the visitors


“Gold, as to a king; myrrh, as to one who was mortal; and incense, as to a God.”

They sat in the front room, silent.
“A star, you said?”
“Yes,” replied one of them, speaking for the group.
“Hmm,” she replied. She nodded and looked over at Joseph, who smiled. She looked at their robes, the stitching and texture of the fabrics. “I’m sorry we don’t have more than the bread to serve.”
The one who spoke for the group shook his head. “Please,” he said, “there’s no need to apologize.”
There was a pause. They searched for questions. “Does he sleep well?” Asked the first.
“For a young child, yes. He has nights, as children do. He is learning to sleep.”
“Of course, yes.” 

A second visitor nodded, then leaned forward toward the mother and father. “And it was…it was a manger? In a stable?”
She nodded. “There was no room elsewhere.”
“Was it cold?”
“Yes — but Joseph brought blankets. We were warm enough.”
“Was it painful?”
“Yes — but all births are painful.”
“Do you remember it? The birth?”

Mary looked at the visitor. She looked again at his ornate clothes, his formality and posture. “I remember the taste of the tears I shed during the birth, and I remember the steam from the blood, and I remember his voice — like laughter, also — the cattle, and he.” She thought back to the moment, and she grinned. “I thought his voice would split me and the ceiling of the stable in two.”

After a moment, the third visitor interjected. “Were you afraid?”
Mary looked over at Joseph. “At times, yes.”
“What changed your minds?”
“An angel appeared to both of us and told us not to be afraid.”
“And that was all?”
Mary again looked over at Joseph, who spoke to the third visitor. “It was an angel; a messenger. It was an issue of whether or not to trust the one who sent the message.”
The visitor nodded and thought about the angel. 
Mary studied his face. “Do you have children?”
“No,” said the third visitor.
“You?” She asked the first.
“You?” She asked the second.
“Did any of you ever wish to have children?”
The first and second visitors shook their heads. The third, after pausing to reflect, spoke. “Yes.”
Mary turned her eyes toward him, and the third visitor continued. “I feel like I’ve been faithful to a calling — I feel — I feel peace about what I’ve done, and on most evenings, I sleep well because of it.”
“And the other nights?”

The third visitor managed a weak smile. “On those nights, I remember when I was a child, and I remember my own father, my mother — and I feel like there’s an empty room inside my heart — I can’t always see the details of the room — the shape or if anyone’s inside, but it always seems to take the shape of a child. It is a child’s room — a child-shaped room.”

Mary’s eyes welled with tears. She opened her mouth to speak — but then stopped. Her focus turned toward the other room. She heard something.
“Is everything alright?” Asked the third visitor.
Mary smiled. She turned back to him. “I think he’s awake. Would you like to meet him?”

And now it was the visitor’s turn to cry. Tears in his eyes, he smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I would.”  


The Strangest Thing

In Episode 3 of Stranger Things 2, Will Byers finds himself in the Upside-Down. The shadowy, multi-limbed monster, later known as “The Mind Flayer”, rises high above the school. 

Will sprints from the monster, but then he stops. He remembers the story Bob Newby, his mother’s boyfriend, told him about standing up to someone he was scared of as a young boy.

“I said, ‘Go away!’” Bob told Will. 

And the thing Bob was scared of disappeared. 

Will decides to take Bob’s advice. He looks up at the monster and screams. “Go away!”

The Mind Flayer nears.

He screams again. “Go away!” Tears now in his eyes. 

The Flayer’s pace quickens. Even closer. 

“GO AWAY!” He screams with everything inside of him. 

But the Mind Flayer refuses. It surrounds him.

And then, it takes him.  


As a child, there’s a moment where you realize there are monsters in the world, and sometimes, the monsters win.

You come to understand that not only is there evil in the world, but that on occasion, it gets its shit together and lands some decent punches.

And when that happens, you wake up in this unknown space — this nothingness — where the once-solid ground gives way, and without warning, you’re in free fall. 

The question, then…is “What next?”


When the Mind Flayer takes over Will, it’s akin to the physical/spiritual possession of Regan McNeil in The Exorcist (1973).

In that film, it’s up to Father Merrin to cast out the demon. Here, it’s up to Joyce, Jonathan, Nancy…and a red hot poker. 

However, whereas in The Exorcist we’re not shown the moment of possession, Stranger Things 2 makes it the climax of Episode 3. And it’s horrific.

The Mind Flayer thrusts tentacles into Will’s eyes, ears and mouth. It fully possesses him down to the core of his being. It is, for me, the single-most terrifying scene of Stranger Things yet.

The physical possession of Will Byers is reminiscent of both old sci-fi possession stories such as Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), as well as the more intense body-horror sub-genre, which includes Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979) John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982), as well as two David Cronenberg films: Videodrome (1983) and The Fly (1986). The films are linked by a common idea of foreign/uncategorized entities overtaking a human body and using it as a host. 

Thankfully, Stranger Things avoids some of the more graphic elements (chest-bursting, decomposition, metamorphosis, etc.), but in doing so, it sets its sight on far more fragile, and frightening ground.

Will’s emotions. His memories. If the Mind Flayer can control Will’s emotions and memories, then it’s found the perfect host. 


This is how Will Byers arrives to the knowledge that monsters exist:

He witnesses the monster’s power. 

He stands up to the monster’s power.

And then he loses.

And here, perhaps, a difficult lesson: Just because you’re brave doesn’t mean good things will happen to you. However, just because good things don’t always happen, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be brave. 

It means you’re going to lose something you love. Or someone.


And now we come to the moment I’ve been trying to avoid the entire time.

My “Monster” moment. I’ve known it as soon as I watched Episode 3.

It’s from The Neverending Story (1984), and it’s the death of Artax, Atreyu’s horse, in the Swamp of Sadness. 

*Don’t cry, Dom. Don’t cry…*

I’m not going to post a link, and I’m not going to rewatch it for analysis.

Honest to God, I don’t want to ruin my night and watch that clip. I don’t need to hear Atreyu scream, and I don’t need to see Sebastian cry. 

Just because Sebastian’s reading the story, and just because Atreyu’s brave, it doesn’t mean they’re not going to experience loss and trauma. 

Every time I think about that moment, I flash back to that childhood moment of free fall — Atreyu’s the hero, and because he’s the hero, nothing bad happens to him, right? 

Perhaps, then, the deeper lesson: It’s precisely because of their bravery — because they’ve chosen to stand for something — that’s why it’s a certainty they’re going to experience trauma.

And the kids of Stranger Things exhibit this bravery, this wounding, and this continued courage. They are all wounded at some point — all challenged to give up the fight.

But just because they’ve lost, it doesn’t mean they stop. If anything, it means they fight harder.

So now, “What next?”


You heard it here first: Puberty is the Big Bad for Season 3. 

Think about it: It’s the ultimate Body Horror. Everything you thought you knew about your body is changing. Your body is not your own. 

We got a taste of it with Eleven’s “Psychic Tantrum”, but now, to have all these kids — two years’ full of government conspiracies, multidimensional deme-dogs, and near-death experience after near-death experience — going through puberty? 

The storytelling options are boundless.

Okay, I'm kidding. (Maybe?)

What I mean to say is that for me, the more dramatic, and perhaps traumatic elements of the yet-to-be Season 3, are personal. 

What would be worse — for someone to die, or for one of the kids to experience their parents’ divorce, a spitting of households, and having to move away?

Graduation? Break-ups? Teen pregnancy?

Ye, there’re far more cinematic conflicts, but I’m always after the more intimate struggles. Sci-fi is best when it places ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, and the more Stranger Things digs into its characters, the better it’ll be. 

I have no idea what the Duffer Brothers have in store for Season 3, and I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. I’ll be watching, that’s for sure. 

Stranger Things 2 delves more into childhood trauma and PTSD far more than I thought it would — and for that, it has my respect, fandom and admiration. 

So much so, I might even forgive it for “The Lost Sister.” 




“When he fails you,” said his father, “don’t be surprised.”

“He’s different, father.”

“He is one man against Rome. You yourself know what happens to people who talk of such things.”

“He’s speaking tomorrow, outside of town. You should come.”

His father shook his head. “I know what he will say. I know the oaths he’ll swear. He’ll prophesy freedom from Rome, and vengeance against Caesar. He’ll speak of blood, because blood is all he knows.”

“Father, he — ”

His father grabbed Judas by the face with both hands and pulled him close to his. “Son, listen! This Nazarene — he is a liar. Blood is all he knows. He is no Messiah. He is not your Savior.”

Judas, by instinct — from affection — kissed his father.

His father growled and pushed Judas away from him. Judas tumbled back and fell.

That was three years ago,” thought Judas. “Three years,” he thought, as he pulled a coin from his purse and felt its weight in the center of his palm.

+ TWO +

Judas bowed and angled the basket toward a family.


“Where did this come from?”

“The food is for you and your family. If you are hungry, eat.”

The father looked up at Judas. “How do you have enough food for everyone?”

Judas remained silent. He looked out at the hillside, then back to the man. “Are you hungry?” 


“Is your family hungry?”

The man looked at his wife and children. He looked back at Judas and nodded.

“Everyone will be fed. How they are to be fed is no concern of yours. Now, take and eat.”

The man’s eyes fell to the fish and bread. He glanced over at his wife and child and motioned for them to take from the basket as well. Judas took note of their hands. He took note of their fingers. As they took their first bites, he took note of their eyes and mouths and teeth.

As Judas turned from them, the child, a boy, spoke. “Is he telling the truth?”

