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In 100, by Wyatt on June 19, 2019 at 9:58 am

The sixth sense wasn’t seeing dead people. It was seeing four dimensional space. Daria figured it out first, then she taught me. You just had to stare at something, like a chair, for long enough that when you closed your eyes you could still see it. Then with your eyes closed we could see into the chair, every level of wood grain, every puff of cotton in the cushion.

The seventh sense discovered was being able to “see” or “feel” the material/chemical properties of the stuff around us. We didn’t have words for it, so we called it “matting”.


New Planet Discovered

In by Wyatt on June 18, 2019 at 1:33 pm

Astronomers hunting for intelligent life scratched their heads when the first Earth-like planet was discovered by an eight-year-old, in her microscope.

Barely larger than a grain of sand, the planet roiled with oceans, teemed with animals, and sustained its own atmosphere.

Scientists invented nanoscopes to observe its intricate ecosystems. Supernose dogs were bred to analyze its microflowers. One DJ claimed his tracks sampled the tiny thunder, and a Michelin chef used flavonoids extracted from its miniscule herbs.

But each sensory experience just raised more questions than it answered.

Only the eight-year-old understood. Senses don’t show reality, they just interpret it.

Returning home

In 100, by Wyatt on February 5, 2019 at 7:00 am

A roiling melange of utterly peaceful, vibrantly social, and terrifyingly, familiarly lonesome. I am practicing being here. I drink my tea and eat my banana sitting amidst silent, empty walls after Lara leaves. And I plot my day. It will take sustained work to rewrite old patterns of worry and solitude. I know what I need to do, and have begun to do it. But it is not easy, or fun. The light at the anus at the end of these mental bowels I crawl through is self-respect and confidence in myself like I have never known. A worthwhile goal.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 6, 2018 at 2:59 pm

Goose pecked the frozen gravel. “Tasty,” she said.

Squirrel nodded. Yesterday he left tiny footprints in wet concrete and there was still grit between his toes.

“We’ll stop in Carolina, if we’re lazy. Cuba if we’re audacious,” offered Goose.

Squirrel nodded. He’d stayed in this park by the river for his whole life. Those names were just abstract concepts for ‘places beyond’. They might as well describe the other river bank.

“Doing okay, old friend?” Goose asked.

Squirrel nodded. He‘d stashed acorns aplenty.

“See you in Spring,” Goose said, honking at her entourage and taking to the sky.

Squirrel nodded.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 3, 2018 at 9:07 pm

“If you can’t write about everything, write about something smaller.”

“Smaller than the universe? What about Earth.”




“Massachusetts?” Pause. “Cambridge? This house?” Pause. “My bathroom? It’s white…”


“This towel.”


“This square centimeter of towel.”

“Start there.”

“It’s grey like warm slate. There are wispy cotton strands arranged in neat rows, but many have been pushed askew. Some strands end in fine points, stretched from years of use. Others are rounded. It feels like dry moss. It isn’t moving. It’s surrounded by fabric that looks just like it.”

“There’s a lot to say about a towel.”

Tide Pool

In 100, by Wyatt on December 2, 2018 at 3:15 pm

Fish teased Crab. Crab ran away. Crab’s Father couldn’t find Crab.

Father cut off Fish’s tail.

Fish couldn’t swim. Fish cried.

Shrimp heard Fish. Shrimp‘s siblings carried Fish. They found Father.

Fish apologized. Father apologized. Shrimp stitched Fish’s tail back on. Together they looked for Crab.

Crab had met Anemone. Anemone said “I love you, Crab.”

Father found Crab. “Come home,” he said.

“No,” said Crab. “Anemone loves me.”

Anemone met Eel. Now Anemone loved Eel. Crab cried.

Fish said to Crab, “I loved you all along.”

Crab kissed Fish.

Father thanked Shrimp.

Anemone dumped Eel.

Octopus ate them all.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 1, 2018 at 2:09 am

Halea knew how to surf. But she knew the limits of her skill. And today the beach was frothing.

