Dust. Wind. Dude.
There is a familiar pit in my stomach that tells me I must put something down on paper. So to speak.
It's a pit that reminds me of other pits, that makes me 16 again, and 26, all the years joined by a common physiological sense of being carried by an idea or a feeling, literally hungry for something to write. Medical science will tell you that the pit is the work of the vagus nerve in my abdomen, which has[...]
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Turnpike Insomnia
Being the only one awake
life stands still;
I am timeless with no company, no measuring stick of kitchen or toys.
It’s now about whatever I can push
into the empty closet of two a.m.,
in a house full of little (and one big) boys.
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Suburban Worship
Our Lady of Compromise
- at the Corner of
Stability and Main -
invites you to a
Sisterhood Brunch
in Honor of
Everyone Being the Same.
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Mother of Invention
Motherhood, like all good dwellings, comes with a basement, by which I mean a place to store the boxes of things which make us sad (or scared) to look at, or which simply crowd the main floor. We don't unpack them, for the most part. Instead we appear generally preoccupied, until we remember not to, like when our son says, "Look! I drew you smiling!" as if this were a terrific artistic leap on his part.
What's in my boxes?
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Mugshot
I have a serious coffee habit, and, as a consequence, a favorite mug is a serious matter for me. It becomes my companion for the workday, sitting alongside my cell phone, my water bottle, and my day planner, the objects which form the court in service of my reigning laptop. I refill early, and refill often. My mug gives me a reason to walk around a little. It needs frequent attention.
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The Social Well
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