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Notes from the Bughouse
Or, that time a fascist collaborator held a poetry salon on the lawn of a mental hospital
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Or, that time a fascist collaborator held a poetry salon on the lawn of a mental hospital
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The story of a remarkable women's rights pioneer and her legacy.
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Thoughts on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. Or: come back, Frances Perkins.
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Notes to Self on Easter/Passover/Ramadan in the Southern United States, 2023
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Winter Solstice and a Wicked Pack of Cards: Discovering Pamela Colman Smith
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Shussssh. Shusssh-SHUSSSSH-shusssshhh. Ssssssssh. The rhythm is endless yet different every time: that’s the part that’s easy to forget when I’m far from shore. My friend Paul and I drove a long way to stand here at the hurricane-frayed hem of North Carolina and watch
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As I push my cart up and down aisles of plastic tchotchkes and brightly dyed fabric, I feel as if I’m floating through a dream. A voice calls from somewhere near the ceiling in the flat, declarative tone of all public announcements: Laverne, line one. Laverne, line one. The
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a sideways reflection on the writing process
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Thoughts after watching a portrayal of John and Abigail Adams and the Continental Congress.
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Some thoughts on modernist murder, mud-brick ovens, and a sustainable life.
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Some thoughts on keeping calm and keeping friends in frought times.
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...and the treetops looked like heads of broccoli.