Wednesday, October 27, 2010


I'm avoiding this story like a plague. I think it's because I'm afraid of it. I think it's because I'm afraid there's something in it, there's something to it that I'll somehow destroy.

Michelangelo once said, "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." I've often felt that way about writing. When I get really into it, into the zone, I think of it not in terms of words, sections, sentences, and paragraphs. I talk about the shape being wrong. I talk about the pace being off. I talk about the tone being strange. As if I were carving or dancing or singing, not writing a story.

But it does take shape. And it is like Michelangelo says. The story already exists, you just pick the words out from all the other possibilities that could have gone on that page. You're finding the shape, and - if you do it right - you're setting it free.

But what if you chip away too much, and you gouge off one of the angel's wings? Or what if you mess up the base so it topples over at every slight breeze? What if you don't shave away enough and the angel looks bloated, too pleasantly plump for its own good?

I think I'm afraid because I've heard the story like one hears a song coming from somewhere nearby in the dark. It is beautiful and a little sad and made all the lovelier by its mystery. And I'm afraid if I try to write down the notes, to bring it into a well-lit room and plunk down keys on a piano, that I'll be ruining it, that it will be marred too much by any association with me, that in trying to keep it alive I will have ultimately been the cause of its death.

I thought I heard somebody calling. In the dark I thought I heard somebody call...

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Big Apple

I like New York, but we're just friends.

It's really nice, and it makes me smile. I feel exhilarated when I'm near it. It's gutsy, outgoing, loud - but in an endearing way. It's opinionated and unafraid to stand up for what it believes in. It's quick, constantly two steps ahead. Quirky. Creative beyond belief, humming with energy - and man, can it ever cook! It has its serious side too - smart, innovative. Sometimes it's a little sketchy, and it has its annoying habits. But I love it in spite of the downsides.

But New York, despite its history, and the secrets I know lay hidden just around that corner, or back in that alley, or in that building over there, and the many amazing things that have happened here - despite its many charms, my heart lies elsewhere.

Oh yes, I'll visit. We'll be chums. But I can't help but compare you to the love of my life, and every time you fall sadly short.


A city of layers, stories built upon stories. The air must be thick with ghosts, and yet it's crisp if the weather's nice, or a pleasant misty gloom in rain. I've had people posit that it's the way everyone talks, or that it's such a literary city (poppycock! New York can claim that just as well), or that it's because it's Somewhere Else and not in the good old US of A. These are all things I like about the place, but the reason I love it is something else.

Think about someone you love. Not like, truly LOVE. Now try to think why exactly you love them. You can make a list of attributes or actions, and that's endearing - the sort of thing you see in the dramatic moment at the end of romantic comedies - but that's only part of it. There's just something inside of you that's drawn to something inside of them: like a magnetic force. There's no stopping it, there's no escaping it. It's magic. No - better: it's LOVE.

I love London. It's in my blood. It's in my bones. I'm the steel to its magnet, being tugged at full force.

But for now, me and New York - we're good.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010


Hope is always ridiculous.
We have no right to it. We hold no claim.
It is a thing that is not promised,
a dream that is not sure.
And yet, if we are to live, it is
our only choice.

Hope is a thing so large
you cannot comprehend it,
and yet so small you can
carry it with you always,
even when your load seems
too heavy to bear.

Despair is sensible and small.
It is easy to understand but harder
to bear. And it is a lie.


I cannot pretend to have
an answer for it, this four letter word
that holds such power.
Hold a flame to it and
the whole world glows

Sunday, October 3, 2010



I'm afraid nothing means anything. I'm afraid all is lost.

I'm afraid that hope is a fable and love is a lie.


Saturday, October 2, 2010

This Kind of Pain

Love, did you lose me?
Love, did you find me?
Love, did you know me at all?

This was a mistake.
This was a misstep.
This was a long, wrong road.

Fathomless depths cannot express
Absence can never contain
Darkness is never the remedy
for this kind of pain

Oh tell me you hear me,
Or that you can help me,
Or that this is worth it at all.

For the world is just one great
unknowing, a chasm into which
I find I simply cannot fall.

Oh, fathomless depths cannot express
Absence can never contain
Darkness is never the remedy
for this kind of pain.

Fathomless depths cannot express
Absence can never contain
Darkness is never the remedy
for this kind of pain.