When there are so many limits on what you can write about, what can you write about?
NYC is glorious: the street life, the food, the energy. But Boston is much cheaper and carries much less stress. The dilemma is intense and even spiritual.
The power of silence, the limits of words... in essay form.
On the things we keep, the things we forget, and the things we abandon.
Sometimes it is through loss that we come to discovery.
My outsider status was hard-won. Earned with my own blood.
Can you imagine the practical grace in your thoroughgoing pulsation?