Time moves with the same erratic force of those bleating jazz horns like locusts devouring anything in its path.
writing
We should kill time
It rained like hell, like uncooked rice spit on the windows the sound. And the big tree branches lay in clumps around the yard. And the ground oozed like sores, like cartoon mouths. And I dozed and woke to the… Read More ›
The view looking in
Solemnly he moved across the floor and back to the sofa where he lay on his side looking out the window. There was hair everywhere in the cracks and crevices, dog hair. He imagined the hair adhering to him when… Read More ›
A touching display
I let myself off the hook with my writing routine and look where it’s gotten me. I’ve started playing video games, the first person shooter kind, and go to bed replaying scenes of me dying or killing other players. I’ve… Read More ›
The cosmic distance ladder
Morning time in the old German village where we once lived. The narrow stone roads that feel like a labyrinth, more for pedestrians than cars. The sound of tire tread when cars pass slow. Everyone smoking. Past the Italian bakery… Read More ›
It’s not in the old Polaroids buried in the dark
The story of your life is a series of well-told lies delivering a feeling of truth. No different than the lives we live. It isn’t the truth, but a sense of it we want. As readers, as travelers through this life, memory is one thing but the feeling it conveys is another.
This bag is not a toy
It is the best day of my life when I get a call from the editor asking me to report on a town meeting and submit a thousand words. Even though it’s just a weekly it’s my first time published, my name in print.
Letters from former selves
Looking back on your life is like looking out of a plane taking off or touching down. Trying to make out familiar places below, or leave it behind.
That last Christmas in Cork
We’d sit out there in the late afternoons as dusk came on and the thin windows beaded up with condensation, forming jeweled patterns in the corners. With the glow of the lights and the heater it felt cozy, like looking out from the inside of a gingerbread house.
The dismemberment plan
The first thing I had to do was quit drinking. I’d left my job, moved to Europe and stopped doing yoga. There was no congruence between doing yoga and getting drunk. One was a union of body and mind, the… Read More ›
