and then there you are out of nowhere out of everywhere
Words of gratitude for the week of December 4, 2025
in the cultures that were killed to make way for strip malls
I wake up a little late and get ready for the day in a bit of a rush
I drive past the reservoir and as always I am in awe of all that water catching light
a lake will fill in over time as the plants bloom and die and bloom again
and maybe all dirt is really the stuff of graves for everything now stands on what was here before
and in describing what was lost at Brightwood Music many of the words are the same as if I were to be describing human anatomy for imagine the whittled necks of violins the shining sanded bodies of the guitars the tremolo arms of some punk’s...
Poem about the fire and for the fire and then there was light a hungry glow eating up more than just a building but the collective memory of this town for each place is host to so much each place is more than just walls and wood and windows each...
In a recent conversation with a friend about my writing career and all the rejection and disappointment that it can sometimes involve he reminded me of the definition of insanity being the act of doing something over and over again expecting...
I buy a box of garbage bags and when I get home and open it to put one in the can I realize the bags are scented the whole of the kitchen is flushed with a smell of artificial sweetness maybe something that was once floral but was chemically...
today there’s snow on the mountains for the first time since spring it’s been a long summer it seems those months of heat get longer every year but the winter always comes back my mom says there is just one yellow columbine left in a garden once...
clouds like foaming tide lapping at the foothill shore even on a day when the air quality here is the fifth worst in the world this place is still so beautiful despite the grocery prices and the ever reaching fire smoke and the red eyed traffic...
It’s not close to Christmas but I’m longing for how it felt back when I was a kid on the night before the big day the whole neighborhood and all our dogs would walk through the December snow up the mountain we lived around up to the windblown...
and I guess life and death are two sides of the same coin or maybe there is no coin at all just a glowing pulse some sacred jagged piece of the universe that’s sits within us all and maybe that light comes and goes as it’s meant to no matter what...
maybe it’s true that we come into the world and leave it alone but maybe in this loneliness we are not yet formed maybe the only time we are truly alive is when we are not alone maybe it’s only in the eyes and hearts of others that we ever really...
if the four billion years that make up this planet’s life were imagined as a twenty four hour span and humans were juxtaposed on this projected span of time after all of our two hundred thousand years alive would exist for only a mere three...
the news is hell and so too is work and all else that it takes for us to survive another day but miraculously we have the afternoon off and so we plan a hike up up in the high peaks we park the car and wander through the woods the river is...
we planted columbines in the high alpine dirt of my mother’s garden eight years ago now there is a grouping with blue outer petals with a white center there’s also a grouping with yellow outer petals and white insides they grow well sprouting in...
for a place consisting of a main street two gas stations a wild west history and these pine dotted peaks populated by those who’ve chosen to step away from society and most of the people in it there’s still a lot of love here despite the hurt...