Judas turned to the boy. He saw bread crumbs at the corners of the boy’s lips.

Judas paused. “Did you hear anything he said!? What manner of kingdom do you think the poor will inherit?! The meek and the timid lack the will to desire anything. They are poor because they are weak. They will inherit nothing. You are hungry, and I give you fish and bread. But he — he speaks of righteousness, speaks of seeing God — overthrowing Rome through peace!? How does one topple a kingdom without bloodshed?! 

The deaf hear. The lame walk. The blind see. I have seen miracles, boy. Today, we are fed. Today, you say “thank you.” But we sit at the feet of a fool. Tomorrow we die.


By instinct — from affection — he turned and answered. “Yes, Rabbi.”

The Nazarene smiled. He looked down at Judas’ basket, and tore off a small piece of the bread. “Are you alright, Judas?”

Judas smiled. “Yes, Rabbi.”

“Child,” He said. “You’re trembling.”

Judas laughed in disbelief, but he cut his laughter short. Because, in fact, the Teacher was right. He was trembling. He couldn’t hold the basket still, try as he might. He stared at his shaking hands. “I — I don’t know what’s happening.”

He placed a hand on the basket, and stilled the tremors. “It’s alright. It’s alright.” He looked over at the boy. “Have you been fed?”

The boy looked up at Him, and then back at the bread. “Thank you for the bread.”

He smiled at the boy, then to Judas. “Are you well? Are you with me, Judas?”

Judas looked at the Rabbi. “Yes. Yes, I am with you.”

He smiled, and kissed Judas. “Peace, Judas. There’re more to be fed.” And he left them.

A tear crested and struck the corner of Judas’ lips. He tasted its salt. 

He inhaled, exhaled and thought of the Rabbi. 

Judas looked back at the boy, but said nothing. 



Judas looked down and he saw his feet, swinging far above the ground.


Judas looked down and he saw the Rabbi, kneeling, washing his feet.


Judas looked down and saw the young boy, looking back at him.


Judas remembered kissing the Rabbi.

Judas remembered the bread.

Judas remembered the salt of his tear.

“Father,” he said.

This I Know to be True

These are the things I know to be true. 
I am made of music. 
I am a storyteller. 
Sometimes I do not live up to that calling. 
Sometimes I am the best firefighter and the worst flame. 
Sometimes I am the best hunter and the worst prey. 
Sometimes I sing the song I know sounds within me 24/7.

These are the things I know to be true. 
I am a bad detective. 
I have a subjective view point, and that means sometimes I don’t consider elements of an event that other people consider to be vitally important. 
I trespass. 

These are the things I know to be true. 
I am commanded to love people I don’t always love, including myself.
Sometimes I let myself off the hook of loving others.
Sometimes I let myself off the hook of loving myself. 
I am skilled at letting myself on and off the hook, getting on and off the wagon.

These are the things I know to be true. 
I have olive skin. 
In time, the skin will wrinkle. My skin is not impenetrable. My skin, like a flag, like a quilt, is not a shield, is not a mask. 
My skin, like a flag, like a quilt, tells a story.

These are the things I know to be true.
My grandfather had skin made of stories. 
I miss my grandfather.
My grandfather is dead. 

These are the things I know to be true. 
Sometimes I don’t take care of myself as well as I know how to do.
Sometimes I ignore God’s voice within me because I don’t want the responsibility.
Sometimes I don’t want the responsibility of storytelling. 
Sometimes I don’t want the responsibility of friendship. 
Sometimes I don’t want the responsibility of forgiving people I don’t want to forgive, including myself. 

These are the things I know to be true. 
I have a heart made with love. 
I have a heart made of love.
I have a heart made to give love, to receive love. 

These are the things I know to be true. 
I need help. 
I need help. 
I need help. 



Yad Ha'Elohim -- The Hand of God

Abinadab had gathered with the rest of the crowd. He stretched and pushed and shoved and shouted, “Uzzah, My son! My son! He carries the ark! He carries the ark as we celebrate its homecoming!”

He saw his son astride the ark. “My son!” Shouted Abinadab. “My son who guides the ark!”         For years, the ark of the covenant had been lost. Philistines had taken it, but the ark had, without the hand of man, destroyed the idols of the Philistines. False gods were, simply by being in the presence of it, beheaded and toppled. For years, the ark had rested in the house of Abinadab, and King David requested the ark return to Jerusalem.

The ark neared Abinadab. “My son!” He shouted. “I must see my son!” There was commotion in the crowd, all eager to press in and see the ark of the covenant up close. He shoved and was shoved sharp from behind. The air shot up out of him; skyward, as doves. His vision blurred. He stumbled.

There was a shout, and then a scream. 

When Abinadab regained footing and focus, the crowd was silent.

And in that silence, Abinadab noticed he felt different than before — something was missing. His hand, on instinct, reached for his chest. He felt it beat once, twice. He traced no wound or gape along his skin — but something had been removed. 

He paused to pray, and in a flash, the words rushed up from his heart and out between his lips —

“My son!” He shouted. “Uzzah, my son! I must see my son!” Trembling and panicked, he pushed through the crowd, now as motionless as reeds on a windless day.

He pushed through to the front. He saw first the oxen, and then the ark of the covenant.

And then his eyes tracked downward, where his son lay; dead in the dust. 

He fell. 

He fell to the feet of his son and gathered Uzzah to himself. 

“My son,” he wept. “My son who carries the ark. Speak to me, my beloved. Speak.”

*    *    *

Abinadab sat and lamented of Uzzah’s death to his friend. “Years have we watched over the ark. We are Kish, descendants of the tribe of Levi, chosen by God to watch and protect the sacred objects of Yahweh. Why would the wrath of His hand extend toward those he commanded to watch over the ark?”

“We do not know the ways of God,” replied his friend. “Uzzah sinned, Abinadab. God is holy, and Uzzah touched the ark.”
“Yes, because it was falling.”
“It is the dwelling place of God.”

Abinadab nodded. “From the days of Moses, adorned with cherubim, yes. I taught my sons to know the ark and love it. Who do you take me for?” Abinadab stood and paced in the room. “Bezalel made the ark of acacia wood— two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide, and a cubit and a half high. He overlaid it with pure gold, both inside and out, and made a gold molding around it. He cast four gold rings for it and fastened them to its four feet, with two rings on one side and two rings on the other. Then he made poles of acacia wood and overlaid them with gold. And he inserted the poles into the rings on the sides of the ark to carry it. He made the atonement cover of pure gold—two and a half cubits long and a cubit and a half wide. Then he made two cherubim out of hammered gold at the ends of the cover. He made one cherub on one end and the second cherub on the other; at the two ends he made them of one piece with the cover. The cherubim had their wings spread upward, overshadowing the cover with them. The cherubim faced each other, looking toward the cover.”

Abinadab crouched and held the hands of his friend. “I have seen the space between the cherubim. I taught my sons to listen for the presence — for the song of God. I taught them to love Him and seek Him.”

“I know, Uzzah." His friend said. "I know. But if you have seen the space between the cherubim, if you know the sound and shine of hammered gold, then you also know the power and might of Elohim. You know the Hand that held back the waters, the Hand that washed away Pharaoh, the hand that opened the earth and swallowed the house of Korah.”
“Should my beloved have allowed that which he loves to fall, then? Would you have reached out?”
“I do not ask such questions.”
“Why? Because you fear the answer?”
“I have nothing to fear. I keep the commandments of the Lord, and I know the Lord is good.”
“Yes, yes —" said Abinadab. "I too believe He is good. He brought our people out of Egypt. He freed us from the bonds of slavery and Pharaoh’s horse and rider were hurled into the sea.

He guided us through the wilderness, though we forged a golden calf and forsook his commands. We transgressed, and those who transgressed were not allowed to enter the promised land. 

Even Moses, a beloved, in anger struck the stone, and by his wrath removed himself from the land. Even Moses, whom God used to free our ancestors, could not — because of sin — enter the land.

And then Joshua led us into the land. But upon crossing the Jordan, we had to wait upon the Lord for guidance and for his glory to be known. Joshua took the soldiers and marched around the city for seven days. On the seventh day, they gave a great shout, and Jericho’s strongholds fell away.

The Lord proves faithful. Kings go to war, prophets seek wisdom, the teachers and the priests seek out his presence where he may be found. Blood is shed, and God speaks — in whispers, in full-throated song.

The Lord is good, and He brought the ark back to the city. He has condoned the violence of David, our king — the bloodshed of Joshua, a great warrior, and the violence of the Sea, the hunger and the gaping mouth of the Sea which swallowed Pharaoh and his mighty army.

The Lord is good, and my son is dead because he loved Him and reached out in a time of need.”

Abinadab walked to the window. “When I held Uzzah, I remembered how I would find him at rest, close to the ark. I scolded him, because I knew it was dangerous. ‘I want to hear Him,’ he said. ‘I want to hear God.’ Tears formed in Abinadab’s eyes. “Did not Samuel sleep at the base of the ark? Did he not care for the ark, spurred on by love? And did he not, one night, hear God speak?”   

 “Abinadab, friend — please. You were wrong to keep the ark in your home. You know this.”

“Yes, I was wrong. Yes, I was reckless. But did not even those who cast the calf out of the fire, they were forced to drink their sin, but they too, they were still permit to choke praise from their lungs? How were they preserved and allowed to praise the Father — but my son, spurred by love, was struck down ?” 

At this, Abinadab’s friend fell silent.

*    *    *

Late, when all were asleep. Abinadab could not rest. He left his bed, and stood in the front room. He listened for any animals or footsteps outside. 

