The word for temple in Latin is fane, and the market that stands before it is profane. And that word has come down to us as meaning anything other than the sacred, the dark side of human maneuvering and sleight-of-hand.
With another Memorial Day upon us, I again find myself pondering its magnitude, which invariably brings me back to 2016, when President Obama met Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial on May 27.
As someone who in fact aced the SAT and similar tests — but who then goofed off probably more than he should’ve at a fine university, and who in adult life has displayed episodes of colossal stupidity — I would not trust any attempt to put a number on a person’s intelligence.
Vox Populi will endure, albeit at a slower pace.
He is already shriveling into an empty legend, a flimsy cartoon of ruthless malevolence.
Plant-based diets have been connected to a decrease in mortality.
The secret is in the vigil of watching and listening…
I admired his courage, his tenacity, the strange will power some kids possess before they grow old enough to know real danger.
Preface to the 2nd Edition of The Road Washes Out in Spring: A Poet’s Memoir of Living Off the Grid
I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead — but I still want to comfort and take care of you — and I want you to love me and care for me. I want to have problems to discuss with you — I want to do little projects with you.
It’s plain that the world as we know it is literally choking on its machine- and money-driven complexity.
How It Feels to Be Hungry
Children under the age of fourteen weren’t allowed in the ICU. I was eleven, and my brother was thirteen, but no nurse or doctor was going to stop us from seeing our mother.
There is no word for parents who have lost a child. Our language is chaotic. We are not widowed or orphaned. We are without, we are incomplete.