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I am a writer.

There, I said it.

These are some things I like to write, read, and think about:

The spaces between thought and action; places humans have touched, and places that they haven’t; forgotten spaces full of countless stories; imperfect places; flawed people; smudges, patina, and evidence of the things that came before; suburban landscapes; when the sun hits the side of a wall just right;  Golden Hour in the city; things that go left unsaid; quiet understanding; silence that thrums; holding spaces in places and hearts; Ho’oponopono; the vibrato of a slide guitar; ducks’ asses on the backs of little boys’ heads; being all ears; being ugly-beautiful, broken, dusty, cut-up and open; the things that ache; unabashed earnestness; that moment of blindness when you walk in from the sun; animal tchotchkes hidden in houseplants; mothers; fathers; interconnectedness; unibrows; brown bears; epigenetics; the poetic misunderstandings of childhood; unapologetic examinations; being sincerely happy for someone else’s good fortune; pretending you meant to trip; the things that make you feel all jiggery-pokery; moss; kismet; crying until you laugh; rust; wrinkles; mold; atoms; molecular energy; quantum mechanics; photons and the theory of entanglement; metaphysics, and that we’re all made of star stuff.

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