Silence. Abinadab prayed. 

I want to speak your name as I would a friend — but you are not my friend. 
You are my God. My creator. 
From dust have I been drawn, and it is dust that draws me now.

I wish to know the reasons behind your ways — which is blasphemy. 
I wish to call you by your name and pull you close — which is blasphemy. 

I wish to question you and doubt you — which is blasphemy. 

So then, God Almighty, my teacher, you know me, and my heart, and my name — 
and now you know what I wish for — what I long for — 
I pray for blasphemy. 


The Good Shepherd

    He entered the house, shook his head. “Your son, again.”

    Without looking up, she tsked-tsked with her tongue. “Our son, again.”

    “He loves you more.”

    “He loves you as well.”

    “He never says it.”

    “Because he doesn’t know the words yet.” She turned to face her husband. “You are a good teacher. You care about about his learning, yes?”

    “I do.”

    “Because you want him to be a good shepherd, yes?”
    Adriel sighed and glanced back out the entrance, before returning his focus to his wife. “He lost some sheep. I found all but one. We’ve been searching, but…” He shook his head. 

    She nodded. “Where is he?”

    “Outside, I think. I shouted at him, and told him to wait until I allowed him to enter.”

    Galila put her hands to her husband’s cheek, and with her thumbs, she traced crescents under his eyes — back and forth, back and forth, like tidewaters from the sea. She pulled his head down and kissed his forehead.

    “You, my love, are a good shepherd. You sit. I’ll go talk to him.”


    *    *    *


    “Nechemya,” she called. “Nechemya, where are you?”

    Silence. Galila took a few steps, noting the sound of the rocks beneath her sandals. “Nechemya, it’s your mother. Come sit with me.” She sat on the edge of the well, and exhaled. “It’s beautiful this evening, no? Why don’t we sit together?”

    Silence. Galila looked down at her hands, flipped them once, twice, then slid off the edge of the well and sat down on the ground. She rested against the well. “I’m going to tell you a story, Nechemya. Is that alright?” She waited, but heard no response.
    “Once, I lived in a town. This is before you were born, before I knew your father. When Roman soldiers rode through the village, they would ask for wine. I would serve them wine.”

    Galila picked up a small pebble, held it in her palm. “They would ask for other things as well…and I would give them those other things. Because they could make life bad for me if I said no.” She closed her fingers over the pebble, turning her hand into a fist. “You understand this, Nechemya? There was no choice.” Her breath, heavier now. “But people in the town, they disapproved. They wanted to teach me I was wrong to do what I did.” She paused. “So, one morning they — ”

    “Teach, mama…like the way papa teaches?”

    Galila turned her eyes right, and she saw Nechemya, her son. He held his shepherd’s staff loose. He didn’t stand still, but instead shifted his weight from side to side. 

    “Why do you do that, Nechemya? You sway like a reed.”

    “I don’t like to stand still, mama.”
    Galila opened her fist, and re-examined the pebble. She dropped it. “Nechemya, my love.”
    Nechemya approached and sat next to his mother.

    She smiled. “Papa teaches out of love. But the people who wanted to teach me — they were angry. They took me from my house. I shouted for help, but no one stopped them. They brought me to the feet of a Teacher in the square. I’d been accused of a crime, but they weren’t sure how I should be punished.”

    “What did the Teacher say?”

    Galila smiled. Her finger traced a winding path in the sand. “He said nothing. He drew.”
    “What’d he draw, mama?”

    “He drew a tree. He asked me what kind it resembled. ‘It looks like an olive tree, Teacher.’ I said. ‘Is it an olive tree?’”

    Nechemya shifted closer to his mother. “What’d he say?”
    Galila shrugged. “He told me about how he knew many people who’d sat under trees. ‘Friends, Teacher?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘Yes, child. Friends.’ He told me about one person who sat under a tree, and ravens came to him with food. This man was tired and near death, and he was afraid — but the tree provided shade and shelter from the sun. As he sat, ravens visited him and kept him alive with food, and the nearby river gave him water to drink.

    As he told me this story, he drew the wings of the raven. ‘Do you have a favorite bird?’ He asked. ‘No, Teacher.’ I replied. ‘The birds,’ he said, ‘the birds provide shelter and safety for their offspring with their wings. When a predator comes, the birds spread their wings wide and gather their young to their breast. Here, they are safest.’”

    Galila extended her arm and draped it over her son. Nechemya glanced at his mother’s hand at his side, and smiled. “What happened next, mama?”

    “Next, he wrote his name — the name of God.”

    Nechemya’s eyes opened wide. “But that name must not be said. It is blasphemy.”

    She nodded. “Yes. But what if it’s God who’s doing the writing?” Nechemya said nothing. Galila continued making a path with her finger. “Other people before him claimed to the Messiah, my love. And afterward, people after him have claimed to be the Messiah. They come from dust, they claim to be the Messiah, and then the dust claims them back.”

    “Did he die?”

    “Yes.” Galila thought of the hill. She thought of the storm and the blood and the crown. “Yes, he did.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “But the dust did not claim him.” 

    “What’d he say — when he wrote his name?”

    “He — ” Galila stopped, laughed. “He started humming; singing even.” 

    “What’d he sing?”

    “Do you remember the song I sang while you were falling asleep?”


    She kissed her son on the forehead. “That’s His song.”
    Her son smiled. But when he looked back at the house, his smile fell from his face. 

    “Why now are you sad, my son? I thought my story made you glad.”

    “Father hates me.”

    “He’s angry about the lost animals, but he loves you.”

    “Do you believe that?”

    “When he’s out with the animals, keeping them safe, he’s finding the words to tell you how much he loves you. When he’s repairing the walls of our home, with each movement of his hand, he’s building the words, casting the words.”

    Galila leaned close to whisper. “And when he sits alone in the room, as he does now, he prays for words, for help — and like manna, the words fall into his lap. Everything he does, he’s learning how to say ‘I love you.’”

    “I don’t think I’m going to be a good shepherd.”
    Galila paged through the hairs on her son’s head. Specs of dust kicked up in the air. “Do you want to be a shepherd?”

    “I do.”

    “Do you want to care for the animals?”

    “I do.”

    Galila put her hands to her son’s cheeks and, with her thumbs, drew crescents underneath her son’s eyes — back and forth, back and forth, like tidewaters from the sea. She kissed him on the forehead.

    “Go back to where you last remember having all the sheep, and start there. Look in the shaded areas, in the cracks of rocks — in the shadows of the mountains.”

    “Yes, mama.”

    He stood to leave, and headed toward the pasture. 

    “Nechemya,” she said. “If you’re still having trouble finding the sheep…sing.”

ee. nuff.

Enough is a concept. 
Enough is an amount. 
Enough is an ideal.

Enough is attainable if you have the right degree, if you say the right things at the right time to the right people in the right way.

Enough is possible if you were born into specific living conditions. 

Enough is eight glasses of water. Or ten. Or twelve. 
Enough depends on the size of your glass.

Enough is approximately 2,000 calories. 
Enough is four servings of fruit.
Enough is a spoonful of sugar. 
Enough is an apple a day. 
Enough is my two front teeth.
Enough is that doggy in the window, the one with the waggly tail.
Enough is mounting Lazlo’s Hierarchy like it’s a Derby Horse and riding that shit into the sunset.  

(aside: “Lazlo’s Hierarchy” would be an awesome name for a horse)

+ TWO +

Enough is enough when I say it’s enough. 
Enough is enough when I say it’s enough.
Enough is enough when I say it’s enough.
And this is not enough.


Enough is Scrooge McDuck diving into his pool of gold, swimming ‘round and thinking to himself, “The gold was easier to swim through this time. Are my arms getting stronger, or was there less money than before? How’re the overseas account? I need to check. Where’s my phone? What do the stocks look like? Trending upward? Downward? What needs to be bought or sold? How can I improve my position? 

And my nephews, nephews keep asking me for cash. They’re a drain on me. Every time it’s ‘Uncle, Uncle, Uncle,’ and they’re asking for bail money, hush money, money for rent, money for bills. And I give it to them every time. I’m enabling them. Time to cut off the spigot. 

My eyes sting. I think the pool guy overdid it on the chemicals. I’ll fire him and find someone else.”

+ FOUR +

Enough is to know the difference between good and evil and choose because I know best.
Enough is two pieces of chocolate cake, three scoops of cookies n’ cream ice cream and as much hot fudge as I can stomach.
Enough is mercy when all you’re expecting is wrath.
Enough is a bullet when all you want is some goddamn peace and quiet.
Enough is remembering to look up and admire the stars.

+ FIVE +

Enough is when I have my finger on the trigger — 
— on the pulse — 
— on the button — 
— on whatever it is that gives me the most power and control in a given situation, and whatever makes the motherfucker on the other side of the table the most fearful and obedient to me. 

Enough is a warm towelette, followed by a glass of fizzy water to cleanse your palette. Then, it’s followed by bruschetta; exacting slices of toasted french bread from the nearest bakery topped with ripened Roma tomatoes, homemade Mozzarella cheese and fresh basil trimmed from the garden. Following the bruschetta is a delightful cup Butternut Squash soup, Beef Medallions with a Marsala wine and mushroom sauce, and to finish, Tres Leches cake for dessert.

That’s Enough.

+ SIX +

Enough is bread and wine. 
Enough is a rod and staff.
Enough is perfume and tears.
Enough is “On Earth as it is in Heaven.”
Enough is manna and quail.
Enough is fishes and loaves. 
Enough is dirt and spit.
Enough is “Do you want to be well?”
Enough is a garden.

