Airy Blue

It’s calmer in the city on a Sunday.
In the carpool in the morning my neighbor asks the driver what his music is. I wondered too.
We float through moted sunrays, quiet, listening.
Along the streets near Madison Avenue a businessman walks by, dressed head to toe in polished pinstripes, plus pink sunglasses.
People meet your eyes on Sundays. Strange, like they’re asking whether they exist.
Reeling from the week, they wander downtown, uncertain with how not to hurry.
Zoo birds, remembering how to fly.

Red and white

This book belongs to its owner Fathallah Saad.
He bought it with his own money at the beginning of March 1892.
It was a time before the conflict,
before the need for peace,
When boys looked up to men, and men to scholars.
Fifty years from then, the Gaza land,
the name of which, till then, had not been heavy,
Was torn asunder by the need to claim it.
Both sides of souls, their morals and convictions,
Had reasons for the fight — embroiled histories,
Thicker, richer than six thousand books.
The books were ravaged, too, just like the nation.
Five times that six, in homes, before the looting,
A ticker-tape parade made from their pages,
Out windows, thrown, on aching streets below.
As families fled, their hair flecked with the remnants
of culture — proud and strong, and that which keeps us
from turning back to animals we fear —
A somber loss began to coat the sidewalks,
The bitter end of records, memories, pasts.
They could not watch it burn. Now was survival,
Doctors, fathers, homeless, all one man.

Now, here we stand, a hundred-plus years after
Saad bought that book, so glad to call it his.
His words are on a billboard.

Fathallah, we see you, friend.
The war which still has yet to end
I hope you never saw it start
but we will see it through.
The literature you treasured well
Will be the savior from this hell,
By education, may we see the truth:

That man is man,
and land is land,
and knowledge heals,
And carnage can’t.

Book jury

When Owen died the therapist told me I should keep a journal. Maybe it would help me think better. I shot her down because I knew it wouldn’t work, but couldn’t really say why.
I just figured it out - there’s a subtle set of expectations with a journal, like you’re supposed to write an entry every day in this first person format, and you’re supposed to talk about thoughts and feelings. And I couldn’t help thinking, geez, what if one day I just have nothing to say? Some days you feel fine. And there went the commitment.
It wasn’t the idea of the journal that felt wrong, but just the thought of being locked into that format. I don’t know why I saw that as the only option. It wasn’t a binary choice. Looking back I should’ve taken her advice, but made it mine, with poetry and nonsense and associations and whatever else I felt like writing, just so long as it was writing.
It may also have had something to do with the zebra stripes and garish sparkle butterfly on the cover of the notebook she offered me.
I was seventeen, insanely prideful, insanely tense. It didn’t look serious. The pages themselves would have been freedom…but what are you gonna do.

Pep talks


Lines on the paper.
Remember to convert anything daunting into an excitement. Instead of - “how will I ever make this happen?!” - ask - “could I be any more excited to put one foot in front of another on this journey, doing what I love?”
Shape it - mold it - make the feelings your own. Reach out and embrace the uncertain.
It’s like walking to clear the mind. Just set out and go.
And as you lose yourself in the simple act of moving forward, little by little, clarity will come.
The first step is the hardest. It’s a change in inertia, from total stillness, that requires the highest exertion of effort, but as you take another step you build momentum - and find a new inertia: motion.
Even better? With daily exercise you will grow stronger, and your muscles will find it easier and easier to take those first steps. One day it’ll become second nature, like breathing.
A better writer would find a clearer way to synthesize the comparison to Newton’s laws of motion. That’s okay. It isn’t a thesis I’m doing here and improvement comes only with practice.


I haven’t written today.
I woke up late, ate five toffee bars, felt sucked under. Didn’t think about the subway story at all. Worked on festival applications instead…so that counts for something, right?
It wasn’t easy today and it won’t be easy most days. Constantly checking, balancing, reevaluating.
Is the machine awake - alive - operational - focused? Feeling O.K.?
All those steps. Routines. Marking boxes off a list, before producing any material is even possible.
How to make it better? Is it worth trying to change my brain to adapt to my life?
Or better to build a life around the brain…

…to give in…?

…Nah. Never.


If you wrote down everything you thought - how many reams of paper would it fill?
From the age you first picked up a pen (and knew how to make it talk), until now - how many pounds of pages would it be?
You could fill a house,
an apartment building,
the whole city block,
and chances are, when you looked back through all those metric tons of words, you’d find some that carried some serious weight.

