Journal - John Patrick Weiss

Nothing much happens at the head table Photograph by John Patrick Weiss What Is Interesting and Important Happens Mostly in Secret John Patrick Weiss The day had come when I was invited to breakfast with the big boys.

Photo by John Patrick Weiss All They Can Do Is Stare Blankly John Patrick Weiss I saw a guy the other day seated alone on a bench in an outdoor shopping center known as Town Center.

A nascent hopefulness stirred in my heart Photographs by John Patrick Weiss The Things We Carry John Patrick Weiss My friend Joe just celebrated his eighty-ninth birthday a few months back.

What the Fever Strips Away John Patrick Weiss The bottles of NyQuil and Advil sit on my nightstand, quiet reminders of a week that seems to have disappeared.

Photographs by John Patrick Weiss I Want Them to Notice and Remember John Patrick Weiss There are mornings when words don’t come.

Photo: Kin Wai Cheung I Wanted To Be Like Him John Patrick Weiss We’d just finished dinner and settled into the living room where my sister and I watched Star Trek and my mother sunk into the recliner to read a paperback.

It Was Not An Unrecognizable World You Left John Patrick Weiss “Does overwhelming change, the annihilation of all you know, create an intensity of memory that would not have existed otherwise?

Not Too Late John Patrick Weiss He had been on the bus most of the day, carrying a small canvas bag over his shoulder with two shirts and a pair of trousers inside.

by John Patrick Weiss I'm Not Afraid of Storms (new version) John Patrick Weiss They met like a lot of people do, in the early rhythms of life when youth and beauty are in full bloom and there's little else to do but celebrate every tender moment and bask…

A fountain pen, a jade ring, and the never-forgotten echoes of those we loved and lost The author with his father and son The Dignity of Small Things John Patrick Weiss There’s an old Parker fountain pen in my collection that has seen better days.

The Resurrected Eye John Patrick Weiss The concrete bulk of Japan Center sat low against the grey coastal sky of San Francisco.

Why the outsider often learns the most Self-portrait of me in my studio What It's Like to Be a Police Chief at a Landscape Painting Workshop John Patrick Weiss “I’m John,” I said when my turn came.

The Bears Are Winning John Patrick Weiss Well, that didn’t take long.

Notes and doodles on my writing desk The Dreams We Leave Behind Sometimes Wait for Us John Patrick Weiss Pat Oliphant died last week at the age of ninety.

I moved to paradise, but now it terrifies me Photographs by John Patrick Weiss The Beautiful Trap of an Immaculate LIfe John Patrick Weiss Be wary of the finishing line.

The Long Way Home John Patrick Weiss There was a time when the Fourth of July belonged to everyone else.

Fragments of humanity hidden in plain sight Photographs by John Patrick Weiss The Choreography of Us John Patrick Weiss Sometimes the most beautiful things in life are unseen.

The only way to arrive is to learn how to leave Visiting my father in his law office Every Leaving Is a Loss and a Possibility John Patrick Weiss He walked into my bedroom one summer afternoon and said, “Come on, Johnny, let’s take a drive to the cemetery…

Vestiges of the old world in this modern age Italian alabaster sculptor.

An invisible monastery Screen shot from “What’s It Like to Become a Monk?”

All I know is that I’m restless Me with my mother, sisters, and chickens I don’t think I’ll ever forget the chickens.

The peace that comes from finally being yourself Photos by John Patrick Weiss “What the heck are bun bites?”

Photo by John Patrick Weiss The first letter arrived in Rose Swanson’s mailbox two weeks after the death of her beloved husband, Vern.

We must cultivate our garden The author (on right) and buddy at the swim club It started as a dull ache in an upper right tooth.

Elegant to the very end Photo by John Patrick Weiss Irma Hincenbergs had the softest hands and gentlest touch I’ve ever known.

The darkening marine layer Photo by John Patrick Weiss The early morning fog hung low over the Santa Cruz mountains and quiet streets of Scotts Valley, California.