“No,” says the serpent. “That’s not enough.”


Enough is an open palm, extended outward, radiant with love and grace. 

Enough is a flurry of punches with brass knuckles, enough punches until I hear the bridge of his nose snap into kindling like detonating the Bridge Over the River Kwai. 

Enough is up to me to decide. I make the scale, and I decide how it looks, and I decide how large the scales need to be, and I decide how much they shine, and I decide what we balance, and I will decide who gets to use them. 

Enough is when we’ve amassed the bricks and building materials necessary to reach the floor of the heavens, so that we might hammer and claw and slash and break through the floorboards of heaven, into the throne room of God, throw up our hands and go, “Ta-Dah!” 

Enough is the divine pursuit of Want — Want being a noble, virtuous and necessary thing — Want being a thing that must, being a thing on which the world turns and lives and moves and finds its being. 

Enough is up to me, always — and up to you, never. 
Enough is up to me, the beholder.


Enough is a gavel.
Enough is a gun.
Enough is a badge.
Enough is a title.
Enough is "oooh, awww."
Enough is initials at the end of your name. 

Enough is that email I want to show up in my inbox showing up and telling me that I’m better than I thought I was, that I’m forgiven, that I’m okay, that everyone loves me after all and they’re never going to stop loving me — in fact they want to build a statue in my honor and they want to praise my works and my wonders forevermore, and they want to slavishly adore me all fucking day and all fucking night and they want to hire people who do nothing but praise my fucking name and polish my fucking golden statue and defend it as if it was their own child. 

Enough is validation.
Enough is two thumbs up, five stars, a Michelin Star, a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
Enough is everyone saying in unison, in harmony, with maximum enthusiasm and authenticity, “You’re okay, Dominic. You’re okay! You’re OOOOOOOOOKAY FOREVER!!”

Enough is satisfaction ad aeternum, unfettered consumption, leaning back in your chair and feeling your gross, fat stomach, wiping the residue from the corners of your lips with your index finger, then licking it with relish.

+ NINE +

Enough is one for me, one for you.
Enough is one for me, one for you and one more for me. 
Enough is not having to be accountable to, or responsible for, anyone.
Enough is all for me, none for you. 

+ TEN +

Enough is stuffing my fucking face because I can, because my cravenness is what makes me so good and so glorious. And besides, the heart wants what it wants, right — and I want good things because my heart is a good thing, RIGHT — and so Enough must be when my heart, which is a good thing, wants more good things and when it gets what it wants — RIGHT!?! 

Enough is when all the good things I’ve wanted are before me, doing the fucking high-step like they’re the Radio City Rockettes, and they’re all smiling and keeping their eyes locked on me.

Enough is when I can choose whatever the fuck it is I want to do with my good things, if I want to make a tower of good things, if I want to make cities and towers and gleaming white spires of good things, if I want to build and devote all the power in the world to those good things, when I rip the earth from its orbit and when I shotgun all the rivers and streams in the world, and I drink (glug-glug-glug) and I drink (glug-glug-glug-glug-glug) until I’m sick in the gut and I throw up and I wretch and I throw up again and I’m bent over the toilet throwing up over and over again and I’m crying and I’m blackout drunk on the rivers of the earth…

…but I still smile because the stomach acid leaves a sweet aftertaste on my teeth. 


Enough is a walk with your grandfather on that perfect spring day — the first of the year — and you get to ask him questions about where he grew up, and you examine the back of his hand with such affection and compassion like it’s a topographical map of the Fertile Crescent — like every single piece of him is the most treasured land since the Garden of Eden.


Enough is a lie, and it’s right that the belief is breaking down, because it was a fucking delusion and loony dream to begin with, and all the people who built their houses on “Enough” need to wakey-fucking-wakey, because one more forkful isn’t going to make your dick harder, and it’s not going to make your dollar stretch a little more like it’s as goddamn limber as a Russian ballerina.

Enough will not tuck you in at night and it will not sing you to sleep. It will not console you and it will not put an extra spring in your step.

Enough is a closet-full of the Emperor’s new clothes.


Enough is “Father,” whispered in the middle of the night, in the middle of the day. 
Enough is my dad.
Enough is you, next to me. No words are needed for enough.
Enough is one embrace from you.
Enough is “I’m sorry.”
Enough is a single note, played over and over again; bird by bird, rung by rung.


Enough is the Maker, pulling me close and whispering love and joy. 

Enough is the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
Enough is made Sin for us. 
Enough is the Lion and the Lamb.


Enough is beyond my understanding. 
teach me the vastness of enough.
teach me the wonders of enough.
Enough is without hurry, without grabbing and without hoarding.
teach me the simplicity, the complexity of enough.
teach me the patience of enough.

Enough is room at the inn.
teach me the longitude and latitude of enough.
teach me the generosity of enough.

Enough is shelter from the storm.
teach me the love of enough.
teach me the abundance of enough.

Enough is lagniappe with a smile and a “On the house, baby.”
teach me the strangeness of enough.
teach me the song of enough.

Enough is “take up your mat and walk.”
teach me the infinitude of enough.
teach me the mystery and plain-sight of enough.

Enough is “Surely I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”


Enough is…
Lord, I don’t know what enough is.
But I want to.
Today I am here, and I don’t know what Enough is. 
Teach me. 



hah. lay. loo. yuh.

Hallelujah is a word that takes too long to say.
Double the syllables of “amen”, “bless you,” and “Jesus.”
Doesn’t slip out on accident, like “like” or “well” or “so.” 

Nah — Hallelujah demands a determined tongue, even if you’re screaming it, bleating out hot-as-fuck-seized-by-the-spirit-summer-swelter style — Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! 

Like possession. Like rapture.

Say it like that, and it sounds like you’re trying to climb out of a well, beat Jacob up his own ladder or put out the fire on the burning bush.

Or maybe you’re trying to start a fire yourself.

+ TWO +

Hallelujah won't ever have a case of mistaken identity.

No one’s going to approach Hallelujah from behind and say “‘Scuse me, I was wondering if — Oh, sorry, my bad. I thought you were someone else.”  Hallelujah can’t slip into a Silver Lake coffee shop all incognito, sunglasses and baseball hat. 

Shoulders too distinctive. Voice too familiar. 

It river-winds and drags its heels ‘cross your lips. Say it enough times and it’ll scrape all the enamel off your teeth. Hallelujah is precision heart-pump, methodical lung-breath, o’er and o’er.

Ready, aim, Hallelujah.
Ready, aim, Hallelujah.
Ready, aim, Hallelujah.


Hallelujah sounds like an out-of-tune piano. 
Sounds like the karaoke version of a popular song on the radio. 

Hallelujah is chasing the time-keeper down the rabbit hole, tumbling ass over teakettle into Ache-N-Wonder-Land.

Hallelujah, when sung, sounds clunky, clumsy. 
Sounds like you’re trying to say a word one size too big or too small for your mouth.

For your Heart. For your Spirit. For your Past. For your Present. 

Hallelujah, when sung, sounds rebellious, like you’re spitting in someone’s face or shoplifting.   

Sounds like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.
Sounds like you’re speaking a foreign tongue. 
Sounds like first words, like “mama” or “dada.”

Sounds like brass knuckles. 
Sounds like a white flag.
Sounds like a frantic shriek. Sounds like a fractured whisper.

+ FOUR +

Hallelujah feels like sub-sonic pulse, like a dog whistle.
Hallelujah feels like trying to pull a symphony from a stone.
Hallelujah feels like a batch of dynamite with a never-ending gunpowder fuse.

Hallelujah feels like seven bulls in seven china shops.

Hallelujah feels like singing an aria in the middle of a tornado.
Hallelujah feels like you’ve loosened a rabid dog, all drools and snarls and arrhythmic growls.
Hallelujah feels like you’re standing in the longest line in the grocery store on purpose.

Hallelujah feels like the person in front of you is paying for their bus fare with twenty-five dimes, one by one, and right around a buck-forty, they start checking all their pockets, muttering o’er and o’er, “I know I have the change somewhere. I know I have it somewhere.”

Hallelujah feels like you’re trying to smuggle in 100,000 other words across the border without anyone noticing — All the affection stuffed underneath your fishing gear — All the anxiety stuffed in the kid’s backpack — All the confusion jammed in the camping bags — All the mercy locked away in the cooler — All the wrath shoved in with your dirty socks.

Hallelujah feels like a Chinese New Year’s Dragon, with all the different words swirling and steering and giving life to its glorious body.

Hallelujah is a feather, suspended. 
Hallelujah is a jackhammer.

Hallelujah feels like a cosmos.

Hallelujah resembles the moment when you’re holding the door open for a couple, and then an old man, and then a family of four, and then some guy doing a delivery, and then someone late for a meeting, and no one’s saying “Thank You” because they’re all so busy on their smart-phones and they’re way into their own words and their own thoughts and their own fucking magnificence — but then a seven-year-old girl with a veil of animated angel hair bounds across the threshold, locks eyes with you and Glee-full, Joy-Full, shouts, “Thank You!”

+ FIVE +

Teach us words that sear our tongues like Isaiah’s coal.
Teach us words more ferocious than cat o’nine tails. 
Teach us words more mysterious and electric. 

Teach us labyrinth words — radiant and luminous words — pitch black, abyss words.
Teach us cavernous words.
Teach us multitude, choral words.

Teach us words with roots, words that spread wide and rise high, words that seize a building like organ pipes that, with each lunge and throb grow as wild ivy. 

