by chance and trembling 

can your soul tree be shared? of course it can.

under the drive, copp urges toward the beach.

for Odetta, in Teorema

i can't understand how i managed to live in such emptiness.

i too may have been destroyed, inspired, changed irrevocably by the passage of terrence stamp.

i used, to get destroyed by love.

now i am a melancholy dog.

little face in the corner. 

meadowlark mister 

drawing me on

mighty love 

mischievous neighbors. 

my father's oak soul, climbed by ivy and ambitious flowers. 

my other soul is a tree. 

then there's my real and anguished nature, both within and without the fence.

in the virgin forest my soul would go from tree to tree.

no one must notice that the artist is a poor, trembling idiot, a half-ass, who lives by chance and risk, and has reduced his life to the silly melancholy of one..

of one who lives degraded by the impression of something lost forever.    pier paolo pasolini

one went to the asylum, one to art, one ate only nettles and stared expressionless at fire until she floated up, and one stayed the same, but drove around endlessly in a little white car seeking replacement.

the south end, above the buried reactor.

the meadow is my only garden.

tree of heaven, promontory point. 

we were alone, but there was singing, they were singing this lovely trilling song for us.