When you look out over Los Angeles from the Hollywood Hills, the sun long since sunk over the western horizon, the pin-pricks of light stretch on until infinity. Greens and reds in orderly rows, with yellows and whites and blues scattered on top, a glittering layer of space dust rained down from above. It all pulses in the rising currents of air, warmth emanating from each body, in every direction, for as far as our eyes can see. The sky is slate gray; we’ve blocked out the heavens.

Continue reading…

There is a poison in the manner with which a youthful person sees an elder. I’ve noticed it within myself, and I will wager it resides in many of my peers.

Continue reading…

This weekend I’ve been reading Virginia Woolf’s classic essay A Room of One’s Own. Originally begun as a series of speeches on the subject of Women and Fiction, the essay builds on the thesis that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”. I’m only a third of the way through, but so far Woolf’s essay has covered far more ground than might be expected given the piece’s simple premise.

Continue reading…

On my way home I walked by a boarded up parking garage. There is something curious about an abandoned place that was never much of a place at all, like the death of a person that lived and knew no one, stolen from their mother at birth and kept in isolation until their lonely end. One laments the sale of their home, or pines for an old haunt that was destroyed to make way for new development, but rarely would one be dismayed by the demise of a place so insignificant as a car lot.

Continue reading…

If you wiretapped our heads
and ferreted through the threads,
of worries and sorrows,
our hopes for tomorrow,
and projected the sound,
made audible, profound,
we’d hear in each other
the fear that we smother,
of failure and loneliness
and death and unhappiness,
a cacophony of dread
just locked in our head.

Continue reading…