Teach us lightning strike and thunder sonic-split words. 
Teach us words that burn but don’t consume. 
Teach us the words woven into us, fearfully and wonderfully. 
Teach us words that rent fabric and cleave rock, that part water and cause the blind to see.

+ SIX +

Teach us Hallelujah o’er and o’er.
Teach us Lost and Teach us Found.
Teach us Hallelujah o’er and o’er.
Teach us Smoke and Teach us Flame.
Teach us Hallelujah o’er and o’er.


The Basket Weaver

“I do not believe your stories,” she thought to herself. “All the promises of Father Abraham, the promises of Israel — how we are a mighty nation, more numerous than the stars.”

“And yet,” she thought, “Here we are — enslaved. Here we are, building monuments for kings we’re not supposed to serve, for gods whose names are not supposed to rest on our lips.” 

“Perhaps you grow angry when we choose to worship other gods we know to be grotesque or fickle, other gods we know to be made of stone.”

“Perhaps you would also forgive us our frustration for generations of silence.” 

“My father’s father did not hear you. He sowed love and reaped nothing. He toiled, and prayed, and grew crooked with work, and he did not hear from you. When he died, he told us of the words his father’s father heard from you — those words passed down from his father’s father.”

“See how far we must reach back to speak of when we spoke with you?"
"See how trembling our hands are as we reach back into dark?”

“How more joyful might we be to hear your words fresh on our ears as rain — like hot coals might your presence seem to our unaccustomed skin.” 

“But I can learn, Elohim. We can learn if you speak to us.” 

“I am not proud of these bricks, but these are the things I see. I am not proud of these idols, but these are the things I know.”  

“What is worse, Adonai — to worship a God you know is false, or to love a God you know to be real but who refuses to speak?”

“We are told our ancestors wrestled angels, and saw visions of ladders ascending to heaven. You gave them dreams that saved from jail and protected us from famine. They made covenants with you and built arks for you. They walked with you in gardens.” 

“You turned us to salt and provided a sacrifice to save Isaac.”
“You flooded the earth and painted colors across the sky.”
“And now, we are steeped in mud. We are entombed in lives that are not our own.” 
“Still, we pray. And our masters think us foolish.”
“Still, we pray. And I think us foolish also.” 
“But I believe, still.”

+    +    + 

She thought as she wove, and she prayed, and she wept. 

The child fought against the swaddling. She tucked the cloth back and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Peace, Moses. Peace. Your mother loves you. Your mother loves you so much.”

She paused, and noticed her hands, scratched and coarse due to the weaving of the reeds, held against his soft skin; against his unblemished face. “Though I will not see him grow,” she thought, “at least he will have something in common with me…”

“…He will not know the touch or voice of the one who claims to love him most…”
“…He will have to believe as I believe.”

And then, still weeping, she closed the basket. 

Dear Emma

“The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus (b. 1849, d. 1887)

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, 
With conquering limbs astride from land to land; 
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. 
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, 
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. 
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, 
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

+    +    +

Dear Emma, 

You wrote a beautiful poem. You passed away before your words became famous, before your words became so connected to the statue for which they were written. At the urging of a friend, you wrote the poem as part of a fundraiser for the statue’s pedestal. 

A work of faith, so to speak, for an unfinished statue.

Your father’s name was Moses. Moses’ story is found in the book of Exodus. He was born at a time when the Hebrew nation was enslaved under Pharaoh and the Egyptians. In an effort to control the population, Pharaoh demanded that all Hebrew boys be killed upon birth. But Moses survived. His mother hid him for the first three months of his life, and then she placed him in a papyrus basket. She placed the basket in the Nile, and Moses’ sister kept watch. 

Pharaoh’s daughter had come to the Nile to bathe, and when she saw the basket, she opened it and found Moses. Pharaoh’s daughter brought him back with her, and she raised Moses as her son.

Moses, drawn out of the Nile.

Years later, he would lead the Hebrew people out of Egypt. 

+    +    +

Your last name is Lazarus. Lazarus was a friend of Jesus, one whom he loved. Lazarus became ill, and when he died, his friends mourned his passing. “I am the resurrection and the life,” said Jesus. “The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?” 

Jesus was taken to Lazarus’ tomb. 

And here, Jesus wept. 

Then, Christ commanded the stone be rolled from the tomb. 

And then, He brought Lazarus back from the dead.

+    +    +

In the opening line, you reference Colossus of Rhodes, one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World. Colossus was a statue of the sun god Helios, built at the harbor of Rhodes. The statue was erected in the 3rd Century B.C. to commemorate a military victory.

Synonyms for brazen include “unabashed,” “shameless,” “insolent.” Antonyms include “humble,” “meek,” “modest.” You reference Colossus because you wish to contrast the ‘brazen’ quality with that of The Statue of Liberty. The Statue of Liberty does not wish to mimic the conquering spirit. Rather than a male sun god, you venerate a woman who’s captured the light, and wields it as grace. 

Instead of proclamation, an invitation. 
Instead of gloating, she guides. 

+    +    +

The “Mother of Exiles” — Adam and Eve, exiled from the Garden. Moses and the Israelites, cast out into the wilderness for 40 years. David, exiled and hiding; once from Saul, and once from Absalom. Elijah, seeking shelter from the wrath of Jezebel. 

Mary, Joseph and Jesus — fleeing to Egypt in order to escape the reach and wrath of King Herod.

You wrote in response to the stories and experiences of your own people, the Jews, fleeing persecution and violence in Russia. Running for their lives, you hoped they could find a place in America. 

With “mild eyes,” a “world-wide welcome” the statue commands. Her light, shining — the only speaking necessary. And the light is bright enough for all who seek the shores of America.

Liberty. A welcoming. A Grace. 

+    +    +

When your poem was etched on a plaque in 1903, someone dropped the comma at the beginning of line 9. Instead of “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” It read, “Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” This dropped comma changes the meaning of the poem. With the re-instated comma, the exhortation to the ancient lands becomes far clearer.

The New Colossus needs not the storied “glories” of old wars, the braggadocio of conquest.

For those who boast and flaunt and thrash in the public square, they shall have their reward. 

Colossus of Rhodes is a far cruder, far more grotesque expression. It speaks of opulence and the glorification of humanity. It is one more attempt to build the Tower of Babel.

But the New Colossus, with “silent lips,” prays.

She pleads — for the feeble, for the frail. Those who “breathe to be free.” Those “huddled masses” — infants, children, youth, parents, grandparents — bunched together and turned inward, protecting themselves from the cold. All of them, witnesses to each other’s breath, over and over again. All of them, witness to each other’s desire to live, over and over again. 

She pleads for those considered garbage, the storm-battered and those left for dead.

“Peace, beloved. Come sit by the fire.”    
“Peace, children. Be still.”
“Peace, children. Welcome.”

+    +    +

Dear Emma,    

You knew full well the United States of America’s history reeked of thievery, racism and fear.

But you believed in something, Emma. 

You believed in the capacity of the nation’s soul. You believed we could be a greater nation — you believed we could be large-hearted, larger than the ancient Grecian statue. You believed that amid our strife, amid our tension, that we could choose love and openness. 

It was our heart that was meant to be the New Colossus, not a copper statue in New York Harbor. It was our love that was to be our National Anthem. 

Our slow and steady affection, our defiant embrace of the other, our capacity not to see “other” but instead “another,” our resolve to maintain openness and welcome a stranger into the family — our ability to withstand trespass, forgive violence and hold a posture of penitence, of clemency — that was supposed be the New Colossus.

And I lament, Emma.
I lament — for the way we’re not what you hoped we would be.
I lament — for the way we’re not what you believed we should be.
I lament — for the way we’ve sown fear and hatred.
I lament — for our sins of silence and complicity.    
I lament — for the way we’ve demonized the other.
I lament — for our blindness and arrogance.
I lament — for the dual spirits of anger and greed which steer the United States of America.

+    +    +

Dear Emma,

Pray for us and weep with us, as the statue weeps as well.
Pray for a sweet love to shine and break through this acrid, hating pitch.
Pray for us, thieves. Pray for us, sinners.
Pray for us as we sing in defiance. Pray for Grace.
Pray for the tired and poor in spirit.
Pray for a brave home. Pray for a free land.
Pray for who you believed us to be.
Pray for the huddled masses, yearning to breathe free. 



     Sometimes, the world — specifically, climate change — scares the hell out of me, and I feel like hiding.
     Sometimes, the world — specifically, climate change, Donald Trump’s impending presidency and the threat of nuclear war — scares the hell and the ever-loving shit out of me, and I feel like hiding and burying myself alive.
     Sometimes, the world — specifically, climate change, Donald Trump’s presidency, the threat of nuclear war, plane travel, the web of responsibilities associated with home ownership, my near-crippling negative self-view, my dissatisfaction with the eat-drink-be-happy-but-if-you’re-not-happy-here’s-netflix-and-that-should-do-the-trick-until-tomorrow idea of living, my near-constant Eeyore-cloud-heart-steering belief that we’ve broken the world and that I broke myself along with it, and no one, myself included, is ever going to be fucking okie-dokie, a-okay, right-as-rain regardless of how hard anyone tries— all of that scares the hell and the ever-loving shit and the absolute fucking life out of me, and I feel like hiding and burying myself alive and wishing I could give back every breath I ever-ever-ever took.
     Sometimes I am so scared of everything being so much bigger and faster than I am that I feel like the only logical response is freezing and letting everything else pass me. 
     Sometimes I’m so scared I’m PETRIFIED.
     But you know what helps?

