Writer. Rambler. Secretist. Nonbinary transfemme. They/them. https://www.patreon.com/tvs
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Routine. Not necessarily tedious, but it can be. There are sounds familiar and comforting, intrusive and annoying. Same sounds. The mundane is worldliness, being in and of the world. Worldly from surfeit, worldly from suffering. Worldward vision, worldward blockage. It’s out there. Even our interior is focused out there.
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Newsletter
Not all narrators are known. Many are known to Praxis, but not to you. Yet you follow along with this one, impelled by curiosity, lust, and an empty space both subtle and enticing. Per Diem You hurry down West 44th Street, rush through the revolving door. Your mind wanders as
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When folks see the name Van Santana—which is usually how it is styled, rather than van Santana or Van Santāna—the tendency is to think Santana like Carlos Santana, which is fine and not entirely unintentional; yet there is also santāna (or saṃtāna), a Sanskrit word that means something
gaucho
Pem and I walk with Rogger, and I ask, “So who is the Maiden in Black Mail?” Rogger pulls a pipe and packs it. “Don’t know, Will.” “But she’s hunting you?” Rogger nods. “Yes, she is. Has been for a few moons now.” Pem says, “She’s the
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Newsletter
In response to the ideas and questions posed here, by the lovely and talented Chevanne, this … A body of work. My body does the work, of my mind. It makes a body of work. A body of work like a body of water—an ocean, vast and undulating, still and
gaucho
“Pem, I see a cave.” “Me, too, William.” “Do we know this cave?” “I don’t. Do you?” “I can’t remember.” Pem puts a paw to her face. “Of course not. Okay, let’s check it out.” We go to the cave. “It’s awfully dark in there,” Pem
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Newsletter
Submission. You display your discipline. You submit. You are submitted, too. You are the audition, and the audition is you, there splayed on the page, laid bare. Submitted. You are the words that eeked out. You are the action, the pout, the clout or no clout, the one who did
gaucho
My feet hit the soil, and it’s spongy. I sink in to about my knees. “Oh, my!” I say. Pem’s hissing and spitting at a frog, who is staring at her from a lily pad floating on the little lake. “I’m here, Pem!” Pem’s back is
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