Category Archives: prose

First time hearing Can with my percussionist friend, Loren

Posted on January 27, 2019 by

How many memories do you keep in a jar on that shelf? Here’s one from my 20s, driving across a bridge at night with the stereo up loud. Were we out of our minds high on the energy of our … Continue reading →

Posted in identity, inspiration, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , | 7 Comments

Two-faced Janus

Posted on January 23, 2019 by

It felt lighter in the afternoon than it should, for this time of day. January turns itself around like that. The gardener came for the first time in a while, worked his ass off raking beds, blowing down the pavement, … Continue reading →

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The sandtrap

Posted on January 22, 2019 by

There was not much new to the new year now, it seemed. Driving across the state, I ate a bag of wasabi-flavored smoked almonds in about 30 minutes, taking it by the handful, popping them one by one, wiping the … Continue reading →

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Launch

Posted on January 9, 2019 by

In the morning when Dawn starts the electric kettle it sounds like a rocket about to launch, slowly building pressure until it snaps free from the launch pad and lifts off. She pulls it down by the handle and sets … Continue reading →

Posted in Memoir, prose | Tagged , , , , , | 10 Comments

A different plane

Posted on January 4, 2019 by

Life has led me here. Charlotte climbed down the steps from her bunk bed, and went downstairs to the kitchen. The dog circled and collapsed by our bed. Outside, the wind kicked up and the rain came on.  I reflected … Continue reading →

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On Sundays and holidays

Posted on December 30, 2018 by

We spent the aftermath of Christmas on Whidbey island, a town called Langley, so idyllic they still have phone booths with free local calls, wild bunnies, signs in the shop windows promoting inclusion, views of the water, a bell to … Continue reading →

Posted in identity, Memoir, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 17 Comments
Posted on November 22, 2018 by

November 22, 2018 (Thanksgiving). I went back in time to the chauffeur’s flat, that place we stayed in a remote corner of Scotland one Thanksgiving, unlike any other. Near some small, port town on the coast by the ferries over … Continue reading →

Posted in Memoir, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments