'a single red leaf'



















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Harald Sohlberg, "Evening Glow," 1893. Nasjonalmuseet.

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Saijō Yaso, "The Crow's Letter." Via stopping off place.

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Solid gold pumpkin charm, via Erie Basin.

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1927 photograph of mummers. SOTK2011/ Alamy Stock Photo.

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Dr. John Dee's obsidian mirror, with a wooden case covered in tooled leather labeled in the handwriting of Horace Walpole: "The Black Stone into which Dr Dee used to call his Spirits."

The inscription also includes this quotation from Samuel Butler's "Hudibras" about Dee's assistant, Kelly:
Kelly did all his feats upon
The Devil's Looking Glass, a stone;
Where playing with him at Bo-peep,
He solv'd all problems ne'er so deep.
© The Trustees of the British Museum. Shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) licence.

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Newspaper clipping via the Schuylkill County Historical Society.

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Otto Hillig photo of a burning haunted house with ghost, ca. 1910, via John Conway.

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Photograph of a polypore fungus resembling a hag in profile,  from Eldritch Oculum Catalog 10.

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A so-called "witch's ladder" in the collection of the Pitt Rivers Museum. After it surfaced in the attic of a Wellington, Somerset, house in the 1880s, it began to appear in short stories and novels as an object of malevolence, though it is likely something more practical and homely, possibly a "sewel ... held in the hand to turn back deer when hunting." When a local folklorist make inquiries, "Marianne Voader, a women locally reputed to be a witch ... 'professed to know nothing about such a thing and thought what you got at Wellington was nothing but a string set with feathers to frighten birds from a line of peas.'"

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Gold beaded punch-paper embroidery on silk ribbon, via criticalEYEfinds.

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It seemed to be growing, enlarging and expanding, the whole house, and I felt its emptiness oppressive, as though conspiring against me, and I realized how much of time was spent looking for someone, someone in the house, listening, waiting seeking around corners, up a stairway, along a corridor, behind a door. But no. There was nothing. I was alone. Truly; though there were others in the house, I was alone. And lonely, let me admit. I think it was then that I began to miss him, felt the lack of him, began to seek him out, to look for him, to look for him, all through the house, the barn, the fields, down by the river. But he was gone ... He was gone; I could not conjure him up, as he had me. He was gone, and, sadly, I missed him. I was alone then, in the house, and I have been alone ever since.

Thomas Tryon, The Other.

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In 1991 Jeffrey Stambovsky sued the previous owners of his house in the village of Nyack, New York for failing to disclose that it was haunted. Stambovsky, an out-of-towner, argued that locals had known for years about the ghosts living in 1 La Veta Place: a couple dressed in 18th-century clothing, a naval lieutenant from the Revolutionary era and a poltergeist who would rattle beds in the early morning. The house’s owners were George and Helen Akley. Helen had written accounts of the hauntings for Reader’s Digest and for a local newspaper (she reported that the family lived happily with the ghosts: the poltergeist didn’t shake the beds at the weekend, so they could sleep in). Stambovsky argued that since the Akleys and their estate agent hadn’t told him about the hauntings before the sale (they claimed otherwise), he should be allowed to break the contract without penalty. The New York Supreme Court agreed. ‘As a matter of law,’ its judgment concluded, ‘the house is haunted.’

Jon Day, "Gloomth." London Review of Books, Vol. 47 No. 20, 11/6/2025.

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Over the years the Wisconsin REALTORS® Association Legal Hotline has received a handful of calls from members asking if a property reputed to be haunted required disclosure. Wisconsin’s real estate license law requires brokers to disclose a haunting only if it has an effect on the physical condition of the property. In one case, a broker was told that the walls of the listed house “bled.” Given the physical effect on the house, that particular haunting was required to be disclosed. Most haunting questions deal with various apparitions and chain rattling—brokers are not required to disclose this form of haunting.

