About Alison Leslie Gold

Posts by Alison Leslie Gold:

Empty chairs

In childhood we had a school chair, dark wood, with many deep scratches made by children, desk attached including circular hole for ink bottle, a drawer underneath for books. In youth we had a hammock in which you could lie and roll yourself round and round, becoming encased in hemp like an ampule. In young adulthood I(…)


On a lighter note

Following, Chapter I from ELEPHANT IN THE LIVING ROOM written with Darin Elliott for folks between ages 10-14 and all others who have an inclination to know more about alcoholic intervention, alcoholism in a loved one and/or talking dogs. Seems an apt moment as I’m seeing so many summer revelers reeling from one side of the HighLine to(…)


A preview of my epitaph

Following are lines written by my great friend Bill Goyan, long dead but lovingly (and evermore) remembered. A writer of great originality from East Texas with unique, rarified sensibilities. The courage he had to experiment with plot and character in his unconventional, heart-stopping work has been an inspiration and will shortly go the limit in my coming(…)


My ladder to nowhere and me.

The Railroad Station   My non arrival in the city of N. took place on the dot. You’d been alerted in my unmailed letter. You were able not to be there at the agreed-upon time. The train pulled up at Platform 3. A lot of people got out. My absence joined the throng as it made(…)


Something to nosh on while reading THE POTATO EATER

If you eat while you read, the following vegan recipe was suggested by my lifelong friend and Brain Trust, Johanne. Thank you, Jojo. It should provide just the right leavening for prudes and the faint-of-heart during a first reading of THE POTATO EATER in the same way potato in any form, including raw, was a staple for it’s hero, Padric McGarry. Creamy Dill(…)


A weekend I spent with wounded veterans

A weekend I spent with my old friend Barbara several years ago always comes back to me when military hardware, men and women at war, the aftermath of these wars, troubles my mind. Barbara was working for a nonprofit group that, at the time, provided art and theater for ill and injured people. She invited me to accompany(…)


My father – redux

Last Sunday, thinking it was Father’s Day, I wrote a few lines about my father that I posted along with the photo on the left. In a blink I was scolded: not only wasn’t it Father’s Day, but the baby in the photo wasn’t even me (not that I’d said it was). So: a) since(…)