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Sol Seeker

Yesterday was the day of the solar eclipse. Driving and walking to work, I’ve never seen so many people with their heads turned toward the sky. Looking above them. Seeking something out of their control and infinitely bigger. Lawn chairs, paper glasses–their cardboard temple pieces flapping like ineffectual birds in their hands while they wait, […]

On Tending

I love the plants in my own debilitating way. A way in which I never know if I am giving too much or too little. In a way that I know is giving, but I worry over the quantity. My feelings vacillate like a shorted fan. Too much water. Too little water. How much? How […]

Meditations of the Male-Adjacent

  When coming down the coast of Ireland toward county Clare nature begins to explode. It feels wild, the flora effusing between crofts of rock, stone walls consumed, nature reclaiming, a rocky embrace. Mustard flowers populate the landscape, punctuating verdant green in vibrant contrast; purple flowers, Queen Anne’s lace, Jupiter’s Beard, rust hued reeds. Brambles […]

Emanation

There is a quietude here punctuated by guided tours. Questions the tour guide can’t answer. “Can you read the lanterns?” “Do the placement of the chairs at this family altar hold any significance?” “What do the octagon shapes represent? Any symbolism?” I am shoehorned in the corner. Merged with the tour for the duration of […]

Self Portrait

Kentucky I’d walk for hours in dappled light, following gentle curves of narrow roads, their asphalt edging sharply into dirt, then grass. Green shivering as cars drove by, and I huddled near to its softness. The air, more often than not, was heavy and placid. Warm and warming, I’d wade through it, pause, as if […]

Dualism

My left leg slightly limping, I pass through an unseasonably warm March evening looking over my shoulder for foxes. I feel like easy prey. From afar the skilled hunter can tell that I am weakened. That a misstep on my part could mean a feast for them. I pass through the night an easy target. […]

On Spaghetti in Western and Japanese

Richard Brautigan and Haruki Murakami write about spaghetti a lot. To them it seems a lonely task. A gentle boil with a simple means to an end kind of task. I find I usually make spaghetti alone. When the house is quiet and the only sound is a water droplet shivering in anticipation of falling […]