From an article on the website of the Wisconsin Realtors Association, excerpted in Harper's, October 2008.

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When Peggy Kellner bought this bungalow in 1964, she had no idea that the house was already occupied by the spirit of a former owner, Victoria Magee. The ghost communicates her decorating tastes by smashing statues and turning pictures she does not like to the wall. She bangs cabinet doors and throws objects across the room if a man stays overnight or if guests play Monopoly. Her apparition once appeared to a visiting accountant who was idly strumming an antique harp while waiting to see Peggy. The ghost said to her, "Don't do that, just go sit down!" The accountant left so quickly that she left her purse behind. 

From The National Directory of Haunted Places by Dennis William Hauck, excerpted in Harper's, October 1994.

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In Japan, homes where murders or suicides have occurred are classified as "jiko bukken" or "misfortunate properties" that may provoke psychological distress for new owners or tenants. So are homes with "socially isolated" deaths—the most common type of misfortunate property where bodies are not found for some time and sufficient decay has set in to warrant special cleaning services or even the replacement of floors and wallpaper. Modern thinking around misfortunate properties has been shaped by Japan's ancient Shinto religion which holds that when a person dies with regrets, their spirit lingers on earth, often at the site of their death, bearing grudges or overwhelmed by grief. "Finding renters used to be virtually impossible," said Kodama, who founded his company, Kachimode, three years ago to offer what he calls ghost investigation services for prospective buyers and tenants. "But with rising real estate prices, people have begun considering misfortunate properties as an option."

Mariko Katsumura, "Japan's 'death-tainted' homes gain appeal as property prices soar," Reuters, 6/30/2025.

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Stone tape theory, "a pseudoscientific claim that ghosts and hauntings occur when traumatic events are imprinted on certain stones or other materials and are subsequently replayed, similar to a magnetic tape recording."

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"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run;
    A web is wov'n across the sky;
    From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:

"And all the phantom, Nature, stands—
    With all the music in her tone,
    A hollow echo of my own,—
A hollow form with empty hands."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 3."

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What we can see and hear and touch in this world is very limited. And so perhaps it's true we don't know much about the world at all. We like to say there's nothing new under the sun, but we don't have the slightest inkling of how many things there are, indeed, under the sun.

Bora Chung, Midnight Timetable.

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chance operations/gifts some 48-year-olds might enjoy




















Finisterre's Kaia 2mm Yulex suit, for jumping in wherever you are.

Underwater Weaving's laptop basket (this delights me for inexplicable reasons).


Sensible shoes (Quoddy bluchers) + frivolous socks (by Exquisite J).

Iris Garden by John Cage and William Gedney, a book that combines photographs and stories to create a work of chance.

Ayoko & Family greengage plum jam (essentially eatable sunshine).



Tom Bihn Aeronaut 45, for carrying on.

Silver suns by Apres Ski.

imaginary outfit: sun tunnels


It does not sound particularly special: four massive concrete pipes, parked on a crusty desert in rural Utah. They sit at the end of miles of scruffy gravel roads, looking from a distance like abandoned infrastructure left to bake in the sun. But I had traveled nearly 2,000 miles to see them. 

Two years ago, I was in Corinne, Utah, on the edge of the Great Salt Lake visiting Spiral Jetty, Robert Smithson's much photographed work of Land art. It is sited in a superlative landscape, edged with brown hills that look like piles of crumpled earth. The day I was there, the sky was full of fleecy clouds and the land was dotted with clumps of foam blown off the salty water. The lake itself was a glassy smear of toxic pearly pink against the horizon. Between the clouds and the foam and the heat shimmering across the exposed lake bed, I felt like I was walking in the sky. I read later that Spiral Jetty's "impressive size and deliberate shape command the surrounding landscape" but I did not find that at all. When I was there, it felt comparatively puny, a thumbprint smudge on the sublime. 

