Cicada Song
If I want to value the stories of others, I should value my own as well.
Homesick
When you visit a city you once called home, a part of you settles even as another part slides out of place.
In Season
Perhaps I am a person who loves the seasons because they help me know that time is truly passing.
Promethium
If you haven’t read this masterpiece, please do yourself a favor and Amazon Prime that sucker in time for some weekend reading.
The Same, The Truth
We tell the stories as we want to know them, withholding the details that would round them into truth.
Unpacking the Bookshelf
Each title is an era trapped in amber, a fossil record of a former self.
Tallow Lights
On this aðfangadagskvöld, it’s my duty to tell you specifically about the final Yule Lad, who arrives tonight. His name is Kertasníkir, and if you know Icelandic, you’re clutching your candles.
Solitude and I-80
And then—after all that hectic activity—all I had to do was drive. For five hours. On the same road. Beside a repeating pattern of corn and soybeans.
A Book for Christmas
It’s really a reflection on what it means to be part of anything, both by birth and by choice, something universal, but told with a strong Dutch-American “accent.”
Cloudy with a Chance of Meatheads
If you are reading this, congratulations. You received this from the past. You have the benefit of hindsight, recaps, twenty-four-hour news cycles.
