List of Objects in my Periphery

Half burned sage in an ash tray. Car keys. Wallet. Lighter. A Natural History of The Senses. An observatory – a notebook full of collected little clangs of consciousness. An example: “I remember being told not to enjoy the smell of gasoline.” Wax dripped onto a framed piece of glass. A half-formed collage with blue clippings identifying sky and floral green pavilions keeping the eyes out of the cardboard backdrop. This to go beneath the waxed glass. Paintbrush. Glue. Winning lottery ticket for $2. Shotglasses full of sea shells and evacuated barnacles. Swann’s Way. A postcard from Denver. An old bass head case. Okkervil River CD. Screwdriver. Candles. Geodes from river beds. Candy corn string lights weaving all through these things, illuminates the handle of a buck-knife, a growler from Orcas. In the black window I am frightened out of my reflection, seeing him hunched and itching there, a few feet away, facing me, suspended in the second story dark outside, matching a freaked gaze. Orange in the night. And none of it matters at all when I sleep. None of it helps me dream or lighten up or feel like any more of an artist. It sits now heavy with a sleep I’ll soon bring into the room and blanket the objects with, the desk my mother and grandfather made together, all crooked canvases under my feet from perilous unfinished projects of my past. It is a kaleidoscope of unfinished

 

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