from grey to white.

Autumn in California is lonely and unassuming, warm in the sun and chilly in the shadows. I make pumpkin bread for Thanksgiving and no one eats it. I buy a new white dress and spill coffee all over it. I wash it in the bathroom sink. I get the galley copies of my book and […]

point dume.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles just short of six months and it still feels like some impermanent, fluctuating span of time. Like a vacation, almost, but one where you still have to work and you still have to pay your bills and you still have to fill your car up with gas. I don’t know […]

hair.

In August my hair starts to grow back. I notice one morning after blow-drying it. My forehead is fringed with a thin layer of new, wispy bangs. There are one-inch strands of hair that start at my temples and curl upward over my cheekbones. I go and get a haircut. This is good, my hairdresser […]

what isn’t there.

I start a lot of stories with—I don’t know if this actually happened. That’s a side effect of having a shitty memory, one ill-suited to record the goings on of a childhood spent mostly alone, mostly outdoors. There’s more to it, of course. I’m sure they’ll come out with a study (if they haven’t already) […]

some kind of warmth.

Amanda picked me up early yesterday morning and we set out with a full agenda (take photos for my book jacket, talk over possible revisions for our manuscript, catch up on each other’s lives, etc) that included a breakfast stop at my favorite place in Santa Monica, Huckleberry. After that we walked up and down […]

memorial day.

I’ve been sick and traveling and now I’m still sick but finally stationary and jet-lagged, the kind that wakes you up out of the blue at 5 in the morning, the kind that sends you to bed before 10. It felt good to get to California. S pointed out the plane’s window and I leaned […]