Whereas Love in Rage is caught in the gravity of the genocide in Gaza and solidarity encampments, these easy essays are pulled to a different, but not wholly unrelated, realm: the mystical.

I write to you who have been shaken by the ongoing genocide and who, with peers across the country, were called to encampments.

And I was the singer, and I was the song, I tried to remember all those years in the dark.

What becomes clearer here is the shape of the Monster and the shape of what escapes Its grasp.

The following collection grew out of a pedagogical experiment, or better, a leap of faith taken with students.

I never learned a lick of the language, but I understood every word. His eyes, his whole body, spoke their meaning to me.

I forget the magic of words. I forget the spells cast from sounds formed into shapes that, when combined carefully, reveal something of the world and can change it in the process.

Liberation is, in essence, remembering. One remembers what the Social Matrix forced them to forget. One remembers the dismembered parts of the whole.

Rather than a hollow vehicle, quickly typed and quickly consumed, the mindful word becomes a clear bridge that connects writer, world, and reader. We hope you can follow that bridge to our garden.

I pray to you, My God whose Face is reflected in those who remember, who march in step, whose chain-linked hands break all chains.

I see these as an expression of our shared Being (Lianne-Aislynn-Niall) as It rubbed against the edges of Mortality and Eternity, as It moved through a desert with no guaranteed promised Land.

My good friend Jay just released his collection of one thousand super-short stories. As you read these stories, you’ll see one man’s soul take shape, and you’ll see your own reflected back. To invite you in, I offer this essay I wrote about Jay followed by links to each book of a thousand stories.

I’m starting to see what he meant by the word. Poor. Those snakes of a two-legged variety may have great wealth and power, but they’re impoverished in a deeper sense. They lack what Da had in abundance.

I wonder, when they fail to reach their prescribed destinations, will their thoughts be akin to mine: What was it all for? Was it worth it? What am I worth? Not just nothing; less than nothing: a life in the red.

When we focus on the surface, we risk losing sight of the historical context surrounding Winne’s self-immolation. We also miss more profound secrets. I write now to whisper some of these secrets to you, so that you may whisper them to others