Sometimes Somersaults

Sometimes Tumbling

2010-11-29T14:36:00.002-05:00

Have decided to move. http://sometimessomersaults.tumblr.com/
Hope to see you in the neighbourhood.
Love, Nagmeh

July 17, 1999

2010-11-25T20:25:00.009-05:00

Illustration courtesy of Ani Castillo

The day that J.F.K. junior's plane went down was the day that our love died. I remember it clearly. It wasn't raining. But it was everything else. The drive was too long. I pretended that I was looking forward to the baseball game. And you pretended that you were looking forward to us. But we both knew. The weight of John and Caroline's missing plane made the weight of our demise bearable. I had my hopes, imagination, and vision in the right wing. You had your, well, I don't know, something, in the left. The engine was our love, the propellers were our confessions, the back tail was the day we met, and the lights were the days we spent together. It was an unassuming day and an unassuming trip. No one ever thought that would be their fate.

Blow, She Said

2010-10-14T22:30:00.008-04:00

At the restaurant today, a couple ran in from the rain completely soaked. Her hair was dripping and his once expensive leather shoes were stained nearly to the top. Clearly they were out there unprepared. They sat not too far from us, both on the same side of the table, huddling together for warmth. But I wondered how warm a wet body would be. They didn't really notice the menus in front of them. Or perhaps they'd been there many times before and knew what they wanted. They were oblivious of other patrons. The tiny puddle by their feet caused the waiter to almost fall with my pho in his hands. And still no reaction. They were talking so closely, I could barely hear their words.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I pish pishu go back." He didn't say anything. Just kept rubbing his hands together under the table. "Pish pishily the pishpishpish I've pishon."

I tilted my head closer in their direction and decided not to take my eyes off of their mouths.

"It was the dumbest pish pi peshehpi", she said. And he was crying. Or was that rain on his face? Either way, she proceeded to wipe his nose. "Blow", she said. And he did.

I baked a Clafouti and Filled it With Sadness

2010-10-13T20:39:00.004-04:00

If it seems like I only blog when I'm feeling down, that's because I only blog when I'm feeling down. There's something about that deep wretched ache in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to document life. Writing it down is therapeutic. It's true people, it's not a cliche. I recently read a book of essays called Burn This Book, edited by Toni Morrison. (Thank you Anonymous for recommending it.) If you're a writer, read it. And if you're not a writer but ever had that whispering from the distance of your soul that perhaps you should write, also read it. In one of the essays John Updike quotes Pascal, "When a natural discourse paints a passion or an effect, one feels within oneself the truth of what one reads, which was there before, although one did not know it. Hence one is inclined to love him who makes us feel it, for he has not shown us his riches, but ours." Updike goes on to say that "The writer's strength is not his own; he is a conduit who so positions himself that the world at his back flows through to the readers on the other side of the page. To keep this conduit scoured is his laborious task; to be, in the act of writing, anonymous, the end of his quest for fame."

Writing something down, even if brief, and even if in a blog, brings us closer to ourselves. And I think that glimpse of truth is also a glimpse of happiness.

Right now, my heart needs an aspirin. Because even though my pain usually resides in my stomach and occasionally in my throat, its country of origin is my heart. My heart, my heart, my heart. A damaged country.

Dear damaged country,
Take care of yourself. Don't worry about who comes and goes. Be detached. And no matter what, only concentrate on the good in the world. The feel of little hands. The sounds of laughter. The sky that's ever-present. The joy of being selfless. These are eternal. And if that doesn't work, bake a clafouti and fill it with sadness. Sadness once baked actually tastes pretty good. At least it does if you use enough sugar.

TENDER, Blur

A Day

2010-05-21T20:17:00.002-04:00

Today was a hard day. It was a day on the verge of tears. A day full of introspection and search. In the depths of my heart, a vacillation. A foe. A stranger that keeps knocking. The sacredness of a heart. The pain of its separation from Thee.

On Another's Sorrow by William Blake

Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief.

Can I see a falling tear.
And not feel my sorrows share?
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd?

