Emerging Summit by bob:davis

Tanaquil Le Clercq and George Balanchine in 1955

Nishikimachi, Japan, 2009
Hiroshi Masaki

Christer Ehrling

Croagh Patrick pilgrimage, Ireland. 2005 
Arnaud Contreras

Virginia Woolf’s bed in Monk’s House and Susan Sontag’s grave in Montparnasse Cemetery by Patti Smith.

MICHELANGELO BuonarrotiCapitoline Hill--Piazza Campidoglio, Rome

my friends are not pressed flowers nor should i wish them to be but they are scattered and i am so foggy and i wish they could remind me where my outlines lie. i think that if i do not write things down they don’t exist or if i don’t write them down they don’t have to exist. but i cry in my therapist’s office rather easily these days. i don’t numb out anymore, i just fill my head with fog that’s something like curdled milk and cataracts. i fade and i fade and i fade. need something to fill up the days. driving is good, driving is always good. i wish we had driven across the country, we’d still be driving, maybe somewhere in the midwest now, maybe somewhere down south. 

when i was driving 202 on friday i realized i am both a very good driver and a very aggressive driver. i think this means i am my father’s daughter. roads that are open and that open themselves that are smooth without being smug and twist without breaking backs or requiring immediate braking. i drive very fast and i feel and i feel and i feel. 

i hope ‘to feel’ never becomes a solely transitive word for me. there are times, like yesterday, driving back from hillsboro with the mirror, when i felt RELIEVED, and it was there in brilliant technicolor and my brain could pat itself on the back and shake hands with itself for producing an emotion that one might be able to find in a dictionary. but when i’m driving i’m a mass of metal and flesh and i am beautiful and swift and i know how this works, i know how to make this work, onward, onward christian soldiers, forever into eternity, always again to the past. i mean that i do not feel anguish or delight necessarily, i mean that it is some sort of primordial soup of sensation and emotion and in its formlessness it is reckless and true. 

i’ve spent so much of my life numb that to learn how to feel would be adopting definitions for the sake of the clarity of others. these words don’t mean a thing to me, happy, sad. they taste different and i don’t want to cut my tongue out just so i can mouth the same words as some. 


Marcel Duchamp’s The Large Glass (Le Grand Verre), 1915-23
Installation view, Philadelphia Museum of Art, 1954, photo by Hermann Landshoff

Anton BundenkoJust Like Honey Series, 2013