Driving away, I knew I wanted to come back to see Sun Tunnels, a work of land art created by Nancy Holt, Smithson's partner in art and life. I had stumbled on a New York gallery exhibit of ancillary work she created about it some time ago, and the little flyer from the show had been sitting on a shelf behind my desk for years.  Holt made the Sun Tunnels between 1973 and 1976, positioning four 18 x 9 foot hollow concrete cylinders in a cross formation that precisely frames the rising and setting sun at the summer and winter solstice. Each cylinder is pierced with a constellation of holes–Draco, Perseus, Columba, or Capricorn—allowing for shifting patterns of dappled light to be cast inside. 

This month, I finally made it back to Utah, and after visiting a vanished resort and a bulbous tree of rock, driving across fields of salt where watery mirages hovered in the middle distance, and wandering through the recreation hall of an air field where pilots were trained to drop the atomic bomb, it was time to go to Sun Tunnels. 

We took the scenic route, which meant rattling down long lines of road edged by salt flats and sagebrush, phlegmatic cows and a few rusted-out shipping containers. Miles of wire fence scrawled between posts.  We turned, then turned again, and Sun Tunnels came into view, a beige heap on a beige plain (the setting is less immediately spectacular than Spiral Jetty). As we got closer, we gasped and laughed. Even driving up, Sun Tunnels begin to do their work, framing the landscape into eclipsing circles, waxing and waning to perfect roundness. Reach the end of a cross, where the two tunnels align, and the circles nest like an empyrean diagram: land and sky bound by rings of concrete, light, land, and shadow. 

This parcelling of the view was marvelous and addictive; we walked around and around from place to place, watching the view shift. Mountains, clouds, plains, sky. I was not there at the equinox and so did not witness celestial alignment, but it was a clear day with big clouds, and as they moved across the sun, the light around and inside the tunnels shifted. Patterns of brightness cast by the constellation holes shone and faded. Eventually, I stepped inside the tunnels, overcoming years of ingrained museum conditioning to not touch the art. The air was cooler. The hollows were smooth and streaked with what looked like black tire marks. I had no idea how they got there. 

On the flight home, I read Helen Georgas' 2019 essay about visiting Sun Tunnels. It captured something I had not been able to articulate, turning over why Sun Tunnels had moved me so much when Spiral Jetty had not: 
Holt found the vastness of the desert overwhelming and created a sculpture to help us frame it. This is a form of empathy, even as it’s also an artist’s colonization of place. Indeed, the tunnels are both guides and havens, directing and protecting. ... [T]he tunnels are viewfinders, gently commanding us to pay attention—to the sun shifting over time; to the light spilling through the “star-holes,” spiraling around the tunnel’s interior, across my own body, changing shape, from pointed ellipses (mandorlas) to complete circles and back again; to the mountain ranges, pale violet and then black, muted or in high-relief. ...  We become conscious of our ways of seeing and being. Perspective and perception shifts—am I looking at the mountains or are the mountains looking at me? Borders separating interior and exterior, immediate and distant, self and other, finite and infinite, fusion and transcendence begin to dissolve. Another revelation: Holt completed Sun Tunnels in 1976 but the work cannot really be complete without the presence of the viewer(s). We are both subject and object. In fact, we are the art, 'the field upon which patterns of the universe revolve.'
I can't wait to go back.

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I hope to get back to Sun Tunnels sooner than later, and maybe time my next visit for a sunrise. Some things I'd bring: Hyperlite Stuff Pack 30, possibly crammed with a Honcho Poncho, because desert mornings are chilly / Lenka bars (so good, b/c basically a cookie) / Freaks of Nature sun stick (kept me well-protected on both salt flats and cinder cones) / Vintage Olympus camera  / Yeti 18 oz Rambler with Chug cap (my ride-or-die water bottle) / Windquester ultralight folding camping chair (on the quest for an ultralight camp chair of these that does not cost a small fortune, and this is a strong contender) / Outdoor Research Sunbriolet sun hat (big fan of OR hats) / Anntian unisex sweatshirt in print A layered over a Patagonia Capilene Cool Sun hoody (handy to strip down to as temperatures rise) / Gramicci mini check nylon pants / Quince Maldives polarized sunglasses / Vintage Taxco earrings, a la Spiral Jetty / Vintage silver bracelet, a la Sun Tunnels /   Grödo organic wool socks / Norda 001A trail shoes in Cinder (spotted these on my travels; covetable).