Can a mother sit and hear.
An infant groan an infant fear?
No no never can it be!
Never never can it be!

And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief & care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear;

And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O! no never can it be!
Never never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all;
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not. thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not by;
Think not, thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.

O! he gives to us his joy.
That our grief he may destroy;
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

Missed Another Beat

2010-03-22T23:55:00.001-04:00

I left thinking it was summer. And came back feeling like winter. I should have aimed for spring.

In the Dark Part of the Night

2010-01-31T22:29:00.001-05:00

The words of someone I know.

"I like the dark part of the night, after midnight and before four-thirty, when it's hollow, when ceilings are harder and farther away. Then I can breathe, and can think while others are sleeping, in a way can stop time, can have it so – this has always been my dream – so that while everyone else is frozen, I can work busily about them, doing whatever it is that needs to be done, like the elves who make the shoes while children sleep."

- Dave Eggers (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius)

2010-01-09T21:14:00.003-05:00

Sometimes a tingly nose means there's an angel in the room. But sometimes a tingly nose means you're on the verge of a cold.

2010-01-08T22:12:00.004-05:00

The single step leading up to the glass door would forever be branded into his brain. Turn around and run the other way.

2009-12-31T00:39:00.005-05:00

I saw it in his eyes. He didn't want to leave, but he also couldn't stay. So I made the decision for him. I shot him in the foot.

Things I Love that are not Age-Appropriate

2009-12-27T23:12:00.007-05:00

I've been reading and loving posts on Secret Society of List Addicts. Hilarious. Can't pull myself away.

Personal Sample: List of things i love that are not age-appropriate.

1. mmm. beets. for the young and pink at heart.
2. sweater clips. were they ever in? can't have too many of those.
3. broaches. yes i have some dandy pass-me-downs from grandmothers and great aunts. they're beautiful and underestimated.
4. pearls of course.
5. potpourri. never thought i would say this, but i have a collection of old, dried-up, decrepit roses and flowers given to me by loves and hates, dating back to 1995.
6. china cups. wish i could have afternoon tea out on the terrace every day. but first, i guess i'd need a terrace.

You?

She Walks in Beauty Like the Night

2009-12-27T20:22:00.005-05:00

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o’er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o’er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Byron

A Serial Novel: Happiness is an Option

2009-12-01T22:24:00.008-05:00

I'd really like to give this a shot. I stumbled upon this serial novel by Stephen Emms when reading his Guardian post about Falling out of Love with Murakami. I think I feel the same way. Ok, Ok. I've only ever read one Murakami novel so I'm not exactly being objective. But I've never quite understood why people rave about him so. I'm pretty sure I started with the wrong Murakami...But even still. I tried to love him. I really did. Only the love affair was over before it began. It's like that for me sometimes. I open the book. I'm all expectations. I read the first sentence. I re-read the first sentence (a must), and very quickly begin to drift away. It's partly attention deficit - yes. But it's also that the novel isn't that intriguing to me. I felt the same way about On Beauty by Zadie Smith. I wanted to be friends with her. And I got about 1/3 through that novel. But in the end, it just wasn't enough to keep me going. Nevertheless, for Zadie's sake and mine, I've decided to shelf the book and try again in a couple of years. My attention span will hopefully mature with age and fingers crossed her writing does as well.

Back to Stephen. Love the title of his story: "Happiness is an Option". Now if only the rest of it can live up to such a grand statement.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

2009-12-01T21:19:00.009-05:00

I think I want to go back to reading more poetry.
Is there anything wrong with that?

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

T.S. Eliot

Eating Animals: Why Eating Matters

2009-10-30T22:29:00.006-04:00

I'm pretty curious about this book. It's probably no surprise to my two readers, that I really (really), like Jonathan Safran Foer's writing. And so, and as such, I'm a bit nervous about attempting this non-fiction piece. I really don't want to give up eating meat.

The New York Times piece by JSF.
More posts about it on The Huffington Post.

