Archive for December 15th, 2009

“I hereby grant your rascal camera full access to my crotch!” They seem to laugh indulgently (lashes curled, eyelids a flutter). “After all, Busby-wusby, it’s for a good cause!” And what a cause, indeed. American poet Theodore Roethke once wrote that “In a dark time, the eye begins to see.” Well. I’d say the Depression counts... »

Granted, I am a heterosexual female. Perhaps my view on the matter simply cannot be trusted. Perhaps. But, on the other hand, just chalk it up to a love (sense?) of aesthetics—rife with all the attendant observational neuroses you’d expect that love (sense?) to espouse—and maybe the trust will come. So. Imagine you’re walking down the... »

Reported and Written March 2009 You’re at your desk. It’s late. You stare at the computer, bleary-eyed and bored. You live, perhaps, in Los Angeles. You’re restless. You’re in the midst of experiencing a very real and overpowering urge to be elsewhere. If only you could be abroad right now, you think, somewhere different, somewhere distant. You have... »

At first glance, the glaring crimson letters seem to rest on a white background faded and splotchy with use. But a closer look will reveal that white blob to be a collection of letters—letters that spell the names of soldiers who died in, for and during the Iraq War. More than 4,000 names grace the... »

From 2007: Accustomed to warding off bad luck, I never thought I’d find my own. There are times I tire of salt and the sea. My eyes, unblinking, sting from too much sun. Warden, omen, object of love, sometimes I’d rather follow behind than face ahead. Photo by Deborah Stokol. Barcelona, Spain. 2007. »

From 2001: In this Purple Midnight the hours swallow me whole. like the holes they make of stars in the witching hour. Maybe it should be called the twitching hour because I can’t lie still. shiver me timbers and show me the dark I wish I could find my slumber. My eyes rove around like tourists. they don’t know where they are or... »

From spring 2007: There are some days I wake up clinging to my dreams. And I don’t mean like big dreams, Or big scenes, haloes, or ‘misty mountain tops.’ But those residues that lie Only to recede when I first regain consciousness. Sometimes I dream in music. With music. Of music. I’ve played. Am playing, have not yet written. may never write. I dream in color. There... »

From summer 2006: I dream of you in blue. Your eyes twin pebbles dappled with sun. Your curls form shells that make no sound when I hold them to my ear. I like that when you write You write with neither pain nor glory. Maybe things are better that way When I think of you, I am not productive. I like to travel... »

From November 2006: My friend once said, that you could play a fiddle– ‘til it got rusty let it lay low— ‘til it got dusty and that you could play it— in the sun. And that THAT was the difference with no other differences, between a fiddle— and a violin. -Deborah Stokol & Emily Adams »

(Deborah means ‘bee’ in Hebrew.) From spring 2007: My heart is a bee. Cantankerous, it stings at random. But it dies each time it causes pain— while those attacked recover. Alight with flight, industrious and wild, it hovers over beauty. It yields gifts of honey from those it loves- -and seeks to woo. It is subservient. Yet majestic. Perhaps Queenly. Photo by Deborah Stokol. Bat-Mitzvah invitation encased in a... »