Home

I sift the image debris of old homes, brushing the sand out from bones carefully. I have become a shadow watcher, reading wood shavings on the floor as tea-leaves. I see light paint recede into ever-darkening corners (park, lamp, candle, hung filigree). Each space can lurch into life-- a sudden carnival stage-set-- turning slowly, creaking loudly. These spaces are humming, and strange, and then quiet. Sometimes there are passages and tunnels underneath, other times there are torn light pathways from walls that breathe like skin to an outside world. There are always lights that mark the edge of the stage.