My community opened a new hospital a while back. 

I live a few blocks from the old one. I chose this house for its proximity. For years I would crawl out of bed in the wee hours of the morning to go see a critical patient. I listened in the night for the helicopters and ambulance sirens, waiting for my pager to go off when I was on call. I remember the gentle sloping of the back hallway on the second floor, all of the nooks and crannies, smells, sounds. 

They are all ghosts now, as the building stands silent and empty.

I have a photography fetish. I love looking at photos of derelict, rotting buildings, imagining all of the lives that have passed through them, and I wish I were brave enough to trespass and take my own pictures. I imagine what this place will look like in a few years….

Birth. Death. Sickness and health. Love. Hate.

This building.

My son was born here. My mother got her new knees here. Who remembers these things but me? The walls do.

Those memories fade along with the building and it makes me sad. Or am I mistaking sadness for something else?

Nostalgia perhaps? 

A few decades from now there will be mold on the walls and ivy in the halls, and the place will crumble away just like me, becoming someone else’s fetish.


pink flower with raindrops

This part of the country has endured oppressive humidity and temperatures in the mid to high 90’s for months. Even last week running was miserable, despite doing it in the dark of night. It took me an hour in the air conditioning to stop sweating. 

Then BOOM! 

Rain. A cool front. 

This morning the air has a bit of a nip to it. 

No matter what kind of awfulness is going on around us, this kind of weather is like a healing salve. The Earth has a way of going on without us, in spite of us. In the grand scheme of the universe we are tiny specks who have no sway over the orbits of the planets or the brightness of the stars. The seasons will change whether we want them to or not.

Life will go on.

How’s that for a sappy, drippy post-debate post? 😊


bird poop on a picnic table
Last week, wgr56 of Roman Gnomials (such a cool blog name) asked:
“Your prose and photography are both magnificent, but I’m wondering if you have connections in mind. I suppose with all art, the interpretation is best left to the viewer, but I thought perhaps you might be willing to shed a little light on your own process for pairing art with story.”

I love photography. It is the lazy way to make art. Just point and shoot. Maybe a little bit of cropping, apply a filter, and BAM! An image that will take your breath away.

I can see photographs in everything. Even the bird crap at the table I am sitting at right now…..

Some photographs are so awesome that I have to write a post to complement it. Those are the hardest. Matching words to images is tough.

Sometimes I write the post and then will find a photo that goes with it or find a title that ties the two together. A post on urine, requires a fountain. Something on sexuality might call for something phallic or vaginal. I have thousands of photos I have taken over the years so there is a ton to choose from. My favorite combinations are ones that makes me laugh. 

Inside My Heart

Sacre Coeur in Paris, France

I see you in places I never expected.

Sometimes your eyes are staring back at me from the face of a stranger. You walk past me, your gait now belonging to another. I see the way your hand moved, the twist of an eyebrow, your laugh, the determined set of your chin, only…. it is not you.


They have all stolen you.

I don’t know if I should love all of these people or hate them.

Perhaps the better question is do I love or hate you?