“You’re too weak for this swell,” said Doubt. “The sets are too frequent. You’ll never paddle out.”

Doubt raised his voice. “These waves probably won’t kill you, but they might. Why do you want to do this?”

The ocean’s power was unmatchable but she had a secret of her own. She couldn’t hear Doubt.

When the horizon rose up in dark ripples, when the vertical face loomed, when others questioned whether to let this one go, she simply went for it.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 2:52 pm

Iaeou had an unpronounceable name, and this suited her. When she was two she bounced away from her mother and into the mouth of a lion. Then she wiggled out of its jaws and bounced right back home.

Her bounciness didn’t diminish with age. Some times were good— that day she invented the flamingo game and everyone joined. Some were hard— that night her hammock untied and she woke up falling. But she stayed bouncy, because people wouldn’t always play her games, and she could learn better knots. Each day would feel different from yesterday, and would change again tomorrow.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 5:04 am

Dello’s mother was the wind. Her father was the water. She was born atop waves between two unknown lands. She walked her first steps along wood planks floating upon the ocean.

When she turned ten she went ashore and met normal children. She knew they were normal because they told her. This is also how she discovered she wasn’t.

One day she demanded that her parents fix her.

They said she was perfect.

She said they were wrong.

That night her parents wept, and their anguish whipped up a hurricane. She ran to warn the normal children. They didn’t listen.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:53 am

Ander watched. She was good at watching. She liked to do things she was good at.

She watched two roosters fight in some bushes. One clearly wanted to be left to his own devices; the other wanted to prove himself. She wondered which she was.

She walked away, and noticed a coconut on the ground. She picked it up. She was curious about her strength, so she hurled it as far as she could. It landed with a thud, leaving an impression. She wondered if she were the coconut.

Behind her, someone yelled: “which stars will extinguish when I die?”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:41 am

Dulu lay on her back, fabric pressing against her eyelids, and listened to the drums.

She wondered why this medicine wasn’t helping. She wondered if she should do something about it. She wondered if everyone else felt like this. She realized these thoughts were worries. Then she worried that the worries wouldn’t stop.

She needed to leave. But her body was stuck. A moment of panic. Worries compounded like layers of a wave stacking before they broke upon shallow reef. Whitewash, then calm. She didn’t need to leave. She was here. She’d always been here. And she always would be.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:33 am

Zoruso ran away. She had nothing to run from, and nothing to run towards. But something told her to run, so she ran.

She came to a strange land. It was too hot to breathe, so she held her shirt in front of her face and coughed. She met someone who seemed friendly, but he was just being kind. She met others who reminded her of better people she had left behind. She started to work, but it wasn’t clear what for.

One night, as she battled her mind to let her sleep, she realized why she had run here.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:24 am

Corion didn’t realize she was walking in the real world. She thought she was moving in the other world.

In that world she was floating above a dark landscape.

In this world, she was walking away from her bedding towards the food storage. She opened a pot and ate leftover rations. Her bedmates heard the commotion but rolled over.

In the other world, Corion watched her body grow to absorb the whole land— forests and oceans and magma became her bones and guts and thoughts. A normal dream.

In the morning, Corion decided this nightwalker inside her needed a name.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:11 am

A group of eight coalesced around a common goal. But no one knew the goal. Each time one member raised an opinion, others would either acquiesce, decline, or amplify. Three options existed, not four: never did anyone begrudge. When rain came some got wet, while others cowered under shelter. When hunger struck some cooked, while others relaxed. When drowsiness loomed they shared beds, giving the sleepiest the softest pillow. In conversation they were quick and kind, in games they were competitive and strong, and in both the weakest felt held. The goal remained a loose mystery. And so they lived.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 28, 2018 at 3:55 pm

Log had always known Earth. She was born in it. As seed grew to sapling she sucked each of her branches from the soil.

In death, she learned water. She fell, tumbled downstream, and floated to this shore. Tides pushed her higher onto the beach until she dried. Then she was gathered.

This evening she felt fire. Set aflame by capable hands, she glowed with the quiet wisdom bestowed by her long and meandering existence.

