From my journal, 7-22-2013 I’m in a Houston originating plane, flying over what I imagine to no longer be Mexican airspace. I’m about to touch down in what I call from afar a crazy place–Guatemala–where memories dating as far back as 15 years stretch and future possibilities still shine like the lights of far below…
I’m running around Lake Como in Saint Paul, Minnesota near my brother’s apartment, passing the smiling summer faces of casual walkers, shirtless joggers, and babies caroling around in strollers. The day is a perfect eighty degrees and sparks of fulgurous light dance on the surface of the lake. July flowers border the trail and each…
Seriously, when did it begin. I seemed to remember that maybe last fall when I was visiting my parents it was happening, though I can’t remember any specific articles of clothing it involved. In any case, it has happened three times this week and it is awesome and I hope it never stops happening. My…
Today, after a day kayaking with my family on the river, I visited my grandfather and he reminisced about his love, my grandmother Patricia Mees Armstrong. When my Grandma died, I felt no closure. Hadn’t she just emailed me telling me how excited she was for my visit? Didn’t I have a plane ticket…
In memory of my poet grandmother, Patricia Mees Armstrong. The Italicized lines are taken from her verse. Poetry of the Dead from my poetry collection How We Are Human.
Every summer for the last 3 years, New York’s legendary South Street Seaport host’s the Village Voice’s 4Knots Music Festival, continuing 13 years of musical awesomeness. Music by the sea is like making out in the international space station, a good thing turned awesome due to a stirring setting. This year, I got to tag along with…
New York could have been San Francisco. It was almost Portland, and there was a possibility it was going to be Minneapolis. At the time there was also a barely articulated inkling that I should buy a one-way ticket to Asia. Timing is always everything. When we listen closely to that inner voice that…
In the 90s Redhook NYC was not a place to get key lime pie. It was a place to get crack. In 1990 Life Magazine named it one of the worst neighborhoods in America and the crack capital of the US. It’s come a long way since then, and despite widespread destruction that Sandy dropped on it…
Four types of meat sizzled in front of Doña Eva. “What’s that meat?” I asked, pointing to one. “Chicken,” she said with a smile. “And that?” “Beef.” “And that?” “Pork.” “And that one?” I asked indicating the fourth. “This one,” she hesitated, “This one is just meat.” When she said that I noticed that there…
It’s another rainy day in NYC. Today we emerge from our ratty subway holes beneath the windy canvass domes of umbrellas. Crap, rain drops on the iPhone. That can’t be good. Maybe I shouldn’t be blogging while walking in the rain. But that’s a slippery slope. Once I start listening the those sort of inward murmurings, will…