Increase those odds. Write more.


What do I have to say that isn’t being said? What have I got - what’s so special about Olivia?

Sometimes I’ll ride around on my high horse thinking I’m hot sh!t — until I remember that my ideas are largely just that: sh!t. It’s not worth putting drivel into the world, not worth going through all that trouble if you’re not going to mean anything by it. You’d better shoot for the moon and have something to say. Or something to stand for, some driving force, because a Saturday-night popcorn audience cares peanuts about your pretty opinion.

So what’s my thing? Do I even work hard enough to get my voice out there? I’m not the master of stunning visuals and I’m not breaking genre ground. And I do spend too much time thinking about where I fit and how to get in the door, and bare enough time actually cranking out the work.

What I have got for certain — and this is for sure forever — is so many feelings and an absolutely-desperately undying need to show them around and see if they stick. I am the physical size of a Mars Bar with enough emotion to fill up a Shaq, or two…and it’s too much feeling to hold onto. Tried it, didn’t work. So whatever I do must be something dealing with huge amounts of feeling.

And I’ve got to make millions of people feel the same way. I have to know that they understand, I have to see them cry or laugh or crinkle up their eyes. I can’t explain my head to every single one of you, so let me put it out there in a way you’ll associate with your own experience. Let my heart mean something for you. We all remember the glorious abandon of our youth — that foundation of our being, the formative years — so let me take you back there, with stories that aren’t afraid to yearn, to cut loose, to dance on the hill in the sunset and make young fools in love out of themselves. We all grew up sometime in high school, and buried our spirits along with our freedom and our parents’ idyllic marriage - why?! That was a choice! Dig the spirits up! Bring them out! Paint your face, sing in your clothes in the rain. Life is for being lived.

I do hate restraint and I hate what it does to us. It makes grandeur sweeter, though, because it gives us a frame of reference. And I do believe that balance and contrast are the most effective ways of getting someone to feel how you need them to feel. Show me a queen, a drag queen in North Dakota forced to pay the bills by working days at the nasty auto body shop, and that will break my heart - because we want them to be free! Because we are adults now, with some same dreams locked down in our souls, collecting dust - our own childhood grandeurs restrained by the chains of going through the motions.

I refuse to settle for dimming the fire that makes me dream ever bigger. Keep your tea-and-biscuits dramas full of subtleties and hints. I’ll gently play your heart over hot coals and ice and even as it bleeds into the musty oriental carpet you’ll smile at me, with sparkling diamonds in your eyes, for showing you the young world again, and die in tragic splendor on the parlor floor singing the song that came to save you, the song of your youth. If only all those years ago you would have listened!

That is what I have. Fury. Wonder. Hope. All those things that were lost - let me show you again. Climb the mountain with me and let’s remind ourselves what is possible. Let’s remind ourselves what is good. We have so much worth living for.

48th Street Melee

it’s time to write for no reason other than the pen feels good in rhythm on paper
the lines give me clarity, focus, comfort in restriction. we like it that way. there’s time and place for letting your voice out, taking your heart on a romp in the mountains and soaring as big as lungs will let you. but there’s comfort in working in parameters, doing a simple task, concentrating easily on just words. it’s beautiful because it’s so simple…part of the balance we need, the homeostasis of the way things ought to be. a fitting contrast to the never-ending tetherball match of the city.

eight million people, plus the tourists, blowing around manhattan on a saturday is a whole lot of movement and noise - push, shove, stay close to me, who’s heading up this snail parade?, where’d Emma go?, get your pretzels here, sample sale - sample sale, bike tour of Central Park?, no thanks I live here, oh, good for you. we eat our hot croissants and joe and hold on for dear life, collecting totems of the day’s places in the smells on our hair - halal cart cartographers.

that’s a big part of the city - not enough to just pass through and look around. you have to let her grasp you, sweep you around and run her hands over your face…touch you, pull you, pick your arm up and see how it flops back down. then you can see her, too, and be a part of her; she lets you in when you have done the same. and in this mutual measuring you learn more about her, but more strikingly you’ll unhide yourself, and, laid bare by the sirens and the blinding midnight blaze, come face to face with who you really are.


The laundry on a snow night -
a cradle in the city,
pajama people, gentle,
digestible, like scones.

The counter man is yawning -
got coffee for the slow shift,
outside the night train’s squealing,
inside, fluorescent womb.

Now the mood is changing -
the news came on, they’re yelling -
four corners of the ceiling hold
four cameras, eyes trained hard.

