“Mi manchi”— They say in Prato. “想你”— Someone says back in Wenzhou, or Fujian. “Miss you”— It’s been translated again, And it will be translated many more times, By the many, In places called home—or not home.

Me: I’m afraid to speak. Speaking means being misunderstood, being judged, being hurt. I’d rather be invisible—silent, but safer—than watch my own honor be attacked. Santa Croce: You sound like Dante when he first exiled from the city. He, too, thought silence was safer than return. Me: So, what happened to him later? Santa Croce: … Continue reading A Conversation with Santa Croce

Philosophies of landscape often fall into an endless tunnel: “Only this meaning is real; all others are secondary, mistaken, or illusory.” So, we find painters and poets devoted to “art for art’s sake” on benches, cultural critics passionately discussed questions of identity, power and control in lectural halls, and finally, existential thinkers softly signs “this … Continue reading Three Layers of landscape in Stibbert Park

After a sweltering morning at the post office and an afternoon tortured by the smiling name tags and bright, wordy posters of the info fair, it was 5:30 p.m., a time when the sun hung suspended in indecision—too high for rest, too low to offer purpose.I was tired—but not yet tired enough to surrender. Without … Continue reading The Field Between Villa Natalia and Villa Ulivi at 5:30 p.m.

Stories, thoughts, and places that have shaped me along the way.