For three years now my grandfather has been dying in a little room pill by pill diaper by diaper spoon by spoon. He cannot walk. He cannot talk. He cannot breathe. Who can tell his sadness? Who can tell his rage? With what effrontery do we hold him by the nose open his mouth and … Continue reading Old Man
Three times a day, Manoli climbs up the gas pipe in the garden and leaps up to the first-floor balcony, where he mioaos at the window insistently until I open the door for him. Thus am I interrupted from my writing... Is he my cat or am I his human?
Why do you read this when you could be reading so many other things instead? Is it because you are hoping to find here something useful, fun, romantic? Is it out of solidarity with someone who has veered off the common path in order to write as a way of life? Or are you just … Continue reading Hey You!
