When a Place is Too Many Things Some places are things. They are the air breathed in and out by a sad man who misses his life because he forgets it’s still being lived. They are the mats of wisping hair, falling in troll hairdos off a dying dog’s coat, flying fairy...
Dogs, Death, and Being Alive Day three and lo and behold, I awake happy, fresh. Make bed, drink water, meditate and mantra, yoga. The routine completed, I head down to feed the dogs. Old three-legged Camilla had decided to pee and poop—again—in the house. But this...
First Days of Housesitting as a Writer I stayed with Claudio for four days before he departed. It was too many days. He suggested I come early to get the lay of the land, but I soon realized that it was mainly because he was lonely. Which would have been fine if he...
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