Fudge Everlasting
And we waited. I would leave for work, preparing myself for the possibility that it was the last time I would see her alive.
And we waited. I would leave for work, preparing myself for the possibility that it was the last time I would see her alive.
I do not want to strike. No one wants a strike. But if it comes to it, Jes and I will be on the picket line February 26, bright and early, because at that point we will have no other choice.
He’s deathly afraid of my guitar because one time—one time—he knocked it over and the sound it made upon landing scared the bejesus out of him.
I’ve only lived through three Karnevals, so I’d like to leave you with three thoughts on a holiday I’ve come to know, but not yet understand.
Gas stations are where lives intersect, ever so briefly, before going back out into the world.
If you think this isn’t for you based on the off-putting title, get thee to a Netflix subscription—this show is definitely for you.
“Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.”
For a moment, I got lost in space and time. Sunday morning church was above me, and I had to look for the bookshelves and study carrels to remember that a library was around me.
She is
Smoke-tinted,
Wood and silver,
Vessel of the divine
And of acceptance
A weird thing: when women donate their eggs, we say that their eggs are harvested. Is there a farming term more farming than harvest? No. No there is not.