I Don't Even Like Muppets

2009-10-24T21:51:00.003-04:00

Ok, so lately, I seem to be a bit fixated on Dave Eggers. It's just a phase. I'll get over it.

I didn't read Where the Wild Things Are when I was young. In fact, I didn't read any of the books that many of my peers probably read when they were children. No Dr. Seuss. No Winnie-the-Pooh. No Chronicles of Narnia...You get the picture. Sure, my mom read us stories - most especially quite scary stories from a United Nations story book that she had - but I never actually had the opportunity to pick up a book and read it on my own. In English. Mainly because in my prime childhood reading years, I was busy emigrating and immigrating.

Reading Where the Wild Things Are as an adult is probably very different. I can relate to the child on a deeper level. And as a new mom, I can feel the sting on both sides of the pendulum. I love the Maurice Sendak original. But I'm also very much loving the Dave Eggers version, The Wild Things. I'm sure there are many insightful write-ups and critiques about both books. So there isn't really much I can say that hasn't been said. But the movie affected me quite unexpectedly. It's interesting to me that the Wild Things, a bunch of huge muppets, were able to portray the painful dysfunction of a family, the dynamics, the pulls and pushes, far more brilliantly and profoundly than any movie I've seen with actual people. Can it be? I don't even like muppets.

Is it all over-hyped? Who cares. If it inspires you even in the slightest, it can only be good.

"He rode one-handed, then no-handed, then with his head slung back, squinting at the emerging stars. He whistled quietly to himself, then louder, then hummed, then sang out loud. It was a quiet night and he wanted to slash it open with his own voice." - Dave Eggers

Lily

2009-08-25T21:37:00.002-04:00

By Dave Eggers.

"Tell me your secrets, she tells her friends. Tell me anything, she says, because I will forget it all. And the friends laugh. They know she is serious. She is a good friend because she will listen, and ask questions, and commiserate, and she will tell no one their secrets, because she will forget their secrets almost instantly. Because though she does care about her friends, she does not care about their secrets."

Addictions

2009-08-05T21:16:00.003-04:00

There are some writers and they have some books that I wish I could devour like a perfect piece of chocolate. Their words linger in my heart. And when the last page has been turned, I feel as though I have just said goodbye to my dearest friend. A sense of sadness comes over and overshadows the happiness of having known the person.

Water's Words

2008-06-13T18:43:00.002-04:00

Let’s move. Or let’s sit still.
Let’s hurry. Or take it slow.
Let’s rush like there is no tomorrow, fumbling, rustling, stilling.
Let’s give and take both.
Let’s feed. Let’s search. Let’s flow to the deepest of sources.
Let’s be, without doubt or choice.
Let’s create.
Let’s wait for the visitors of our shores.

Today

2008-06-05T13:17:00.002-04:00

I am a bathtub without any water.

For a Certain Someone

2008-06-03T15:52:00.000-04:00

"The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublimest activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes."

W. Somerset Maugham

Seaweed

2008-05-22T20:32:00.011-04:00

On a beautiful summer's afternoon, I was out for a walk by the sea. There was a light breeze and a subtle smell of salt. Just enough to make me crave barbecued sardines. It's moments like these when I knew the world was magnificent and all was right. The waves were calm but steady. And as if it were an inevitability, I dipped my right foot into the water. Yes, all was definitely right with the world. So I entered with both feet. Slowly, my body acclimated to the water. And further and further I went. Fully immersed, I began to float. Weightlessness and surrender hand in hand. The sky met the water and the water met me. And it seemed we were getting along fine but for the momentary distraction. A seagull flew by. Pointless I thought. My body began to teeter and my balance was lost. Weightless no longer, I searched for the sea floor but instead the sea floor found me. It found me like an old friend who you cannot remember; wanting to chat about times gone by. I tried to explain that I had to go, lying about a previous engagement for which I was running late. But the friend would not relinquish its hold. The sky met the water and the water met me.