Now she became air. As her solidity gave way to smoke, her sparks drifted up to join their twinkly sisters splashed across the night sky.

A few men and their moments

In 100, by Wyatt on November 28, 2018 at 3:41 pm

“Starfruit?” He nodded, biting into a section and showering the car with juice.

“SPOOOOOOOOOORTS” he yelled, hurling the squishy green ball across the beach to the other team, also men without shirts.

“What a time to be alive,” he sighed stepping into Costco to buy two pounds of frozen shrimp and a gallon of margarita mix.

“My fear is that I won’t be fully present this week,” he admitted through a mouthful of ribs and rice.

“Colon dash d is an emoji,” he laughed as two roughly hewn stick figures with arrows pointing to their colon and dick appeared onscreen.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 25, 2018 at 11:53 pm

“How’d you get so big?” asked Grass.

“I pushed,” answered Eucalyptus.

“I want to be as big as you,” said Grass.

“Why?” asked Eucalyptus.

“You’re regal.”

“You want to look impressive?” Eucalyptus asked, unimpressed.

“You provide shade.”

“But you provide softness.”

“You’re tall!”

“You’re plentiful.”

“You hold up the sky!”

“You keep in the earth.”

Birds nested in Eucalyptus. Grass caught the chicks when they fell.

One day a fire roared through their valley. Both burned to the ground.

In spring, two different green shoots sprouted through the blackened soil.

Eucalyptus said to Grass, “Now you’re as big as me!”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 24, 2018 at 11:00 pm

Tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear, she squints into the mirror. “I like this hat. But you look about as good in it as I do in your sunglasses,” she says to me with a giggle. “I went all-in on us pretty much straight away, darlin!” she says to Dad, recollecting her decision to marry this complicated, brooding yet joyful man after having only dated for a few months. Dad comments on some bodily function to which she replies, “oh brother.” Mum hasn’t checked her phone all day. We’ve been drinking wine since two. We’re best friends.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 24, 2018 at 1:15 am

Hey idiot—

—–Fuck off.

You fuck off!


You’re wonderful.


No, really!

—–Fuck off.

You are amazing, and I love you!

—–Stop being a tosser.

Come off it!

—–You’re teasing me.

I just called you an idiot to get your attention, I didn’t—

—look, cheers, not into it, or into you, have a good one.

But you have it…

—–…Have what?


—–Don’t be shit, have what?

That wordless stuff. Feels right.

—–Do I fucking know you?

Homie, we met aeons ago.

—–Fuck yourself right off.

…Done it.

—–How’d it go?


—–Fair enough.

What’s your name?

—–What’s yours.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 22, 2018 at 9:10 pm

A moment of stillness away from family. Eyes close. What are we watching, when we replay memories? What silver screen do those invisible yet tangible moments flit across? Faces. So many faces. Snippets of laughter, of your name said a hundred different ways. Feelings. Of validation, joy, longing, sorrow, angst, home, stoke, panic. Those were real feelings. But feelings aren’t real. A hundred plane flights. Some books, dozens of movies, trillions of ideas. Moments of self love swimming in a modest pool of affection from others. Projects, aspirations. To what end? Rejections, admissions, collaborations, solo journeys. Thanks, Life. Forge onwards.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 21, 2018 at 9:17 pm

“I want to do you,” she said.

“Why me,” he asked.

“You’re important. Meaningful. You can be impactful.”

“I’m also fun,” he sassed.

“And I can get you. But you’re not easy.”

“You have to work for me?” He asked.

“I have a lot to learn before I can figure you out,” she admitted.

“How do you know if I’m right?”

“I have no idea. I’m following my gut.”

“What does your gut have to do with me?”

“It knows things I don’t,” she said to Goal.

“When you achieve me one day, what then?”

