Why I am blessed to walk in worlds where walls and souls are wrought with words
To work and walk a wandering way so when I close the page they'll stay
The same, await that moment when I wander by that way again
What welcome will they give me? Warm? I hope, but stay well braced for scorn
As when I'm gone their world stops dead - They wile away the hours in dread
I won't return to work their world, their moon unwaxed, their pages curled
By wonton wild distraction's flight - the things I'd rather do than write
Or worse that my attentions may drift...
At 8:30am this morning I signed on for a stressful Sunday. Today was the Australian Open men's final. Roger Federer and Rafa Nadal - In my opinion, the greatest match up in tennis.
It was a thing of beauty, and though it lacked the raw, emotional, swash bucking quality of some of the other great matches they've contested, most notably THAT 2008 Wimbledon final - widely regarded as the greatest tennis match of all time.
Theirs was and is a rivalry that any writer would dream of creating. Federer, the silky skilled finesse that was at his peak, almost unplayable, his...
For those of you who don't know me, I have to declare an obsession. I've had a love affair with tennis from my first lesson at five years old. I used to spend hours on the court, blessed with two talented tennis coach uncles who taught me and still teach me a thing or two, whether in hard core sessions on Rafa Nadal's home island of Majorca, or half frozen in the rain in a Scottish park in December. At 33, I have come to terms with the fact that I may never win Wimbledon so much of my joy is in watching the brilliance of what would have been my tennis generation enter the...
I dread this question... Which is convenient when trying to relocate to a country where practically nobody knows you and you KNOW it's going to be the first bloody question they ask.
I don't dread the question because of any embarrassment at my occupation. I long since got over and encouraged others to get over the curse of the embarrassed creative. Long since I stopped being an aspirational anything. (except belly dancer - more on that later)
I am more than willing to tell you when questioned that I'm a writer, even though that immediate...
We all know what they say about pens and swords. As a writer, should probably declare an interest and go out to bat for the value and power of my profession...
But when knee deep in the blood of my enemies, I know which I'd rather have.
I've been talking to people who are beginning to think that we are moving into a dystopian era. It is not hard to imagine Trump as the arch Nemesis of some kind of tech savvy batman figure. Unfortunately, the heroes seem less likely than the villains to defy the laws of common sense that prohibit their existence.
Hustle as a verb is something I'm familiar with. As a noun, it takes you firmly into the realm of my new would-be homeland. "Good hustle" is something I aspire to. My hustle has always been a more difficult beast to define. I am capable of extreme hustle in the service of writing and deadlines as well as motivation to get on a tennis court and over-compete, but the hustle I'm now needing is that of sending and receiving emails.
And I am not a patient person. This is the cycle I go through when sending mails with important subject matter at stake.
It has been hard this week not to get deeply political. I have the instincts, I have the form and I share the difficulty to understand the elevation of Trump to a level of power that matches his own demagoguery. I share the fear of those who aren't motivated by his principles and won't benefit from the reflected glow of his self-interest.
Beyond Trump himself and the huge personality that has unquestionable resonance with so many - enough to see him elected, what concerns me also is the elevation of a particular idea of what business is.
I had this terrible dream. Donald Trump, Ivanka and that characteristic mixture of Oompa loompas and sociopaths that make up his family were standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial amid a display of fireworks and fervently patriotic music. In the dream, Donald Trump had won the election and become leader of the free world.
And then the eyes of the Lincoln Statue opened and the 30 foot stone Lincoln rose like a troll from Lord of the Rings, grabbed and swallowed the tiny child in the big boy suit as other members of the Trump Family trampled Donald in the...
I visited San Francisco once when I was ten years old. My only memory is of very tangled traffic intersections and a weird variety of mayonnaise on the sandwiches my parents gave us for the journey that caused my younger sister to throw up on me while I was asleep.
Happily, this visit began in less traumatic fashion. Americans have the kind habit of numbering their streets and only building on exact right angled grids with the consequence that you can find your way without much struggle. (Though the generation Yers are still glued to their phones)