+ TWO +

     Yeah, I mean, the kid’s stuff — Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs, Honey Nut Cheerios, etc. Cereal makes me feel better, because it’s sweet and delicious and it reminds me of a time where none of the things that scared me dominated my thought process. It makes me think of a time where one of my best friends and I split a whole box of cereal over the course of an afternoon. We talked and laughed and ate cereal, and that was as complicated as the day got.
     It’s a defense mechanism, a comfort food, and emotional concealment.
     But sometimes, the wolves are bigger and badder and huffier and puffier than any castle of cereal I could make. Sometimes the wolves cross the moat without any problem and tear a hole in the cereal walls, and Tony the Tiger hurries back with a report, raving to me that “They’re Grrrrrrowling at the door!! They’re going to break in any second! Wwwwwwwwwhat do we do?!”
     And then I’m gone, hiding again. 
     Deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole. 


     Writing — storytelling — aches and dreams shared with a community — a campfire. 
     It’s what I always go back to — it’s been my love language for decades now. There’re journals filled with stories, stories I haven’t shared. A library of caged birds. And why?
     Because of the wolves, that’s why. 
     The wolves are the ones who piss on the campfires and swallow the birds. If I let the birds go, the wolves will devour them, and they’ll put out the fire, and I won’t have anywhere to go. I won’t have anything to say.
     I love to write, and I love storytelling, and I know storytelling’s in my marrow — but I’m afraid.
     Because it feels like the world needs storytelling like it needs a hole in the head — because it actually HAS a hole in the head, and it needs a medic, and it needs a top-flight surgical team to put it back together. It needs higher walls and more skilled sharpshooters. It needs antidotes to the viruses spread by the enemy, and then it needs viruses that the other side doesn’t have antidotes for yet, and it needs something loud and snarling and foaming at the mouth.
     Because it feels like the only thing the world needs is more wolves.

+ FOUR +

     And then Padre shows up. “Hey,” He says.
     “Oh, hi.”
     “Bad day?”
     “Sorry about that.”
     “Might I suggest something?”
     “Read the Psalms.”
     “Excuse me?”
     “Read the Psalms. It’s the one after Job.”
     “Who do I read them to?”
     “Yourself. In time, the Wolves.”
     “Wolves love Psalms. Didn’t anyone tell you that?”
     “No. Why should I read them to myself?”
     “Because I know.”
     “Know what?”
     “That feeling in the back of your jaw — the feeling like your mouth wants to wire itself shut, lock the door and throw away the key. Because I know every thing you think of saying feels incomplete and off-target and late-to-the-party. Because I know you’re afraid to address the world — your neighbor — your reflection — because you think your words have to be the skeleton key that unlocks all the sorrow and vitriol of this age. All of that’s very admirable.”
     “Thank you." 
     “And it’s also profoundly, utterly foolish.”
     The Almighty crouches low, His eyes meet mine. “Dom. I know it feels like your love is insignificant.”
     “I know it feels like you need to be a medic, or a sharpshooter, or a wolf.”
     “But you don’t.” He wipes a fallen tear from my eye. “You’re not a medic, and you’re not a sharpshooter, and you’re not a wolf. You’re Dom. And that’s because I made you like Dom. I made you Dom-shaped, with that Dom-laugh and that Dom-smell. I made you to look like Dominic. To sound like Dominic. To breathe and weep and dance and laugh and love and hope like Dominic.”
     “And,” He adds, “I did it on purpose.”    
     I nod. Another tear. “That’s what scares me the most, Padre — that you knew exactly what you were doing when you made me. I feel it in my chest.”
     “Yeah — that forest fire — that burning bush, that lion’s den — that heart of mine — you put it there. You were sloppy.”
     He smiles. “How so?”
     “If the cops dust my heart they’ll find your fingerprints all over the place.”
     He nods. “Guilty as charged.” 
     “I forgive you.”
     He kisses my forehead. “Ditto.”

+ FIVE +

O Lord, you have searched me
and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
you know it completely, O Lord.


      ”It is cold,” she thinks. “And dark.” 
     Her cloak frays at the edges, the long journey and excessive wearing having taken a toll on the fabric. Her husband cleared several small manure piles in order to provide a clearing, and now she sits, cross-legged, against a beam. Rings of dried blood stain both their fingernails, on account of handling the newborn. Joseph regrets not asking the innkeeper for a wash basin. He glances over at the trough, but hesitates before suggesting they wash their hands in the oxen’s drinking water.      
     Despite the chill, sweat appears on Mary’s forehead. She trembles, and chastises herself for doing so. “Don’t shake,” Mary tells herself. “You’ll wake the baby.”  
     “Don’t shake,” she intones, again and again. “Be still.”
     Bits of hay stick to the cloth. Joseph wrapped it, his hands steadier than hers, but his palms felt coarse on her neck and she brushed him away soon afterward. “Carpenter hands,” thinks Mary. “I don’t need carpenter’s hands. I need soft hands; steady hands prepared for a child.” Mary examines the crimson prints on the cloth, wondering which belong to her, and which belong to her husband.
     Joseph, though young, already bears marks of apprenticeship, having worked under an older carpenter for several years. He stands over Mary, who holds their child close to her breast. His eyes shift from the child’s face, to Mary’s crown, and lastly to the beam supporting both wife and child.
     Joseph notes the knots in the wood and guesses internally at the age of the beam, as well as the stable itself. He steps away, as quiet as he can, and examines the pieces of wood which form the stable wall. “Good choices,” thinks the young carpenter, “though many pieces will need replacing soon, especially if it rains as much as it did last season.” His hand traces the lines in the wood.
     He spies a crack in one of the pieces, just below the ceiling. “Ah,” he thinks, proud of himself for noticing, “there’s a piece that needs fixing right now. Maybe I’ll fix it in return for allowing Mary and the baby to stay the night. It wouldn’t take long at all to repair.” Joseph pauses to take in the night stars, shining through the slits in the stable ceiling.
     He hears the baby coo, and his eyes fall down to wife and child. Joseph remembers the steam rising from his child’s infant skin; a chorus of smoke plumes, as if he was born on fire. “Is everything alright?”
     Mary lifts her head to Joseph and nods. “Fine, Joseph, fine.” Her eyes focus on one rose print in particular; one she knows as hers. “Joseph.”
     “Did the…the…” The words lodge in her throat. They feel too sharp, too large to speak. 
     “What is it, Mary?” His hands return to her neck, but this time they feel softer, more tender. Mary inhales, exhales. Her eyes turn from the print and meet his stare. 
     “Did the — angel — when it — when he spoke…did his words make sense to you?”
     Joseph’s eyes don’t break from Mary’s. He smiles, and kisses her forehead. “…No.”
     Mary nods, and smiles. And then her sight returns to the baby, whose palm tumbles down the back of her fingers; tide by tide, learning the hand of his mother. A tear falls, landing square on the baby’s forehead, in the exact location where Joseph kissed her own forehead. She laughs, and the baby stirs.
     Mary, warmed by the child, whispers. “Peace, child. Peace.”

Homeward Sound

For Christmas, all I want are two fixed coordinates; X and Y.  Also known as a point of origin. 

I want to have come from somewhere ancient; to be able to first point to a very old place full of very old buildings, say “There, Then.” And second, point at myself, a heart full of trembling hands, and say, “Here, Now.”

Why do I desire roots, and by extension, Home? “This is where I come from,” I long to say, “This red dirt and these sounds of Blue Herons, these smells of lavender and this amber ray of sunrise — here and here and here.”

More than Los Gatos, California — more than Scotland and Italy — more than dirt and air.

Beneath the desire, a lament — that I wish to possess the virtues of age and place, but without any of the cost or process necessary to acquire them. I want to have roots, but I don’t want to grow them. 

In this way, I’ve forgotten what ‘growth’ even means. Nothing around me grows. Instead, everything around me — from coffee to money transfers to entire seasons of TV to air mattresses to an exact timeline of the French and Indian War to new homes — is Instant, Instantaneous, infinitely swappable for the next model and always — always at my fingertips. 

And not to say that speed is inherently evil — because it isn’t — But it’s not always good. 

Roots require growth. And growth hurts. Roots seep out from within my trunk, and dig deep into the earth. Into a place. Roots demand abiding and endurance, neither an idea with much sway nowadays.

Perhaps I take pride in having left ‘Home’, or having re-arranged the building blocks to the point of not recognizing it as home at all. 

I burn bridges as if it’s a rite of passage. I re-develop mangers into shopping malls. Re-configure cradles into convenience stores into coffee shops into co-working spaces into into into… 

Everything looks familiar, but nothing feels familiar.

Vintage is now virtue. Distressing material is now an assembly line directive. Grain and Dust are incorporated into clean pictures and used to displace, or de-place, ourselves. Wear and tear, brick and wood, Edison bulbs like sand on the seashore. Shiplap and hardwood floors. Rust and frayed edging, amen.

Yes, I am cynical of Time and Age’s mass commodification, but not of the desire. The desires are in me too — the desires to belong to somewhere, to someone — to yearn continually for Home — for a land you know yet cannot describe — a place you’ve never been, but have always known — and that is Good. 

But I cannot build Time, and I cannot manufacture Place. I cannot create Age. Rather, the best humanity can offer is the comfort of dust — from dust drawn out, and to dust destined for. but not of the desire. 

I build my pretty frames and admire the bark on the wood without stopping to acknowledge the deeper truth: I — We — are not made of bark.

We are made of rings. Which are, in turn, made of time. 

