September 2026

"Hear it: the land is speaking now, has been speaking since before the first mouth opened in the red dark of morning, has been speaking through the interval of all that burning and all that silence, and it will speak past the last mouth that closes in the cooling air of whatever evening comes final. Listen. The land names itself first—canyon, caliche, chalk-white escarpment that remembers the sea's floor, remembers the weight of water that has not come again in seven thousand years, remembers the slow accumulation of shell and silence that became this shelf of stone where the hawk turns now without wing-beat on the thermal's invisible shoulder. This is the record. The land is the record. Not paper, not carved stone, not the syllables arranged by those who came briefly and believed they were the first. The land is the record, and it holds everything, and it has been holding everything longer than holding has a name."

I never really appreciated birding. There are a lot of beautiful birds, but birders seem to care about small patterns and habits, the way a bird moves through its world. I never cared about any of that. As far as I can tell, it’s not that dissimilar to other animals.

But birdsong is fascinating. Birds act as nature’s alarm system. Most people, when they think of birdsong, are probably thinking of the calls birds use to warn the area of danger. If you sit outside long enough, you can hear the shift: the call easing from alarm back into song once whatever startled them has passed.

Admittedly, being surrounded by birds and spending so much time on the porch of this little cottage in the middle of nowhere, I’m starting to develop a quiet fascination. I’ve been watching a group of Cardinals molt and regrow their feathers. Another small group of aggressive birds with grayish, almost bluish feathers, white chests, and little mohawks. Recently, a small woodpecker with black feathers and white spots showed up, along with a goldfinch with a yellow chest and black wings.

I’m still not all that interested in their behavior, as much as in the types of birds that come through. How the mix changes. How different birds appear as it gets colder up north. It’s like watching a slow migration of color and shape. Maybe that’s the part of birding I can appreciate. The way presence shifts with the seasons, the way the landscape tells you who’s passing through.

 

September 10

I went out on the town yesterday. I usually work at home, but I needed to finish some website design for a client, so I decided to work at Selah Café. Selah used to be someone’s home. Most of the tables were occupied. In the front room, each table had two or three people. I didn’t see any cell phones or laptops, just the rumble of conversation absorbed through the old wood; it was nice to see. I sat next to the window in the back room, facing another window that looked out onto the porch. A couple of high schoolers were on laptops, doing whatever high schoolers do on laptops.

Afterward, I drove through town a couple of times, made a loop, and went down Main Street twice. It was three in the afternoon, so I stepped inside Salvador Dobbs— a speakeasy‑style place off River Road—and asked for an Old Fashioned with a smoky twist. I slipped into a conversation with the bartender and another patron and ended up ordering a second Old Fashioned, which is rare for me these days. I’m a one‑drink kind of guy, but I drink slowly.

I went to dinner at 28 Songs, new since I was last in the area. It’s a burger, beer, and wine joint. I’ve mostly quit drinking beer, but I’ll make an exception if a microbrewery claims to have the best beer in the region. 28 Songs doesn’t make the claim, so I didn’t bother. But the burger was fucking awesome.

I drove back to the cottage, listening to the local radio and watching the sky turn orange. A simple day, but a good one. The kind that reminds you how grounding it can be to step out of your routine and let the world show you its small, ordinary rhythms.

 

September 11

I was a sophomore in high school on September 11, 2001. I was on my way to ACT/SAT Prep, a class held in a trailer near the teacher parking lot. I managed to get away with parking there on and off throughout high school. I was standing outside the trailer when one of my classmates told me something had happened. No one was sure what exactly. Throughout the day, every teacher decided whether to show the footage, and none of my four teachers had a television visible anywhere in the rooms.

The tragedy of that day is unparalleled.

I moved to New York City in 2008. Not long after arriving, I visited the site. I sat on the corner of Fulton and Greenwich Streets; fences stood tall, concealing the remaining rubble. I have friends who watched the smoke rise from the towers that morning from the windows of their homes. I can’t even imagine.

It’s almost two in the afternoon here, and I only just opened my laptop, turned on my phone, and started scrolling. At first, I felt the same confusion and sadness I always feel on this day. But then I noticed something else: the competition. The way political affiliations try to outperform one another in displays of patriotism. The way the day becomes a stage for proving how American each side can appear. And I suppose today’s as good a day as any for that performance. A day defined by loss, grief, memory, becomes a day of posturing; a day when the tragedy itself feels quieter than the noise built around it.

 

September 12

Wait till dark. Turn off the lights in your space. Get comfortable. The following is your playlist tonight: 

Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd; Live in Pompeii

 

Miranda That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore, The Mars Volta; Frances the Mute

 

In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3, Coheed & Cambria; In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3

 

Schism, Tool; Lateralus

 

Big Dark Love, Murder by Death; Big Dark Love

 

September 13

My parents met while attending the University of Texas. My sister was at UT when Vince Young led the Longhorns through that historic undefeated season. The first time UT faced Ohio State. And last night, I watched the Longhorns come back from a 20‑point deficit to beat #1 Ohio State 24–23 in the final minutes.

