Essays & prose
Prose
On making, on light, on the texture of a day.
Morfar at the Sea
From Bloom Anyway: A Memoir. My grandfather belonged to the early hours. And sometimes, when I was staying with them, he would take me.
Read →Cyprus, Age Six
From Bloom Anyway: A Memoir. The sun in Cyprus is not like Swedish sun. Swedish sun asks permission. The Cyprus sun does not.
Read →The Planet Hope Canticle of the Heart
From the Epistles of the Weavers. If I speak with the tongues of vampires and the singing spells of witches, but have not love, I am only a shattered bell in the Ethereal Cathedral.
Read →On Silence
A short essay on the different textures of quiet — the kind that heals and the kind that hollows.
Read →The Studio
What a room accumulates over years of making — and what it gives back.
Read →