We are living this life where everyone we encounter is just a version of ourselves, the same as in dreams. How long have we been imagining shapes in the clouds? Or telling stories?
identity
Blacking out the friction
Of course I remembered the name Dick Boac, he worked at Martin Guitars as an “archivist,” a Falstaff type. But I couldn’t remember anything more about him because he was John’s friend, and John died more than 10 years ago… Read More ›
I wonder why the wind
The most perfect night. Perfect is a superlative, so it can’t be topped. There’s no “more perfect,” or most perfect, it’s fine on its own, it’s perfect. The first really warm day when everything takes on a different feel. The… Read More ›
Major character syndrome
On Sundays I take more time at the lake and get there early enough I have it all to myself. There’s a rock on the shore where I sit and a Corona beer bottle cap a few feet below the… Read More ›
“The things they carried”
It is a small but very precious part of me hanging in our front window.
This life is a book I don’t want to finish
It’s a game where there is no winning, only the joy in the odd and unexplained.
The strength of strings
I started to learn that to write is to live, and you can’t do much of the former without the latter.
