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Albino (part one)

I began writing Albino two million years ago. I had an editor then, who lived a few blocks away. We would meet for breakfast on Avenue A, quietly forking into home fries as we discussed the structure of the story - the economy of objects. A dollar bill was not just a dollar bill in this story, it was connected to thought and action, to music and transformation. This was the story that told me there was a whole book to dig into, mining for diamonds in the backwaters of America, turning over the ugliest rocks to better understand relationships between fathers and sons.

Last week, I stumbled across a call for submissions - not for a journal, but for a podcast where the work of new writers was read aloud. I thought back to a reading I had done of just the first few pages of Albino - a messy hero's journey,  a young man and a guitar, a man with loss and regret, a man that still had something to lose. That reading went well, enough that I felt a strange elation stepping off the stage i…

a series of surprises


We all live complicated lives. There is always a cross to bear, a stone that swings from our necks. Maybe every single one of us became Sisyphus in the middle of some sleepless night and just don't want to admit it. I cannot imagine a person who does not have some obstacle, some ladder to climb in the darkness on an endless loop.

But that is just life.

I met a girl, well a woman some years ago. She arrived in the strangest way, by such a series of chance events that it makes me dizzy to think about how easily we could not have crossed paths that curious and cold January night. But we did, and that is all that matters. At some point, you get lucky. As the saying goes, even a broken clock is right two times a day. And honestly, I was a broken clock when she found me.

So yes, she helps me carry my stones and of course I try to carry some of hers. By some curious math, the daily hustle gets easier. The stones add up to less than the sum of their parts this way. I don't try to overthink that.

She always smells like a million dollars. She still trounces from room to room like a little girl, skipping to a class she is late for. She cracks her gum, blows bubbles, makes wisecracks. Yes, she is that girl. I suspect if we met as teenagers things might end up about the same. She would tease me incessantly, foul words flying from her sharp tongue, eyes big and darting at my every advance. I would bring her flowers maybe, or some handmade necklace. I can imagine the eye rolls, the hot flush on her cheeks of embarrassment, that skipping away in brand new sneakers that squeak on the floors.

Today is our anniversary, married three years now. I took care of the presents because she has her hands full with the baby. I like to surprise her, even with what she bought for me.


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