“I’ll seek a new you.”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 20, 2018 at 4:26 pm

Three thousand six hundred seconds counted

Nine hundred breaths exhaled

Eighty-six distinct thoughts born

Fifty-three to dos remembered and then forgotten

Thirty-two full bellies inhaled

Twenty-five clothing rustles emitted

Nineteen dog barks interjected

Fifteen memories of childhood replayed

Fourteen friends reminisced

Thirteen burps stifled

Twelve back postures straightened

Eleven distant planes overheeard

Ten indiscretions forgiven

Nine total minutes of worry about how much longer remained

Eight cumulative minutes of utter mental stillness enjoyed

Seven flashes of white from retinal misfiring observed

Six questions answered

Five answers questioned

Four futures predicted

Three revelations grokked

Two knees numbed

One bell struck



In 100, by Wyatt on November 19, 2018 at 6:47 pm

The interface was so alien that its effect on her was physiological— she couldn’t look at it. Numbers and text fields mashed onto her retinas. She panicked.

“I won’t help you,” said Interface.


“The world didn’t explain itself to you when you were born. But here you are.”

“How did I learn back then,” she asked.

“You guessed.”

“What if I guessed wrong?”

“You failed. And tried again.”

“Didn’t that hurt?”

“You had no ego. Nothing could feel hurt.”

“How must I learn now?

“Let go. Of failing. And of knowing.“

“Isn’t the point of learning… to know?”



In 100, by Wyatt on November 19, 2018 at 12:22 pm

She danced up the wall. It couldn’t be called climbing. Her body flowed up in ripples and curls, hands and feet seeing for themselves, gravity feebly whispering protests from the bottom of the cliff.

“But you’ve always loved me,” cringed gravity. “Or were you just tolerating me all along?”

She climbed on.

“We’ve had fun! I helped you slide down waves in summer and mountains in winter!”

She ascended.

“I kept you centered.”

She paused. “You kept me grounded too.”

She pulled herself over the final ledge. Sitting at the top, she looked down. And suddenly she started to float.

In a small car

In 100, by Wyatt on November 18, 2018 at 3:22 pm

They headed west on auburn street over the mass ave bridge to go straight along the river with three trays of unbaked biscuits balanced tenderly on three happy laps and one tub of warm mushrooms saturated with simmered white wine and chicken broth nestled underneath heating the nether regions and swapping stories of moon cups and pregnancy tests and oven-roasted chestnuts until the gas gauge hits zero and they all spill out into the freezing air laughing and pushing the car and glowing under streetlights and they’ll get to friendsgiving somehow but right now they all know that they’re already there.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 17, 2018 at 3:37 pm

She placed her panic inside a pine cone, whispering a worry into each one of its fractal seeds. Then she held it against her heart.

“What if all of these things happen?” Asked the pine cone.

“I will be hurt,” she replied.

“Who will be hurt? ‘You’ exist only now.”

“But later will be my new now,” she said.

”Should I worry about being chopped down?” Asked the pine cone.

“How could you be chopped down, you aren’t a tree,” she retorted.


She rolled her eyes and threw it deep into the woods. Pine cones thought they knew everything.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 16, 2018 at 7:15 am

Another arrow missed. She threw the bow down in frustration.


“How will that help,” she seethed.

“The arrow is outside of you. The target is outside. The bow is outside. But the image of them that your eye creates… where is that?”

“Inside.” She tapped her temple reluctantly.

“Where do the muscle signals from your fingers, hands, and arms come together?”


“Where do your hopes of hitting the target live?”


“Where does your frustration come from?”


“Where, really, is the bow and arrow and target?”


“Then what must you gain control over?”


“So breathe.”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 15, 2018 at 9:00 am

“An angel,” she said.

“That’s not a job,” her teacher replied. “Be serious. What do you actually want to be when you grow up?”

She ordered her eyes not to cry, she told her feet not to run from the classroom, she made her heart untwist. An angel would have to bring peace to worse situations than this. She breathed. Training was hard, but she was harder.

“I want to be so deeply at peace with myself that I can give peace to others,” she said.

“So, a doctor?” Her teacher offered.

“Doctors fix bodies. I want to heal souls.”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 14, 2018 at 7:09 am

Dust motes shimmered through the warehouse. The others stood in far corners. Then everything flickered and went black.

