in my ears as this deer and i stare at one another under the crescent moon. a parallel universe reveals itself in the dark
113 · (may 2026) the flight of the instant
112 · (may 2026) it finds me in the dark
111 · (may 2026) bats spin and strafe as they gorge on the mass insect hatch emerging from the surface of this lake, sodium vapor streetlights bouncing off the clouds from far beyond the forest's edge
110 · (may 2026) untitled, bass guarding fry nursery
109 · (may 2026) the omens are not concerned with your willingness to see
108 · (may 2026) the mundane is a cataclysm of its own
107 · (may 2026) a young firefly, larval and flightless, learning how to glow
106 · (april 2026) at the end of everything there is but soft light
105 · (april 2026) dogwood blossoms
104 · (april 2026) earth day... i'm a nature abolitionist. bear with me--nature is conventionally real as a gesture, but the concept is incoherent from a materialist perspective. classifying nature as something separate, a thing to go to, implicitly justifies ecocide and extraction. there's nature deemed worth exempting from extraction, and nature gleefully eviscerated. what's the difference? if 'nature' is only what hits our scenic fetish registers enough to qualify as a national park, with topography unusual enough to please us, then what of the unnoticed ecology in the tall grass in the interstate median, the trillions of organisms living their entire lives between lanes? the natural park designation says--this, and just this, is worth exempting from universal eligibility for destruction. we should consider the life we don’t consider valuable, or extant. what of the bats sleeping in pockets beneath overpasses no one knows about because there's no interest to survey? or the rats under the brooklyn sidewalk? are they not making their lives unconventionally--just as we are? 'nature' ought to include the abjected—including us!—as is the subtext of the nature binary. our self-abjection is a tacit admission—we are dominators of nature, and disgusted by this fact and all evidence reminding us of it. but the PCB laden mollusks of newtown creek and the gowanus canal, the scavengers making their lives off any spare calorie amidst the city sprawl, are our kin. to understand the nature of 'nature', i ask--how natural is an anthill or termite mound? how natural is a subway system or skyscraper? like ants, we coordinate, using exoskeletons to pick up pieces of earth and put them elsewhere to build dwellings. sand and lime and water make concrete. what's different about a human in the operator's seat of a bulldozer cab, moving earth to make human homes, and an ant picking up dirt with its jaws to dig the hill? this earth day, remember your place in the family of all things, and your siblings—the cockroaches and bacteria in the septic tanks, for we are consubstantial with all life that finds its way.
103 · (april 2026) the land was scraped blank by mountains of ice ten thousand years long, and the world began anew. rivers fed by the meltwater found the level of the geography. subglacial currents met light, and thus ensued the holocene. what we know of the glaciers—what we know of anything at all—are the scraps and scars left behind
102 · (april 2026) between light and shadow, i am
101 · (april 2026) at the quarry at last light
100 · (april 2026) holocene scar tissue marbles my flesh; inscribed within me are maps of the world in its unbecoming; maps, and mazes; trails left behind by the pilgrimage of things for which there is no return
099 · (april 2026) the key turns but once
098 · (march 2026) sky burial
097 · (march 2026) untitled
096 · (march 2026) what was was not me—i am what remains
095 · (march 2026) i am no good nor evil, simply i am
094 · (march 2026) alive at any cost
093 · (march 2026) untitled
092 · (march 2026) there is no rescue, and you don't need one
091 · (march 2026) roses discarded, found on melting ice
090 · (march 2026) the cathedrals will crumble long before they are activated by melody again
089 · (march 2026) eventually, all things merge into one. the world is a swamp
088 · (march 2026) the thaw
087 · (march 2026) letting go is going free
