Each excavation into a lost object revealed a hidden truth—a genuine regret. But it also threw into relief how lucky I have been, to have accumulated these regrets, and survived them.
I see that my own fears, like a misdirecting valve in the heart, can interfere with tenderness.
I wasn’t a cheater. A cheater was something more solid. I accepted the preferred reality as truth. Then, I forgot about it. I mean, genuinely forgot.
Like Kafka’s cockroaches, the Styrofoam head lives forever. Only we disintegrate to dust.
I wonder about the limp in my head, how long it’s been visible.
So much of our experience falls between the seams of language, simply because language is human-made, but our emotions aren’t.
Paris changes, poet Charles Baudelaire wrote, faster than the human heart, and as far as my neighborhood is concerned, he was right. We’d hardly settled into our new digs before people starting tearing things up.
A painting supposedly produced before 1945 that contains traces of strontium-90 and caesium-137 is most likely a forgery: these isotopes do not occur naturally and are produced in nuclear explosions, […]
Thirteen days after Michael passed away, the towers came down. Clouds, plumes of smoke. That night, invoices and letterheads blanketed the streets. I read by candlelight the names that appeared on each. Childhood, as I knew it, ceased.
The Boys of Dunbar: A Story of Love, Hope, and Basketball by Alejandro Danois 288 pages Simon & Schuster, 2016 ISBN:978-1451666977 I know it’s a cliche, but I found it […]