I fell down the rabbit hole, crawling through hell on Dante’s back, carried by him as he was by Virgil. I’ve been singing with the chorus of dear Oedipus’ fate and marveling at Ovid’s tree swaying in birth as its bark split open to give the world Adonis. I am battling seas with Homer and finding Utopia with More, to come.
To be a writer, I must read. Columbia University gave me my start, but as my life keeps moving forward, I realize there is no return to who I once had been. So to England, Goldsmiths college I went, by way of these keys, and into books I now surrender. In the spaces in-between, I am beginning to write my own stories, my own book of fateful tales.
I won’t be here much since I’ve gone back to the beginning. I will try and occasionally post something if I can find the time to ever look up, but Red Dirt Lattes will be a sleepier joint for now.