Articles are what strike our fancy. They may be news stories, they may be personal anecdotes, they may be fiction, they may be a blend of fact and fiction, who knows. As a writer, i've long reserved the right to create of whole cloth.  If you feel the need to determine which are real and which are not, that is entirely your choice.

For me, I would accept them for what they are - notes passed from the other side of the desk, words in the ether as a signal flashing from one building to another as we send back and forth our mirrored signals - a language codified, rare, and understood by those who truly have a desire to understand the hieroglyphics of what is often a complicated life.

If you are looking for something in particular, use the Search box on the Welcome page and type in a key word - for there is no order to these articles - as it should be. comme il faut.

 

s.r.p.

april | may

 

Monday
Feb202017

a word: isn't it romantic?

It’s that time again. Has happened again that I have come full circle back to thinking of ways to die.  Someone somewhere is saying, oh but if you really wanted to it is so easy. it’s just not that difficult.  you could quite easily, say, hang yourself. You could throw yourself in front of a speeding train. you could swim out to the ocean and on and on.  All of these are valid.  The trouble for me is, if the reason I want to die in the first place has to do with escaping pain, why on earth would i choose a painful means of exit? More, I am not and  never have been a violent person - nor have i, even when i ought have been, an angry person (angry people usually use a firearm to commit suicide).  

 

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Monday
Feb202017

Something New

I want to write something else. Something happy now.  I want to go home. Wherever that is. Home must be my flitting England.  My England.  My England of echoes. My country that I loved and always loved but that I fear did not love me back.  My England who I said Out of Ireland too. The IRA who i hated and still hate.  Your easy divisions are so neat.  Your world is so easily divided isn’t it between Good and Bad and evil and right and wrong.  This is not so.  

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Monday
Feb202017

Ein Sof

I am the one who is not to know.  And if there is really some love - something greater and above all this then I am supposed to speak like silence.  I believe in change absolutely.  What I don’t and cannot believe or be okay with is hatred.  But that’s all i feel.  


I’ve attached again to scary monsters/super freaks.  I know this is not who I am. I don’t know how long you can say things - write the truth - which is what someone insists on over and over again only to be shot down by a bullshit gun.  

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Monday
Feb202017

On Fury & Grief

Fury


Fury is losing your innocence And fury is losing your voice. Fury is when someone tells you to shut the fuck up or else. Fury is a fist in your face. fury is a hand slapping you, a fist punching you. Fury is assault. fury is betrayal.  Fury is when someone steals your soul and says But wait but I ….. du dud du…

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Thursday
Feb162017

a word | Amen

a word | Amen

 

2016 has been the worst year for me in very many years. To sit and regurgitate why or ponder is really not worth it. I don't need to think about it - I know why. I saw friends fall, friends beat up, myself drinking, losing a great job, still stupidly in love with the same man as forever and forever but after seventeen or so years of nothing at last sleeping with another man only to find that it left me feeling shamed and dirty and like a traitor to my love for the other.  Not, mind you, that he felt much of anything. At least not that i could tell. It seems to me that different people recover differently from love - assuming that I am right and that it was the case that he and i were ever in love. And i think i've done just about everything i can think of to get over him: including long ago saying, Enough this is it and we are just friends. But that didn't work either. And that was met with a "No but ...." and then we begin again.  

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Friday
Jan062017

Homeless in Harvard Square | Election, 2016

Election night saw me wandering around Harvard Square - seeking something and looking to renew a passport. That was the official reason I was there. There in Harvard. To go to the British Embassy and get a new passport so that I could perhaps find my way home. Like the man said, we’re all looking for some Direction Home.  

 

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Monday
Sep222014

The Recovery

Janet was tired.

 

She had been watching the sea from a shallow canvas deck chair that was now at the water’s edge. The sun glinted about her face and chest, which had grown a deep pinkish brown color.  The tide, which was coming in fast, was now licking and sucking about her ankles. Some children played near a sandcastle, scooping out a moat and a channel with their cupped hands. The sounds of their laughter filled the salty air about Janet and she drew in the air sharply and felt at peace for the first time in weeks.

