Imagine standing over your dying father’s bed—his neck broken, but his soul committed to finishing his life’s work. I mean this in the loosest possible sense. But he did not: his Life’s Work, to his dying mind, was a set of articles he had started, and never finished, when he was twenty. That, and a …
Lights Out
When Imma died, or just before she died, I wrote her a love letter. I read it to her on her last day. And then I read it the next day, at her funeral. So, it’s not by accident that I did not do the same with Abba. I kept asking myself if I wanted …
Something New: Something Old
I have a new hobby. I dance in hospitals. Not only hospitals: the street, the bus stop, walking through the security to the hospital. Walking out of the security back home. A home. These are my haunting grounds. I dance in all of them. It started yesterday, as I was waiting for the bus to …
Stock in Hope
I’ll start from the beginning. We read the biopsy results on our way to the farmer’s market in the oldest city in Portugal—a spot I can no longer drive by without wincing. I mostly remember looking at Haffy and saying, “What the fuck? I mean: what the fuck? What the fuck.” I think I was …
A Little Scared
After my mother died, for a brief moment that lasted a few months, I wasn't afraid of death. I had sat with her, dying, praying through and for it like I only ever did again when trying to stave it off; I had breathed in its sacred mundaneness as she exhaled her last, seen with …
A Zigzag Line Home
Faced with the daunting task of writing a second post, I've been going over old stuff and slowly adding it to the blog. One such piece of writing is an autobiography I wrote at 27, as I was wrapping up my time at NYU. Slightly redacted and even less edited, you can find The Calculated …
All of the Worlds 