We live in a time with more communication than ever, yet less face-to-face conversation.

Maybe that is where this begins.

I write because I do.

My writing has its own kind of stream of consciousness.

It doesn’t seem to know how old I am, where I am in my life, what category something belongs in, or whether a thought began yesterday or forty years ago.

It just connects things.

A person. A memory. A question. Something I notice on a walk. Something somebody says. Something I suddenly understand differently than I did before.

Sometimes I catch it by talking into the small microphone clipped to my lapel as I walk — rambling, really — before the thought moves somewhere else.

That is often where the writing begins.

And then it travels.

You’ll find my writing running through almost everything I do.

Sometimes it appears inside a project. Sometimes in a biography or an explanation. Sometimes in a why. Sometimes in something published elsewhere. Sometimes in a piece that never had any particular destination at all.

Writing has never stayed neatly in one room for me.

So this site is where I’m letting it come home.

A kind of front porch for the writing itself.

Published and unpublished. Long and short. Named and unnamed. Part of something else or standing completely on its own.

I’m less interested in what to call it than in what might happen when it reaches someone else.

They may feel something.

A memory. A thought. A question. Maybe something of their own beginning to move.

That matters to me.

You’ll also find entrances here to the projects I create and the conversations I help make room for. They may look different from one another, but the impulse underneath them is much the same: to encourage someone to step in, write, speak, participate, and not judge themselves before they begin.

Not to stand at the edge deciding whether they belong.

Just to enter.

The stream of consciousness doesn’t know generation or status or classification.

It knows something happened here.

Something happened there.

And somehow the two connect.

Maybe between you and me.

And maybe that is what I have to believe.

Age plays with almost everything inside us.

It changes the body. The pace. The way we remember. The way we move through a day.

But I’m not sure it clouds the stream of consciousness.

I think that stream stays with us.

Like our stories do.

Still moving. Still connecting one thing to another. Still carrying something forward, even when we don’t yet know where it belongs.

Maybe that is why I write.

And maybe that is why this is here.