I think of that day every time I ride the LRT and remember those conversations when I walk through a station. I notice what would probably be only a blur if we hadn’t taken that time to be curious, if each piece was not now invested with the memory of the voices of friends.
This piece is the result of the final prompt in the final workshop of a series I recently facilitated on the craft of description. The prompt had us first choose a mundane object from the rooms we were writing in, then describe an emotion as if it were that object.
From my own writing prompt about describing people, a dance teacher came to mind even though I haven't thought of her for decades.
Truly, there is a phobia for anything. I half-have botanophobia...
Yearly, my body rejects something new. Wheat was first...
This short prose piece started with a prompt about change and "moving on".
Prompted to write about noticing something beautiful, this is the first thing that came to my mind...
A poem about my complex relationship with "home"...
Five random musings inspired by this quotation from Renato Rosaldo: "The material of poetry is not so much the event as the traces it leaves.”
Technically, I am unilingual, but I carry other languages with me...
The only way to know you're different is to live among other people for long enough...
The story of a tall, young, Mediterranean man with long dark eyelashes who disarms me with his denim voice...
Progressive Tense 