Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Last year you started a play about a woman who rides her bicycle obsessively. 

And then you became that woman. You stopped writing. 

You are distracted all the time. By your legs when they are not pedaling. By your hair when it's not piled into a helmet. By your hands when they are not gripping the bars. By your voice when it's not tempered by wind.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014


My Lynskey is my ballerina bike. Some bikes sing. This bike, pirouettes. It is, its own barre.

Monday, June 30, 2014


"I saw red, and knew it was you."

I love, the moment of recognition. Both sides of it.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Rode home as the remnants of the concert crowd dispersed through the Park and into the night: knots of girls talking about boys; boys schlepping picnic blankets for girls talking about other boys. 

No extra rounds tonight; straight home, to escape the sirens and taxis, to finish my own unfinished sentence.

Friday, June 27, 2014

The Park at midnight, is a ballroom.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

You leave the shop, intending to go straight home. 

But the night air is intoxicating, awash with song. So you ride, in your finery, your fairy tale shoes, your white skirt billowing. Once, twice, three times you go around, maybe four - you lose track of the laps, like drinks.

Only then do you go home. And as you pull up to your door, there is a friend, unannounced, bringing you an armful of snap peas from his farmshare

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Twilight Ride

The horses are restless before the rain. The legs are singing. The heart is open, curtains billowing.

Darkness in the city, is a kind of origami, which folds itself.