Dioptrical Writings
Two houses, brick facing brick, boarded up, and an alleyway between them. One where Lincoln slept, the other a bar; that doesn’t matter, in the Old federalist style. But the middle way, umbrella stripped, small window on the upper floor. No clothes-lines, but hooks. Disused, freed: liminal play of light, meaning bounded, to the eye, our forward architect of the secret places of things. Our Façade, seeing toward the unseen.
Light opens in gardens of shadow whose moments flower through the range of day.From the least thing left unsmoothed, the sober patron of Alternate Calendar attends living rooms in double mystery. That book, being written even now. Just close your eyes and read what’s there.
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