Archive for August, 2013


Muji paper bag, found material. Milano, Italia, January 2012.

As Stephen King used to address his imaginary interlocutor…

Dear Reader,

Conscious of my erratic posting frequency lately and sudden absences and reappearances, I feel it is right to append few words to this latest image and not once more slink out without, if not an explanation, at least a taste for things to come.

To the handful of Sketchbloom aficionados, a reassurance that this digital sketchbook has many pages yet to be filled.
This hiatus was a leavening and not the intermittent sputtering of an engine about to give out.

I have been traveling and working within and without, intensely, compiling new travel material and unearthing little gems to share from the past four years.
Call it a spring cleaning of many, many drives that was long overdue and undertaken in the mind first and, secondarily, going through storage media in different geographies.

It’s going to be a long, luscious end-of-summer, of images like frames of a wanderer’s life-movie , of odes to my father that will live next to art made by hands, of necessary, daily making, of teaching…and thoughts, words and warmth that become memories and  poetry.

I finally (finally!) feel caught up and organized,  ready to knock out creative projects I have flirted with for years. Along with the biggies, a lot of posts ready to be shared.

My cardboard suitcase is always packed,  and I’m taking you with me.

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by Stuart Dischell

She plans to be a writer one day and live in the City of Paris,

Where she will describe the sun as it rises over Buttes-Chaumont.

“Today the dawn began in small pieces, sharp wedges of light

Broke through the clouds.”

She plans to write better than this

And is critic enough to know “sharp wedges” sound like cheese.

She plans to live alone in a place that has a terrace

Where she will drink strong coffee at a round white table.

Her terrace will be her cafe and she will be recognized

By the blue-smocked workers of the neighborhood, the concierges,

The locals at the comptoir of the tabac down the block,

And the girl under the green cross of the apothecary shop.

She plans to love her apartment where she will keep

Just one flower in a blue vase.

She already loves the word apart-

Ment, whose halves please her when she sees them breaking

The line in her journal.

She plans to learn the roots

Of French and English words and will search them out

As if she were hunting skulls in the catacombs.

On her walls she’ll hang a timetable of the great events

Of Western History.

She will read the same twenty books
As Chaucer.

Every morning she will make up stories….

She looks around her Brighton room, at the walls,

The ceiling, the round knob of the rectangular door.

She listens to the voices of the neighbor’s children.

A toilet flushes, then the tamp of cigarette on steel,

The flint flash of her roommate’s boyfriend’s lighter.

When she leaves she plans to leave alone, and every

Article she will carry, each shoe, will be important.

Like an architect she will plan this life, as once

The fortune in a cookie told her: Picture what you wish

To become, if you wish to become that picture.

Thank you The Poetry Forge.

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