Tag Archives: John Hiatt

Purple Chimes and Valentines

“Sweet as” was in the glossary I picked up from fellow travelers during my recent adventure. It’s a New Zealand term of assurance: all is well, “no worries” (a phrase that now hits my ear as  well-meaning  but oxymoronic, a double-negative … Continue reading

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The Light You Do Not See

At 4:30 a.m. the waterfront view is fully saturated one day and colorless mist the next. The best hints I gather from my starting vantage point a few blocks away lie in the light: usually a patch of shimmering silvery-slate … Continue reading

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Like a Burning Spear

It’s about 1:30 a.m. and I’m thirteen hours into a ten-hour trip in the dog days of August. I’m alone in the baby blue mom van, lost off a highway, pulled over in a dingy industrial park somewhere in Connecticut–either … Continue reading

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The Quiet Conjurer

Signs from above need not bring you to your knees. Nor do the bright copper departed always tap at your shoulder, or tickle your heel. Messages and messengers  that appear in forms our five senses perceive–a touch, a bird’s rustle, … Continue reading

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