Sly Stone, swooping out of history like a glittery geriatric pterodactyl, gave his first public performance in nineteen years at the sometimes-luscious 48th Grammys, on this past Wednesday. He was a sight, even a specter of soul. One of his … Read More
The distant summer I was a naive seventeen, I remember lobbying my then-boyfriend for a date-visit to a particular bookstore. He, a bibliophile, and I, a bibliophile, the proposition was ideal. We could hold hands and with our other hands rifle through select publications, pausing now and then to turn our looks of longing from the printed pages to each other.
Dear Mr. Eastman, I don’t speak to just anyone. That’s by choice. Most people say really really dumb things. Even when they have the chance to figure out what they’re going to say beforehand. Like on the news. Ms. Fuchsia-blazer … Read More
The last time I faced the agreeable task of opining on theatrical matters in a writerly fashion was a gaping decade ago. I was ten, I was wide-eyed, and I was smitten with Grendel. Or was it Grendel’s mother? That … Read More
Through the grass I slowly slide to a great big stone. The sun is shining, I am warm, and I hope I’m left alone. He’s flying. His mouth makes a happy triangle, widening over toothy blips. One dimple stretches into … Read More
Coming up a stairwell, I stop. A custodian, a man holding a feather duster, has also stopped at the midway landing to let two women pass. They descend to the landing, past the man and the duster, then past me, … Read More
After reexamining my near-two years of motley New Jersey life, I can write with some assurance that my most traumatic Princetonian experience took place in transit, one December at seven-thirty in the company of a bike named Jen. I had … Read More
Sweet and scum-kneed childhood, like shy adolescence and even bickery elder-age, touts certain requisite activities. When one is about eight, it’s morally reprehensible not to spend a portionable amount of wet afternoons in rubber boots kicking up mud puddles. Skipping … Read More
Here’s how I saw De Quincey High then: stained bathroom walls; pregnant girls; boys with knives and guns and bandanas; teachers with fear so engrained that it folded into their faces in wrinkles; a gym that could have been a prison; a cafeteria that was one; cheap lipstick and cheaper condoms; a dirt track; fences.
1. Mother. She must be. I think. Hands are folded, mouth is folded, below a collapsible razor nose. But that was before that type of folding razor, and my mother wouldn’t have had one for a nose, anyway. The eyes, … Read More
Itâ€™s like a death, but itâ€™s worse. Because this is the last time Iâ€™ll speak with you and weâ€™re both angry. Iâ€™m yelling something, but Iâ€™m looking at the rumple between your mouth and your nose, watching it as you … Read More
We expect the days like this, but they come only when they like, and carrying their monstrous young inside them, waiting. There were dust motes, but Philip didnâ€™t see them. Nor could he remember faces, just then, nor forms. There … Read More