The Other Life

After my golf addiction was under control, the next addiction became writing. I’d be lying on my back on the greasy tiles of some greasy kitchen, and I’d be reaching into some onion flavored reach-in cooler trying to replace some sharp, metal part and not being able to start the screw because the space was too tight, so I’d be lying there and reaching in and cutting my hand and bleeding all over the inside of the cooler and swearing

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Return to Me

I keep having this idea that by writing, I’m trying to search for divinity. But of course I can’t do it on my own. The divinity needs to meet me halfway. So I can gain access to that great, arching trove of twinkling prose. And then I go write a few sentences like the above ones and I realize how ridiculous the whole enterprise is. And how pompous I am to think a divinity, who has never once said a

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