Autobiography



January 6, 2022

Timelines

Ohio. Temps in the teens and a light coating of snow. Time gets funny when you start losing people.

April 22, 2021

Shot

A late April snowstorm blew through Ohio last night, quick and heavy.

March 19, 2021

Some Terrible Paintings

Looking at these paintings, it’s hard to believe I’ve been sober for eight years.

August 24, 2020

Observance

Tonight I sat outside in the unfamiliar terrain of southeastern Ohio, lit a candle, and watched the stars.

August 23, 2020

Pegasus

First memories are such peculiar creatures, these fuzzy impressions and garbled snapshots that teach us how to see the world.

August 15, 2020

Tornado

Maybe it was the barometer dropping, the rearrangement of air pressure.

May 24, 2020

Bell

Riffling through my small box of family memories, I came across a note written in an unfamiliar hand.

May 19, 2020

Dark

I remember watching the darkness in my bedroom when I was small, hypnotized by grey-pink flecks while I waited for sleep.

May 10, 2020

Seeds

I find solace in these instructions from Epictetus: do not say something is lost, only that it is returned.

May 4, 2020

Coherence

My grandmother was tradition personified, a west side Polish Catholic who served Saturday night dinners of kielbasa and fried smelt.

March 18, 2020

Quiet

There was a time when I would count how many words I said each day. At night I logged the number into a notebook. Sixteen. Twenty-three.

March 14, 2020

Communion

I needed to work with my hands today. To be reminded that I can make something that takes up space and serves a need.