- My step-father wouldn’t have known what a time out was. He liked the belt. Or it could be he knew that I’d have liked a time-out. A chance to sit in a quiet, sheltered corner and think about the universe as a shoe-box inside of a shoe-box.
- From the hot floor of the backseat of the car, I could see the desert sky darker than any closed eye, shot through with lights brighter than the burn of exposed bulbs on your retina. A frozen hour before the neon of Vegas bled over the heavens.
- The best place to fish was from the little dead-end where the river carved a trough between trees and the water was still. Fly-fishing isn’t a spectator sport: I jumped bank to bank and slid beside a nest of moccasins. Deliciously close to a heartbeat.
- When I left I packed everything that was mine into cardboard boxes and lined them up in the hallway. I was waiting for him to say, Wait-a-minute. Let’s not do this. I was full-steam ahead, bearing down fast on the switch away from our son’s track.
- I take a thick chunk of chalk and draw angled lines on the black wall of the rehearsal room. This is called the vanishing point. As we move closer to it, the world passes us by more quickly: there is less space between each event.
Trying a new form I read about here.