Not Here At All

2008-04-18T18:49:00.007-04:00

I have a friend who’s here, but not. Who’s clear. Who’s near. Who’s dear. But not.
I think of this friend every now and again. His words, his thoughts, his work permeates my world. But not.
I know he is happy. So I do not wish him more, in words. But in my heart, I wish him more than he knows.
We once had an argument over a tea cup. But not.
And the shattered pieces of that tea cup scattered our hearts.
Strewn, though I meagerly attempt to pluck the pieces, they seem hidden beyond my grasp. But not.

Dry Spell

2007-12-09T13:20:00.002-05:00

Hello dear blogosphere. Where have you been?
It's been a while. I haven't been reading anything lately. And therefore, haven't been writing either. The driest of spells in the driest of wells. I have just begun Middlemarch by George Eliot however. Hope to be inspired. Must admit so far, it's been a difficult read. But I enjoy a good challenge. The most wonderful surprise has been that the book is actually written by a woman! How come no one told me?

Maybe. My Most Favourite Word.

2007-09-28T16:28:00.001-04:00

There's something about the waiting. Something that gives life and takes it all at the same time. In a minute, anything and everything is possible. Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. And then one; The scarriest and most hopeful number in the world. It only takes one second to have everything. And one second to have nothing. In that one second, the possibility of an entire life can flash before your eyes. In that one second, you still have 'maybe'.

A Wild Sheep Confusion

2007-09-25T20:13:00.002-04:00

I have finished the book. Definitely worth the effort. But someone please, put me out of my misery - tell me what it's about!!! Does the sheep and his 5-pointed star stand for humanity? Does he stand for all that has decayed in religion? Or does he symbolize Christ? If you were to ask me whether it was a friendly sheep or an evil sheep, I would lean towards evil. But a sheep, by nature, is such a docile and peaceful animal. It stands, typically, for all that is good. That is unless it is a wolf in sheep's clothing.

I will not reveal the ending. I have already said much too much.

A Wild Sheep Chase

2007-09-16T13:51:00.004-04:00

My first Haruki Murakami book. I've been reading it off and on since May by recommendation from a trusted friend. I'm not sure why I chose this as my first selection and perhaps something else might have served better as an introduction. Suffice it to say, I was a hair away from giving up when I reached chapter 11. It reads as follows:

"I dreamed about a dairy cow. Rather nice and small this cow, the type that looked like she'd been through a lot. We passed each other on a big bridge. It was a pleasant spring afternoon. The cow was carrying an old electric fan in one hoof, and she asked whether I wouldn't buy it from her cheap.
"I don't have much money," I said. Really, I didn't.
"Well then," said the cow, "I might trade it to you for a pair of pliers."
Not a bad deal. So the cow and I went home together, and I turned the house upside down looking for the pliers. But they were nowhere to be found.
"Odd," I said, "they were here just yesterday."
I had just brought a chair over so I could get up and look on top of the cabinet when the chauffeur tapped me on the shoulder. "We're here," he said succinctly.
The car door opened and the waning light of a summer afternoon fell across my face. Thousands of cicadas were singing at a high pitch like the winding of a clockspring. There was the rich smell of earth.
I got out of the limo, stretched, and took a deep breath. I prayed that there wasn't some kind of symbolism to the dream."

Well now, that's interesting! My curiosity has been peaked. Murakami's writing is very surreal. Very Kafkaesque. There is little logic as far as I can tell and yet I do not question it. I do hope that I can make it further. And I happily confess that chapters 12, 13, and 14 are even more mysterious. Although I find it cold that very few people have names in this book. The main characters so far have been "I" and "Rat". Hmm...

Kitchen

2007-09-08T13:32:00.003-04:00

I am currently re-reading Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto. Once again, I am reminded by how much I love her style of writing. Her sentences are simple and true. There is a lightness to them, but also a universal weight.

"The night was so deathly silent that I felt I could hear the sound of the stars moving across the heavens. The glass of water soaked into my withered heart. It was chilly. My bare feet trembled in my slippers."

