This could very well be the story of how I learned all about myself in Rome (which I did), or how I became more brave and more confident (which I did not). But, well, this is not that story. This is the story of how I literally met a man with my name, and quite a few other things of mine as well.Read more "The me I met in Rome"
The first thing I did in Paris was take a photo of a baguette. Or, more specifically, an ageing man holding a baguette, hooking it under his arm as if that’s what the nook on the other side of your elbow was always meant for.Read more "An evening in Paris"
I have sporadically kept a diary for a couple of years now. It has been referred to by many names; my Not-journal, my journal, and most descriptive of all, the big black book of death.Read more "Journals are pretty great"
She had arrived, the rainclouds a herald to her coming. Dolphin Woman regarded me from the doorway, a sweet smile playing tentatively on her lips. “Hey” I said, as she approached. My voice grew weak beneath her gaze. “Nice day, eh?”Read more "Dolphin Woman"
I headed away from the customers, listening to the incessant buzz of questions and orders and laughing and groaning. So much noise. One sound cut through it all. The radio, and its three looping songs, had taken a break from repetitive auto-tune to give a little insight into the American election. Donald Trump, it said, was the new president.
Oh.Read more "A drunk, a little old lady, and the whole crazy world."
Last time I spoke to my mother, a rare occurrence yet rarely a memorable one, it was regarding a certain photo she has of me in her room. “Why mother” I asked, doing my best to sound detached and uncaring, “do you have a photo of me on the verge of tears?”Read more "Witch Hag Speaks (or A Conversation With My Mother)"
Looking at my reflection,
And feeling my morning erection,
And reaching for the spinning blades,
Like I do on all work weekdays,