+ TWO +

What a beautiful truth — Yes, I come from a very old place.
What a strange truth — Yes, I belong to a current I neither created nor control. 
What a difficult truth — No, it is not a place to be bought, sold, subdivided, redeveloped or repurposed.

What a frightful truth — I am home in the hand of God.
What a loving truth — You are home in the hand of God.
What a painful, graceful, mysterious, burdensome, vibrant, wondrous, transformational-if-we-let-it truth — We are home in the hand and heart of God.


One of my favorite movies is Hook, for the scene where Peter Banning — now an overweight, overwrought adult — has been rejected and disavowed by the Lost Boys. 

Until the last boy. He approaches, looks Banning up and down, and calls Peter to his level, down near the soil. And the little boy smooshes his hands against his face, pulls back the eyelids, and like magic — “Oh, THERE you are Peter!”

There I will be, in what the world considers my greatest success, me at my best and biggest, and there my beloved will smoosh their fingers against my face, and they will know me as no one else knows me, as only God Himself knows me more — “Oh, THERE you are, Dominic!” 

And there I will be, in what the world considers my greatest failure, me at my worst and weakest, and my beloved will smoosh their fingers against my face, and they will know me as no one else knows me, as only God Himself knows me more — “Oh, THERE you are, Dominic!” 

+ FOUR +

The world, like Saul maladapting David into a soldier, will drape you with ill-fitting armor and demand you fight battles you don’t believe in, for reasons you don’t understand.

"Be a soldier, not a shepherd. Be a warrior, not a lover."

But the Lord, the Shepherd who made me well, sees through all worldly adorning and shaming. It’s Padre, palms open, “There, Then…Here, Now.” 

Here, I’ve always been. Here, I’ll always be. 

Who sings the song I've heard all this time?
What is the still, small voice which has always stirred me -- which has sparked simultaneous dream and terror?

Does Home fill me with dread? With imagination?
Does Home dig deeper and wider than I'll ever know?

What King -- What Shepherd --
Where am I walking? 

What Lion -- What Lamb -- 
Whose steps are these? Whose blood in my veins? 

What Maker -- What Love --
Who are you that calls me Home?

Home might never be a single place, but it is always a Presence; less of an establishing and more of a knowing, where all of you is welcomed, at all times, for all time. 

Home again, home again — in the hand and heart of God — who holds the dust of the earth, who traces canyons in the lines of His palm, and as we bow low, in tenderness, a voice — 

“Son — daughter — child — to the river, to the table. There you are…Home.”

Blue Light Specials

I attended a church in Philadelphia that would, mid-service, include a prayer of confession/repentance. We would read the prayer aloud, and then would bow our heads in a period of silent prayer and reflection. 

After a few moments, the person leading the time would say something to mark the end of the silence; 

“My friends, look up; these words are for you.” 

They would then speak of words of encouragement or glad tidings; a psalm perhaps.

For example:


Lord God, you have shown us such love,
and stretched out your arms
to draw us into your embrace.
Yet we so often fail to show that love
within our lives,
or recognize its source.
Forgive our short-sightedness,
for the times we've failed to see your love
in the generosity of friend
or stranger,
the shoulder to cry on,
willing ear to listen,
a word of encouragement,
holding our hand that extra mile.
Forgive us for failing to notice
how much you care for us.


“My friends look up, these words are you.”


You answer us with awesome and righteous deeds,
God our Savior,
the hope of all the ends of the earth
and of the farthest seas,
who formed the mountains by your power,
having armed yourself with strength,
who stilled the roaring of the seas,
the roaring of their waves,
and the turmoil of the nations.
The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders;
where morning dawns, where evening fades,
you call forth songs of joy.

(PSALM 65:5-8)

+ TWO +

There’s ache bound up in every person — crack them open and they erupt like volcanoes. They love in furious gushes, like Texas oil wells. More grief and more dream than sand on the seashore. 

Every attempt I make to measure out a heart — yours, mine, a complete stranger’s — will be incomplete. Every attempt I make will be flawed. It will miss the mark. 

Pardon me, Lord, for my incomplete, opaque words.

Keep me loving, Father. Always, keep me seated at the table. Keep me asking questions. Keep me listening to that melodious, drunken ramble. Keep me listening to the trembling, anger-filled screed.


I’m an introvert, and I don’t do well in crowds. I’m not terrible, but I’m far from a social butterfly. That said, I love a conversation with another person. I love the ebb and flow of a good, unpredictable dialogue with a friend or stranger. 

This is what breaks my heart about digital addiction — when people choose their phones over other people. When we seek communion on online walls and not with other people. 

Other people are full of their own thoughts/ideas you can’t control. They’ll act one way on Monday, and then Tuesday they’ll seem like a completely different person. If you open yourself to someone, you’re liable to be hurt or let down by them. You’re going to be disappointed and it’s going to be difficult. 

But with the devices we use nowadays, with technology and its infrastructure, we can craft relationships that’re wholly reliable, that won’t change from day to day, moment to moment. We can pull whatever we want and however much we want of it. And if we don’t like what we’re hearing, it’s not like we have to sit with it or work through anything. We don’t have to abide or endure. 

We can walk away at any moment. Unfollow, unfriend. Swipe left. 

We’d rather pour ourselves into our devices because we think we make our world bigger, better. We can create our very special echo chamber, full of our very special intimacies, full of very special Everyones who looks like us and sounds like us and loves the things we love and hates the things we hate and loves as we would love and hates as we would hate. 

Higher and higher go our walls. And we think we make our world bigger and better with every click and touch, but yet it feels like we’re nesting our hearts in bigger and better porcelain prisons, as if our hearts — fervent, burning-bush vibrant — existed at the core of all our emotional nestings — but every thing we do, every interaction is one more nesting, one more hiding, one more obscuring.   

There’s so much tenderness and face-to-face engagement we’ve lost, so much grace we’ve willingly forfeited — so much compassion we’ve forked over — so much intimacy we’ve rejected in the name of ‘connection.’ 

I believe there’s so much more to be had from a pure engagement — from time given, which — when two people do it, becomes time shared — honest time. Love-full time.

+ FOUR +

“My friends, look up; these words are for you.” 

Forgive me, Lord, I’m biting the hand that feeds me — anyone who’s reading this, you’re reading this because I posted a link on Instagram, on Twitter. I don’t know what to do.

Forgive me, Lord, I’m broken and busted. I’m aware there’s often a gap between the aspirations of my words and the works of my hands. 

Forgive me, Lord, when I seek to make intimacy and relationship out of parts that were never meant for the spirit and weight. Forgive me when I choose the thing over the person. 

“My friends, look up; these words are for you.”

I hope to see the light glow from within your eyes, not the blue glow of a screen bouncing off your face.

I hope to learn how to endure and abide with you. I hope to ebb and flow with. I hope for fast and slow with you. I hope for hurt and for the strength to lovingly slosh through the muck with you. 

I hope to be revealed with you, to de-nest hearts. Layer by layer. Grace by Grace, open space by open space. Heart given to heart. Hope giving way to hurt giving way to hope. 

“My friends, look up; these words are for you.”

Do I Believe in Love?

Let me tell you the story of Right Hand, Left Hand. It’s a tale of good and evil. 

Hate: It was with this hand that Cane iced his brother. 

Love: These five fingers, they go straight to the soul of man. 

The Right Hand: The Hand of Love. 

The Story of Life is this: Static. One hand is always fighting the other hand, and the left hand is kicking much ass. I mean, it looks like the right hand, Love, is finished… 

But hold on! Stop the presses! The right hand is coming back! Yeah, he got the left hand on the ropes, now, that’s right. Yea! Boom! It’s a devastating right and Hate is hurt, he’s down. Ooh! Ooh! Left-Hand Hate KO’d by Love. 

If I love you, I love you. But if I hate you…

— Radio Raheem, from “Do The Right Thing” (1989) writ/dir by Spike Lee


Do I believe in Love today? 

To believe in Love — to open my doors and say ‘Today I Love and am Loved,’ simultaneously giving the world opportunity to accept or reject me and my handsome heart — is not a singular act, but a daily, action-by-action orientation. Today I believe in Love, and today I choose to Love.  

Because I can believe in Love, but I can also believe in Hate, and added to such belief, is the opinion that Hate is stronger than Love. Hate is more profitable and more accessible than Love, I might say. 

Hate doesn't weigh as much, doesn't cost as much. Hate doesn't charge extra when you travel, and it fits through all doorways. Hate doesn't ask questions, and doesn't require you to listen. 

Hate is more understandable than Love and affords me more armor than Love, more shields and more reasons with which to defend myself. Hate assures me of rightness, and righteousness.  

Love, though — Love be that heart in full bloom, that blessed open door without conditions — the only condition being that the door stay open. 


How do I summon Love from barren soil? 
Christ have mercy.
How do I be still in the pupil of the beast and show Love?
Christ have mercy.
How do I take in venom, bitter fruit and waste — and conjure that ribbon — that melody — that blaze — that mysterious and wondrous Love?
Christ have mercy.

We are flame, and we are flesh. 
The spirit is willing, amen and amen, and the spirit is weak, amen and amen. 
Help me Father, to speak like the rock — break me and bring forth water.
Ayúdame, Padre, to burn and yet not be consumed.
Help me, Lord, to die and be born anew.

How Do Angels Get Their Wings?



When they hold onto babies who shake and shiver in new-hot-birth,
rattling lungs speaking in tongues discernible only to the Lord of Hosts
and the bleeding mothers.
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.”


By Christ’s calm in maelstrom,
through child-laughter in an earthquake,
the holler at the snap of the bough-break, 
scaling cloud-faces and swiping at angels’ heels.
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.” 


