Tag Archives: identity

Inside a broken clock splashing the wine with all the rain dogs

The rain now is that rain we associate as November rain in the Northwest. It has its own aspect, like no other. It is not a rain to be fucked with, and comes on hard and fouls up the roads, … Continue reading

Posted in Memoir, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 30 Comments

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

“Fall back”

I got as close to the light as I could though it was all gray and not much to speak of, and there in the corner of the window a stink bug fanned the glass with a limp leg, and … Continue reading

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

The same deep water as you

We went back to the old elementary school, Charlotte’s last year, for the annual Halloween bash. Dawn and I stood in the playground feeling tired and out of sorts, trying to make out the identities of kids running by as … Continue reading

Posted in identity, Memoir, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 17 Comments

‘Cuts you up’

Lily (who now goes by Lee) and I drove to the Teanaway river valley on the east side of the Cascades, stopping at a Safeway in the small town of Cle Elum for junk food. I didn’t bring the guts … Continue reading

Posted in identity, Memoir, parenting | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 24 Comments

Song from a shell

In the icy depths of sleep, in dreams, you held me when I was no one, just myself, a shell You held me at the edges where I could have been anyone, but wasn’t— and in sleep, in dreams, is … Continue reading

Posted in identity, poetry | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

The flavor is in the blood

Any cook will tell you, when you brown meat and rest it on the plate, blood will accumulate there and you always use that blood, or whatever juice comes out, when you put it in the pot. I sat in … Continue reading

Posted in identity, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 43 Comments