Essayist. Lover of food and champagne. Seeker of love, survivor of heartache, and a fledgling believer that everything really does work out in the end.
I can feel the pull of life’s momentum when I walk down the concourse at the airport. Normally that’s in Hartsfield, but today I’m at Dulles. I pass through a sea of lives that I’ll never touch, apart from this second of passing— this moment that
Tonight after Monday Sushi, which A was tragically not at— Small side bar: I hate that. The restaurant asked for him, I miss him, etc. It feels like just some part of you is missing. End side bar. So be that as it may, M and I suffered through it
Can you ever just hear the Earth crank? I don’t mean cosmically. Too big. I mean, like the gears in my leather-banded watch. Just tickin’ on like it’s the 11th, even though it’s the 13th. Two days slow. Sometimes I can hear it. It comes in
8.9.2026 I dunno if you’ve ever ridden MARTA— but I have. I’m not special for it. You won’t be either. Special, I mean. You will be a “Marta rider.” You will have traversed the A. And I don’t really know what that means for
Most of my observations hit me in the grocery store. I wonder if that means something? If rather than the alignment of the stars or whatever color my chakra is that day, it has something to do with how close the leeks are to the cilantro when I pass through
“The best lives are lived when you forgo your designated lap swimming to drink wine with friends.” A lesser-known triathlete said that once. I know because, I said “triathlete.” And I am lesser known. The pool was closed for cleaning tonight, so M and I gave up on exercise,
I was not Greenpeace tonight. If I’m being honest, I’m not Greenpeace any night. I drink far too much Sauvi B, which is housed in far too much olive green glass, that I all too happily toss right down the chute to the dumpster, to even remotely claim
In the love story of my life, I’m walkin’ south on W Peachtree St.— headed downtown. The wind blows and moves over my face like the warmth of an oven opened to peep on a roast chicken— with tarragon. A tell that the hot southern August has packed her
Tonight, on my balcony, I watched the shards of a hundred different-colored stars explode, and scatter, and fade. I did this alone— well…with a glass of rosé. I’d like to tell you I was brave— that the myths and the muses will sing of me— that there
For me This journey that I’m on— it looked different when I was 23. It was all, love, and marriage, and the house, the fence with the pickets… And at 38 I find it’s not that anymore. Not so long ago, I’d have probably told you that
Sometimes I feel like a twig raced down the creek. The kind ya throw in as a boy with the other kids, and run behind ‘til it gets stuck on a rock or a branch. Maybe I have little limb stickin’ up like a mast, and one curvy white oak
My dill weed is dead. She bolted—cold-cocked by the heat. It’s hot in the A. Not the sticky hot of August, but the oven has almost preheated. Life is strange. One minute your biggest worry is gettin’ picked at on the school bus. 189. That was my