Love Over Lotions

Image: Author with his Wife, Moving into Natural life

It’s true, thanks to the colorist, the first touch of winter’s grey has been disguised, and it’s true, too, lines are forming about the corners of her eyes, but she is a woman more beautiful than any words of love can describe.
A body no longer adorned or shaped by Givenchy…

There’s not much to know. I’ve been fortunate. Now I write.

Image: Author

My life began beneath a shrub on a roundabout in Gants Hill, Essex, U.K. (No, I’m not Moses!) I was found by a young couple leaving the Odeon cinema having spent their evening watching a Spencer Tracy movie, Edward, My Son.

With no parents claiming me, I was put up…

Lori is my child muse. When life is complicated, I bring Lori to me for her innocence and her simplistic views on the world and the creativity she brings to my work.

Image: Author

Fully into autumn, I feel the sun’s last warmth soothing my temples and hear the deer rustling through leaves on the forest floor.

“Mr. Harry…help me, will you? I don’t know how to get in.”

Of course, she doesn’t; the last time Lori visited me, I lived in Mendocino, on…

Hong Kong to Missouri, the Owl hooted

Image: Author. A different perspective

It’s for my own sanity, beer and whiskey
But no more the lassies, once a might frisky
I can’t find my shoes, my pants are somewhere
And where is my shirt, and just look at my hair

There’s no fucking ocean, no sand to walk on
And what of my bed…

Hemingway is sitting with his back to Frank

Photo by 五玄土 ORIENTO on Unsplash

Havana’s beauty is marvelous in its sadness. The dusky cream faces of children’s smiles dipped into moons, and orgies of women crying on street corners, while men, rolling cigars between fingers, gamble away their money in crowded markets with expensive produce: ripe plantain, sweet potatoes, malanga, guava, papaya, the fruits…

Time change, life change, lies change…

Image: Author with prodigal daughter

The clocks were changed one hour backward, an hour hidden until spring; an hour in which anyone can hide their deepest secrets.

It is an hour of time that went somewhere, an hour where no one lives, no echoes heard, no wind moves the tree limbs, no night, no day…

Harry Hogg

I was born in London, adopted, lived my youth on an island off the west coast of Scotland. I now live in California. I write to travel.

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