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It was that night, technically the next day but only moments into it when the bluebottle disturbed my sleep, knocking its clumsy wings and sets of eyes against my window.
In the overgrown, ripening summer, four boys, elementary age, chase the day away. It is that magic hour, right after dinner, just before the dark comes and beds call.
Due to circumstances well within my control, my misfortune sees my back living with my parents at the ripe old age of 53.
The bar is dimly-lit yet I can still see his face laced with long, shoe-string tears.
I can relate, I can understand but I’m not being allowed to see anything, read anything, experience anything that I want to experience in real life.
Novelists are caught in a double bind. The novel is a sprawling expanse that offers us the scope for detailed excavation and explanation.
After dinner, we headed home, oblivious that Miami in general, but 79th Street and Biscayne Boulevard in particular, had gone up in flames.
She woke on the sand in the scorching daylight and tiptoed her fingers towards the gauze wrap of a woman dead beside her.
In May, my friend Kari told me about the Festival of the Future series of indoor and outdoor exhibits at the New Museum on Bowery.
That’s where we come in, we’re watching through the writer, seeing them as freaks because that’s how they’re portrayed.
I want to stop and ask for an explanation, but that isn’t an option because gravity and target workout pace dictates when I can stop.
It is fashionable to rediscover brilliant but unrecognized records. Perhaps it’s an appeal to the notion that good work should be acknowledged — that wrongs are righted by belated praise.
The old ways were coming back, too. Old tastes. Religion. Cigarettes. Casual racism, masturbation and chastity belts, and long, long fireside stories told on frigid winter nights.
Larry Fischer had a new bitters kit he wanted to try, the artisanal kind packaged with letterpress and pipette.