I picked my scabs as a kid. It drove my dad nuts, but I'd sit there intently, sliding my nail beneath the caked layer of dried blood. My new skin was growing underneath, and I was eager to examine the virgin flesh. A scab is a badge of honor - no doubt a hearty adventure left this mark, yet this active child would calm herself to a near immobile ( Read more... )

I was eight when I learned to fear ( Read more... )

Well Merry Christmas to you too ( Read more... )

If you look closely, the road is slightly more cambered to the left. It's not due to natural topography or how the road was laid. No, it's generations of runners leaving their mark. More than sweat remains long after the athletes have moved on. The road remembers.


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There is such joy in writing! I was just writing to a friend and found myself likening the two approached to innovation as a way to look at life. Evolutionary vs disruptive. I never thought of it that way before - or perhaps I have, but simply never attached the words to it ( Read more... )

Words have power. They carry with them motivation, intent, impact and excuse, all wrapped together in a lyrical bow. A stick leaves a welt, certainly, but a word doesn't just graze the surface. It invades, flowing through your corpus. Skin sloughs off and is replaced. Where do your insides go?

Language has long fascinated me, from age 3 when I asked ( Read more... )

I told myself I wanted to keep writing; I liked this sense of being able to tap into that place within, where I can pull feeling out by chaining together individual characters ( Read more... )

The matador taunts the beast, waving the red cape before him. The bull angers and charges, to the thrill of the spectators. Oh! it is such fun to watch the fury of another ( Read more... )

I've always been inquisitive, love putting the pieces together and figuring things out. But sometimes, its just not worth asking or wondering why. 'Why' can turn your life upside down, drive a wedge between what you thought you knew and what you know you don't. That tiniest of spaces is enough; enough to let the insiduous current through, until you ( Read more... )

I have to go to Maine. The women from Maine are fierce and tragic. Is it the cold that causes them to withdraw, their piercing eyes soaking in the world outside until they can recreate it through their words? To capture and contain those they hold dear through a manufactured, restricted, oozing, visceral world ( Read more... )