A recent spell of illness and days of heavy rainstorms, strong even for the rain-friendly Pacific Northwest, have lately kept me indoors and looking inward. Contending with this imposed domesticity are the ways we inhabit, through imagination, multiple places simultaneously. And it’s with this compressed vision that I attempt something different with a new series, Interiors. These lines from Philip Levine‘s poem “The Music of Time” seem a good opening for part one.
can go back to my single room,
I can lie awake in the dark
rehearsing all the trivial events
of the day ahead, a day that begins
when the sun clears the dark spires
of someone’s god, and I waken
in a flood of dust rising from
nowhere and from nowhere comes
the actual voice of someone else.