Word.

On my way to photography class, I pass this window that reads "WORD." Inside. As in: if I were inside, learning to throw pots and cups, getting them ready to rest on the sill, I would see the word WORD against the world. The world's overlay, and the woods' overlay, too. A stencilled word become its own stencil, its own template for seeing. The word the vessel, I keep refraining. These words: vessels, clay pots, small assemblage of tenacious fragilities. The word the vessel. What vessel, what. What. I see this window every time I pass to the art building, where I work largely without words, continuing to learn a language of filters and timing and light-tricks. On my way home through the rain (?!) the other afternoon, I finally stopped to take a picture of this window. This afternoon, carrying the 35mm, I climbed up and over and through the snow to get much closer; I haven't yet developed that film. I spent the afternoon making trees appear on paper, trees under what looks like water in the safelight, trees and fences and then weedy fields in snow. With only a second more here, or an extra channeling of light over there, new details reveal themselves. Each negative holds the world in miniature, each grain of silver another shard of possible revelation.

I start to think that this weekend will be a time for mucking out. I'm staggered by how quickly clutter and refuse build in and around me.

Tonight it was still light even at 6:30. Night shots are hard, but I did my best for you, through the dirty window. The colors were too gorgeous not to try.