blog
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Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind. At precisely 1:30 a.m., I made the kind of discovery no archaeologist dreams of: the third shard of glass embedded delicately into the bottom of my unsuspecting bare foot. I jumped back like a startled ballerina, teetering heroically on one leg as my hand, still…
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Billie Holiday cries softly, somewhere between here and the past—her melody warms the corners of the roomlike the heater humming in time with my breath.A cappuccino cozies the center of me,and I write—to life,to you,across this ethereal threadspun of digits and light. I weave thoughts and feelingslike a tapestry—yarns pulled from memory and moment:scratchy and…
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Music prompt mind, Six months in a leaky boat. Cruising down the freeway—feeling that fleeting “free” way vibe—I had Split Enz’s “Six Months in a Leaky Boat” blasting through my speakers. The wind was whipping, the lyrics were hitting, but as usual, my brain played its favorite game: swapping out half-heard words for whatever nonsense…
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on YouTube—“Hosanna in the highest!”echoes through streaming speakersas a path is paved for a manlater to die. the crowd cheers—a sporting event,the prizefight of the ages.they wave palmslike foam fingers. it’s finishedbefore it begins.a Dawn King, promoted.a cross—at least not upside down.that would hurt more, I think. I pause.get a cup of joe.press play,skip the…
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*a response to a reader on one of my posts asking how much of my story line was taken from past experiences and how much was made up… All writing is autobiography, just as every dream is memory in disguise. That girl in yellow? She exists between the pages of my life like a pressed…
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The desert doesn’t care about your plans. This was the first lesson Jack Write learned when he traded his graduate thesis on Kierkegaard’s concept of despair for a tool belt and a 1998 Ford F-150 with questionable AC. The second lesson: heat warps everything—glass, metal, morals. Palm Springs at 3:17 PM was a study in…
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The phone convulsedlike a dying cockroach—“KYLE” flashing(or was it “KILL”?hard to tell afterthat second glassof cheap Cabernet). I was busywith Doctor Zhivago—page 52—pronouncing it Chivagothe way my mother didwhen she’d play that warpedsoundtrack record,back when I was a kidsprawled on shag carpet,nose two inchesfrom the speaker fabric,studying Julie Christie’s faceon the album coverlike it held…
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From a Rust Belt Worker to the President Sir—do you play chess?Ever checkmate a Russian?(I hear they’re good.)Or that young kid Fischerin some pre-arrangedElon-made Grok stew? Was Magnus tough?Did you unbox himlike flat-pack furniture—extra screws left over?(I know IKEA’s Swedish,but you get my meaning.) Did Big Blue foldwhen you played “bigly”?Your Cupertino pals—they set the…
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The dashboard clock read 6:38 when I pulled into the gravel lot. Eight minutes late – early by my standards, when considering Luna’s habitual tardiness, but for Luna, this might as well have been standing her up entirely. She leaned against her Honda, arms crossed, one foot tapping. Stein, her 110-pound mastiff mix, sat obediently…
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A Letter in the Spirit of Seneca My friend, You speak of freedom as the composer of your days—this is wisdom. But let us examine the score more closely. The blank page you cherish is ruled with invisible lines: the ledger’s demand, the body’s need for bread, the promises made when ambition outstripped the moon.…
BB Grey--musings 