Washing Skyscraper Windows

2007-09-05T22:57:00.001-04:00

I just finished Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose and I definitely recommend it for any lover of words. Or even liker of words. It's full of charm, anecdotes and examples of great writing. But most of all it reminds me that anything is possible in writing; that there are no rules. Her advice is simple in the end. To be a great writer, you have to be a great reader. However, I can't help thinking that no matter how many great masterpieces you read and deconstruct, you either have "it" or you don't. And why is it that the voice that tells us that we don't is always louder and more persistent, like the class bully? In my mind, there can be three possibilities, each equally as grim. 1. It's the voice of reason. 2. It's the voice of cowardice. 3. Schizophrenia has become an epidemic of great proportions.

"When we think about how many terrifying things people are called on to do every day as they fight fires, defend their rights, perform brain surgery, give birth, drive on the free-way, and wash skyscraper windows, it seems frivolous, self-indulgent, and self-important to talk about writing as an act that requires courage. What could be safer than sitting at your desk, lightly tapping a few keys, pushing your chair back, and pausing to see what marvelous tidbit of art your brain has brought forth to amuse you?

And yet most people who have tried to write have experienced not only the need for bravery but a failure of nerve as the real or imagined consequences, faults and humiliations, exposures and inadequacies dance before their eyes and across the empty screen or page. The fear of writing badly, of revealing something you would rather keep hidden, of losing the good opinion of the world, of violating your own high standards, or of discovering something about yourself that you would just as soon not know -- those are just a few of the phantoms scary enough to make the writer wonder if there might be a job available washing skyscraper windows.

All of which brings up yet another reason to read. Literature is an endless source of courage and confirmations. The reader and beginning writer can count on being heartened by all the brave original works that have been written without the slightest regard for how strange or risky they were, or for what the writer's mother might have thought when she read them."

Read: New York Time's Book Review

When I was 14, my mother found a short story that I had written about a girl who started a conversation with a perfect stranger on the city bus. And that's all I have to say about that.

The Owl of Forgetting

2007-09-03T18:40:00.002-04:00

In the basement of my mind, there lives an owl. He is old, fat, and always hungry. He is the owl of forgetting.

Once I fed him the entire multiplications table. Right up to and including 12x12. It took him some years to devour that feast, but he did it. I feed him dates, names, phone numbers too. Those, he loves. Appetizers. Inhales them like there is no tomorrow. Friendships are great. Ashley, Sarah, Rose; who are they? Stories about loved ones, heroes, and legacies, all turn to crumbs when he is done with them. The countries in Africa blend into one and the oceans that divide us, now alphabet soup. The pathologies of plants and the table of elements were delicious while they lasted. And the books that I read, word for word, are now a dim light. But that which he loves most of all is a visitor. A visitor from the attic of my heart. And from time to time, his wish comes true.

He is the vampire of the seconds and minutes of my days.

Your Daily Literature Vitamin

2007-09-01T16:09:00.001-04:00

Want bite-size portions of classic novels? Have daily chapters emailed to you! 332 days to complete Ulysses! Or 241 days to read Crime & Punishment. How fun is that?

Dailylit.com lets you choose when you want to receive your segments, right down to the time. RSS feeds available too. And did I say that it's free? I love, love, love, the times we live in!

Vintage Twins

2007-08-30T11:51:00.001-04:00

Sweet. Launching in September, Vintage Classics is pairing classics with the new. What great "independent study" choices these would make for grade 12 English Class. Kids have it easy these days.

Matches include:

Lewis Carol + Haruki Murakami
Henry Fielding + Martin Amis
George Elliot + A.S. Byatt
Charles Dickens + Irvine Welsh
Fyodor Dostoyevsky + Patricia Highsmith
Henry James + Ian McEwan
Mary Shelly + Jeanette Winterson
Jonathan Swift + Michel Houellebecqu
Dante Alighieri + Philip Roth

Read more about this in Giles Foden's blog from the Guardian.