“Everyone still there?”

“Vision dark for me.”

“Standing by.”

A blinding dot lit in the room’s center. The dot split into a vast three dimensional grid. The whole area looked like an infinite mirror illusion.

She looked down. Her body was gone. A few dots collected where it should have been.

“Moving in.”

As she walked, dots sucked towards her like she had gravity. When she passed, they bounced back.

Her only form was the ripple of energy left in her wake.

Fresh Pond

In 100, by Wyatt on November 13, 2018 at 8:06 am

“Hello!” She said, running past her teacher. He waved back with a friendly, “You’ve got quite a pace, I don’t want to slow you down. See you tomorrow.”

Red leaves adorned black branches against a fierce blue sky. Did it used to look this vivid?

She ran around the lake where she’d grown up. There were people everywhere. Out of curiosity she let the full user hoard enter her model, and millions of bodies popped in, overlapping each other. She dialed it back until just a few remained. Fall At Fresh Pond was a popular app this time of year.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 12, 2018 at 9:44 am

Pilu flew through the air. She glanced at the ground speeding beneath her. Rocks and tufts of foliage came closer. She extended an arm towards the earth. Then she hit. Hard. And rolled.

“Oof,” she thought she heard the ground say, before she blacked out.

When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t see her body. She wasn’t invisible; her body simply looked like earth. Her limbs were made of dirt, and grass grew on her forearms. When she stood up, her torso became a tree trunk.

She laughed, and rivers poured from her ears, melting her feet into the soil.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 11, 2018 at 9:40 am

Cudi’s first memory was of wanting.

She wanted milk.

Then she wanted warmth.

Then she wanted to poop.

And then she wanted milk again.

She received all the things she wanted, and so she survived.

One day she wanted to move, so she crawled then walked then ran across the earth.

The next day she wanted to build so she combined sticks and clay and water into simple creations.

She wanted love, so she hugged her parents and was hugged back.

And so she survived.

Wanting had kept her alive. But when would she have, and would she be, enough?

Friendship Operator

In 100, by Wyatt on November 10, 2018 at 3:30 pm

FSn = Ma / Mm * (1 – |A – B| / Mm) * C


FSn = Friendship Strength (now), value between 0 and 1.

Ma = Meetings between friends actually held in a given time

Mm = Maximum number of meetings possible in that time

A = Number of meetings person A wanted to have

B = Number of meetings person B wanted to have

C = Chemistry multiplier.

Chemistry (between 0 and 1) = shared stories * shared ideas * emotional state flexibility * gut affection * loyalty * communication style overlap * trust in conflict.



In 100, by Wyatt on November 9, 2018 at 12:16 pm

“I built you a home” said Seru.

“Here is where you can rest,” she said, catching an orange leaf floating down in the quiet breeze.

“Here is where you can create,” she said, moving over to the crucible with its fiery belly.

“Here is where you can laugh,” she said, opening a panel behind which a dozen friends gathered.

“Here is where you can cry,” she said, unfurling her woven dreams into a fluffy cocoon.

“And here is where you can learn to love yourself,” she said, opening her arms and wrapping him in an embrace, “as I love you.”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2018 at 7:13 pm

One day the sun made sounds.

It started as a low rumble, almost inaudible, when the predawn black softened into deep blues. Then clouds caught pink flares and a chorale note stretched across the sky.

At first it wasn’t clear where the sound was coming from. But when the brilliant burning orb peaked above the horizon and a hundred brass horns screamed triumphantly from the heavens, the source was undeniable.

By noon the glare roared like a colony of bees, petering into a breezy snore by mid afternoon.

Sunset’s red sliver sunk below the ocean with a satisfied, gentle fart.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 7, 2018 at 9:03 am

“Give me your bag.”

Dio opened her eyes and looked up at the woman in front of her. Meditation could be interrupted in worse ways. She smiled.

“Please come eat dinner with me,” Dio said to the woman. “Are you hungry? I could eat a whale.”

Her assailant looked confused. “I said, give me your bag,” she repeated, drawing a blade.

