Here we are in the middle of our lives. Somewhere someone is reading a book, Quietly, deep in thought, pages…
“Are you genuine? Or merely an actor? A representative? Or that which is represented? In the end, perhaps you are…
When it comes, it comes on slowly The day feels holy, a hush falls down Whispered names, remembered faces From…
“If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood/Come gurgling from the froth-corrupted lungs . . . . My friend,…
“If sleep is the apogee of physical relaxation, boredom is the apogee of mental relaxation. Boredom is the dream bird…
Sports only matter because they don’t. And because they don’t – are forms of play meant, most importantly, to be…
Douglass grasps the prophet and artist’s secret that we all live by stories, and the martyred heroes’ tales he recounts in this book are sorely needed in this darkest of times when the death of our planet is at stake and the spiritual sustenance to prevent it is desperately needed.
Trump is the culmination of a long developing horror story. Unlike his predecessors who prepared the way for him and who generally wore traditionally allaying masks to hide their evil actions, he is the greatest blatant fraud to ever occupy the White House.
“Art is magic liberated from the lie of being truth.” – Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia It is hard to keep…
I wrote this essay about Kris Kristofferson on September 21, 2024 a week before he died on September 28, 2024. In the intervening week, I was surprised to receive a message from one of his children who had read my tribute and was showing it to Kris whom I was told would appreciate it. His death deeply saddened me, but I was also glad that I wrote it when I did and that Kris may have found comfort in knowing that someone was listening and knows “he beat the devil” as he “fed the hunger in his soul.