It doesn’t matter where I’m living. I’m a Texas Longhorns and San Antonio Spurs fan through and through.

 

September 14

I started writing this novel while living in a hotel in Montana. I came out to a cottage in the Texas Hill Country for the winter so I could work on it without distraction. A few minutes ago, I finished the first draft.

Right now it’s sitting at 142,894 words. The second draft is going to be exciting; the part where the shape sharpens and the real work begins...

 

September 15

When an organization or affiliation tries to cover something up—when they look the other way, ignore a behavior, and resist the truth—I don’t understand the impulse to keep concealing it. We move forward, heal, or rebuild any foundation of trust that exists only in truth and in the acknowledgment that mistakes were made or that harmful people were finally removed.

It’s bizarre how often institutions choose the opposite; they double down; they protect the image instead of the people inside it. They treat transparency like a threat rather than a path toward repair. And once that pattern sets in, it becomes almost impossible for anyone involved to admit what went wrong. Pride and/or fear take over. The illusion of stability becomes more important than reality.

But nothing healthy grows from denial. Nothing strong is built on silence. The only way anything improves—a community, a workplace, a movement, a relationship—is through the uncomfortable work of naming what happened and choosing not to repeat it. Truth isn’t just a moral preference; it’s the only material sturdy enough to build on.

 

September 16

It’s interesting how we reframe our character and personality around our political and religious affiliations. We adopt the platform and the dogma as if they’re part of our identity. Once we register as Democrat or Republican, we start defending every aspect of the platform—fiercely, automatically—whether we actually believe it or not. And we defend it until we do believe it. The affiliation becomes the lens, and the lens becomes the personality.

It makes more sense to me to explore self. To see the world through our own interior, not through a party’s script. To pay attention to the emotion as it surfaces and when; to sit with it, understand it, and decide whether we want those emotions to define how we react in certain situations. And if not, to learn how to update our habits and reactions. And then, ask ourselves whether who we are aligns more with a Democratic or Republican ideology, and whether the parts of the platform we don’t agree with should shape us.

You do not have to defend those parts. Instead, believe whatever you believe regardless of platform or affiliation. Identity doesn’t have to be inherited; we do actually get to shape who we are through self‑examination.

 

September 17

My writing routine in the hotel had its own kind of romance. I woke up later in the morning because I worked nights and went to sleep late. Whenever I needed to explore a thought or figure out how to shape a sentence, I’d slip out of my room and wander upstairs, usually to the third floor—because the photos on the walls up there were my favorite. I’d walk the third and fourth-floor halls, having conversations in my head, my arms and hands moving as if I were stirring the thoughts themselves, composing my story. When the idea finally clicked, I’d run back to my room, trying to keep pace with whatever had just taken shape. Sometimes I’d sit on the rooftop patio, looking out through the mountains into the story, letting the landscape blur into the work.

The cottage is a different kind of romance. Everything about it shifts the routine. I wake up earlier, with the conversations of birds surrounding the cottage, and the windows catching the light throughout the day. I drink tea on the patio while layers of green shiver as birds, squirrels, insects, deer, and other critters move through the branches. My laptop sits on the table next to me. I set it on my lap to build a sentence, then place it back on the table to watch a baby deer play forty yards away. Then I pick it up again, my thoughts passively working in the background. I walk the trails I’ve mowed short through the six acres of property. I step slowly and quietly, listening to and mimicking the wind rustling through the leaves. I stop writing earlier in the day and sit thoughtlessly on the patio, listening to birdsong. My cats sleep beneath my chair and at my feet.

Both experiences are romantic and inspiring, neither more so than the other.

 

September 18

There’s another way to think about healing through acknowledgment, not just in the context of institutions. Society talks a lot about coping with trauma, managing symptoms, learning strategies to function around the pain. We rarely talk about healing. And I find that fascinating. I don’t know if it’s an intentional manipulation of language or just the first framework we stumbled into as a culture that gained momentum; however, the result is the same: we treat trauma as something permanent, something we can only work around, never through.

But coping isn’t the end of the story. Managing symptoms isn’t the same as repair. We can heal. Although it requires effort, attention, and a willingness to be conscious of what we’re looking for and why. Healing asks us to sit with ourselves, to listen to what rises when we’re quiet, to explore our relationship with our own pain instead of avoiding it.

