flipping pages of my book. love.

After my recent dive into poetry I read some of my book today:

LIfe in two worlds: a mostly memoir

The reason I refer to it as a “mostly” memoir is because there have been many unbelievable things to occur in this rendition of life I walk. I figure when I’m famous and start getting interrogated by cats who say, “There’s no way that really happened,” I can simply retaliate with the clever reply, “You’re right – I made it up.”

Anyways. It’s kind of exciting to read a living, breathing piece of work. Sometimes it has fangs and sometimes it feels like silk. It’s scented with sandalwood and fresh cut grass.

It’s coming along…

I’ve been away from my beloved New York City for just about exactly five months. Since then I’ve been published in an anthology and landed a job that’s looking after me.

However, my stomach is hollow. I feel like I’m falling back into old habits. So I’m crossing off days on my calendar until I return for quick dip to town (47) and I sent a text today to someone I’ve been trying not to think about. Because when I do, missing home starts to get in the way of functioning. And I reckon for 10,000 miles from where my heart is – I’m functioning pretty bloody well.

The text went something like this:

“I feel like I want to break something. Do you know what those days are like?”

“That’s me every day.”

“I miss you.”


New York City is creeping toward me slowly. It looks like rainbow Broadway lights and sounds like bass. It tastes like Indian food on 6th Street and smells like sunflowers at a corner store.

We’re fifteen posts away from 600 consecutive.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

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