This City
Quick, go to the window! You'll see this city. Creeping by in the moonlight in the streetlight in the stony street. It's full of people making noise but it is silent, a silence that is regal or bewildered, as if it glides by in a silent gown or is simply overwhelmed by itself. There is nothing as beautiful as a city except for this
The Jause
The story of Grandma Melanie’s broken-hearted bohemian painter-lover was one of the stories Fritz and his friends told like mantras as they sat at home in Rego Park or Flushing or in the Giant Pickle Diner, stories about people from the Other World, the world before the war, about thwarted
Rich With History
It should come as no surprise that Rome is a dusty city. All those tumbling fragments, the withdrawal of the water after a flood leaving behind a silt-filled city, the centuries of statues chopped to powder to transform gods and fauns into lime for cement. And not just statues, but
Mummies, Madonnas
Mummies, Madonnas, Mothers, and other Parties, some of the injured, maybe injurious, splendid and humble, fragile and protective, or under pressure, holding or seeking to be held. I have spent all this time meditating on the injury that is anthropomorphism, an injustice to the stones themselves (and sometimes leaves, and all
Walking in Tongues
It was a huge, glorious realization, some 15 years ago, when I realized that I had nothing to lose by shamelessly revealing my weaknesses. Anything but. In fact, hiding, and hiding shame, makes one weak. But to the point: I have an incredible spatial disorientation when it comes to, well,