Meditation helps with that. Not the performative kind, not necessarily the guided scripts or the apps, but the simple act of quieting the mind and asking a question: What am I holding on to? Why am I anxious? What part of me is still reacting to something that happened years ago? And then waiting: listening; letting the body answer in its own language: a memory, a feeling, a tightening, a flicker of something unnamed.

That’s acknowledgment too. The kind that makes healing possible. The kind that lets you stop coping and start repairing. The one that teaches you that trauma isn’t a fixed identity; it’s a wound, and wounds can close if you’re willing to look at them directly.

 

September 19

I saw a profile earlier that said something like, “If you ‘don’t do politics,’ don’t connect with me, because I’m really into reproductive rights, LGBTQ+ rights, and…”—implying that not participating in politics means not caring about human rights or political issues in general. Reading that was interesting. Because for me, “not doing politics” has never meant apathy. It’s not a lack of passion for human rights, social justice, or the issues that shape people’s lives. It’s something else entirely.

When I say I “don’t do politics,” I mean I don’t participate in the performance of politics: the spectacle, the argument, the identity-building around affiliation; our political atmosphere today is designed to pull people into conflict, not participation: conflict. And once you’re in the argument, you’re in the rabbit hole. You’re reacting, defending, signaling. You’re inside a loop that feels like engagement but isn’t; it can’t be.

That’s the part that fascinates me. The assumption that affiliation equals identity. That choosing a party means choosing a personality. That caring about human rights means you must also care about the daily political argument, the constant commentary, the endless cycle of outrage. But you can care deeply about people without stepping into the arena. You can act on your values directly; through your life, your choices, and your relationships, instead of through the argument that passes for political engagement.

I’m only skirting the edge of the thought, but the core is this: affiliation has become a substitute for identity; argument a substitute for action. Opting out of the spectacle can protect your ability to think, feel, and act on what actually matters.

 

September 20

There’s a kind of thinking that only happens when I’m moving. When I’m walking slowly enough that my mind can wander without direction. In the hotel, that meant pacing the third‑floor hallway, slipping past the framed photographs I’d memorized without meaning to. I wasn’t trying to escape anything; I was trying to stay inside the world I was building. Movement helped. It stirred the thoughts, loosened the knots, made the next sentence feel reachable.

I mentioned that I’d walk with my hands moving as if I were shaping the air, stirring the story awake. Sometimes I’d catch myself talking under my breath, rehearsing a line or arguing with a character. The hallways became part of the process. A narrow, private stage where the novel could stretch its legs before I ran back to my room to keep up with whatever had just surfaced.

Here at the cottage, the motion is different. The trails I’ve mowed through the six acres aren’t hallways; they’re invitations. I walk them slowly, listening to the leaves rustle, mimicking the rhythm without meaning to. The land doesn’t stir my thoughts; it steadies them. Ideas don’t rush at me the way they did in the hotel. They arrive quietly, almost politely, as if they’ve been waiting for me to notice.

My mind behaves differently out here. It moves the way I do: slowly, deliberately, unhurried. And somewhere in that shift, the work feels less like something I have to catch and more like something I can meet halfway.

 

September 21

One hour of every day that feels like it belongs only to me. At the hotel, I had to carve it out. Usually late at night, when the building settled and the hallways emptied. It was the hour when the noise finally dropped low enough for me to hear myself think. I’d sit on the hard wood floors, my legs stretched out in front of me, in the corner of the building on the second floor, at two in the morning; the only sound was the hum of the train, and I'd feel like I’d found a pocket of time no one else could touch.

Here at the cottage, the hour arrives on its own. I don’t have to chase it. It’s early morning, when the birds begin their conversations, and the light begins to move through the windows. I drink tea on the patio, the air still, the land waking up slowly. It’s the hour when I allow my thoughts to drift through. Where I remember what it feels like to be fully present.

Both versions taught me something about myself: that I need a moment each day where the world steps back far enough for me to hear the quiet part of my mind, the part that doesn’t speak unless I make room for it.

 

September 22

It’s a photography day.

I’m spending the day in San Antonio, Texas.

 

September 23

I walked around downtown San Antonio yesterday taking photographs. I parked in a small lot off W Nueva Street, not my usual spot. My usual spot is the little parking lot off Santa Rosa, the one I grew up using, one nobody has ever discovered and still hasn’t. But construction blocked the area, so I tried the Nueva lot instead. The pay‑to‑park machine wasn’t behaving. It wouldn’t acknowledge my debit card. When I tried cash, it recognized the payment but refused to process it. The receipt it spit out read, “Not a Valid Parking Receipt. $20 Paid. $20 NOT refunded.”

I folded the top half of the receipt back so the invalid part wasn’t visible, circled the rest, underlined $20 Paid—$20 NOT refunded, left it on the dash, and headed toward El Mercado.

