Daniel Coffeen

A camera gathers up a perceptive event in its entirety. It’s gloriously stupid, or generous, like that.

Love accepts and embraces. Love doesn’t judge; it doesn’t own. Self-loathing judges and owns. Ego judges and owns. Love, well, loves.

After all, making a decision based on how you feel right now is often silly.

There are no points we pass at which time life just gets easier, gets normal, gets sorted out.

There are times I don’t recognize myself.

There’s a house there. See it? I see it, too. But I see it from here and you see it from there. We are standing in different positions.

Think about the wide cast of characters who go into making a movie.

“There’s an energy crisis happening, all right: a human one.”

A man lies on his living room floor. His eyes are closed, arms by his side. His face is still, even, but occasionally furrowed.

Decades ago, I was visiting a friend in Maine on this incredible island called Isle Au Haut with almost no people, no electricity, no running water.

What seems conspicuous is that both explore, to a greater or lesser degree, the conditions of becoming within the confines of culturally defined gender roles.

I see her decision to go out with friends, to lunch with a male work acquaintance, to knit, to sleep with her back to me as meaningful, as a statement about me.

Irony posits two realms: the eternal, or divine, and the temporal, mortal, physical. We live in this world with its laws and constraints, its culture and bodies.

Isn’t thinking an action?

Me, I will admit without hesitation: I don’t like to travel. 

Since I was a little boy — like most kids, I think — I’d been interested in infinity.

How, alas, does one excavate oneself from such careening thoughts in which truth is temporary, suspect, and often useless?

It all begins with a number.