I stand atop the Sand Dunes at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo, the blood of Christ, my back to the wind. The sand swirls around me, my pockets fill with it, and my feet sink in it till I am buried up to my ankles. There are grains of sand in my teeth
I am driving home from work in the rain. The traffic is heavy and I am upset. Not at anything, in particular, just a strange combination of angry-sad, non-focused malaise. I have a feeling of something is wrong, there is something missing. And the rain is coming down and I can’t see and that jackass
The past is not romantic. It is not an adventure. It is not a drama. It is neither a comedy nor a tragedy. It is not any of these things. But it is all of these things. Because memory cheats. Memory will take fragments of events, disjointed and vague, and merge them with hints of
It is a question we’ve all been asked at least once at some point in our childhood. And the answer, at least for me, would change depending on the time and place or the frame of mind I was in. I can remember most of the answers I gave and the reasons behind them for
It is Independence Day. There is red, white and blue bunting hung from porches and windows. The air has the scent of smoke; it’s there in the background but always present. You almost don’t notice it...
Once, a long time ago, I lived in a house near the edge of the world. In the winter, when the air was still, I would lie awake at night and listen to the Ocean, to the waves. Relentless. Never-ending. In my mind, I could see them. They would turn and curl and fall forward
Once, a long time ago, I stood in the sky far above the world. The observation deck of the World Trade Center was more than 1000 feet high. The windows were wide, floor-to-ceiling glass. The first thing I did was press my nose against it, my hands beside my face, fingers splayed wide. I looked
I sit and look out my back window into the yard behind my house. It is large and full of trees; a combination of fir and pine and aspen. On this day, early in the morning, it is cold and fog is moving in. The white/grey translucent mist sneaks its way into the yard. It
Sixteen. Sixteen was a good year. Oh, to be sure it was a year of fear and social awkwardness. For a year I spent the majority of the time confused and unaware of my surroundings and my place in them. But it was also a year of discovery. A year of becoming. The year when
My first trip to the Faraway Lands came through a Magical Box and was quite unexpected. It happened when I was seven years old and grounded. Now, to my knowledge, there are three ways to get to the Faraway Lands. Each one has its benefits; each one has its drawbacks. One is not better than
