I Want To See It

I want to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

I want to walk around it’s white marble and leaning arches and pretend like I’m holding it up with one hand. 

I want to see the Eiffel Tower.

I want to ride the elevator up and up and up into the sky while watching the City Of Light become smaller as I rise.

I want to see the Roman Colosseum. 

I want to walk where people once gathered to watch the spectacle of combat and imagine the Naumachiawhere the Colosseum would be flooded and naval battles held. 

I want to swim in the cerulean waters of Santorini

I want to feel the cool waters all around me and watch the white and blue and pink palette of colors on the buildings bob onshore. 

I want to see the world. 

Hear its natural sounds in the jungles and mountains. Hear the sound of a toucan call, an elephant in the distance, the crack of a glacier. 

I want to eat in cafés. 

I want to look at a menu and not know what any of it means. Then order something and enjoy the new flavors and aromas and leave not knowing what I even ate. 

I want to meet new people. 

I want to walk down a new street looking for, nothing. Then meet a local who can point me in the right direction. 

I want to learn new words. 

Food words. Swear words. Words that I can use. Some I probably shouldn’t. Words to describe the sunset. Words to say Hello/Goodbye/Thank you for letting me visit. 

I want to do all of these and more. 

But what I want to see the most, right now, is for all of us to remember to take care of each other.

To Stay Home.

             Wash our hands.

                  Wear a mask.

                     Stay 6 feet apart.

Until this, all of this, gets better. So we can see it all together. 



In These Times

It’s been difficult. Right? These times.

It’s been difficult to figure out what to do, what to feel, what to think when we watch tv or read the stories on the internet feeds of our friends and “those you may know” telling us who is doing what and why this person is an asinine capital A-hole and to just try to relax, wear your mask and hope this will all go away.

It’s been difficult to wake up, even though our eyes open and our bodies tell us activity must be done.

The laundry piles up in the basket, in the corner, on the bed and another day goes by when we start to wonder if we’re coughing because we got La Rona or if because the funk of a few weeks of quarantine days gone by have finally reached unsanitary levels.

These times, these unprecedented time of empty shelves and empty cupboards where First World abundance overflowed.

These times, where the true leaders are the ones everyone ignored or tipped poorly because their food didn’t come out fast enough, or hot enough, or their refuse wasn’t picked up on the right day.

These times, when the Front Lines are protected and held by those who fight un/under-equipped, but with the power of their spirits and hearts and will to do “all in my power to maintain and elevate the standard of my profession”. They, who are there Every. Time.

These times, though difficult, will pass to “remember when?”.

But this time, remember gratitude, remember love, remember the sun will rise and the laundry will get done, eventually. Remember it’s okay to feel scared, stressed, frustrated and to watch that next series or movie or complete that next puzzle. Let your feelings come during these times. It’s time to feel them.





A New Morning

It started like any other morning.

Aches and pains, grinding popping joints struggling to rise from the sanctuary of the bed and embracing covers. Bed head atop squinty-eyed mattress damaged face. Trying not to breathe out too much to melt the paint from the walls from morning dragon breath.

The chirping alarm rang from the smart-phone on the side table after the third, no – Fourth, snooze attempt. Finally there was surrender. The phone won the battle.

After the process of the “3 S’s”, the day was moving along. But there was one more goal, one more thing to get before anything else could be done today.


The black and silver coffee machine percolated and bubbled and released the elixir of life and sanity. Filling the mug with the insurance companies logo on it. The one no-one remembers where it came from or how it go into the cupboard. But it was no matter, it was the best mug. Deep and wide and filled to the brim with the dark liquid of promise.

It was hot. It was good.

Empty cup in the sink beside empty dish, breakfast was done. Consciousness was back.

Outfit chosen, hair combed, teeth brushed, shoelaces tied, last second check – keys/wallet/phone.

Deep breath in and the front door was opened.

Then the memory came.

Stay At Home.






A Toast, To Write

Ernest Hemingway once wrote,

Write drunk, edit sober.” 

Problem is, according to several sources, including his daughter Mariel, he never said that. He didn’t even practice it, according to the same sources.

Jack Kerouac was said to have written one of the greatest American novels ever, one that is loved and read, reread and regarded as inspiration to countless writers, On The Road in a three week nonstop Benzadrine, alcohol and caffeine infused jam-session of words and furious spontaneous bop-prose atop an Underwood. Letting the inspiration flow through him like divine elightenment from Buddha’s blessed touch and onto a single, 120 foot long scroll.

In just 20 days.

20 days.

The only thing is,  Kerouac was said to be a supreme craftsman. Taking time to think about, journal, write and rewrite his works over time.

So which way is the right way to write?

Drink a little, or a lot, or none at all?

The answer is not what most folks who want to be Writers like to hear.

“If you want to be a Writer, just write. There’s no magic to it.” – Albert Brooks 






Swish, swish.

No one walks up a flight of stairs like she can. Each supple foot landing delicately on each step with no effort. She rises like she’s being lifted by a cloud to the next step.


Her hip moves with a sway. Slow, deep. My eyes follow the flow.


Like a deep breath, her hip rises and causes my heart to beat harder.

Swish, swish.

One step at a time. Slowly. Artfully. Creatively drawing my eyes to each movement. Each note of her symphony. Every fold of fabric gliding across her delicate skin.


I’m watching.


I could watch forever.

Swish, swish.

It’s over. She’s reached the top. She turned to see where I’m at and I’m still at the bottom.

I’m busted.

She caught me staring.

But it’s okay. We’ve been married 15 years, together for 22.

And I run up the stairs into her arms.