黑料不打烊


Figurative: The Body as Language

02 Aug, 2024 - 28 Sep, 2024
"Before I depart I rest my body in the place the lighthouse misses, the dark swaths of grass (missed too by the man who mows the lawn every other Wednesday) on the slope of the small hill behind the keeper鈥檚 house. This place is made darker still as the eyes adjust unwillingly to the circle of light that sprints along the tops of the black pines that crown the hill, anointing each for just a moment; tonight I pick You. I pick you, and then you and then you, and then you and then you and then you. The only thing I can hear is the quiet squeal of the island鈥檚 generator a hundred yards away, the gears working slowly, smallest to largest, pulling a swath of indigo cotton across the sky inch by inch, the stars and their small sounds curled in the dark spaces between the bayberry leaves."- Neville Caulfield.



"Before I depart I rest my body in the place the lighthouse misses, the dark swaths of grass (missed too by the man who mows the lawn every other Wednesday) on the slope of the small hill behind the keeper鈥檚 house. This place is made darker still as the eyes adjust unwillingly to the circle of light that sprints along the tops of the black pines that crown the hill, anointing each for just a moment; tonight I pick You. I pick you, and then you and then you, and then you and then you and then you. The only thing I can hear is the quiet squeal of the island鈥檚 generator a hundred yards away, the gears working slowly, smallest to largest, pulling a swath of indigo cotton across the sky inch by inch, the stars and their small sounds curled in the dark spaces between the bayberry leaves."- Neville Caulfield.



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