Essay by Martha Nichols
Chaos is a gaping seam in the orderly surface that everyone wants to believe in.
Chaos is a gaping seam in the orderly surface that everyone wants to believe in.
Love, joy, loss, and grief are all flowers on the same vine.
Growing up in the spaces between place and time changes how you see the world, the awareness that these constructs are malleable.
I love being sparked by art. It’s one of the best and oldest experiences to which we have access, and when you can achieve that by your own creation, that’s the jackpot.
The man who once stood on a chair was also the one who took me skating with him every Saturday morning when I was a girl.
Others might get sick, be hospitalized, or even die, but no one we know will really be affected by it.
Better to live alone than with this kind of emotional wreckage, I counseled myself.
If a group of people, maybe our entire planet, wanted to exit the wormhole, would their desire be enough to make it happen?
As I looked back, they sifted through the air, like ash, and resumed feeding.
Although the price is right, leafing through piles of trash looking for a gem isn’t exactly efficient.