In the tan armchair beneath the bright front window, I ask: “And then?” “And then?” “And then?”
Not remarkable. No big revelation. No reason, really, to wait for the other shoe.
Perhaps there was comfort in the constriction, a perverse safety in the pressure. Perhaps the door served as a weighted blanket – protection from…
“It is forgetfulness that is the fundamental problem, not memory.” — Patrick Modiano
#71. And in writing about this grief – grief for him, and grief for myself as an artist – I renovated my relationship to art.
If he had lived a fabulously long life, my grandfather would have turned 95 fifteen days later.
Your author trains his eyes on memories of unslept nights.
"Much of my childhood was spent interpreting the art on the walls of our home. So to look at it now with him, to ask him what they mean to him, is…
This energy: contemplation, concentration, creation. Yesterday, your tender touch. Today, these words which reach out like fingertips and offer another…
“Hey boychik,” the refined voice on the other side of the world says. “How’s school? How’s soccer? How’s the cello?”
Guys do stupid things. A lot of energy in young guys. A lot of stupidity. And then there were some regular guys like me.
Somewhere, a dog barks. Another responds. Chickens, twenty yards to the right, shake and pluck and cluck in their open pen. Or maybe I’ve just added…