alpine honey

From his summer in the Italian Alps, Sean brought home a half dozen souvenirs: some herbal genepi from Aosta, a stick of torrone for dad and, from his hamlet in Val D’Otro, a round of fresh goat cheese. And a jar of alpine honey ”for Auntie Belinda,” he said. “I bottled it myself: it’s strong… Continue reading

being & nothingness

Reading Wittgenstein is a lot like contemplating zen: as soon as the magnesium ignites you catch a shadow of something at the edge of your vision and you’re instantly off into another bardo. No tags for this post.


Winooski is a small town just ouside of Burlington, Vermont, near lake Champlain and close enough to Canada that my father spoke fluent French all his life, albeit with a proletarian accent. It was also a mythologic place of maple syrup snowcones, woolen mills whose doors were locked right after the morning whistle, and a… Continue reading