Category

Writings

Deep Songs, Writings

Still, Standing

Creative Nonfiction #53 / Fall 2014 / “Mistakes” For an art model, time bends, saunters, crawls, or stealthily expands, but it rarely flies. Twenty minutes can feel like infinity if the pose is difficult—and each is difficult in its own way. Tonight is my first full-figure gig, which means I’m struggling to maintain the position…

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My back pages, New York, Soujorns, Travel

Vacations like other people

The sea air is a drug that addles reason. How else to explain the amnesia that comes over me every summer on the first bike ride back to the Ram’s Head Inn on Shelter Island?  I forget that its approach involves two short steep hills—the first brings you up to Little Ram’s Head Island, a…

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Art, Short Cuts, Sketches, Writing, Writings

Dig Two Graves

The sound of the wind was strong.  It was that, and what felt like sudden warmth that made Christina sit up, then shield her eyes from the sharp light.  She’d fallen asleep in the field.  How long had it been—an hour?  Minutes?  She yawned.  The inhalation rephrased the moment, reminded her why she’d come back…

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My back pages, Sketches

The End of the Year

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain. Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?  A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell? Roger Waters, Wish You Were Here By the time we made it to Washington Square Park, 1993 was already half a…

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Deep Songs, My back pages

The Super with the Toy Face

From the anthology Lost and Found, Stories from New York. Note: an earlier version of this piece was published in the literary journal Ganymede Fall 2008 and on the website Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood. They called him the neighborhood watchdog. He was the ancient, antic super of 515 Edgecombe Avenue, an immense, pre-war slab of yellowed bricks and mortar at the…

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My back pages, Sketches

Two Boys

Once I believed, a long time ago, that he and I were different.  Others thought so too, as I’d discover over the years.  Even after his death, friends and acquaintances might recall something he said, a peculiar mannerism that made me cringe, or an act of kindness or derision—their reminders forced recognition of how dissimilar we were….

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Sketches

If I’d Words for the Texture of His Hands

If I’d words for the texture of his hands, Rough would do, as would worn, weather’d or dry. My father’s lives etched along bold fingers, Dusked palms, and creased knuckles cracked with the cry Of a guilty murderer’s confession. When he revealed he’d killed a man, my mind, Submerged with selfish eighteen year-old woes, Came…

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Current Affairs, My back pages, Sketches

The Quality of Tears

At first glance I mistook her for a child.  She was tiny, but it was also the way she dressed, in a short dark pleated shirt and denim jacket that made me think Catholic schoolgirl.  And it was the size of the man she clung to; he was large and boyish with a drop of light brown…

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My back pages, Sketches

Boy Meets Boy

“Hi—you’re Eee-nis, right? Baritone, breathless: without warning, the voice over his right shoulder brushed his ear in a sigh of panic, as if the speaker had been chased by dogs.  He hadn’t heard footsteps, or the usual whoosh from the door separating the auditorium’s main stairwell from this tiny chamber that housed the theater department’s bulletin…

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Deep Songs

Loving the Sinners

Even saints have their purgatory.  My mother’s is her bedroom, on the second floor of a sunless two-story edifice that she and my late father purchased a few years after I moved to New York, a house that telegraphs its sepulchral aura as soon as one steps across its threshold. One look inside her room and…

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