Skip to main content


Showing posts from August, 2018

On sorrow

‘The essence of communication is intent.’ Werner Erhard My Mom is, and has always been, a Playwright. She writes, and thinks, in short, staged paragraphs. There is a structure to her writing – she wants to be heard in the voice of her choosing, she wants to be understood in the finite words of a developing intent. My father is, and has always been, a Poet. He binds himself to the lash of form in order to create from within the box of life. Form gives both a direction and strength to his writing, although these days it just kind of flows out of him as if being traced on the memory of a stone. These voices that drive them are all in their head, they are voices trapped inside them begging to get out -- but who are they talking to, and what are they really saying? Simply – what’s the point? What has ever been the point? I’m using my parents to misdirect here, there are big questions in life that have answers that always seem just out of reach. I’ve learned that t