c a c h e

a painted ceramic skull from Mexico

stack of 1st edition books

stuff from
senior prom

pens

cables & wires

old iMac (RIP)

notebooks

pile of drawings important documents

smart tv

checkbook and extra cash

favorite geodes

protection beads
blessed by monks

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
            Whatever I see I swallow immediately
            Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
            I am not cruel, only truthful ‚
            The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
            Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
            It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
            I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
            Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
            Searching my reaches for what she really is.
            Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
            I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
            She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
            I am important to her. She comes and goes.
            Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
            In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
            Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

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Tiger by William Blake

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
            In the forests of the night,
            What immortal hand or eye
            Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
            Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
            On what wings dare he aspire?
            What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
            Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
            And, when thy heart began to beat,
            What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
            In what furnace was thy brain?
            What the anvil? What dread grasp
            Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
            And water'd heaven with their tears,
            Did He smile His work to see?
            Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
            In the forests of the night,
            What immortal hand or eye
            Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

read some poetry

socks

black pants

knit sweaters

pile of
random clothes

laptop

board games