POET | PLAYWRIGHT | TEACHING ARTIST
“I cried to be with her at the laundromat on Wednesdays. Begged. And there were times she did take me and I walked on the hard tiles in soft shoes – pushed the wayward wheeled carts around. Leaned against the warm washing machines that vibrated against my back. Stared at the people. Watched the clothes…
(This is a cross-post from my process journal, which is password protected.) I was talking to my doctor about this new project – examining memory. My insistence on the idea that our present determines our past and not vice versa. How if our memories are reconstructed every time we call them up, we are necessarily…
Several times this past week, walking Leonard at night or in the morning, I catch myself in a discussion with my mother. Then I remember: she’s dead. The realization isn’t a moment of sorrow, but absurdity. I am rehearsing for a moment that will never be, a closure that I will never have. B. gave…
It’s something of a wake-up call when you think in the morning: today I’m going to shower and brush my hair. How deep I’ve settled into that familiar groove. The familiar always brings with it a kind of comfort. No matter how dark. No run this morning because of the strained achilles. So the blue…
Rarely is my day so turned on its head. I should be in bed now, not typing. And technically, I shouldn’t be having a glass of wine. But here I am. And the day has been… tolerable-to-good. And lately, that means very good. I didn’t write this weekend because I was working on the manuscript.…