I walked home from Inman Park tonight. I had a date. The walk was light and cool, as the Atlanta air sometimes is in early spring. I walked the beltline to the Stone Mountain Trail, to N. Highland, and made my way on to downtown. The lips of the men
We bombed Iran in recent weeks. The U.S. I mean— I heard this news as I contemplated whether or not I’m brave. Sometimes I feel brave. And sometimes I just feel like a negative, grouchy, yoga trying, begrudging gratitude journaling, middle-aged, graying beard, green eyed, bald man,
There are half-dead petunias growing in the planter pot, on the little table, on my balcony, in the A. They live with a half-dead verbena, who is also coming back for the season. My great aunt Marcelle would call these “volunteers,” because they just grow right back of
For Mack The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo was in full swing this weekend. The smell of ranch life. (No, it is not a pleasant smell, but it’s a smell we all know.) Watching these tiny specks of kids showcase giant steers that could trample them at any moment
My cursor blinks on a passage from 37: Green is the color of poison. That’s what I think to myself as my chartreuse-filled irises stare back at me through my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Green is the color of poison. I feel like poison sometimes. Damaged. Toxic.
You know what? I’ve always picked from lack. (I know I always start with a question. But we all like a little rhythm, don’t we? Rhythm is sexy. –grins) No—not slack. Lack. People don’t know what that means when you say it. They’ll even ask,
I have the fortitude of a sandcastle. That’s what I thought today. One crashing wave away from disaster. This beautiful, temporary structure that’s just here for a short while. Until death by wave, or shitty stamping kid. We only get so many glasses of champagne— or phone calls
“I love you.” The most profound words in the English language. The words we crave. The words we search to hear as we move alone through the beats of the city streets into our Uber and make our way home—searching, looking, listening— The streetlights passing out the window like
I read a quote tonight, and I loved it: “She was never quite ready. But she was brave. And the universe listens to brave.” I loved it. It’s empowering. It’s bold. But— Do we think bravery is all the universe listens to? I think it’s dense to
My blood orange gin and tonic fizzes on the kitchen counter. The orange tint of the cocktail hisses in the stillness of the waning hour of Friday night. I sit alone at the bar. The bubbles push their way to the top of my Aunt Nancy’s fox-hunt-pattern
If you aren’t careful, you can let yourself feel very unlucky in love— Maybe it’s just the rainy gloom of a waning February. The shortest month’s close giving breath to the fear life is just passing you by. You can almost see the torn calendar pages whizzing
There are moments when your life seems to have this momentum— Too abstract— (Pause. Closes eyes.) It’s like… It’s like when you’re taking I-85 southbound from Buckhead after dinner with friends — the A is like two mini skylines separated by a few miles and connected by