El Mercado was one of my favorite places to visit in San Antonio, growing up in the Texas Hill Country. I loved the Native American flute music, the crowds, the shops, the general vibe. It always felt alive. I wanted to take pictures there because of the cultural representation, and specifically the papel picado, the colorful Mexican banners strung above the main market corridor. It was early in the day, so the space was quiet, but the colors still carried the energy. I got some good shots.

From there, I walked through La Villita—the galleries are still great—then over to Hemisfair Park, before making my way along the River Walk and up around the Alamo. And holy shit! That area has changed! Much of downtown San Antonio has changed, and mostly for the better, at least on the surface. After wandering around, I went back down to the River Walk and stayed a while, taking pictures, watching the water move beneath the walkways.

I wanted to eat somewhere I’d never been, so I sat outside Buffalo Blue Restaurant, overlooking the river and the amphitheater beneath La Villita. The food was okay, but the moment was nice.

The highlight was the murals. San Antonio has some of the most incredible murals: huge, detailed, emotional pieces painted on the sides of buildings and in alleyways most people probably never see. They’re stunning. I took over 300 photos, and on my initial run‑through, I deleted only 70.

There are more photos I want to take in different parts of the city. That’ll be San Antonio Part II. Part I was an overwhelming success. I had a great time.

 

September 24

You can learn a lot about yourself when your morning routine is interrupted.

 

September 25

I rewatched Season 1, Episode 1 of Schitt’s Creek last night, and it might be the funniest full‑length pilot episode ever made. It’s perfectly calibrated. The whole thing lands with this effortless confidence.

The Roses lose everything and have to move to a town Johnny once bought as a joke, and instead of leaning into slapstick or chaos, the episode plays it straight. The humor comes from the characters reacting to their new reality with absolute sincerity. Moira’s theatrical panic, David’s fragile snobbery, Alexis’s breezy self‑interest, Johnny’s bewildered dignity. Every introduction is clean, immediate, and weirdly tender.

What gets me is how fully formed the world feels from the first twenty‑two minutes. The motel, Stevie’s dry indifference, Roland’s chaotic friendliness. It’s all there. Most pilots are trying to convince you to watch. This one feels like it’s letting you in on something that already exists.

I don’t know if it’s objectively the funniest pilot ever made, but it’s the funniest one I’ve ever seen. Comedy lands best when it feels like it wasn’t engineered, as if it’s happening naturally, almost accidentally. Schitt’s Creek starts that way: a family losing everything and somehow becoming funnier, more human, and more themselves in the process.

 

September 26

Removing old fiberglass shower panels. And preparing to install new plumbing for the new shower system today.

 

September 27

Installed new plumbing. Cut and fit new fiberglass panels. Installed a new shower system with exposed brass piping; also built 2x4 bracing to allow the fiberglass panels to set in 24 hours.

 

September 28

Still, there's nothing more appealing to me than living in an Airstream: parking wherever I want to park, exploring amazing places, avoiding social systems, interacting with others when and how I want, and watching the world slip by on Adaptive Cruise Control set at about 64 mph - writing and taking pictures.

 

September 29

I don’t understand why every relationship seems to involve surpluses of unnecessary drama. Relationships are complicated anyway; two or more people with different histories, different emotional vocabularies, different ways of listening. But what makes them more complicated is how rarely we recognize that, in any given conversation, each person walks away with a different version of what happened.

It’s not just that people “take something different away.” It’s that they highlight different parts of the conversation entirely. Someone might hear a sentence in a certain way and apply meaning to it that the speaker never intended or even considered. The receiver might center their emotional response on what the speaker meant only as a segue or miscommunicated. In contrast, the speaker believed the real substance was in an entirely different observation. The segue becomes the receiver’s focus. A different observation becomes the speaker’s.

And then the receiver often never brings it up again. They process the segue as the heart of the conversation, believing it’s now part of the shared understanding. Meanwhile, the speaker walks away believing they expressed and received an entirely different point. The receiver might think it’s the speaker’s responsibility to revisit the moment, but how can they? They don’t know the moment exists. They left the conversation believing something else mattered.

This is just one example, one tiny fracture, but it’s enough to shift the relationship dynamic. Multiply it by weeks, months, years, and you get the quiet accumulation of misunderstandings that people later call “drama,” even though the drama wasn’t intentional. It was structural. It was built into the way people listen, interpret, and carry meaning.

Sometimes I think the real work of relationships isn’t communication but interpretation; learning how someone hears you, learning how you hear them, and noticing the places where those two things don’t line up. Drama doesn’t always come from conflict. Sometimes it comes from the simple fact that two people walked away from the same moment believing two different things happened. And that’s only one example. And now, on top of the many possible examples of unconscious relationship dynamics, add our immature, conscious responses: power dynamics, etc.

 

September 30

I think it's a lot harder for people to support one another than anyone is willing to admit.