Rainy night. The day began, after another rough night, although not as bad as some recently where all I want to do is not wake up, with a documentary on the luminous Paris before WWI and then in a post-war heyday of art and effusive creative forces from dada-ism to Andre Breton's "automatic writing," which … Continue reading Holy Night, Automatic Writing
From I don't know when found in a little notebook, oh how little things change: "...I'd be lying if I didn't say I was anxious most of the time. It's bieng in a city. And being most afraid of losing your way."
The journey has been both incredible and unbearable, a desperate grasping after grace and wholeness. These facts don’t tell you about the pain of trying to adjust to different cultures, of life losses that were almost too staggering to bear, of walking down railroad tracks at night in the middle of winter screaming into the … Continue reading “The Story Reads like a Prayer”