No longer quiet island -
the streets and sirens, louder -
bleed in past thumping dryers,
and I am set for home.

empty metal folding chair

crisping wildflowers in the late light
looking into the emerald pool at the way things could have gone
am i happy? am i glad?
strange, to be sure, seeing a future i once imagined, now happening to someone else
i thought i’d forgotten
but i haven’t. - who could forget?
it comes flooding back. every moment.
sun, dappled water, a wild vine reaching toward a boundless sky.
now underwater cheers, now blurry snapshots, floating back from the distance down the other side of the fork in the road
it’s the closest we get to what might have been
a peephole
a bridge
a zoetrope, two subway cars thundering parallel in the night - 
two strangers, window to window, one laughing -
then gone.


You sit in a glorified box, a room at the Ritz, the carpet and walls curlicued, but still beige. Sun is hot through the massive window, over the back alley where the shiny air ducts are still just air ducts and the lower roofs are still layered in city grime. Indoors the ceiling is a corbeled coffin lid. The sun is inescapable, like Sunday noon in Fort Lauderdale in a black polyester suit, windows rolled up - in June. You bake in a gilded fishbowl, sun bleaching what it touches and fading away you. The clock stands still. There is no air. The silence - choking.


We like to bestow words of gratitude on those working in positions that support us - it makes us feel good and we feel as though we are so generous. But this costs us almost nothing. It’s quite literally the least we could do. And often it comes across as insincere - especially if praise is only heaped when we get what we want.

Practice feeling more than magnanimous towards those who are helping, or those who are less fortunate. Practice giving or saying thank you at random, in the quiet moments, and not just in front of others. Practice helping them in return. That’s a truer expression of appreciation.


Bushwick. Halloween.

The wan wash of sodium vapor finds an old man sitting in the shadows by the jungle-gym, staring through the bars, as prisoners do, at a vanished freedom he long lost.


I feel like apple wood fire and smoked Gouda…like sun slanted through sweet brassy leaves and crisp air, dancing warm and gold between blue shadows and old dried grass on the asphalt.

Playing With Carpet Fuzz

The heater is on. The cat is too needy. Three blocks and a heavy coat away, an open mic night blares out and echoes off the bricks of the empty paper factory whose workers have long since gone home.

In an hour it will be Sunday.

Now there’s a woman’s voice, looping above quiet traffic and spooling over slow bass beats and an electric keyboard. Spacey minor-key sounds for a clear night, a night for wool socks and space heaters. The pitch sky gapes over Brooklyn, stabbed through with cold stars.


I was thinking earlier about how British actors are everywhere these days. We’re hard pressed to hire an American to play one of our own - the advent of superhero franchises saw more and more roles outsourced across the pond to our cousins with stiffer upper lips and a knack for accents.

It’s not that America has no actors, it’s that the new American style has unwittingly made our home crop obsolete. We shoot our shows for palm-sized screens, now. Asking an audience to watch a cinematic vista shot, or even the tamer medium-wide, on an iPhone is asking them to give themselves a retinal sprain and a headache. So we’ve adapted by punching in, getting closer, economizing our entertainment to what can fit into the scope of a 50mm lens or tighter.

It looks cheap. It feels lazy, but it’s what the client wants…and where British acting nuance appeared stiff and unaffected in yesteryear’s broader compositions, thanks to the MCU (that’s Marvel Close-up Universe), it now looks pensive, engaging, and emotional. On the flip side, Americans’ bombastic, take-up-space posturing born from Hollywood’s gilded age is too big and too theatrical for anything but a wider shot, in a theater…and they just don’t shoot ‘em that way any more.

On The Prevost

“I love playing the honkytonks,” [she] tells me, and it shows.

They’re a band meant to be heard live. [They fill] a room with a rugged heart and a raspy sweetness at the same time that they gnaw out some hair-shaking, sweat-rivulet-down-the-suit-jacket rock ‘n’ roll, and it’s never more evident than when the room is crowded with as much stale ale and cigarette wafts as it is with loudly singing people. The stage banter crackles faster. The harmonica solos lift you up and you can feel the kick drum right down in your soul.

You have to wonder how [being best witnessed live] works for their business model…Spotify, et al. having decimated the record sales industry, and all.

