A mysterious, erudite force of nature? God, no! I was the kid left behind in the classroom as the accelerated students went on the school field trips to awesome places around San Francisco. I was the galumph who could never complete an essay by the time an exam ended at UC Berkeley. I had my first man on man kiss with Mark in the music practice rooms under Morrison Hall as much because of my fascination for the foreignness of his intellectual aptitude as his - ahem - other aptitudes. But, standing south of the elites, writing helped me find freedom and organic truth. No ivy walls to imprison the creative playground; no pressure to impress those I’ve no possibility of impressing; no shifted verisimilitude of true north. Just fluttering, invaluable moments of pain, joy, love, anger, confusion, and intuition. As my twin brother said to me: “When you write you’re still that boy I found alone under that pine tree in the Sierra Mountains, escaped from Boy Scout Camp, lassoing the sky.”
I’ve found New York City to be an apple best consumed when juiced for its sweetness rather than bitten for its bulk; thus I am continually grateful for all the small bits and squeezes of creative support and adversary I’ve received here that make me a braver and freer writer, composer, listener, learner, watcher, doer, loser, and winner.
I love, love, love dialogue, pro and con: firstname.lastname@example.org