High on a Hill was a Lonely Writer

Allow me a paragraph or eight of indulgence, a little pity party of prose. I haven’t been posting as frequently or as humorously in recent weeks. My posts have been heavy. Weighty. They’ve got chains around their wrists and cement shoes on their feet. My sense of depth perception is off. Way off. I am…

Every Day I Write The Book

My background is writing.  It’s what I do. It is what I studied in school, it is how I soothe the demons, and though it is not how I identify myself to others, it is how I identify with myself. Adventures in parenting, observational skills and expat stories notwithstanding, one of the main reasons for…

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl

A very young man who called himself September took these photos.  I met him my freshman year at NYU and he asked me to sit for him, a last-minute photography final deadline approaching.  Looking at them now, I wonder what he saw when he looked through his camera.  In one photo I am camouflaged, black…