But it’s the same thing that keeps rock alive that they thrive on. (And maybe streaming platforms, in a backhand chance way, fuel it.) It’s that total lack of artifice that’s been with true staples of the genre from the beginning that serves as their axle. That knowledge that - even as they’re up there serving a-traditional concoctions of grungy electric guitar and lushly visual bluegrass lyrics, and cocking a trademark smirky eyebrow at the moral convictions of an old-school audience with anthems like “I’m Coming Out” and their anti-deportation lilt “C’mon, Utah!” - you, the witness, are still getting something that’s true to the core rock spirit that started it all: the rawness, the realness, the earnesty to pour out a human sentiment in measures of sweat and decibels and broken strings on that stage.

The delivery of these ideas may sound fresh, but the style is still there - the concept & intent. Maybe that’s why the songs feel like classics we should already know: they speak to that place in us, deep down, that yearns to turn off the phone, pull away the headphones, and just breathe for a little while.


The room is electric, colorful when he’s there. The clock hangs broken off the wall. Every second breathed in through fervent focus - the punch glass, a strand of hair, the pattern on his socks. He doesn’t know.

Before this room he was reading a text in the parking lot; there was grit in his shoes. After it he’ll loosen the tie on his drive home. His Civic will smell of fries. He holds the punch glass and throws words away to a mild acquaintance, a casual someone, an accessory to the main reason he’s here.

It is just a room. He’ll forget it, like cardboard. But the moment he walked in will burn crystalline every night and, try as you will, through twenties, thirties - you can never come back here again.

Maureen Kathleen

She was little, but she was larger than life.

Every one of her descendants outgrew her. We’d push her buttons, mouth off a little - just to see what would happen - and she’d give us The Look and tell us she could “still swing up”.

We never disrespected her, though. It never would have crossed our minds. You just didn’t misbehave around G-ma. She was the Boss in a matriarchal family, and if you had something to say you could go around the corner and roll your eyes, if you were feeling brave. She claimed she could hear an eyeroll from two floors away. She was always right.

Then, just as she was getting to you, there would be windmill cookies in the kitchen, the kind she only got when you were there. She’d make you breakfast, bacon lovingly griddled with the same pancake turner that she waved when you were on thin ice.

She never got angry. She’d get testy, and snap one or two words, “you watch it” - and that was as much as we ever got to see, but that was all we needed. She carried herself in grace and holy patience, even as she had a firm fire in her that drove her to push, push, and get things done. She could outlast any argument, calm, persistent, infuriating, and then when she won she’d turn away, grinning to the spectators, and her eyes would twinkle like a little girl’s. She loved adventures, and traveling, and talking to strangers. She found the good in everybody. She never held a grudge.

She’d go up to the parish garden on weekends, armed with her lifelong Catholic devotion and a little wagon full of yard tools, and spend the afternoon. She was known for her pruning. She’d pull weeds, plant things, and give us a tour when we’d go with her. “This is St. Francis of Assisi,” she’d say, and you felt as if the tiny statue in the flowerbed was her grandchild.

She gave until the end. I went to see her for the last time, and even as we hovered in the tiny bedroom, worried for her health, she was only worried about making enough mashed potatoes for everyone.

We loved her, oh, we loved her, and when we had her funeral, the priest cried.

An Opinion

I believe no thought taken with pen to paper is wasted. Analog is of God; if you have written your heart out by hand, you have contributed to the world something worth holding onto. What ink did you use - was it waterproof? What did you write on - a valet tag? a shirtbox? the wall? My production books are full of loose leaves made neat in sleeves, small inceptions of moments preserved forever to make large and real: tangible evidence of the beginning. My bedroom is papered in postcards. As lovely as that is, though, sometimes I want to think and be done with it, and not hold on, and in those times I turn here.

For the Betterment of Systems

a series of bylaws

•Communicate information to all relevant parties as soon as it is confirmed.
•Additionally, anticipate what parties will be relevant, and gather individually tailored information.
•Know all details of the information and anticipate questions.
•Do not communicate partial, unsolid, or vague information. If you must do so, follow up as more details come to light.
•Do not confirm something if it has not yet been confirmed.
•Use judgement on when, and from whom, to withhold information.
•Use judgement on when, and to whom, to disclose information.
•Do not assume information has been dispersed. Check, but do so with grace.
•Clarity and efficiency are key.
•Communicate in concrete concepts as often as possible.
•Don’t be curt, but don’t be loquacious. Minimize the amount of talking necessary and spend time on listening.
•Listen actively.
•Listen more than you speak.
•Understand that your demeanor affects the result of your interaction.
•If pressed for time, or stressed, speak slowly. People can only execute requests if they can understand you.
•Keep an even keel.
•Do not attribute to malice what can be explained by stupidity.
•Look for resolution to all conflicts.
•Facilitate honesty and open dialogue; embrace challenges as a team and with a positive attitude.
•The simplest solution is often correct.
•Communicate with the goal of progress.

