Tag: a.i.Art
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Haunted Slow Cooker The slow cooker hums monkish chants at midnight—a low, greasy dirgethat smells of Wednesdaysand possibly the 1520s. The old woman pries it open:inside, a stew that definitely contains: Wormhole carrotsA whisper of “buy more sardines”One pearl button (from a shirt she never owned) The cat, not hers…
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14.11: Vantablack – The Liturgy
The Architecture of Vertically Aligned Carbon NanotubesA Liturgy for Vantablack — The Colour That Is Not a Colour I. Of AbsenceThis is not a colour, but a hunger—a surface so deep even light forgets itself. Its texture is velvet without body,warmth without heat,the shade where memory waitsbefore being born again. II. Of PerceptionTo look upon…
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12.11: dVerse Prosery
The Coming I stirred the embers with a bone-handled spoon, watching the light ebb from the fields. The year was thinning; even the crows sounded hollow. Yet I smiled, for then and not yesterday, I learned to know the love of bare November days before the coming of the snow. It was a respect without…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman Explains Thanksgiving (and other Impossibilities) The cat’s draped across the kitchen table.One paw outstretchedtoward November’s windowwhere a plump pheasant strutsthrough the frost. “Why,” the cat begins, in a tone suggesting a legal challenge,“do Brits not have a feast?And why is that bird so rude,…and so large?It’s taunting me.” The Old Woman sighs,wiping…
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02.11 The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman, the Cat, and the Apple Tree of Chaos(Old Fashioned Chaos) The apple tree,drunk on starlight and spite,heaves its roots like Cetus, a sea serpent of soil— thunk against the fence,crack through the patio, its fruit rolling into the neighbour’s gardenlike tiny, rosy planetsescaping orbit. The cat(still not hers, never hers)watches from the…
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31.10: Of Samhain
The Return of the Wise Woman The PreparationThe world has gone thinat the edges.The air, a gossamer veil,smells of apples and smoke. A single candle is lit,a sun in a kitchen windowoverlooking the sea.It is the same flame grandmother lit,and her grandmother before her. A beacon.A welcome.A promisethat the hearth is still tended. The InvocationShe…
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30.10: dVerse Haibun
A Samhain Haibun On Samhain night she lit a single candle in the kitchen window, the way her grandmother had taught her: a flame for the ones who still wander. The air smelled of apples and smoke; the world had gone thin at the edges, and she thought she heard the old woman’s tread across…
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29.10: MicroDosing 60 µg
The Bone Orchard They don’t grow stones here in this bone orchard. They plant people. The soil is rich with silence, fed by stories. We tend the plots, not with water, but with memory. In spring, the only blossoms are the ones others bring. The only harvest is a name, whispered back by the wind.…
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28.10: De-Scribing – The Liturgy
The 27th of 27 – The Unstitching and De-Scribing of the Bond The Liturgy for The De-Scribing — The Book of 27(as written by Felreil) I.The body’s lanterns dim,and yet we see. We seewith the soles of the feetthat know the coldof monastery stone. We seewith the palms that rememberthe weight of a crow’s feather.…
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27.10: Black on White
The Striped One, Who Is Both This isthe light and dark of it. You stand in the thresholdwhere dust meets breath,where sky calls to you, you — who wear the herd’s mark,light of consciousnessin your serene gaze. The light sees you.The light wants you. Sacred is the patternthat binds all things, black stripe of shadow,white…
It's Still Life 