Shhh.
You named her: Rashida, after her father, in hopes that this would inspire him to linger. He said he liked the “Shhh!” in the middle: We’ll need that. You laughed, heartened. Maybe a namesake was all it took to tether him. This laughter came before you knew that he was a spore adrift. Before, you’d felt accomplished when you’d cupped your hands and caught him; then one day, you kissed him and saw him float away. She’s five now. Sometimes when you peek into the darkness of her bedroom and your narrowed eyes find her, a warm cashew-colored lump, snuffling softly under a fluffy pink comforter, you frown. T

Remembering Where the Wild Things Are.
Two seconds into Where the Wild Things Are, I was in love with it. Two minutes into Where the Wild Things Are, it’d reduced me to tears. It didn’t matter how terrible and reckless and awful Max was; I couldn’t shake the overwhelming urge to brush his shaggy bangs from his damp little face. I just wanted to sit on the edge of his bunk and reassure him that, someday, he’d grow into himself. This is the real triumph of Where the Wild Things Are

In Case You’re Wondering…
I know I haven’t been posting new Maranatha chapters. It’s because I haven’t been writing new Maranatha chapters. And that’s because I don’t have any time. But it’s also because it’s occurred to me, as I’ve gone back through and re-read a few segments, that Chapters 13 and 14 shouldn’t exist. I definitely don’t think these two should’ve bedded down as soon as they have. For one, I’m not sure how to play that out. And two, it seems rushed and out of character for them both. So what you may have, whenever I get the chance to really get back to this, is a reboot that sta

A Post-Pentecostal Musing.
People hear that you grew up religious, and they can’t imagine you’d have a complex relationship with faith. If you believe one part, you must believe it all. But who gets more chances to see the absurdities than the devout? An answer that’s satisfying on Sunday becomes contradictory by Wednesday night. Belief is a wrestling match that lasts a lifetime. – Victor Lavalle, Big Machine What I am is haunted: stalked, reticent, silent. I can’t dance to any song, watch any film, hold any man without feeling surveilled. No thought goes unheard; no motive remains mysterious. I am hawked, dogged, tracked. Th

36 Tweets About 9/11.
This morning, I found myself on Twitter, reading a lot of reflections on the collapse of the Twin Towers. Usually, I don’t write about 9/11 because I don’t feel like it impacted me as profoundly as it has many of my friends, friends who were there, friends who lost loved ones, friends who’ve since gone to war. In short: it’s never felt like my story. It’s never felt like something I’ve earned the right to write about. But today, it just happened. These are my tweets. here’s where i was: in an elevator, surrounded by suits & secretaries. “someone bombed the world trade center.” “aga