Whether by a human artifact which survives the centuries, or the spectacular powers of Mother Nature, we are all forever connected to the universe.
She learned to drive when she was only eight years old, riding shotgun in the passenger’s seat, her hands on the wheel while her daddy worked the pedals and shifted gears. The pickup smelled of cigarettes and beer, but she loved the bumpy ride in the forest to the old bridge…
I was blow drying my hair hoping not to pop a fuse. The light was terrible. Over the toilet, a yellowed note listed what not to flush into the septic system. I turned off the blow-dryer. I decided that I was done with it, done with hair.
He talked to me for over an hour while I shifted from foot to foot. I could have faked a trip to the washroom to get away, but my curiosity told me to stay.
Musings on the nature of giving and the criteria and emotion that drives who receives and who does not on the streets of San Luis Potosi, Mexico.
Whenever adults described me as a child they always inserted a modifier: they said I was terribly shy or horribly shy or, the most painful of all, painfully shy. But even as a shy kid I was never bored or without friends. That’s because I surrounded myself with words and pictures.
On a late-morning walk with his dog Jazz, the (slightly hungover) writer, lost in thoughts of War of the Worlds, suddenly sees on the horizon a strange black ball, with eyes, resting on a tripod. Meanwhile, Jazz is preoccupied with other “business.”
Darkness bleeds from the walls as I step from bright daylight into the house of death. The hovering ghoulish odour of mortality chokes me. A fierce battle of fight or flight takes place during that one step. Lucky for me, fight wins.
Relentless nagging from a determined ten-year-old finally gets her a trip to the beauty parlour, wad of damp cash in hand, to have her long tresses cut shorter than a Peter-Pan Bob.
The gadget in the photograph is fifty years old if it’s a day, a wonderful hand-me-down dust pan given to us by an elderly cousin, now of blessed memory. Every time I use it, I think of this sweet, sweet man, a Holocaust survivor who lost his entire family to Hitler.