Your downy head against my cheek, your toasty bottom resting in the palm of my hand while your miniature fist surrounds my index finger all morning, all afternoon, until night falls face down across Los Angeles. Then, into evening. Awake. Asleep. Sometimes in between. A choo-choo train of gas toots, a tremulous sigh, your grip(…)
Dear Micah, I’m leaving tomorrow morning at dawn to fly to LA to (finally) meet you. You’re one month and seven days old. I’m … eight hundred sixty-eight months and three days old. In case we don’t find much that we have in common, we surely will find a few strong links to each other.(…)
It rained through the long night, the thirteenth longest night of the nearly discarded crumpled year. Polly didn’t put the kettle on. I did but couldn’t wait for the whistle so covered dry tea leaves with not-boiled-tap-water while listening to the swish/slosh of car tires; to pauses, to spatters, driblets, sprinkles, sprays, swash. In bed(…)
He drew the short straw. Blanched. His task unwelcome. She picked the long straw. Blushed. Her task uninvited. Poem by Samuel Beckett, translated by Samuel Beckett they come different and the same with each it is different and the same with each the absence of love is different with each the absence of love is(…)
re-reading Alan Bennett’s Untold Stories promoting NNJ, PE, TWWBMBFTD or EITLR finding Japanese publisher for ASF the gym the beach John Le Carré’s The Pigeon Tunnel going through cd’s, dvd’s, vcr’s, Playbills, maps weeding the garden polishing tarnished silver wear visiting the cashmere sweater shop in the center of the earth Georgi Gospodinov’s The Physics of(…)
Worse than mosquitos, discord-sowing, antagonistic – provocateurs in gnat-like swarms – trolls have been biting at my ankles, my wrists, at the tender bottoms of baby’s feet. They’ve been whining in my ears nonstop, have made a feast of my peace of mind and proven to be immune to swats including stinging slaps. They swarm in ceremonial formations, also hit-and-miss randomness. Regardless of how many(…)
Early one sunday morning in the middle of the 1950s, my parents piled us kids (there were three of us at the time) into the back seat of our second hand two-tone green and white Nash Rambler. We set off for Jones Beach. A small mountain of Tuna salad sandwiches had been prepared and wrapped with wax paper; carrots(…)
It was pitch black outside when we woke at four. I made coffee while my guest from Santa Fe dressed, finished packing. We sat together on the conch (couch) sipping from our mugs – mine was the Tower of London, my guest’s, Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Fifteen minutes before the arranged appointment, the driver rang to say (in an almost(…)
I’ve got a patch in a communal garden across the street. In it is a rose bush that came from a small cutting taken off an aromatic climbing rose belonging to my friend Lily (now dead) that flourished for years on her terrace on the Isle of Hydra in Greece. It’s miraculous annual flowering reminds the olfactory me of the many(…)
