lex parsimoniae / a bad master

“You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.” Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Digging below is a pastime. I imagine—no, I envision—the shovel, and make sure it’s big, sturdy, sharp. The kind that pierces loam, cracking through the…

octo-what?

There was a tattoo shop on a side street of a huge, unknown city. It was probably my memory of New York but it tasted like LA. My steps were light and steady but it’s like imagining yourself jumping rope—even though your mind is clear with its directives, you’re still tripping over your own feet….

journaling my dreams like graham greene.

Writer’s block, writer’s block. I used to have so many recurring dreams. As a teen, I had a long spell of them, some easily interpreted (confused roaming in significant locations), some not (I have forgotten those). It seems every once in a while my subconscious needs me to either figure something out, or is bored…

the monastery of st. john (agianiou)

At least the buses look new, I thought to myself, as they smoothly rolled into the middle of the piazza, the only wide open space on the island. That is, the only populated wide open space. Aside from its small portside village, the entirety of Chalki is one big wide open space. At the sight of…

silk.

I was wondering about silk. In middle school, I had two silk blouses that I loved. One was fuschia, the other deep emerald green, leaning teal. They were items of clothing that held symbolic weight—they made me feel older, more like a woman than an eleven-year-old girl. I wasn’t yet ready for a bra, and…

icarus.

It will reach 80 degrees today, but the morning is the kind of gray where the rolling fog just looks like air, like the matching sky. You can hide all your secrets in a thick mist like this, but it’s a risk; the next clear day will dissipate all cover, so you better be out of…

some people i will never forget.

I was on my way home, it was late, the city streets dark yet blinding, slick from rain. I don’t remember what bar or party or rendezvous I was coming from, but I remember talking to the cab driver as he easily cruised through a mostly abandoned Brooklyn. He was from Ghana; I must have asked his…

maladaptive daydreaming (ouroboros).

A “sentry” is, by definition, a specific type of soldier: one stationed to stand guard and protect a place, thing, or person. To prevent trespassing by the unauthorized, halt acts of destruction, that sort of thing. Phil Collins as sentry of the underworld, or your heart? Same diff. Your heart an enormous black cavern glittering…

morning pages (relax).

Morning Pages is a healthy practice, I hear. Writing down what your mind regurgitates first thing in the morning helps clear it of those thoughts so you can get on with your day, rid of them. I don’t understand how writing down clingy torments helps cast them out. They like to live in an amorphous…

the clay court.

the clay court I see a bird’s eye view, kind of like the cover of The Handmaid’s Tale, but with a stiff awkward queen and her ladies in waiting, all made of dusty brittle brown clay. They scuttle about on tiny pointy feet, glass marble words disgorging from unripe mouths. The Queen points at something,…

good friday.

It’s Good Friday. Outside, it is mild and bright, a rare April jewel. I’ve seen many Good Fridays: some sunny, searingly hot; some so muggy it’s like walking through the womb. Some cold, dreary, gray, rainy; at times, there was even snow. As a kid, I felt special—I could take an extra Friday off scot-free thanks to…

she jumped.

When Persephone stands on that hill she witnesses a lot of things. Bright red cardinals sift through branches still bare, stark against the white sky. Under her feet crushed wildflowers, early blooms, unwillingly release their scent. Dramatic, like a last breath, when it’s really a first. A woven basket dangles from her pale, polished arm:…