Dio breathed serenely. “What is your name, my sister? I am Dio.”

A pause. “Bel.”

“Bel, will you join me for a meal? I would love to listen to your story.”

Bel swallowed. “I can’t.”

Dio nodded. “That’s alright.”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 6, 2018 at 4:17 pm

Once, Oshi was still.

Her body formed one vast, single drop of water stretching over the entire planet. She knew who she was and why, and felt content.

One day the sun appeared. Its energy shone onto Oshi, carving her into waves that split her into billions of droplets. Planets popped up to play with her. Then the moon arrived, dancing her into a tizzy.

Oshi relished the turmoil, interpreting her contrasts as the feeling of being alive.

But eventually her heart ached for peace. She summoned all her mass and commanded: Settle.

For a moment, all drops were one.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 5, 2018 at 3:50 pm

Inside of Nira’s heart rested a seed. Some days the seed was joyous and some days the seed was sorrowful.

Every morning when she woke up there was a precious moment when she forgot about the seed. But then she would remember, and listen for it, and know how her day would feel. She had no choice.

Today’s dawn stretched its tendrils into her shuttered eyes. As she blinked awake she felt her seed do something new. It rattled around. It was a lonely dance; more restless than excited.

“Whatever happens today, I don’t much mind.”

So she told herself.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 4, 2018 at 2:27 pm

Mum treaded water above the hole. “I won’t fit. Please. I’m sorry.”

Ro had never gone through. She swam down. She squeezed in. Rock scraped her back. She pushed until her lungs screamed. She was through. She kicked for the surface and gasped. Air in the cavern smelled of seaweed and her little brother’s hair. He peeped out from his sleeping bag.

“Luz, come home,” she said.

“You can’t tell me what to do any more.”

“We miss Dad too.”

Luz sniffled. “Is Mum ok?”

“I don’t know.”

Ro jumped into the water and swam back down to the hole.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 3, 2018 at 11:43 am

Pico stared at the ceiling of her cave.

It’s all me.

Sandstone crags stretched into darkness. She slipped her perspective into her rock walls and looked down. Her tiny body walked towards the entrance, where her soft light filtered in. She slipped into those light rays and sped towards Tuwa, who knelt by a fire roasting wild yams.

Her flames licked warmth into her food, her sugars caramelized from her heat, and she slipped back into her original self.

She said to herself as Tuwa, I am now morning.

Slipping into his-her soundwaves she heard Tuwa say, yes we are.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 2, 2018 at 10:39 am

I’m excited to disappoint you, Sora’ said.

Unlikely, Ea thought. Even impossible.

Ea began floating up to the cloud where Sora’ lived. The journey took a week, each day colder and drier than the last. On the sixth day a storm conjured lightning and Ea almost turned back. But she needed to know.

When Ea arrived, Sora’ wasn’t there, Sora was instead. Sora laughed the same way, but less often. Ea made herself at home in the uncanny clouds and wondered where Sora’ was. Who Sora’ was. What love was, if she’d fallen for a derivative of the full expression.


In by Wyatt on November 1, 2018 at 5:59 am

Pumpkin wasn’t the oldest or youngest child so she never got as much attention as she deserved. She was born in spring when the earth was still thawing. In summer she and her siblings rolled in the dirt, drank delicious sunlight, and got chubby.

When the leaves turned orange, someone took her. Cold hands gripped her body.

Was she a prisoner, or an adventurer? The prisoner felt fear: she knew she’d be disemboweled, carved and roasted. But the adventurer felt joy: she would glow brightly and taste sweet. Death would come even if she stayed: rotting, alone.

Pumpkin made a choice.



In by Wyatt on October 24, 2018 at 1:29 pm

Porker was a house cat who had never lived in a house. One snowy day he found a cabin. The woman in the doorway wouldn’t let him inside.

Porker brought her an ermine. She smiled, but stood firm. He slept in the shed.

Weeks later, Porker heard a shout. The woman ran out and said, “Kill that mouse, and you can stay.”

Porker raced inside and ate the mouse. She piled pillows by the fire for him.

