The fermenting bowl of unripe thoughts

I’m on my way home now.

I’m on my way home now. I’ve filled my pockets with scraps and shreds of questions and half answered requests. I’m wearing my uncertainty like a badge across my chest. One thing is sure, I’m less sure than when I started. One thing is sure, I’ve come back to where I parted.

I’ve parted ways with knowing. I’ve toasted to my doubt. I’ve no clue where I’m going or what it is that I’m about.

Yet in this space of uncertainty lacking all assurance. I’ve grown.

Like all wild things, I’ve grown despite the harsh sun and the unforgiving winds. Indeed, in the space where certainty resides, no wild thing can live.


Textbooks filled with carbon and hydrogen, momentary connections

Textbooks filled with carbon and hydrogen, momentary connections made permanent in print. I stared, transfixed to think that such simple bonds held the world together. 

Now to come back to the place where I

Now to come back to the place where I began…

To realize I had written one thousand verbs in pursuit of ghosts. Those days when the perfume of nostalgia was constantly ripe in the recesses of my mind. When I sang accolades of my soft heart. That open, pulsating entity I feared so greatly. But the feeling is ebbing, receding and what is left? What is left. is. chiseled. 

For no man sails back towards the setting sun.









She was attracted to the weight. She rolled it in her hands, a wave smoothing the sharp edges of a pebble. She traced the curve of the trunk and found the end where it doubled back to plunge into the mouth. All ends curve back. Even the neat ends of the universe fold up on one another.

She balanced it on its’ hind leg and twirled the trunk counter clockwise, then clockwise. She admired the variation of color that her reflection created on its’ surface. She imagined its lives before her. Carried along the silk routes. Crafted in a bedouin tent. She imagined its lives after her. Nestled unceremoniously in the bottom of a bin at a second-hand store. Displayed proudly on a bookshelf. Relics of travels, wild forays into uncertainty.




Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps

a thousand choruses, sing the song

and what of this one life I have

and what of this great passion I have

is it enough?

it is enough.

it is enough to cry and laugh and feel that your insides are hallowed out, all stalactites and shallow streams

to feel that your dams are overwrought, that the hidden aspects, the way your lift your brow, the way you perceive mid afternoon light as if it were honey steeped in lavender tea. The way that from across a bustling market anyone could spot the rhythm of your stride. All of these peculiarities which distinguish the swallow from the dipper and you from yourself even tomorrow.

The nuances, which say that you prefer chocolate mousse to a whipped banana pie simply because the cells in your nose are connected quite differently to your brain today than they were yesterday. Because of a memory or a dream, because you heard spanish guitar while riding your bicycle near the Parc de la Ciutadella and felt that the world could be spiraling into oblivion as long as you could have this one moment.


It is enough.