odds and ends / 9.8.2026













Firmin Baes, "The Young Girl and the Cabbage (‘La petite fille au chou’)," ca. 1903, private collection, Antwerp.

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A grasshopper design in Leavers lace. Late 19th or early 20th century. Collection of Anne Swift.

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Yui Suzukey, "Lattice Picnic," 2026.

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Early 20th century three-light chandelier made of lacquered sheet metal featuring thistles and tulips.

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Charlotte Perriand with an unknown man on a summer’s day, date and photographer unknown, from the collection of the Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, via aetherian_upstate.

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He was born in 1948 and grew up in a small Suffolk backwater. This was a world closer to the 19th century than it was to our own dully fractious era. No global hullabaloo of youth culture: impossible to imagine Altamont or Live Aid, Michael Jackson on the Thames, Bono cold calling George Bush mid-gig, Katy Perry in orbit. No personal touchscreen beckoning itchy fingers. Just gazing dreamily into the distance or cycling about aimlessly on long summer afternoons. Boredom and its cloud-drift antidotes. Boredom as something almost erotic.

Ian Penman, "Infinite Wibble." London Review of Books, 9/25/2025.

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Monotony is the most beautiful or the most atrocious thing. The most beautiful if it is a reflection of eternity—the most atrocious if it is the sign of an unvarying perpetuity. It is time surpassed or time sterilized. The circle is the symbol of monotony which is beautiful, the swinging of a pendulum of monotony which is atrocious. ... A squirrel turning in its cage and the rotation of the celestial sphere—extreme misery and extreme grandeur. It is when man sees himself as a squirrel turning round and round in a circular cage that, if he does not lie to himself, he is close to salvation.

Simone Weil, "The Mysticism of Work" from Gravity and Grace.

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In order for work to be meaningful and sustaining, Weil argued, it had to demand thought and attention. This was an insight she arrived at through firsthand experience. During her work on the assembly lines of newly automated factories, she marveled at “this mental void inside me, this absence of thought indispensable to the slaves of a modern machine.” She worried that the “social machine,” the managerial class of bureaucrats and technocrats, was slowly gravitating toward unconsciousness as countless decisions were being outsourced to specialized technical criteria nobody really understood. Modern life was no longer serving human needs; it was serving the ends of the machine, and it was becoming more and more difficult to steer it in a direction of our choosing. In the talks I gave that year, I often quoted a passage from Oppression and Liberty in which she imagines a future civilization where “all human activity…was subjected right down to matters of detail to an altogether mathematical strictness, and that without a single human being understanding anything at all about what he was doing.” It never failed to elicit a sympathetic murmur from the audience.

Meghan O'Gieblyn, "Wishing It So." New York Review, 9/24/2026.

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... [H]e asked if I’d be open to reading some Shakespeare aloud together: specifically, Act I, Scene 7 and Act II, Scene 2 from “Macbeth.” ... “I’m kind of obsessed,” he said. “I go see the same plays over and over and over.” We sat opposite each other at a glass dining table in a midtown hotel suite. ... [H]is performance was serious, decisive, earnest. Afterward, I told him that it was nice to be reminded of the particular, idiosyncratic music of Shakespeare’s lines. He agreed. “It affects you even if you don’t understand the words sometimes,” he said. 

Amanda Petrusich, "Rivers Cuomo Is Piecing It All Together," The New Yorker, 8/30/2026.

