Snowy Friday Night

Nami's Birthday

salsa dancing in the kitchen all night. i left brazil without learning the samba, making up for some lost lessons.

Dave Rawlings Machine (and Gillian Welch)

Eyes wide open, all watching him on stage smiling with his eyes closed. He dances and strums, sings, and smiles. A vision of happiness, unaware of the spectacular spell he has cast on the crowd. His knees buckle with each strum of the banjo and strain of his voice, unafraid of hitting the ground, his guitar neck holds him up, like a marionette he dances by the chords of the song.

Sunday gospel in a passionately beat-up club, beautiful wooden walls, a timeless stage draped in black velvet, denim shirts, red neck ties, banjos, violins and whiskey.

before the snow, autumnal grass. smile.

there has never been and will never be another human on this earth the same as you. you are absolutely, infinitely, unique.

As Children We Grow Like Trees

It's a hard argument to try and convince others, let alone yourself, that you are actually not yourself. At the moment, that is my challenge. It feels so enormous, it keeps me awake at night, crowding my bed and stealing my covers. I wish to help the disconnect between who I think I am, who I desire to be, and who I actually am, and make it hurt less... And sting more...

...With vibrant colors and sparks from fireworks.

This is a task that I have felt lurking inside me over many years now. Now I am ready for it. I want to capture the bees that inundate my day, and take them home to make honey. I want to find people and programs that will challenge every thing that I know. I want to climb trees and listen to what the wind tells me. I want to find you, and I want to find myself. I will wait for you at the Station Inn, I will be the one lying on the floor, in the grass, covered in flowers. I wonder if I will recognize myself.

Seattle