The Journey Out

2007-08-29T16:37:00.002-04:00

Be fast, but quiet
Not a whisper, not a sound
Listen to me, hold my hand
And walk

Walk from here
This once a home, this once a country
This once a dome

Leave it
Leave it all behind
The worldly things that bind us to
This once a home, this once a country
This once a dome of light

Say goodbye
For you will not return
You will not look back
You will not be sad

It is not for you
This once a home

Wrapped in the embrace of my love
You will be warm without its sun

You will not miss it.

Sleeping Beauty

2007-08-29T16:33:00.001-04:00

This is my winter, this is my sleep
This is the misery beneath the deep
Mud

This is the debauchery of my youth
The whispering, cunning of the sleuth
Rape

The ocean of my patience surged
But a handful rose from the submerged
Spring

I watch them cry a lake of dreams
Their voices calm, but echo screams
Hope

My heart and beauty full of dust
My art concealed beneath the rust
Storm

Oh fair and luminous hand of Might
Where is the day that this will right
Again

My secret.

Cracked

2007-08-21T21:59:00.003-04:00

Crackety crack. I walked as quietly as I could. I tiptoed even. The state of my heart and the state of the floors. Was there an echo? The past forgot. The days erased. And yet still standing. A little chipped. A little torn. I tried. I tried to walk as quietly as I could. But the floors were ever so unforgiving.
"Who's there?" asked a grumbly voice.
Silence.
"Who's there I say?"
Silence.
"Why must you make such a ruckus?"
"I want to go outside," I said in my hushed voice.
"Outside? Outside is for lunatics. For madmen who do not know right from wrong, and who, even if they do, plead ignorance. Outside is for monkeys and fruit. Are you a monkey?"
"No."
"Then a fruit?"
I paused, wondering if I could perchance be a fruit. "What kind of a fruit would I be?" I thought. "An apple? Too obvious. A banana? No. That attracts the lazies. A pomegranate? Too difficult. Perhaps a watermelon. Yes, a watermelon."
"I'm a watermelon," I yelled.
"Ok then. That's why you're in here. Now go back to your room. It's almost time for your pills. And don't forget, the Betty By Bakers are coming in to sing at the common lounge tonight."

On the Streetcar

2007-08-15T20:07:00.002-04:00

"Do you want to see that movie on Friday night?"
"Sure."
"Well? What do you think?" she asked, finally looking up at him. "Did you read the synopsis that I sent you?"
"It looks like something you would like."
"Yeah. It looks interesting."
"Do you remember Judy, my first manager at work?"
"Yeah."
"You should have seen the note she sent me today. Full of ridiculous spelling mistakes. I really don't understand how she got where she is."
"Hm."
"And did I tell you that Jen actually wants to invite Tom to the dinner next week?"
"No."
"Yeah! She knows how much we dislike him. After what he did? Does she really think we're all going to have dinner and pretend nothing ever happened?"
"I don't know. I guess it's difficult for her. I mean you're both friends of hers".
Emily rolled her eyes and gave a dirty look to the man sitting on her other side. "If they can't shower, they shouldn't be allowed on public transportation," she thought.

On Being Ill

2007-08-14T20:46:00.002-04:00

One of the most beautiful sentences I've ever read is the opening of Virginia Woolf's essay On Being Ill. At 181 words, it drips with honesty, insight, and wonder.

"Consider how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to view, what precipices and lawns sprinkled with bright flowers a little rise of temperature reveals, what ancient and obdurate oaks are uprooted in us by the act of sickness, how we go down in the pit of death and feel the waters of annihilation close above our heads and wake thinking to find ourselves in the presence of the angels and the harpers when we have a tooth out and come to the surface in the dentist's arm-chair and confuse his "Rinse the mouth-rinse the mouth" with the greeting of the Deity stooping from the floor of Heaven to welcome us - when we think of this, as we are so frequently forced to think of it, it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love and battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature."

Whisperer

2007-08-12T11:00:00.002-04:00

I used to think that she had something very important to tell me. Something private. Something confidential between her and I. But it turned out she was just a chronic whisperer. All a hush. Always leaning in. Those were her ways. A secret wasn't a secret. The world was. So I corroborated.