June 30th 8PM performance of How to fold a fitted sheet at Bivy space in Anchorage, Alaska. 

Here is a little excerpt of the starting epigraph 'Partington Ridge' by Jack Spicer. 


One year turns into another. 

sounds by SHM and DBP

Photos taken by DBP

rabbits and ghosts

Growing up, I had a print in my bedroom: 


As it turns out, this print comes from marginalia from a poem by Jack Spicer:

Partington Ridge

A white rabbit absolutely outlined in whiteness upon a black background 

A ghost

The most

We can say or think about it is it stays. 

It stays 

In a closet we wear like a ring on our fingers 

The rabbit 

Ghost of them 

Most of what we knew

Here is the note:

Rabbits do not know what they are. Ghosts are very similar. 

They are frightened and do not know what they are, 

but they can go where rabbits cannot. All the way to the heart. 

I have become rather fascinated with this little poem. And it may be the fodder for a new body of work. I am embroidering rabbits, thinking about ghosts. Playing music on harmonium and flute for both creatures. 

Little things

Studio vibes-- collections and little bits and pieces, little plants, little stitches. 

How to

I have been writing how-to poems. I think I am trying to transform prescribed or imposed answers into impossibly exquisite questions.

I have been playing the flute again, too. I think I am trying to find another kind of voice than words. 

And, the mountains, they have been covering themselves in a blanket of snow. I think they are trying to protect their peaks with crystals. 

back in it

The summer is manic up here: the constant sun, the possibility of wild adventure. And, as the summer months open up past solstice, bounty burgeons on the surface: spawning salmon, inky tundra blueberries. There is almost no coaxing me inside, except for rain. 

And so, my art studio has been rather empty. I've had my boots on and my bearspray handy rather than my apron on and my needle in hand. 

I spent the summer collecting a wide array of massive vegetables when not roaming vertically up mountainbacks: 

And when I did finally step inside, I spent my time fermenting and dehydrating, creating stores, putting bounty away. 

I have been keeping a kitchen rather than a studio. But now as the cold comes in, the studio offers up refuge from the cold, a quiet place for restoring after such intensity.

So, I have the intention for Open Wilds audio to resume with an intentional--though not strict-- frequency. 

I'm getting back in it.

Listen in: 

predictably unpredictable

The weather has been volatile: hail, rainbows, riotous winds, and profoundly gorgeous sun-- all 19+ hours of it. One thing I have learned is that up here, the weatherman is definitely not to be trusted. There is a kind of recognition in the exquisite extremes, and an acceptance when caught in them. I find relief somehow in the opportunity to just be in a constant state unpredictability. Rain or sun? Valley or peak? Paved road or no trail at all? All of these could be just around the corner. And, somehow it feels just right for the moments to unfold, just as they are without knowing exactly what is next. It seems to me that this would only be possible in such a wild place, too powerful to be domesticated by human hands. Yet, in this unpredictability I have found a steadiness in myself, and a sense of place, which is perhaps a sense of home. 

words, manipulated flute by SHM; hailstorm in Denali by nature

photos 1, 2, 5 by SHM; photos 3 & 4 by DBP

Foraged place

Buds are budding everywhere. In these impossibly long days. And, I am sucked into reading the stories of these plants that suddenly make their presence known after the melting of the snow. I have gathered --as honorarbly as I know how-- devil's club buds and fireweed shoots, and wintered Labrador tea. The world seems bursting with possibility. 

I have been sharing this place and its bounty with others, and somehow it feels as if I am only just beginning to find this place. 

All parts by SHM. 

Pictures by SHM, and one by DBP, one by BK

With lawn furniture

Dusk comes so late now that days seem luxurious, to be sprawled into with every limb. All kinds of creatures are coming out of their lairs to see the sun. Myself included. Making has felt more like a practice of honoring the seasonal transition-- fermenting vegetables, cleaning, starting seeds, reading and writing in public. I had someone ask "Oh, are you writing poetry?" At first I wasn't sure how to answer because I never think of my text like a poem on a page. But it seemed easiest to just say "uh-huh" and close my notebook, feeling suddenly shy that they might read. 

And the weeks have been full of all sorts of the unexpected. Bears climbing trees. Dressing 11 chickens as a part of a class that I was helping to facilitate. Neighborhood children with chalk and a whole street as a canvas. It feels like everyone is getting ready for something, and forgetting to sleep. 

flute and text by SHM, with found sound

photos by SHM

All at once

The sun is higher, brighter. 

The season of break-up. Wet and grey, and warming. 

photos mostly by SHM. Harmonium, text, flute by SHM. 

on tops and time

Sometimes I can almost feel the spinning of what is beneath my feet. The uncanny sensation of being in movement even when still. Without need for string or rope, just spinning in the place where I am. 

New sounds, all layers of SHM, some found sound from Hawaii, some experimenting with flute. 

photos by SHM

rooted dreams

Cold has arrived in the most crisp and magical way: frosted ferns on morning glass, frozen ponds for skating, moose eating snow in the front yard at two in the morning. The cold beckons us to come outside into the crisp, fresh air. But, after awhile, the warmth of a hearth and steaming mug of something delicious call us back inside. Here, cozy in practical socks, there is quieted time for rooted dreams: vivid (re)collection of whole possible worlds.