Looking back, I can recount— although perhaps, at times, incompletely, and often, I admit, sensationally—— a brief episode between my four-year-old self and a close childhood friend: a young girl named Mary, similarly diminished in age and stature, a miniature co-star, with whom I shared an afternoon that I will always remember.
On the seventieth anniversary of Ataturk’s death I was in the mountains between Van and Diyarbakir with a baby on my lap and her three year old brother stretched out on the seat behind me while their mother tried to sleep, the silk scarf slipping from her hair.
Frank O’Hara writes a poem about why he’s not a painter, and in it he writes a poem called “Oranges” with no orange. So I’ll write a self portrait without myself. I’ll write instead about what I like: the opera, … Read More
Writer’s note: I typed this thing before seeing Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and then after I saw it I felt scooped. So don’t get hung-up about it, just be fascinated by how much all this stuff is in the ether, as they say.
I remember the most beautiful party I have ever attended. It was held in a loft up-town. It was night-time, when the streets are brighter than the buildings and the eye is drawn slowly down, and I could see the Columbia University Observatory…
I. The Commemoration of St. Malachy falls on November 3, so as not to conflict with the feast of All Souls. A prophet, Malachy extirpated barbarism from the Church. II. St. Malachy was named Abbot of Bangor in 1123. “That’s … Read More
Enough of this, this mania, and the fear that your body will turn against you. Keep waking up in the empty morning and its thin light, and everything will be the same for the rest of us. This should calm … Read More