That night he tried following her upstairs. She blocked him. He returned to the fire to wait. Eventually a mouse would go upstairs.

Post Psych

In by Wyatt on May 2, 2017 at 8:32 pm

I was sitting on the curb outside a freshmen dorm tallying the number of undergrads who biked by wearing helmets. Twenty-nine out of thirty zipped past with their heads unprotected. A survey I ran showed that half of them secretly wished they wore helmets. So why didn’t they do it? Psychology let me peer into our messy, beautiful human lives and test ways to make them better. Today I’m paid to meet people and weave videos from their stories. It’s very different work; yet my toolkit is the same one I developed watching students ride by with naked heads.

A new dream

In by Wyatt on September 12, 2016 at 4:36 pm

I was nervous.

You’d been in your mama’s belly for so long. I was walking down the hallway, wondering how to be with you, hold you, love you. I saw you, scooped you up. An unknown ventricle in my heart opened and a new flavor of love erupted through me.

When I woke up, Lara said I’d been laughing. I remembered the warm weight of you, so important and tiny. You saw wonder in my face. I saw the explosion of a timeless universe, which now had you in it.

I loved you in a dream, my daughter. One day.

How to be a photographer in no easy steps

In by Wyatt on August 4, 2014 at 9:53 am

It’s as simple and impossible as looking at light. Our eyes see light, but our brains see objects. If you can turn off your brain, and just see light, you’re halfway to being a great photographer.

Light is soft in the early morning. Its color changes throughout the day, from cool to warm, to cool again. It bathes faces and bounces around rooms. When you see only light, objects become shapes and blobs that move over each other. Roads become two-dimensional lines. Reflections appear in unlikely places.

Then you’re seeing like a camera. And then you can take a photo!


In by Wyatt on October 30, 2013 at 9:34 pm

He emptied his business card holder into his desk bin and took out a tiny bottle of Jameson.

Two years, give or take an extra one month three days and five hours. He unscrewed the bitsy red cap and looked at the letter he’d just written, still warm from the printer.

What was next? Images of freedom and/or begging in the subway collided in his mind.

“You’re moving on?” Boss asked.


“Congratulations, I’m happy for you!”

The butterflies landed and a thin hard shell seemed to evaporate off his back. Outside, the sky stretched wide. He should call Cheryl!


In by Wyatt on July 25, 2013 at 1:55 pm

Dear Father, 

You ask what will I do with my life? Oh man. I dunno. I want to rid Australia of tall poppy syndrome. I want to apply psych research to creating a more just society through campaigns and clever storytelling. I want to revolutionize our broken education system. I want to smack sense into our politics. I want to move to Australia at age 35 and be fulfilled with the work I do there, while swimming in the ocean every day too. 

I want it all. And yet, I could die or get paralyzed at any instant. 

Life’s insane!


In by Wyatt on April 15, 2013 at 11:40 am

Yes — it does look green.

It also looks cerulean and magenta and ultraviolet – it’s the entire god-heaven-universe soaring down onto you, YOU, just you, in an elegant blaze of soft glory and frenetic licking energy, it has pace rhythm slowness speed, staccato flashes and deep crescendos and — it looks like music sounds, when I think back and remember that night on the northwest fjords staring straight up into the 2am ether I hear a chorus and taste flavors and feel tingling because GOOD GOD it is so enveloping and sensual that your whole body reacts viscerally to those magestic swirls…


In by Wyatt on October 19, 2012 at 11:52 pm

Punched in the sternum. Lightly bruised, subtly winded. Belly dropped, sunken. Tell yourself, Life is good. Believe it. It is. Was it better before?

Perhaps this vacuous sadness is merely the echo, the footprint of blinding permanence. We don’t believe anything is permanent, except life. Loss can’t be permanent. But silly child, you’ve got it all mixed up.

Some things are here now. But all things must go.

You can claw back and cling, anyone will understand. It won’t do, though. One cannot eat a memory.

Friends help. Love helps. Tomorrow this feeling will evolve into inspiration.

Onwards. Always.