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I myself went fell hard for the Eclogues as a University of Michigan undergrad from 1982 to 1984; really, the line A Jove principium; Jovis omnia plena (“The beginning is from Jupiter; all things are full of Jupiter”—but the English just doesn’t cut it) altered me neurologically and impaired my enthusiasm for anything subsequent. Indeed, I became an obscure poet, a translator, a sarcastic cultural historian, and a serial axe-wielding reviewer.

Sarah Ruden, "Criticism, Then." Book Post, June 18, 2026.

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We chew our burritos. Maybe our cells yearn to be free of us, I think, most unscientifically. Maybe they’re exhausted by the constant negotiations in time and space it takes to maintain the form of an eye, a limb, a mind. Lord knows I’m tired too.

Claire L. Evans, "Report from Goleta." Wild Information, 7/12/2026.

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Those constant bearers of meaning
bore me. I want to open wide now
to the absence of concept, understanding,
representation, to the inward flare
of exhilaration. To the gratuitous
revelation of mineral forces.


Forrest Gander, from Mojave Ghost.

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odds and ends / 7.21.2026

 











Still from "Clotheslines," directed by Roberta Cantow, 1982.

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Sawyer Made split-step stool, for Walker Street Market, photographed by Winnie Yang via The Secret Strategist.

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"Ideal Hollow" by Nichola Manning, via drifting lament.

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Shell buttons, via slow roads.

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Detail of "an exquisite, finest muslin early 1800s French hand embroidered shawl," sold by starchedandcrumpled.

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Photo of H.D. and a child on a beach in California, collections of the Beinecke Library.

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Overlapping in a complex network, each line of garments reads as a household census noting: age, family size, and social status. Bed sheets, undergarments, and women’s hosiery on thin strings allude to bodies not present. Starched white shirts dangle neck-down on tiny tightropes stories high above a precipice of filth-black alleys. A warm summer breeze could bring each garment to life with the weightlessness of guardian angels overlooking the city.

Lissa Rivera, "A Fine Line: The Art of the Clothesline," Museum of the City of New York Blog, 8/7/2012.

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[Clotheslines] were useful in many ways besides drying laundry: for running messages and cups of sugar from one apartment to another, or—stretched diagonally down to the ground—for conveying groceries to the elderly infirm or growlers of beer up to the corner saloon. They were characteristic of a life stretched by necessity, out of interiors of apartments as far as possible into the public space beyond.


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She felt contempt for her environment. ‘Women, yech!’ she’d say. ‘Clotheslines and gossip,’ she’d say. She knew there was another world—the world—and sometimes she thought she wanted that world. Bad. She’d stop dead in the middle of a task, staring for long minutes at a time at the sink, the floor, the stove. But where? how? what?

Vivian Gornick, Fierce Attachments. 

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I think the idea of comfort generally, even when you asked me if I’m comfortable, is a rich thing. These are concepts. If you ask somebody how they grew up, they won’t tell you rich. They’ll say, “We were comfortable.” I’d never heard the word growing up. Comfortable? What? We’re not comfortable. Nobody is comfortable! There are roaches in the sink. The snow has come through the window, and I’ve got to put cellophane on it. Nobody is comfortable, and we’re very comfortable being uncomfortable. But the rich are not. And they dictate what is comfortable and what isn’t. They are uncomfortable often.


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"Suffering and enjoyment as sources of knowledge."

at the clothesline




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Jacques Henri Lartigue, "Florette, Piozzo, Juillet 1959." (Other Lartigue clotheslines here.)

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James Tate, "At the Clothesline."

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'let america be america again'

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.  
(America never was America to me.) 
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.  
(It never was America to me.)  
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)  
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.  
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!  
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.  
Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”  
The free?  
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.  
O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.  
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!  
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!  
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

Langston Hughes, 1902-1967. 

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Originally posted 7/4/2018, brought to mind thanks to the wonderful people at Terrace Books.

playing with fire