I've posted the second video before, but it's worth re-posting in order to give reference for the first. One of my favorite musicians covered by a wonderful little boy.





I've reopened my Etsy shop in order to list my jewelry and other crafts separately from my prints. It seems more appropriate to list these sorts of things there because of the nature of their search system. It includes items that I've made over the past year, including repurposed antique fixings, and necklaces with miniature photographs of mine framed in copper. Most of it would be considered unisex. I'd love it if you took a look. I tried to keep the prices, like my prints, really affordable. Please consider supporting me--I'd me much obliged. Thank you!



I'm really excited to have opened up a new shop for prints and more. I really love the design, and it so far seems much easier to manage than my previous Etsy shop. Hopefully you enjoy it as well!



Couru, Ellen Rogers

Early mystics spoke of a cosmology in which our universe was originally, and is at base, infinite energetic chaos. They believed that chaos created us, and all life within our universe, in order to "know itself". A sense of form and pattern was born; the nameless became named. This can be both mimicked and reversed in the body of a dancer. A nameless, intangible energy can be expressed through lyrical pattern and form, or acute perception can be broken down into intuitive, chaotic movement.

Photographers, filmmakers and writers are invited to explore this theme for Chaotic Forms, an exhibition at the Nave Gallery that I am curating in March. The beautiful work of Alison Scarpulla, Aela Labbe, Ellen Rogers, Rebecca Cairns and Michael Langan/Terah Maher will be included; please consider joining us. Visit the official 'call for entries' here, and please spread the word.




Quick-pray. Bow down to the god of your choice and pray for the end of yourself. Pray for new eyes and ears. Pray for shapes to change. Pray for fresh juice to take with you into your imminent climacteric. Pray for short and hunless winters. Pray for the Upper East Side, all those white tile buildings full of lonely girls quoting phony Persians to boys in love with jockstraps. Pray for adriaticated Venice. Pray for desirelessness and the dice-play of cunning. Pray for the insides of things, men and batteries, that they be shaved to coolest precision. Pray for the walls of things, that they secure the things they secure against the anti-wall. Pray for the scrotum sacs of industrialists. Pray for poets who summer at Nantucket. Pray for 1958 two-toned Oldsmobiles. Pray for Umbriago, the mayor of New York and of Chicago. Pray seriously for the Austrialians because if they ever get the bomb it'll be a muddy rugger for us all. Pray for the bald eagle and his meddling beak. Pray that we stop replaying our lives into the sucking tapeworm. Pray that we not disappear O Lord into thy vastly impractical nightmind (from whence we came) without first preparing for the abrupt change of pace. Pray for expressiveness, that we cast away these welder's masks we wear to hide our grief and joy. Vulva! Vulva! Vulva! Seep inward and test what's left against the night. Be persistent as Java man was not. Water your mousterian cranium. Return to the primeval fertile crescent. Dar es Salaam! Abu Simbel! Chou-Kou-Tien! But the truth, I fear, is that I fear the dark days of the Arabian nights. I've got the Stephen Dedalus Blues and it's a long way to Leopoldville. Black panic in the filter of my kingsize Kent. We have awakened from the nightmare of history. Put your logical fork to the mushroom omelette. An unpleasant interruption in the assuring continuity. No precedents for the legal apparatus to pick at. No scrolls for men to jot their histories on, their art, their powerings of flag-draped armies. No sequels for the moviegoers in the think tanks. Riddled genes of Japan, we watch the dripping of your questions into the earth. Exeunt all and remember. King Kong died for your sins. Time for a final prayer as the cuckoo door swings open. The Queen James version. Strategic Air Command, which art in heaven, swallowed be thy planes. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Omaha, Nebraska. Give us this day our daily dread and forgive us our strontium as we forgive those who strontium against us. And lead us not into annihilation but deliver us from rubble, for thine is the power and the power and the power, forever and never, oh man."



A guest in a home that will not move or remove. Funeral tapes that won't stay on the wall. 2 gallon tub of honey from 1985. Ceiling tiled with roof. Drawers of church manuals and missionary letters. 30 year mourning. The singer in every room. I sleep with the sleeping bag over my head, and my nieces ask, "What's a VHS tape?" 





I would be born and I would bear

Those are the pearls that were his eyes


"Baptism, Cross, and descent into the darkness of the underworld constitute the mystery of the divine destruction from which new life surges, the night from which new day dawns." -Hugo Rahner, The Christian Mystery and the Pagan Mysteries [1944]




This spring I was contacted by Kate & Max, who were moving into a gallery space in the Old Town neighborhood of Portland, Oregon. They invited me to have a solo exhibition of my photography at Melting Sky Gallery, and so we coordinated an exhibit with a previously planned trip of mine out west, for Portland's 'First Thursday' gallery crawl night. They are both remarkable people, and I feel so honored to have had the opportunity to share my work as well as get to know them.

I chose to share work framed around the name 'Death Chants', which is the title of a previous series of work, evoking the theme of a ritualistic call for a deep catharsis/death of the aspects of ourselves (mental, emotional, spiritual) that no longer serve us. The photos that I shared, which include previously published work (here, here, here and here) in addition to new work, all reflect my own quest for this passing through into new forms.

In an invitation to the public to enter into a ritual of their own, I created a small station where they were invited to reflect upon what parts of their own psyche, etc. they need to shed, and to write it onto a small strip of paper. They put the paper anonymously into a small basket, and placed one of the small clay effigies that I made into the small pyre; a proxy death by fire. I was so moved by what was placed into the basket, and so grateful to those that participated.

Kate helping to set the space

Thanks be to Kate Rose & Max Schneider, to those in Portland who attended, and especially those who have taken and took the time to let me know their thoughts about my work.



I will disclose that I've only taken one roll of film so far this year. The second roll is 1/3 of the way shot in my camera. 

My mind has been occupied elsewhere in crafts much more tangible, and so thought it a fair idea to actually share some of it with you. The strange inclination to believe that nothing seems legitimized until it's shared that has been a result of online culture is one that I've been trying to be mindful of resisting, but nonetheless, here I am. 

The zine was obviously a project that consumed a good deal of time, but along with that I've been making handmade gifts (for birthdays and baby), miniature clay figurines, a new costume for a future photo shoot, and jewelry, along with writing new music and preparing for a solo exhibit (and possible performance) this August. I also started working on a larger scale sculpture this week. Yay!

So here's a due photodump.

Some of the small clay creations--little ladies, masks, and a tree.

Painted wooden boxes for friends.

Two of the notebooks that I've made as gifts, these for my husband--flexible pocket notebooks for poetry ideas.

The new costume while in progress. I'll save pictures of the finished product for when the series is published.

Sculpture currently in progress.

And this, obviously.