For years the numbers 2*2 or 2*2*2*2 or numbers that are multiples of two brought me luck, often with my writing (sales, translations, a prize …) or with safe travel, and in other arenas. They still do. The origin of this superstition: James Joyce’s birthday – 2/2 – the publication of Ulysses – 2/2/1922 –(…)
“Was I sleeping while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon, my friend, at this place, until fall of night, I waited for Godot?” [from Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett] [- see visual -Barry McGovern as Vladimir(…)
Needing cash, on a “bible-black” night (to borrow Dylan Thomas’ phrase) I veered to the right off 9th Avenue into my local (open-round-the-clock) Gristedes Super Market. Along the path to onions and avocados, a fee-less ATM machine. Password tapped, grinding of gears, out fluttered crisp bills (a pack of $20s) that I swept up, thick(…)
[- Jan Steen, “The Sick Woman” 1665 -] I never get sick. I’d be the first to tell you that. But then, once in a blue moon, I do. Like now. Throat closed, frogs voice, sweaty, hot/cold, achy, sleepy, sleeping, sleepish. Sheets damp, new sheets, damp sheets. Its been this way for a week while,(…)
Dear Lily, The memory of our long day together in 2009 in Athens remains lodged in my viscera. Though I’m not one for remembering dates, or years, or who wore what when, as you are/were, I am certain of the date because – after thirty-nine consecutive years of friendship – I never saw you alive(…)
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(…)
I met Suzanne Jill Levine (often called Jill) in Santa Barbara in the early 90s. Since then our paths have crossed many times – in Los Angeles, New York City, upstate New York at the charming Arbor B & B where we spent days doing a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle between savory meals conjured by the owner,(…)
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(…)
