I’ve never put much stock in a “New Year.” Changing a calendar from one year to the next is no…
The Unsubscribe Button is a Delusion: Survival & Concession as a Single Woman of a Certain Age
I’ve been contained in a valley of Wi-Fi, 5G, and visible spectrum shadows for five days. I can walk a…
To Sea: Feet & Hope in the Surf
I feel like I’ve come to life for a moment. Hopefully several moments. I want to work. I want to breathe and accomplish things.
Writing in a Mobile Age: A Dinosaur Learns a New Trick
I am fifty-seven. I grew up in a time of pencils, ballpoints, fountain pens, and typewriters. I have, in the…
Art & Grief: Finding the Perfection in the Imperfect
I stitched and the dog snored and life was sweet and warm. I finished the biscornu and in all those stitches and waves and snoring came words for the page…
Lost Art
These things cloud my head (with my permission) like a perpetual flu. If I were an addict, I could blame drugs or booze, but my addictions are the 3 x 5 screen in my hand and the constant reexamination of pain and rage. Better to binge on pixels and past hurts than to leave the chasm in my brain agape because I simply can’t properly fill it.