Scabs and Brusies

Listening to Leonard Cohen’s The Stranger Song from the Isle of Wright show in 1970, missing my guitar, nearing midnight in a hotel room in Jakarta, thankful for each word that soothes the gaping wounds, the blood drying up and clotting into convenient scabs, hiding the bruises caused by this collective anger; the tears have dried up leaving empty pockets of sarcasm and mean comments about things I don’t understand over wine and cocktail parties.


The simple rippling strings of his guitar and that monk-like voice the only thing that makes sense in this tired loneliness. His poetry like comfortable prayers reminding me not to worry so much.


I’ve always been this melodramatic, so please don’t say that I’ve changed. It’s all theatrics these words and these moods:


Please understand, I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this
or any other matter
When he talks like this
you don't know what he's after…


I gave a talk today. People said they liked it. That’s always nice. It felt repetitive and incoherent to me, but what I do know- I only saw it from the inside out. We talked about the necessity of non-fiction and critical thinking for a healthy democracy, which all felt pretty timely.


"I really like reading your writing."


The only words I have ever wanted to hear.


I met new people I respected. I drank wine. We ate pizza. I am grateful for my blessings and now I will sleep.