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(…)
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(…)
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(…)
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(…)
My father taught economics at City College in Harlem, New York for 63 consecutive years without missing a day. That is, until he was 83. Had he been able to teach to the last day of his life he would have, he loved teaching (especially poor, smart, culturally deprived kids like himself) that much. When(…)
My niece loves eggplant. We’ve started an Eggplant Tasters Society. She’s a professor, a scholar and a bon vivant, floating around all those galaxies while I, sweat soaked author, am fiddling with minutia in preparation for the coming publication of my co-written (with Darin Elliott) new book for ages 10 – 13 — ELEPHANT IN(…)