The Shenandoah Spirit

Nobody starts out trying to save the world. We start the same, small and scared; the world's too big and too far away. We start by saving our world. It's subjective like that - and if we're good enough at saving our world, we might just catch the globe's attention to sway it. We find that burning itch, that gaping need we ache to solve a block down our street, and we chip away at it long past when the others have gone home. All through the night, on and on - and when the sun rises in the morning and finds us standing, sleepless and near collapse, it is our voice that is suddenly heard, and what we care about is now important.

It's been almost four years since one of my little brothers died. And the sun rises...I can wake up in the morning and be excited for the day, and make bacon and tomatoes and breathe in coffee steam and crisp dew, and know that there's so much room in my chest for life and love and fire, as much as there is room for darkness; the best thing about metaphorical spaces is that they keep expanding. I can build tunnels and nooks and stairwells and great rooms in my heart, places to hide in on rainy days and parapets to sing from when the sky is clear. There is always more room, for people past and present and not yet here. I am growing upwards and inwards and sidewards, and I see more colors and taste more flavors now than ever before, and maybe I am a great deal wiser, and an ocean sadder - but the smarting in my throat is how I know I'm alive.


It's late afternoon. The sun's not as hot as it was at twelve, and you got some bad news today, so you decide to go for a run.

You throw on the old soccer shorts, the ratty sports bra, and the navy blue FCMS 2010 shirt with the bleach spots, and head out. You have to clonk your Keens against the side of the house to get the mud off from when you wandered through the woods earlier. It's only been hours, but the mud's baked dry, out on the porch.

Out in the lazy street, old men with arthritis would have an easier time running. Is it the heat, or is it your knee? It's definitely your left knee. Damn the high school days of cross country, and the ski sprain you never tried enough to heal. You'll go to the front of the neighborhood and come back; that's enough to feel good about yourself.

Nobody's outdoors, so you don't worry about looking around. Eyes on the pavement, because it helps you focus on pacing, and because there's nothing else to pay attention to. No dogs barking, no wind. You scare away one somebody - a crow, pecking at the eyes of a dead squirrel who got hit mid-run and looks almost like he's faking, like he could take up and go again if you just give him a second. Poor guy. You'd scoop him off the road to peace, if there weren't so many bluebottles, but with nobody else to shoo them away, they're going to town. The busiest part of the neighborhood is this roadkill.

So when the blue SUV crunches to a halt in the middle of the road at the turnaround, up ahead, you're happy to see another person. It's that kid who used to ride the morning bus, four or five years ago. He's still gangly. You wave but he doesn't seem to acknowledge you, and you keep on jogging.

The car's in park, and he gets out. Chinese fire drill, but weird when you notice that there's no one else in the car. The truck's got no license plate on the front, and you can't see the back. He walks around to the back, hands out oddly from his waist, someone used to a walkie or a tactical belt, and was his hair always buzzed?

You keep jogging, almost at the turnaround, kind of still looking at the asphalt out of habit, but he hasn't come back from behind the car.

He looks like one of those guys who snaps and goes out to shoot up passersby. Well, with the burning in your knee, and that phone call you got earlier, you dramatically almost wish he would. You wonder what it'd feel like to get shot...they do that in police training, except you get to wear Kevlar; Mrs. Murphy said it's like getting punched. You think of the dead squirrel.

Man, this run is something else, but what great shape you'll be in!

You've rounded the bend, the SUV still parked but now behind you, and you're jogging away lost in thought when you hear the trunk close and chock - the clip locks into place. Huh, you think. Sounds like an AR; you've shot one before at Clark Bros with your dad, they're semi-aut and incredibly good at...long...ranges...

You see the exit wound through the front of your t-shirt before you feel it. Then you hear it, and then you fall down. Or maybe it's not in that order, but the ground beneath you is awfully soupy, kind of like melted Popsicles, and ow, OW, oh my god, did he SHOOT me, and the door closes and the engine roars and behind you the kid in the car peels out, but all you can see is stars.

Your brain is slow. You left your phone at home. Your head's so heavy. Focus, focus.

