No shame in saying that I felt a loneliness drifting through me. Funny how it was, everyone perched in their own little world with the deep need to talk, each person with their own tale, beginning in some strange middle point, then trying so hard to ...
I know who the real hero is, and it isn't me or brave Lanaya. It's an old man with a white beard and a walking stick and a heart so big it won't let him stop thinking he can change the world by writing down things in a book no one will ever read.
We have really, that I know of, no philosophical basis for high and low. Moreover, the vegetable kingdom does not culminate, as the animal kingdom does. It is not a kingdom, but a common-wealth; a democracy, and therefore puzzling and unaccountable f...
I have come, more and more, to believe that the way we are in the world actually has an impact on the world. When we are respectful, joyous, grateful, engaged, the world responds to that in concrete ways. When we are angry and resentful, or selfish o...
the real "work" of prayer is to become silent and listen to the voice that says good things about me. To gently push aside and silence the many voices that question my goodness and to trust that I will hear the voice of blessing-- that demands real e...
Revenge is what I want. Nothing but pure unadulterated revenge. But my mother brought me up to be a lady.
To be sure, it was not Easter Sunday but Holy Saturday, but, the more I reflect on it, the more this seems to be fitting for the nature of our human life: we are still awaiting Easter; we are not yet standing in the full light but walking toward it f...
News of Daniel's disappearance does not alarm me as it might have done a week ago. Given recent events, very little alarms me as it might have done a week ago. I feel as if my supply of alarm has been exhausted, at least temporarily.
Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep, - the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief ...
To have endured all the horrors he did, to have seen the worst of humanity and have your life made unrecognizable by it, to come out of all that the honorable and brave and good person I knew him to be— *that* was magical.
Swamps where cedars grow and turtles wait on logs but not for anything in particular; fields bordered by crooked fences broken by years of standing still; orchards so old they have forgotten where the farmhouse is. In the north I have eaten my lunch ...
My favorite time of the day is 3:33 pm, though I rarely see it because it’s a little too early to be getting up for the day.
I set up a meeting with Tom Morrow and Yes Terday, and I’m afraid I’ll be both a day late and a day early.
America is not a place. America is an idea that died along with my grandfather. And I’m sorry to say that I shot them both.
When our dreams were nothing more than pancake batter, I was there for her, making breakfast.
I want to be a man of mountaintops: to scale the heights, achieve a sublime transcendence, and breathe in the thin air. Transcendence requires suffocation.
I introduced myself thus: “My name is Moscow Moonlove. My friends call me Moss, Cow, Moo, Moon, or Tigerpants.
A stack of graham crackers represents me as a person: am I a cookie or a cracker? Neither. Both. I’m a crackie.
What’s said in silence is best viewed in darkness. I learned that while reading a bowl of Alphabet Soup.
I want to write a song called, “She Bangs.” It won’t be about a sexually loose woman, but rather it will be a knock-knock joke.
Or maybe nobody can fill that special place in her heart because I was nobody. And the only thing that fills a hole is a hole. And dirt.
