So glad I didn’t pull this up when it first sprouted. Not a weed—new life.
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"We can fight the lockdown of our curiosity. We can sign up for the long run even if we might not cover the course as elegantly as our heroes." -Twyla Tharp, The Creative Habit
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This slow musical meditation emerged through my fingers as clouds floated by my studio window.
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The image and messages above recently came to me in a dream. As I inked them into my composition book, I understood why I’ve become so drawn to noise and experimental music….
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Dear friends,
Last Friday as I scrolled through social media, I was heartened to see a note by David Mahaffey, The Sun’s digital-media director, about the magazine’s recent contributions to groups working to end systemic racism and your pledge to work toward being better allies….
Vocal abstraction under a willow oak.
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This is how I see speaking in public….
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A friend told me about a musician’s decision to return to alt-country after releasing an experimental album because it’s what her fans expect. I felt disquiet….
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“That’s the toughest place to try to grow something,” the garden store owner said….
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I’d been at a café trying to draft three posts. Why wasn’t the inspiration flowing?
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“One of the greatest treasures in the world is a contented heart….”
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“I admire your willingness to share such intimate moments. It is inspiring.” So said a friend about a story I wrote in The Auspices….
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In early June, I found a robin’s egg. As I lifted it, I realized that the developing bird inside had not hatched and never would….
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“We were working hard....But we had learned the perils of getting ahead of ourselves….”
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I’m typically a recluse who prefers the solitude of my studio, at least while working. But last week I’d had enough.
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After the death of my long-estranged father, a bluebird began visiting….
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A box turtle visited my garden on the day of the July full moon and lunar eclipse. At first, his pace was rapid (for a turtle), but then he came to a standstill as I drew near….
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Play in your own garden. Stay on your own mat….
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When I was twelve, I haunted the public library’s estoteric sections. Little has changed.
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“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies….”
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