So I came home from Spain. I turned the key in the door— or maybe I pushed the keypad cause we’re digital everything now (fuuuuuuck). I dropped my tote back, slid out of my backpack, left the suitcase by the door, and took off my shoes. Through the windows
The crosswalks in Barcelona will kill ya if you aren’t careful. They blink more. Have you noticed? In the States there’s more time to cross the road. Which is funny, kinda. Ya know. Considerin’ how much hurry. But in Spain— you hurry when you’re supposed to. Like
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
I think I’m afraid of love. I realized it this morning while I was sitting alone in my living room. “Who is going to find you when it happens?” I thought. “You’re gonna drop dead in here one day and no one is going to know about it
Tonight, after a quiet evening reading and drinking green tea with honey and lemon (grandmotherly I know. But still, these biddies are onto something), I sat my mug down on the counter with the last sip of the honey-goldened brew coating the bottom. I have a gnat infestation. Disgusting,
I’m an air sign. A libra. I don’t really even know what any of that means, that's just how it is. It’s rainin’ tonight in the A. A rainy Monday in June. I feel strangely connected to the rain. Maybe that’s cause she’s
For Meme Meme called them her, “blue days.” I didn’t know what that meant then, but I remember her sayin’ it. “Meme, are you all right?” Momma would ask. “Oh yes, dahlin’. I’m just havin’ one of my blue days. I’m all right.” Now I know. I
I’m naked at my bar. Clothes on the floor. Wet. I got caught in the rain. It’s that time of year in the A. Movin’ into June. It was a pop-up shower. And it just caught me. Cold drop after cold drop. And I just stopped. I’
There’s a lot to contemplate over a pickle jar, fridge door ajar, wasting energy— energy the EPA doesn’t really care about anymore— in the quiet of my condo downtown. It got me today. It hasn’t in a while. But somehow, standing over that open jar, plunging my
I have the boys tonight—my nephews. The last time I saw them, Nono (6) said, “Three, when are we gonna stay at your house?” “I will come get you next weekend,” I told him. It’ll be a blink before they aren’t asking me those questions anymore. Busy
My fucking A/C panel broke last night. She just died—reset—died—reset—died— and so on. Meanwhile it was getting warmer in the condo. I don’t do “hot”—not temperature-wise anyway. My home is arctic, and I like it that way. I hate it when things
For my Momma, and for my Gran I like tarragon best of all the herbs. She don’t pussyfoot around. You’re either for her or you’re not. There’s no warmup. No middle. Just love me or don’t, baby. She’s just fine either way. Maybe it’
For M Lavender…bitchy queen. Have you ever tried to grow a lavender plant? Well— It seems simple. Full sun. Drought hardy. Well-draining soil. Water— Now here’s where we screw the pooch. Lavender needs water. But only so much water. Too much, she dies. Too little, she fries.