My eyes are fixed to effects of light.

They way the fading sun makes the white fluff of a dandelion seem silver like it is a projection from another world.

Wheat becomes thin like thread, patterns like so many kaleidoscopes form and dust rises like the breath of a dream.

Dusk is the immortal time of day where it seems that all things are in concert and that light – pale and golden – shines not

on everything but


so you can see the bones of all things.



Brought on by a T/F film, Still Tomorrow by Fan Jian.

This is a reflection I wrote on the spot with a pen and paper (so old-fashioned, I know) after seeing my first film of the 2017 True/False Film Festival in Columbia, MO. The film was called Still Tomorrow and you can read a synopsis below if that matters to you.

Yu Xiuhua was raised to hope for little from her life in the rural Chinese province of Hubei. At 19, Xiuhua’s mother encouraged her to marry a man nearly twice her age, fearful no one else would accept a wife with Xiuhua’s condition — cerebral palsy. But as her 20th anniversary approaches, Xiuhua’s poetry goes viral, and she becomes the voice of a rising feminist movement throughout China. Director Fan Jian’s deeply affecting portrait traces an empowered woman coming to terms with the complications of finding her own identity in the midst of becoming a celebrity. As she balances those in her family, including her husband, who expected too little of her with the pressures of newly found allies expecting too much, Xiuhua learns to define herself in her own words.

It’s strange to see a film in silence, walk to a coffee shop in silence and then process said film – which was largely about words – also in silence. It’s just not something that we do often, but there’s a clarity in silence. A clarity that can break through the noise of other people’s thoughts.

So few films or books are written about poets. There are many of poetry, of its form and styles, histories and champions, but few about the poets themselves.

And they are such strange people.

People who pry open their cages and turn their heads toward the sight of their own writhing souls, as if they had thought to find a wounded creature instead of a part of themselves to free.

When they do the unthinkable – show this treasure to others – most can’t verbalize what makes it so special, when it is.

I think I know.

I think there is a clarity there, pure and vulgar, confusing and mysterious.

Those of us who have seen our own creatures and set them free live in a strange world of contradictions. We see with open eyes, but it does us little good in the places where we live our daily lives.

We touch a divinity that is at the final depths of our reach and our eyes turn amber with the shadow of it.

Others read the words and catch a glimpse of something ahead, something they could still reach and they are inspired while all it can do for us is keep us breathing.

Who is she?

The woman with the spiders in her hair?

They weave slowly webs of dream and of vision.

She picks a spider away from its work and considers it in its ugliness.

She traces its legs and wonders at the eyes which reflect her own like a crystal prism.

She thinks if she doesn’t like what she sees that she will smash it there

on the table.

She could.

The spider trusts her so.

But she sees something in those kaliediscope eyes that is bound to her.



And so she places it back in its web

to weave another dream.

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She laughed

I came to meet you and show you my soul for judgment which only comes from the old

the ancient, the wise, the weary who sold

their earthly image for pearly invisibility.

The rocks were anything but stones and the wind sang with the sound

of something just beyond

and you looked through me once and laughed out

“Child, how could you be so bold?”

You bid me go home until I was grown

then come back through the trees with a soul.

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