A wounded rising…

Does the phoenix ever tire of rising from her own ashes? Maybe each time she is burned downed, bits of her die that don’t come back and the parts that do, are reborn scorched and scarred What if now she simply dreams of sitting Shiva for herself?

Hope is not a feeling…

When I write I do so with a blissful, and sometimes not so blissful, ignorance; a kind of sacred unknowing. I grasp at the ineffable aliveness that undulates underneath my experience of some aspect of the world and I try to give it words. It’s not an endeavor aimed at …

Dagger-words?

One of the books I’ve been slowly reading my way through this year is E.M. Cioran’s The Trouble With Being Born. It’s an aphoristic work of short philosophical sketches and terse musings, whose depth and density are not diminished by their brevity. With that being said there are passages that …

Speak to the stone…

I reach for books the way most normal, healthy, well-adjusted people reach out to a friend. My social circle has always been small but, these days it’s almost non-existent. Even amongst the tiny collection of compatriots I do have, I am always careful to withhold the full weight of my …

Failure perfected…

I’ve never made something that wasn’t a painted over failure. Beneath the bits of paper and paint, below the brush strokes and splatter, in the fine print between the words, one can find the remnants and remains of the piece I wish I could have made; the scaffolding of the …

What if, maybe, perhaps…

What if every doubt, every question, every apprehension that wonders at the premise: “what if I can’t?”, simultaneously opens us up to the possibility of “What if I can?” In Rainer Maria Rilke’s book, Letters to a Young Poet, he suggests for us to “try to love the questions themselves …

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