The soldier, dying in the foxhole, 
as petrified as childhood trees, 
lost amongst metal-swirl
and snow-dirt-blood-blast, 
his heart shouts for God but his tongue calls him a motherfucker
and a vengeful sonuvabitch.
He screams and he screams, and his heart is as open as ocean water,
and by the time his whelps have clipped the treetops, 
they are rid of dross and come forth as gold.
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.” 


The old man with the little girl — the child.
Gray eyes meet green flame, his hatred of self passed between them —
Here he makes himself known and here she makes herself nothing.
Here he is most and here she is least.
Here he is cannibal and here she is feast.
He cloaks himself in the body of the licorice-black hair and tiny, unknown hands.
His exposure and her concealment,
his sound and her silence,
his living and her dying,
and all the while every move is the shriek-violin-bow over tuned strings, the lung-swell animation of clarinet, oboe, bassoon, flute, french horn, trombone, trumpet. 

Every move is scream and song and symphony.

Every evil sits side by side with every grace, 
every groan and scowl and howl and heap of chuckles and lover’s throbs,
every teardrop and tremble, every smile and every finger of every hand pressed to every back as part of every hand as part of every embrace, transubstantiated, from morsels of love and hate and longing and dying and dream and cowardice and despising and lament and shaking awake-awake-AWAKE and thump-thumping and blood-spewing sword-flash fire-breath —

All dutifully borne on the wings of angels.
And such glorious, voluminous wings are they —
that fearfully, wonderfully, thru night and day, them angels proclaim —
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.”








the cowardly lion

"My son, my son," Padre's kiss on my forehead. 
"My love, my love," My body borne up by His. 
"My flame, my flame," His finger held to my sternum.

“Heal, Lion."
“Roar, Beast.”
“Love, Beloved.”

The lion; wounded and shivering, cowering in tree-shade at the river’s side.
The lion; half-cleaning its wounds of caked mud, dried blood.
The lion; terrified, filthy, shorn of pride — muscle — indwelling.

Padre kneels and speaks in hymns.
Padre matches breaths with the lion and speaks in dreams.
Padre combs his hand through the lion’s mane and speaks in tears.

He holds the head of the weeping lion in His hands.
He whispers and sparks fire in the lion's heart.
His eyes glow and He claims the lion —

"You — all of you — you are mine."
Now the lion sees its wounds slipping from its flesh as beads of water.
"Your story — your song — is mine all mine —”
Now the lion sees its wounds transferred to the lamb.  
“I make all things new, lion. You are mine all mine.”
Now the lion sees its shadow — held in the shadow the lamb.

The lion feels its frame renewed, and the lamb embraces the healed Lion. 
     "Feel them new bones — oh Lion —”
The lion hears sounds renewed, and the lamb holds fast the healed Beast.
     “Hear that new music — oh Beast —”
The lion sees its wounds closed and cleansed, and the lamb loves the healed Beloved.
     “See that new flesh — oh Beloved —”

And the lamb holds the lion’s gaze. “Watch — watch them wounds vanish as smoke" 
And the Passover Lamb — bleeding sweet, bleeding bright. 
“My lion — my lion — how wonder-full."

"How I love you, my oh my oh — how Deep and how Wide I love you."

alms for a nurse

In the mirror, there i am.

In the dust, there you are.

In the water, there we are..


In the eyes of the nurse, violet scrubs and ratty-ass Nike’s, cigarette dangling from her cracked lips; salt-n-pepper hair pulled back and coiled tight as a boxer’s fist — squatted on the curb and waiting for her 48 bus, on another hot fucking day where she’s going to have to care for another batch of dumb fucking people who’ve gotten themselves hurt for no good fucking reason.

In the eyes.

In the cracked lips.

In the boxer’s fist.


In this lonely hour — the beginning of a night shift, the beginning of a day shift, the beginning of twelve hours of prizefighting through red-tape bullshit again and again and again.

In this lonely hour — doubt transformed into helmet, anxiety transformed into breastplate, fear transformed into shield, mourning transformed into sword.

In this lonely hour — heart full of blood, lungs full of smoke, muscles full of wrath. 

In the red-tape bullshit. 

In the sword. 

In the blood..



Lions and Tigers and Bears...Amen

“I [Nebuchadnezzar] had a dream that made me afraid. As I was lying in bed, the images and visions that passed through my mind terrified me.”

daniel // four / five

+    +    +

I don’t dream as much as I used to; which scares me.

A lion, a lion — there’s a lion inside my chest — 

I dreamt something last night, but when I woke up in the middle of the night, I told myself I didn’t need to write it down, because I’d remember it. 

A tiger, a tiger — there’s a tiger inside my chest — 

When I woke up this morning, I’d forgotten all the details. All I remembered was there were three people, and I was one of them. 

A bear, a bear — there’s a bear inside my chest — 

I don’t dream as much as I used to, and I don’t write down my dreams like I used to, and I don’t wonder as much as I used to — but I still believe I was built for dreaming. 

I know my heart and my soul were built to be dream-makers and I know my hands and feet were built to be dream-makers.

Oh my — oh my — there’s a dream inside my chest — 

+    +    +

“In the first year of Belshazzar king of Babylon, Daniel had a dream, and visions passed through his mind as he was lying on his bed. He wrote down the substance of his dream.”

daniel // seven / one

+    +    +

Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Teach my heart to dream again. Teach my heart not to fear the lions, the tigers or bears.

Teach me tenderness in the lion’s den. Teach me grace in the fiery furnace. Teach me peace in the parting of the sea. 

More sleepless nights. More fragments. More of what I don't understand. 

Still me when the dreams shake my sternum. Hold me close when I squirm and seek to flee from the fire-breathing dream. Help me to count the costs and to take one step after the other — Right, then left; heart, then soul. 

Teach me what it is to love and be wild. Teach me what it is to dream and be your child.

Do I Still Believe in Magic?

Mozart’s dying, and it’s all his fault. 

Antonio Salieri, a good-but-never-great composer, a figurine thrashing against the Almighty, meets Mozart and views him as a lunatic or divine joke, a brat not worthy of the genius inside him. In response, he hatches a plan to drive Mozart insane and destroy God’s angel.

And now, standing at the foot of Mozart’s bed, looking at the dying cherub, he’s almost succeeded. 

Except now he sees, before him, an unfinished work — a requiem. He examines the sheet music, and he’s overcome by the beauty of the piece. 

Yet Mozart, near-delusional and beyond the point of saving, laments its unfinished nature. Salieri, compelled by a new vision, hatches one more plan:

“…Let me help. Let me help you finish it.”

Mozart’s spirit awakens. Salieri pulls a desk over and stacks up blank sheet music. Then, armed with ink and quill, he prepares to transcribe Mozart’s dictation.

He begins with the tenors, and in isolation, their voices float over both Mozart and Salieri. The bass voices follow, linked now with the tenors. Bassoon and trumpet and timpani and strings cascade behind them, instrument building upon instrument. Salieri struggles to keep up — 

“You’re going too fast!” 

“Do you have me?” Screams Mozart. Have you translated it right? Is it written?

Salieri finishes the last notation and flips the pages to Mozart, who lunges for them. His eyes scan the pages, his right arm raises as if he’s conducting the orchestra, and — 

— with Bombast and Goth and Power and Fury, the requiem rises to life, all parts in unison, more beautiful and terrifying than Salieri or Mozart could have imagined. God’s glory on full display.

+    +    +

This isn’t a story from the history books. This is a scene from a movie, Amadeus, which itself was an adaptation of a play. 

Regardless of whether or not one calls the veracity of the scene into the question, the scene still hits like a wrecking ball every time I watch it. 

Each time I watch Mozart conduct an invisible symphony, I feel the hair stand up on my arms. 

Every time Salieri sees God on the page, I believe in magic. 

Every time two men engage the divine and experience grace, healing, awe — it makes me want to be a storyteller all over again.   

+    +    +

Here now, the question I pose to myself: Do I still believe in magic? 

Do I still believe in the power of storytelling? 

Because this year I’ve felt, more than ever, like quitting. The spec projects I’ve worked on go out into the world, and return void. I feel like I’m throwing all heart and soul into the ether, and it makes me want to cage up all the wild animals in my ribcage, and snuff out all the flames in my lungs.  

Because the world doesn't need cute stories. The world doesn't need ugly stories, either. The world doesn't need fairy tales. The world needs shields and bricks and cash and gas and pills. The world needs justice and revenge and more bullets and higher walls and faster download speeds and more renewable resources. 

Because the world will not, cannot, listen to 'once upon a time.' Unless you're building an empire along with it, the world will not stand for 'in the beginning.' 

That’s something they don’t teach you in undergrad — not how to knock on the next door when the previous one shuts in your face, but how to keep knocking on the fucking door, period. 

Even when no one answers. Because Christ brought you to the door. Because He put a bird in your heart, full of song and radiant light, and He promised you He would teach you how to sing, and you said — 

“Father, I’m s-s-scared.” Like Moses at the Burning Bush, yeah? ‘Not a good a speaker,’ said Moses, ‘better off with someone else.’ But Padre, He smiles, and laughs deep, and he says — 

“I will teach you to sing. Because you are mine.”

And then He walks you to the door. 

“Now, knock.”

+    +    +

This is my story, this is my song. 

knock, knock. knock, knock. 

Praising my Savior, all the day long. 

knock, knock. knock, knock.

This is my story, this is my song.

knock, knock. knock, knock.

Praising my Savior, all the day long. 

knock, knock. knock, knock.