You won’t find news or updates here — only fragments.
Stories, photographs, essays, and notes from a life lived close to the elements.
The priest's hands keep finding the same four shapes in the smoke — thumb to two fingers, flat to the chest, open toward the flame, and back again — a sequence that means something to him and nothing to the dozen of us sitting cross-legged…
An evening with a Mark Knopfler song, and the difference between a life that was handed to you and one you built badly, then well, plank by plank. There is a song I return to on the evenings when the valley has gone quiet and…
There is a road above the town that I take sometimes before the light has fully decided what kind of morning it wants to be. The deodars on either side are still dark at that hour, their shapes more suggested than visible. The valley below…
There is a class of travel in India that has no class, and that is precisely its character. The general compartment does not assign you a berth. It assigns you a position in the human arrangement, which shifts constantly and belongs to no one. Ticket…
There is a moment, in most working lives, that arrives without announcement and is not easily forgotten. Someone calls you into a room, or sends a message, or schedules a meeting with a subject line that gives nothing away, and in the next few minutes…