San francisco — The needles click. The wool runs through the fingers on my right hand. The ball of yarn tugs against my side like an insistent child pulling at its mother’s skirts. The hypnotic rhythm of each stitch...
Burlingame — This morning I got a message from an old, best friend from high school. She had unexpectedly received a letter she wrote the year we graduated, telling her future self what her life was like then and ...
San francisco — Death Valley. Devil’s Cornfield. Cow skulls and desolate expanses and a real stagecoach parked outside the General Store at Stovepipe Wells. Slipping down the long, oily snake of a road between dunes...
Found: love letter on the street on Wilshire.
"Natalie Wood: America's most glamourous teenager."
Schweppes tonic water. Writing materials. Library carrel.
Loose marble on the back stairwell of a 1920s building in downtown LA. It smells like laundry back here.
Bradbury used to retype whole sections of other people's novels, just to learn their rhythm.
Why is it that forward momentum seems to be at odds with infinite possibility?
It rumbles all around, like thunder.
Everything's easier after the first row.
Thanks and thank you. Or, the difference between men and women.
There's a tear in the inky clouds over the city, and the fresh blue sky of the morning is edging its way in.
Hidden by the hyperbole, there is real danger here.
That moment when the hard learnin' you've been slogging through finally clicks into place.
Not on the train to grandmother's house.