086 · (march 2026) untitled
085 · (march 2026) all we are able to know is what it is not
084 · (march 2026) noësis
083 · (february 2026) we are but sightseers in this plane
082 · (february 2026) visitation in the stone cathedral
081 · (february 2026) the flashlight often winds up being a reason to remain afraid of the dark
080 · (february 2026) untitled
079 · (february 2026) darkness is the substrate for all illumination
078 · (february 2026) these are the closing notes of the before
077 · (february 2026) form is emptiness, emptiness is form
076 · (february 2026) death drive
075 · (february 2026) it goes and goes and goes and
074 · (january 2026) matrix multiplication is just birdsong in a different register
073 · (january 2026) untitled
072 · (january 2026) untitled
071 · (december 2025) it is later than you think
070 · (december 2025) getting crushed by it is a rite of passage
069 · (december 2025) spent shotgun shell discarded, but no bullet holes to be seen
068 · (november 2025) nowhen, nowhere
067 · (november 2025) i used to dread autumn but now i welcome the renewal
066 · (november 2025) stillborn future
065 · (june 2025) the only way out is through
064 · (june 2025) deep time moves with the instant
063 · (june 2025) untitled
062 · (june 2025) you road before me i know you are not all that is here
061 · (may 2025) judgment by the hounds
060 · (may 2025) untitled
059 · (may 2025) phosphene
058 · (may 2025) the post-human soma
057 · (may 2025) untitled
056 · (may 2025) untitled
055 · (may 2025) untitled, after lascaux
054 · (april 2025) here one moment and gone the next
053 · (april 2025) forest sigils
052 · (december 2024) from an empty sea, a flash of light
051 · (december 2024) entopsis
050 · (december 2024) the feeling of the thunder is the feeling of the silence just gone
049 · (november 2024) i am a strange loop
048 · (october 2024) i come from the ancient darkness of deep space to disintegrate into boundless celestial light on my approach…
047 · (october 2024) at heaven's door, an answer
046 · (october 2024) you have to want it
045 · (october 2024) half measures are of no use, you have to go all in
044 · (october 2024) fled is the night; do i wake, or sleep (fapa 2024 panoramic professional gold winner)
043 · (october 2024) above the streetlights, below the stars
042 · (october 2024) untitled
041 · (october 2024) untitled
040 · (october 2024) cablevision
039 · (june 2024) vault skyward in defiant transcendence
038 · (may 2024) untitled, compound aurora display
037 · (may 2024) kiss me, you're beautiful--these are truly the last days
036 · (may 2024) 11:11:44 pm
035 · (april 2024) being and nothingness
034 · (april 2024) visitation
033 · (april 2024) ensoulment
032 · (february 2024) that night, there were twice as many stars
031 · (january 2024) i try to remember the wrath of the devil was also given him by god
030 · (december 2023) jennifer, plate 3
029 · (december 2023) jennifer, plate 2
028 · (december 2023) jennifer, plate 1
027 · (november 2023) i'm dragging a dead deer up a hill
026 · (march 2023) subterrane
025 · (march 2023) the future is a benevolent black hole
024 · (january 2023) liftoff
023 · (april 2022) over times square
022 · (march 2022) negative space
021 · (january 2022) rockeffeler's ziggurat
020 · (december 2021) suññatā
019 · (december 2021) nothing, everywhere
018 · (september 2021) fall back into everything
017 · (september 2021) untitled
015 · (august 2021) untitled
015 · (august 2021) the middle of the world
014 · (july 2021) grandma and grandpa at the balanced rock
013 · (june 2021) crescent sunrise and passenger jet
012 · (may 2021) looking into deep time
011 · (may 2021) cornfield cartwheels
010 · (may 2021) welcome to the desert of the real
009 · (may 2021) silicate whispers
008 · (october 2020) untitled
007 · (july 2020) the sun also rises
006 · (july 2020) the wound is where the light enters
005 · (july 2020) a visitor, a witness
004 · (june 2020) cosmic echo above the forest floor
003 · (july 2019) hold me close, don't hold your breath
002 · (november 2018) go to worship in the multifoliate cathedral
001 · (december 2014) first light