‘There is no ultimate arrival. Only continual reflection, failure, refinement, and re-commitment.’ -John Wineland
. . *The Golden Apples of the Sun* ——————————— Like nail-biting is the habit of hanging ‘things’ on walls. Putting objects ‘together’. ‘Arranging’ m
Most of the sighing, the gasping, the breathing to the depth of sorrows and coming back to shallow murmuring is all happening without a witness.
There is so much anxiety built into this process, just as much as in life itself, and yet, I do this anyway, day by day. I am fooled to believe and convince myself that making things truly pacifies me. Perhaps the illusion is the reward itself. T
What is wrong with ambiguity? She asked as we walked together on a dirt path from here, to there. I shrugged dismissively and kept quiet. Deep down I knew there was nothing, absolutely nothing wrong. And yet, still on that path, comfort was no where
Randomly and Orderly. Today on Substack. My 50th weekly piece since January. Almost a whole year since I began writing, and it’s something so nourishing, continuing to open a whole new world for me each and every week.
Base layers like corsets and other forms of insulation, self isolation, and protection.
Trapped threads, scripts, and scribbles. MIXT Working with old books Covers and content In-person workshop 4 days February 2026 Salem, Oregon Using old book covers As canvas Book parts As collage fodder Registration open 🤗 orlyavineri.com/work
*NEW* In February. An old workshop. In my little place by the creek in the Willamette Valley, in Oregon, one hour south of Portland, one, north of Eugene. There is only room for 1 of me and 6 of you. It’ll be intimate and cozy, still winter
‘What we call the personality is often a jumble of genuine traits and adopted coping styles that do not reflect our true self at all but the loss of it.’ -Gabor Maté
I found it on a beautiful, sunny day. I found it after great loss: Fresh verdant soil, wet and flourishing. -Fadwa Tuqan
Dark visions and sweet illuminations. The myth of permanence and the sweetness of presence. An interplay between forever and never. But always now is the hightend sensuality and the numbing dullness. Forgetfulness of all that was ever yearned for. R
From the old series IN THE MIDDLE. In the middle of the cauldron I dwell. There I slowly simmer. Like a bundle of papers, rust, and Hibiscus tightly wrapped in twine. Just below the scorching point. Safe enough to keep me dreaming. To soak one da
New to read and listen to on Substack this morning. Loose Skins and Tight Grips Vintage botanical prints.
“Never let go of that fiery sadness called desire.” -Patti Smith
I am less concerned with Beauty itself. More, with the remembrance of it. In me. In others. In what I make. Bold recognitions. Sweet and aching evolutions. I busy myself with aliveness. With calling my senses forth. With getting closer. Not fart
Drawing by Egon Schiele and a photo of sweet Shinji. Preparing for wintering, ‘olding’… Inviting in the pending and inevitable hibernation. The big rest. Familiar comforts of veiling, of cold, and of smoldering too.
The giant sculpture he built and installed in my garden by the creek. My brother @yoramavineri with his magical hands, from his giant heart. 🙏🏻🫶🏻🙏🏻
Amor The kins and the skins. The pleading and the bleeding. Moored. Wanting less, then more. Less, then more. Then, more.
It’s National Day of Mourning. No celebrations. No pride in histories of genocide of indigenous people across this land or any other land. Never forgetfulness of stolen lands and brutally taken dignity of humans, their spirits, lives, and th