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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…

this is Monday



Fifty souls, and surely more when the day is done. Mothers, sons, uncles, loners, school teachers, some with tattoos, some with red hair, some in a favorite pair of boots. I can imagine the warm air. There was laughter and cold beer. Then, people running wild, down airport runways and filling the streets. The pictures come. The gritty videos. The screams. The slap of the gunshots. In all of its ugly, unvarnished truth, this is our world and this is my country. 

This is Monday.






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