snapshot is reader-supported. When you buy via links on our site, we may earn an affiliate commission at no cost to you.

(I said: “Is it important to you at all to make beauty?”

And then he said: “I don’t know about that word. But I want to make something I like. I don’t understand these artists that say they are working with things they don’t like–that they think are trash.”   …an exchange while watching nature theater of oklahoma. not sure if it pertains.)

Photo by José Carlos Teixeira. The text is being written by me (after reading five pages of Edward Said) as a site-specific piece for the wall of Teixeira’s studio as part of his “Translation(s),” a project developed at Headlands Center for the Arts.


[or: Facebook Is Inescapable]


You have to climb the big hill each morning, José.

Not Said, but that other guy on your table:

Therefore, be ye lanterns unto yourselves

Maybe the self has no true home

Maybe no more than effort is ok

We are all of us unhoused

In other words, as my friend said, if I can eat good Mexican food I can tolerate

The world being shit


I like this wine.

Dear Lost Shadows:

Maybe all criticism is about grief

The not matching.

But back to this hill

It’s good as a cure for fog

That pressure between your lovely eyes

Zia! Here we are again

If I’m losing the woman who has loved me

Is that not exile of a sort?

You see: it’s easy to be maudlin on a wet Tuesday afternoon

Not enough movement

Or: everything you watch requires translation

Ah, the nostalgia for utopian rhetoric

Last night he held me in his arms for hours

If only I had been there at the time

No, that’s not true

I’m moving too far afield

The poets killed him:

How disgustingly romantic, José

That’s not what I came here to tell you

I am armed only with a ration card

& miserable loneliness

Finds its modest refuge

Oh, extravagance!

Everywhere, except when you need it

Hegel: you see, he can’t help himself, José

You and your lovely little arrows

They cannot be

I don’t think really he wants to talk about the masses

No one, in the end, ever does.

Written (after reading five pages of Edward Said) as a site-specific piece for the wall of José Carlos Teixeira’s studio as part of his Translation(s), a project developed at Headlands Center for the Arts

We will be happy to hear your thoughts

Leave a reply