I, perched on a craggy promontory overlooking my childhood, and its entire formless geography, saw them, my friends, all of them: a mutant strain of cryogeny, a mummified quivering changelessness, as if youth hadn’t been lived through but pickled. It … Continue reading
There was that day you wore your hair in pigtails. You were thirteen. Pigtails and a pale blue summer dress. I think the dress was new. My mother had died three days earlier. You and I … Continue reading
Childhood is an ongoing historical fiction that changes based on who you are when you’re examining it. Who you are in certain periods and chapters in your life, determines what your childhood is. Was would imply that childhood is fixed … Continue reading
I tell myself stories in the dark, Anya. It helps. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it makes things worse. Or keeps everything the same. Which is a different kind of worse. Anya I long to reach you only because I … Continue reading
Ask a tree to play hopscotch with you. Ask a stone to jump-rope with you. Ask a blade of grass to tickle you until it hurts. Ask a bird to help you remember how to fly. Ask a child for … Continue reading
Ask a child, any child, what the difference is between Monday and Thursday? No matter how they respond, look them in the eyes and tell them how wonderful they are.
Find a puddle after a rainstorm. Close your eyes and dream yourself as a six-yr-old dreaming yourself as a magnificent and shimmering work of art. Or as a happy goldfish. Whether as shimmering art, or happy goldfish, open your eyes, … Continue reading
Memory, like stone tapes, like hardened slabs of analog recalling the icy geist of my childhood in a Brooklyn basement, revisited.
I haven’t been sick like this since I was six or maybe nine that deceptively mild hazily pleasant heartbleating ache and motherseek fever that takes you to that tender place of breezy white flags and euphoric yield and there, you, … Continue reading
