We hear ourselves speak as though it is we who are driving this mad bus pell-mell down the mountain. Outside, under the juniper tree, the wasps are swarming, the bullfrogs relentless and brackish in their chant. Pain or pleasure, medicine or poison, each blade of grass can be a gate, each footfall a moment of wakefulness. … Continue reading
Tag Archives: Joyce Janca-Aji
True Love — Joyce Janca-Aji
if I know how to throw the hatchet so that the blade strikes precisely center and lodges impeccably in the mass of salvaged boards nailed together with bent and broken bits to the singular rotting beam of what once was the south wall of the barn, then I should know how to throw enough of … Continue reading
Portrait of the young man… — Joyce Janca-Aji
Has it not occurred to anyone that Monet might have done just as well if he counted fence posts or lined up all his shoes instead of painting haystacks? That his art was no so much perspective as lack of something to do with his hands? Or that for Van Gogh, certain hues of cobalt … Continue reading
A Three Minute Response to Mary Oliver — Joyce Janca-Aji
Somedays I spend all day watching the tiny jumps of pulse under winter skin so white, almost translucent as if it were a sheet of ice under which rivers dove downwards as if to crack the hard shell of the earth’s core and recover a sense of ancient molten life. Continue reading
