It was a simple affair. A white trellis adorned with fresh gardenia. Two rows of white chairs. We held the ceremony at the home of a friend who lived on a tributary of the St. John’s River. There were maybe a dozen people present. My parents came in from Texas. Her mom and a friend drove down from New Jersey. Because it was such a simple wedding, we felt guilty about them coming at all—but they insisted. And so here…
People love their dogs. I mean REALLY love them. And you kinda have to, right? I mean, when you invite a dog into your life you spend 10-14 years with them pretty much every day. And they’re always there with a happy face and wet nose. It doesn’t matter whether you’re going through tough times. It doesn’t matter that the world feels like it’s closing in around you. The relationships we have with our dogs are based on something that…
We compete with other soft Americans for the best life on Facebook. Shining light on our cars and jewels. Smiling with a glass of red. Seemingly oblivious to the plight of others who fight just to survive–even here in our own country. Oh sure, we change our avatars in support of injustice, and vent our frustration in our status updates (true solidarity among the privileged) for a few days–until we scroll to a photograph of a peer enjoying a beer…
What if all the birds in the world are singing the same song? A song with very specific roles for each type of bird. Where every chirp, tweet, and whistle is significant. A song so grand in scope that it has no beginning or end. A song so sweeping and pervasive that we cannot hear it except in miniature.
The following is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. In 1982 I was sixteen. A skinny white punk in the suburbs of Houston who hung around a few other like dregs. We weren’t into school, weren’t into social conformity, but were into heavy metal. We were into chicks too, but the chicks hadn’t come around to metal yet and so we existed, together, a band of suburb outlaws. We hung out in the woods…
The following is a guest post by my daughter, Agatha Rose who is a 10th grader. I assisted in copyediting only. *** I hear the trumpets from down the street. The noise is beautiful. In fact, I wouldn’t even consider it noise at all. It’s art. I’m writing because the trumpets let me decompress. I’m not sure why, and wish I did because I hate writing–nobody understands my train of thought. Except the writer who lives next door, and…
