The pale colors and the loud colors remain ever at odds.
The sight lines are sinewy as elbows on old men. The women are tough and smart and beautiful. The streets are smelly and obstreperous. The nights do not end, but stretch out over time like oceans of chaotic promise. The day heaves its breathless asthmatic breath.
I love how green green gets in the last of the sun.
Somewhere along the way all those things that our parents dragged us to become the things we show up for ourselves.
Learning to shoot better is, moreover, a part of learning to see the world differently — through more analytical eyes. Which brings me to Don Imus. This will all make sense, I promise.
My first reaction to the Imus comments was the kind of weary, jaded amusement that I take from everything that seems hopelessly unfair, crude, utterly unremarkable and American. In a word, my reaction was cynical.