drmstream[writing]

When I was 11 I cashed in my sav­ings bond and bought a goat. I already had about 30 hens and a few roost­ers that we kept in an old shed at the cor­ner of our prop­erty. I sold fresh eggs in the neigh­bor­hood and loved to hear the roost­ers crow­ing in the morn­ing. But being […]

When I stand on the hill and look down the river, I feel like I can breath again. The houses, I hardly notice them, I don’t notice them, I don’t know how to explain it you. I don’t notice them because I know what is inside them. I feel it, the rough wood chairs and […]

In my imag­i­na­tion, I am hang­ing this can­vas when I feel a frost on my cheek and the lin­ing of my lungs ices over. I am drawn head­first into the inky blue light of the river. The crisp snow abrades my raw hands. The bark of the tree fall scratches on my shirt. The cold […]

This is excerpted from a longer project that I am work­ing on. The scene takes place in the early Fall of 1921. The des­ti­na­tion is a sum­mer camp in Moun­tain View, New Jer­sey. The morn­ing was light and unsea­son­ably warm. Selma stood in the cool shadow of the entrance tun­nel. The Penn­syl­va­nia Sta­tion rose up […]

And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew won­drous cold: And ice, mast-high, came float­ing by, As green as emer­ald. And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dis­mal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice […]

We have a tra­di­tion on our anniver­sary to com­mem­o­rate the occa­sion by each writ­ing an entry in a spe­cial jour­nal. Here is what T wrote. I share it because it moved me and because it offers an ele­gant metaphor for love. Here we are on our fifth anniver­sary, where tra­di­tion tells us the sym­bol for the […]

A human being is part of a whole…[but] he expe­ri­ences him­self, his thoughts and feel­ings as some­thing sep­a­rate from the rest…This delu­sion is a kind of prison for us, restrict­ing us to our per­sonal desires and to affec­tion for a few per­sons near­est to us. Our task must be to free our­selves from this prison […]

On a trail I walk there is an old tree that has given up life but stands rooted stolidly in the ground. The trunk is thick and black. The sea­sons have embalmed it. The wood is so hard that the bark won’t break off in your hands. The boys pick up stray scraps that have been […]

The fog shrouds us in quiet.

Let the can­vas hold you for a moment in its sim­plic­ity.  The absence of a title mat­ters.  The painter is not try­ing to cre­ate lim­its, he’s try­ing to open every­thing up for us. The artist is Philip Brown from North Wales. Here’s a link to his works on Flickr.