Write. Write like a skateboarder, turning tight lines in the near dark. Write like sediment. Settle words down to lake bottom and leave your record. Forgive your own sloth. Write. Write like a bee swipes pollen, thinking it’s just there for food. The miracle of life unfolds because of you. Write like tree rings. Write…
There’s just enough snow on the ground for it to tip over the brim of my hiking boots. As we walk single-file through the clumps of fir and pine, the swish-squeak of polyestered thighs masquerades as birdsong, much to the frustration of my companions. Every so often our leader stops. His ears, red in the…
0° I park the car and trade my shoes for roller skates. It’s the after-work hour and the gym rats are streaming toward the building. I go the other direction, find the sidewalk leading down into a mobile home park. As my speed increases exponentially, my body defaults to ski mode: toes turning toward each…
dog naps / dog walks / In a Flash / pets
Ears back means, I don’t like you. I’ve learned this because Penny is a magnet. Even while sleeping in his preferred position on the sidewalk — something I call “dead-dogging-it”: lying on his side, four legs stuck out, head resting on one incredibly soft ear — he’s irresistible. Serious businessmen pass and can’t hold back…
The film was gorgeous but Tim’s short presentation afterward was electrifying, careening through fifty years of conservation history as his beautiful photographs flashed across the projector screen. As I watched, I couldn’t help but wonder where river awareness has been my entire life.
You may have seen me walking. I wear dark sunglasses, but the way my hair sticks out at odd angles from underneath my baseball cap, you know I’m harmless. Or so it seems. You’re just leaving for work so you don’t have time to ponder the slowness of my gait. Or, I might have borrowed…
There’s a fat bumblebee swerving between the buttercups in the shaggy patch of grass below my porch. She delicately mounts a yellow petal and investigates its inner regions, then sails to the next, a shaggy head of white clover. I know I should mow the lawn. The dandelions are reaching their long necks up to…
“What do you think, gals?” Dave calls out to me and Hannah, since we’ve already taken a position standing two feet behind him and off to the side. “Two sardines, two squid?”
I think it’s going to take a lot more than that to bait the hundreds of crab pots Dave says he has waiting offshore, but I don’t say it. It’s obviously a question that we’re meant to answer affirmatively, to keep up the charade that we know what we’re doing. There’s an awkward pause. Obviously, Hannah isn’t interested in playing.
Writers on an oaky hill
Wind sweeps birdsong by
Tiny spider reads the page
The men in this town do not jog. They sprint. The one going by now does it evenly, naked from the waist up including his bald head, cheeks puffed out below wire-rimmed glasses. He runs on the street, too quick for the narrow sidewalks, with the moms and their strollers all parading underneath lamp-post banners that read “Eat. Shop. Drink. Think.” Which is nice, putting thinking down as something one could do for fun. Purchase a bold new scarf at the Chicos, allow the coding solution you needed to materialize before your very eyes.
Lots of things make me happy. Words. Funny little drawings. Getting mail. Do you love these things too? I hope so, because for a long time I’ve wanted to take my blog beyond the digital realm and into the real world. The postcard campaign is the closest I’ve come to making that dream come true.…
Two men and one woman walk up to a building that appears to be a restaurant. They enter the glass doors and approach the Hostess’ podium.
Hostess: Welcome to Decor. Will you be having your dining experience in the Hipster Lounge or the Stuffy Dining Room today?
Guest A: The Lounge, please.
Hostess: Wonderful. May I start you off with a table? Today our specials are hand-hewn wood slab or retro formica.