And then you blink and you're on your feet - how, you don't know - and your navy blue shirt's dark with sweat, and sticky, too, so you wring it out and it's only when the sweat drips off red that you get it. Oh. You need help, to call someone, how much time before you bleed out, what was the license plate number, was that one bang or two?

But of all the things you're supposed to do, only one keeps coming to mind. The run. You have to stick to the path. You can get that out of the way, and then get to everything else. Brain says just lay down on the curb and let go, but body says left foot, right foot. So you stuff a hand into your stomach and hold it in, and your feet are moving forward on their own, jogging again, going home. Just finish the run. Some girl on the swim team asked once if your parents were in the military, because you didn't complain during workouts. Go. Slosh, squelch, left foot, right foot.

And you do it. And you get home, and you go to get stitched up, and everyone wants to know how come you kept moving, how you didn't pass out, but "well, I wanted to..." isn't an answer. And they give you comfy socks, and you tell everybody all about it, and you can go on another run in a week. You still feel bad, but not as bad; that phone call this morning seems miles away. You realize, right then, that you pulled through, still kicking, and heck, you turned out better than that squirrel. You can use this for creative inspiration, think of a story to tell about it. Perhaps weave it into character development. Sure, maybe you can't wear the bikini for a while, and maybe you'll avoid weird gangly blond distant acquaintances for a while longer, but man, what a surreal day, and isn't that just the way life goes?

Passing Through Paw Paw

BACKROADS of the old grey barns, whitewashed houses, and woodpiles, detached truckbed rooves leaned politely against them - a meeting of the new and old. Faded RVs and skiffs sit parked on neat, dry lawns, grasses untouched by the wilderness they're cut into. The people who live here built clay-dust towns, with bleached pastel clapboard and dated brickwork not beautiful, but not unpleasant: towns suited to the working folk who take pride in practicality. These people like 6-pack t-shirts and tennis shorts. Their fresh lemonade comes in powder in a Country Time can. But they'll pour you a glass when the sun's high, and sit you down in the shade among weathered farm tools on their splintered porch, talking about the kids, the community, and that old state championship story that you let them tell, just one more time, because it makes them happy to remember.


Preserve at all costs the sanctity of summer.

flowering morning-glories on the mailbox

Firecracker Popsicles





latte skin

work outside

dew and cicadas in the morning

peaches and tomatoes and coffee steam when it's still cool out

basil. mmm

but you don't need coffee to wake up

tuck your shirt up under itself and roll your pant legs to your calves

contrapposto looks good on everybody, every body

maybe you'll get that ink you've been thinking about

maybe you'll sneak out with that catch you've been thinking about

how you doin'

top gun shades

nice jawline

misty smile

fireflies and night crickets...

Air conditioning. Fluorescent lights. Ugh

summer is not for plastic-chair school

summer's for the school of life

for watching outdoor movies and swatting mosquitoes off your butt

for picking wineberries

for reading screenplays

for teaching yourself all the tricks you never have time for.










I realized I was tired of living my life in gray tones. The highs were never highs, the lows were never lows - but somehow things just kept fading away, foggier, swampier. I was afraid of messy and afraid of putting my heart into it. I didn't trust my own resilience. I lived in fear of the well drying up, that I would run out of happiness and never get it back... Funny enough, the only way to run out is to stop taking chances. The more you try to protect your wild heart, the more it wilts and dies, because what seems to the senses like armor, feels to the spirit like a cage.

Them Ears They Ticking

How good is good enough? Never good enough.

All I want to do is write.

All I want to do is walk outside and slurp up the chaos of the world, and go running and swimming and sweat and churn up all that world in me for a while, and then come inside and breathe it back out again, organized into little patterns on a page.

I sit down in the evenings after class to a room full of piles, stacks, mountains of things to do, and the mountains overwhelm me - and the only thing I want to do is take myself out to the park with a notebook and spill words all over the paper. Like a dancer speaks in motions, I think through my hands, with a pencil or a pen or buttons on a metal plate.

I lie down in the early mornings, day and night melting together, and sleep pulls me way down - and the only thing my mind will do is talk. It never stops talking. It makes me think about the heartbeat in my ears when I can't lie still. I need to take out this brain and just put that in a book, and that would be all.

Go on, brain, and let me get some rest. But it would slosh itself through the book, leaving prints on every page, and then by morning I'd wake up to it tapping on the glass, begging to come back in with a million new things to show for its travels.

How good is good enough? Never good enough. All I want to do is keep thinking.