You are so thirsty. You may even be dehydrated. Scorching was the summer that just past, and wet classes and wet friendships are not yet arrived. But relief is near. For if you are reading the Nassau Weekly—and we surmise that you are reading the Nassau Weekly—you are about to become rather damp.
I sit and breathe and try to recall my whole life. I now sit serenely in the brush by this shouldering road. It winds tightly through the Peloponnesian town of Megalopolis, where I sit, through the pink stucco homes clinging staccato to the high side of the mountain our bus, heaving, climbed. Rapt speech in the restaurant behind is mere chatter.
November 22, 2013 is when Susan Howe and David Grubbs sit in Woolworth Hall. Susan Howe and David Grubbs are at Princeton to perform their fourth collaboration, WOODSLIPPERCOUNTERCLATTER. There is no light in the room. A sun is outside, near … Read More
At school, I no longer had to wait. I was free to do as I pleased and ceased observing the day altogether. But strangely, immediately, Shabbat presented itself to me in a transfiguring light, the radical antidote to all that displeased me here.
My stomach is parched from having just peed into the muddled ground. And it hurts from having nothing to eat, no ring pops, no soda, no sunflower seeds. It’s an empty hole, a cosmic hole— it could collapse now into … Read More
If you have never heard Van Morrison’s yearning, keening voice—its blues and jazzy swag , the way it stretches words into birds that fly you to heaven, its worn beauty—well, then, you’ve never heard it. But I bet you have; … Read More