When Sickness Prevails

. . . we have quotes. “Everyone has his own story, and everyone could arouse interest in the romance of his life if he but comprehended it.” George Sand “You have a responsibility to tell history because people forget history.” Leslie Brody “History is nothing more than a thin bread of what is remembered stretched out over an ocean of what has been forgotten.” Milan Kundera “I go out of my way; but rather by license than carelessness. My ideas follow one another; but sometimes it is from a distance, and look at each; but with a sidelong glance ……

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“Dreamwood” by Adrienne Rich

  In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand there is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see or the child’s older self, a poet, a woman dreaming when she should be typing the last report of the day. If this were a map, she thinks, a map laid down to memorize because she might be walking it, it shows ridge upon ridge fading into hazed desert here and there a sign of aquifers and one possible watering-hole. If this were a map it would be the map of the last age of her life, not…

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How Do You Change When You Are Writing?

How do I change when I am writing? With great difficulty. It depends on three vital points. Where am I writing? While on the Skytrain with hundreds of bodies—a few religiously unwashed–pressing against me, cutting off my air. Do I sit between a staunchly stoic older couple in a tiny Aquabus, which heaves against the water en route to Granville Island? Perhaps I am in a meeting in the matchbox-sized grey Quaker church opposite my place. How am I writing? The options are my phone, laptop, a pen, or using my best friend’s phone with the voice activated android assistant….

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“Personal Ad” – New Blog Post by Terry Gibson

Multi-faceted, passionately aloof woman, lover of foreign accents (or bad copies of same), known to do stand-up comedy in front of dozens, and then be dubbed the ‘quiet one,’ seeks a fellow human being to adore or enjoy the following: Silence for days on end. Then, without warning, I will burst out singing. Who knows what and who knows when? Still laments a long-gone and sordid affair with–yes, I’ll say it–the common daily mail. My pupils still dilate and hands shake at the thought of each single piece. Envelopes were big and bright—canary yellow, green like lime, crimson red or…

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The Stenographers – P.K. Page

After the brief bivouac of Sunday, their eyes, in the forced march of Monday to Saturday, hoist the white flag, flutter in the snow-storm of paper, haul it down and crack in the mid-sun of temper. In the pause between the first draft and the carbon they glimpse the smooth hours when they were children– the ride in the ice-cart, the ice-man’s name, the end of the route and the long walk home; remember the sea where floats at high tide were sea marrows growing on the scatter-green vine or spools of grey toffee, or wasps’ nests on water; remember…

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The Weakness – Toi Derricotte

That time my grandmother dragged me through the perfume aisles at Saks, she held me up by my arm, hissing, “Stand up,” through clenched teeth, her eyes bright as a dog’s cornered in the light. She said it over and over, as if she were Jesus, and I were dead. She had been solid as a tree, a fur around her neck, a light-skinned matron whose car was parked, who walked on swirling marble and passed through brass openings — in 1 9 4 5. There was not even a black elevator operator at Saks. The saleswoman had brought velvet…

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The Sound of My Name – Dily Morris

Over and over I call her back to me– her flowered bathrobe with pink trim around the collar glasses a little crooked hair wispy white. Scuffing blue terrycloth slippers she turns toward me, grasping the counter edge for balance, and speaks my name with more love than anyone ever squeezed into one word. Over and over I listen to the sound of my name– the memory of her, speaking my name.   Dily Morris

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