There is nothing sadder than an old love letter, except perhaps an old love letter that was never meant to be a love letter.
I wish more movies and books in the popular canon indulged in unreliable perspectives. While common wisdom claims this is the generation of irony, earnest narrators and protagonists remain quite in vogue. There is nothing wrong with sincerity, and in fact I frequently prefer it to irony which in the hands of lesser artists is nothing more than a feeble cover for having nothing to say. But fiction (and non-fiction, for that matter) benefits from a willingness to suggest, “Here’s one perspective, but it’s just one of many, and maybe it’s not even a very good one.”
If the next 9 months in Boston are anything like the last 3, it's going to be difficult to say goodbye. I can't imagine a better problem to have.
One of my favorite things in the world is creating a music mix. Call it a mixtape, a mixed CD, a playlist, whatever, the name doesn't matter, it's the act that matters. The curation of a good mix is an art form, but it's an act of love, too.
Going back through a journal is always a revealing way to revisit a period of your life. I’ve never been a diary kind of person. Even with this blog, I rarely write this kind of post, the ‘what happened to me today,’ type. But looking through this most recently completed journal was very strange. A little sad.
"How about you? You a local?" "Currently local." ~Snippet of a conversation. I make a lot of single-serving friends in my life, usually in bars. When I first moved here, I stopped into a local bar, sat on a stool and after a couple drinks struck up a conversation with a woman sitting next to … Continue reading Currently Local
This coming of age story lacks for maturity and protagonists We are you and not I We are I and bottom shelf whiskey, kissing slovenly like young lovers Sickly romantic, I’m depressing my fellow drunks In my solitude If there is safety in numbers, you must be secure as Fort Knox Almost got away with … Continue reading The Spilt Milk Blues
The twelve miles from your sanctuary to civilization is paved with good intentions and overrun by weeds The graffiti-scratched stone walls trace back to the past like a holy scroll with no bodies to find, only empty tombs dug by bloodied knuckles A metaphor, but no less true for it Repentance comes easy and absolution, … Continue reading Sacrosanct