Biography & Contact
Piles of newsprint paper that could be stapled together and turned into books when I was a kid. The clackety clack of my father's typewriter in the next room, my mother practicing her lines for the next play, my grandmother reading me her latest poem. An empty lot across the street whose weeds turned into a magical forest, where you could sit for hours in the pomegranet tree, spitting seeds on the ground. After that, it was friends, freeways, and foreign countries.