Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Tiny Moments

I get my hope these days from tiny pieces of beautiful goodness. 

Like the one little sparrow unafraid to stay on the feeder outside my window when I get closer, closer, closer with my camera. 

She likes the sliding click of the shutter, perhaps, because it sounds bird-like. 

But no, that's not it. For she likewise eyes me curiously if I tap the glass with a finger, or flipbook-flash her with the bright, pink papers of a pad of sticky-notes. 

She leaves. She comes back. She sits on the edge of the feeder closest to me and waits for me to say hello. Four inches away, she stares into my lens-glass with rare openness, and makes me believe (if only for a moment) that the world is full of love.

Monday, March 13, 2017

North Carolina Snowpocalypse of 2017

It doesn't snow often where I live, but when it does... oooooh, boy!

My wife heads out into the blizzard.
One of those show-off trees get's told what's-what by the white stuff.
My bird feeder.
My dad's bird feeder.

A forsythia bush.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017


Lately I've been vacillating between despair and anger at the Great Unveiling. 

Yes, yes indeed. The prophets and artists have been right: 

We are the selfish [illegitimate children] we always suspected. We are the enthusiastic consumers of [bovine excrement] we always knew ourselves to be. We are the fatted, obese golden calf, leaking methane from our [hind cavities], from up here on the [deifically-condemned] pedestals we've fashioned out of the blood and bones of the weak and poor. We are the [fornicating with abandon] racists creating division from unitymaking ashes out of beauty.

Now the ugly votes we've long placed with our wallets have been confirmed. We have voted with our ballot-boxes to affirm our [fornicating with abandon] identity as a class of Babylonian [sex workers]. 

This is us. 

How do I talk about us? How do I get what I feel out into the world? 

Sunday, March 5, 2017

because it just hurts too much

I keep trying to write something new about the current Washington Tire Fire, but every time I start typing I can feel my fistulous withers start to flare up. Or something.

So I'll just leave this here for you while I go eat some chocolate ice cream:

Tuesday, February 28, 2017


In 2016 I lost a bunch of screenwriting contests to a woman named Geeta Malik. A woman who isn't just a win-everything sorta person (the Nicholl, AFF for comedy, etc.), she's also a swell person who I'm happy to now count as a friend.

She is also the director of a bunch of short films and a feature. Because she's way too self-effacing, her stuff hasn't been watched nearly as much as it should. So here's a short of hers called "Shameless."


Saturday, February 18, 2017

fixer-upper kids

I've been rewriting an old script this past week with the help of my favorite critic, Wife-Hannah.

GINSENG tells the story of an alcoholic veteran who angers territorial locals when he drags his estranged son on a camping trip in the Appalachians. 

It's startling to go six or seven scripts into the past and realize just how ugly this little word-baby of mine has gotten by way of comparison to my other, newer, more patently attractive children. It's also fun to see this evidence that I've improved. I've had great fun rewriting it - prettying it up with all my newly-developed word-ninja skills. 

If you're curious, you can check out the first few pages of the script HERE.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

today we are (once again) obliged to be romantic...

It's everyone's favorite (fake) holiday, and we're all scrambling to conform to somebody else's idea of what it means to love another person in an eros-tinged way. Not me, not me! For I have married a woman who thinks all that is hogwash. Who hates sentimentality. Whose idea of love is a good book in the sunshine.

Ergo, I am once again posting the poem I created for her on our first Saint Valentines Day, cobbled together from the first lines of thirty of the (apparently) most romantic poems ever written in the English language.

It is a joke, yes... but one I mean with all my heart, spleen, and liver. 


Saturday, February 11, 2017

a river in Egypt

Five or six years ago, an old friend of mine posted a video to Facebook that depicted him participating in the killing of several human beings.

Comments on the video were immediate and congratulatory, with enthusiasm over the efficiency and efficacy of the killing. Most of the people who were commenting were also old friends of mine. Most of them professed to be Christians. And as I recall, a good number of those people went on to become avid social-media supporters of Mister President Man-Baby.*

This was back before it had become too painful to me to watch professing Christians betray/violate/torment the Jesus they claimed to serve, again and again. Before I left Facebook behind in disgust.

So I commented my displeasure.

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