These are the stories that writers do not tell. Some weeks the words do not want to come to you. You cup your hand and beckon; they shy away. So, you write your way into their presence.
In my world, the word “wolf” is interchangeable with the word “story.” There’s a reason for that. A reason that involves you, actually. <3
A photo booth is not a place. It is an intersection of time and of space with a curtain and bold lighting.
My lists are digital. My lists are analog. Some lists ding once a day. Others rustle on the page. Some wander up the wall in pencil on Kraft paper.
The phone rings again. I pick it up. It is New York. It is Paris. It is the little girl who lives down the street. ( *November 7th, 2012 was the FIRST BIRTHDAY of BLUEBIRD BLVD.)
The sky broke in two last night, halved like an eggshell, as the rain came down and down on the tangled earth. I sat up in the rumpled bed watching the room exhale and expand with electric light, then contract into darkness.
As you read this, I am somewhere in Alaska, with my face pressed against the glass of a train window. While I am consuming the vast scenery with my eyes, my brain will be busily tootling along repeating one of about one hundred and fifty tunes that it knows by rote.
Pick up the camera and loop the strap around your neck.
The camera is an eye, a hand, a heart.
We will find each other.