travel
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It’s Friday, which is supposed to mean something—and I suppose it does, to those people. The ones I imagine still belong to the Thank-God-It’s-Friday congregation. Their voices rise like smoke from a distant fire I can no longer smell. But at fifty-seven, when there’s so little left to kill, Friday arrives like fog along a
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Have you ever loved a photograph? Not the person.The paper. Corners curled.Edges yellow.Your fingerprints pressed into it—again, again. A relic.A prayer. Flat image—yet it breathes.Two into three.Three into somethinguntouched by time. I fall inside.Invent the dialogue.Score the silence.Make the light softerthan it ever was. The picture forgiveswhat memory could not. I keep too many.They hold
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from, Chapter 4: Walnut Season It starts like this: the end begins with the cards. For years, I kept my life organized on 3×5 index cards—neat, white, lined. They lived in small gray boxes stacked on chrome wire shelves above the kitchen sink. Stainless, or trying to be. Twenty boxes, two deep, three high. A
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I grew up in that age when television screens stretched anywhere from a 13-inch “personal” set to a 28-inch family behemoth. In our house, we had one TV—24 inches, rabbit ears on top, wood panel sides, and a dial that clicked its way from channels 2 through 13 on VHF. Channel 3 was just snow,
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Favorite Brands? Let’s Get Real When I saw today’s prompt about favorite brands, my mind did a quick catwalk strut to the usual suspects: Hermès, Gucci, Rolex—those high-end logos that scream “I’ve made it!” (or at least fake it ‘til you make it). In my younger, slightly delusional years, I’d splurge on stuff I couldn’t
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Today’s writing prompt: Have you ever been camping? I woke up tucked inside a sleeping bag in the back of a 1974 Ford LTD station wagon — the original lowrider SUV, if you ask me. The back seats folded flat, creating a makeshift bunk where my six-year-old brother was snuggled to my right, and my
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Fiji, 1980s. The sun’s a smug bastard, grinning down, reminding me it’s summer here while Los Angeles shivers. Waves lap at the shore, warm as a lover’s whisper, every thirty seconds or so. I’m eighteen, cocky, standing in nemo-print trunks—pre-movie, mind you, maybe I inspired Pixar. Signed up for this swim-snorkel-underwater-cave deal. Sounded like a
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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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Morning crashed in like a drunk stumbling through my door—too damn soon. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking sleep, hoping the dark would swallow me back. Didn’t work. My head flickered with the big shit—the kind that jolts you awake at 3 a.m., all jagged edges and no mercy. I told myself it was just
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Give me the steel rails humming beneath, my head against the cool window, watching the rolling landscape unfold like a living movie reel. In this theater of motion, I become both scriptwriter and audience. The countryside slides by frame by frame, and I craft stories from each passing scene. A train offers a rare symphony
BB Grey--musings 