If he walked, he discovered, he did not have to think…when he thought, his mind went to places he could not control, places that made him feel uncomfortable. – Neil Gaiman, American Gods Sometimes I have the luxury of ‘knowing’ exactly why a particular piece of writing grabs my attention, …
Last night, I went to see Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain. I’ve been an avid admirer of Anthony Bourdain since the very first time I watched his show No Reservations. At the time, I wasn’t sure what struck me so deeply about him or his work. In some regards, …
I was listening to this interview with Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman a few weeks ago, and I’m still thinking about it. Palmer talks about how she found “salvation in art…when other things were unsafe and dangerous”. She says that “books and music” helped her so much that she “wanted …
Most days I work through lunch. Somedays I eat. Somedays, when I eat, I actually eat a meal. But, when I do it is usually always at my desk while still working. I’m not exactly a shining example of ‘self-care’, but I made it a point to stop for a …
A couple months ago the lovely folks over at The Tattooed Buddha sent me a book to review called The Dharma of Poetry by John Brehm. To say that I simply enjoyed the book is such a dramatic understatement that it simultaneously demonstrates the limitations of our language to express …
I have an almost irrational and obsessive belief in curiosity, that is to say, I believe in being irrationally curious and irrationally obsessed with what makes me curious. I don’t believe in avoiding rabbit holes. Instead, I believe that consistently falling down them is an experience and an activity that …
I find myself unconsciously slipping into the usage of a morbid mantra. Countless times throughout the day I catch the myself uttering a low and guttural chant underneath my breath: “Is this it? Is this all there is? Is there nothing more?” I look at my days and an unspoken …
We long for sanctuary. We long for community. We are each, in our own way, found deeply in the throes of the vast and furious longing for home. But sanctuaries are built. Communities are created. Home is something we make. These are all things that are founded, rather than found. …
To the 16 drops of rain laying prostrate on my shoulderMingling with the sweat like a mixture of cassia and myrrhAnointing my resistance with the oil that pulls from the pavement when the heaven’s crack and cryYour brethren come down like confetti singing in a chorus,a psalm sung from the …
Someone special lent me a copy of Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. Nearly ever line of this short work aches with a volume of meaning and luminescence that exceeds the bounds of its brevity. As I was reading it, it was difficult to keep up with …