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Monday
Sep152014

nightingale's code

The emergency room is sepia. Varying shades of brown, as if glanced from the bottom of a river looking up toward the light. That is how I recall it, but that could be incorrect for what I recall of the story I am about to tell you comes in bits and pieces. I recall it over the period of several months. Perhaps years from now I will write a different book - a more complete story with the blanks filled in. Or maybe not. Perhaps those blanks will always be there like little holes in paper. I don't know. I only know what I am about to tell you and this is perception - like any story told from a first hand narrative, is always about perception.

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Monday
Sep152014

Salon Persia | Thayer Street

I went in with hair that was the color of a drainpipe – sallow and slightly rusty looking. What’s worse, it had been cut by me (who is not a great hairdresser) which made it all the worse – funny scraggly bits sticking out here and there.  Nicholas took a look and chose a color from a spin-wheel of swatches – I could not choose the color but that didn’t need to be said. He choose carefully and well, leaving out any color too red or blue or orange for my complexion and settling on a roasted nut or espresso bean like color, the color of dark chocolate. 

 

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Tuesday
Sep022014

my fiddle box love 

The planes fly lazily longingly zipping a cruller path across the sky, the mind’s eye. Recall the pyramid waxed and pink and the ibis who stole off with bits of our love, letters to feather a nest. I was not going to say a word about it, about the blue, how it glowed like the night sky and there were foreign songs in the air, you wouldn’t believe. All like the sound of a sort of zither an electric saw, my fiddle box love.

 

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Wednesday
Aug122009

now, voyager - my sin, my soul

Why is it that I turn to Bette Davis in the film Now, Voyager time and again and certain books like Nabokov’s Ada or Ardour or anything by Yeats or the way I turn musically (at the end of the day) to Dylan. I suppose we all have our favorite reads and our favorite films, and though Nabokov is certainly my favorite author, Now, Voyager though , it may be a great, old

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Friday
Feb062009

a word | love's storm

It hadn’t occurred to me until, I admit, after a couple of drinks one recent afternoon and as late summer fell all about us, I listened to my friend and realized that perhaps there are two types of people in the world in this regard, anyway; there is the “I could have” strain,

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Friday
Feb062009

these shoes, these miles, these crooked highways

These shoes - these shoes have seen so many things, I suppose like anyone's shoes, if we stop to think about it, they would have a story to tell. They have been with me through the good and the bad. The happy the sad. The ecstatic, the heartbreaking. The momentous, the boring... and the vodka-tonic colorless inbetween days that add up to nothing in particular.

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Monday
Sep012008

a word | midsummer, august 8. 08

   It is officially Midsummer, which means that I am becoming officially depressed. Or perhaps I will. I can't say yet. It's something I am fighting as I learn that summer does not have to be the "end" of something but that rather, it can be a beginning. Any ending is also likewise a beginning.

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Sunday
Aug172008

this... and my absence...

There is, somewhere, a trail of emails that lead down down down to the rabbit hole and to a horrible place called Wonderland. It’s not anywhere you want to be. Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know… or so said Grace Slick. She was right. A

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Friday
Aug082008

It’s hot. Very hot. Too hot to be walking the thirty or so blocks to SONY BMG where I have a meeting, and then the twenty or so blocks back and on another avenue where I am to meet a friend. It is the ultimate New York City summer day and I feel like I am about to pass out either from a general headiness from the many good things at present (professional, personal), the fact that I am fully in love and landed on that square without even trying or wanting, that I am giddy already and with reason, or perhaps it is just the oh-so-humid day, the sun beating down (beating down), and that no matter how I may try I am unable to stay hydrated enough. There simply is not enough San Pellegrino in the world, and maybe tap water is fine, but frankly, I need some salt and Pellegrino is slightly salty and replaces all that I am losing.

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Friday
Jul252008

shine bright at Grand Central

Michael has a stand of high chairs with foot-rests all built upon a sturdy oak wooden frame with arm-rests. He is a shoe-shine guy. He is standing under the shelter of the overhang of Grand Central Station on 42nd and Lex. where in front of his shoe-shine booth. This makes sense for it provides shelter for anyone who wants to get their shoes shined even while it's raining out, so the weather has no affect on Michael's business.

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Monday
Jul142008

a word | quit having fun

photo 24.jpgI am told that a person feeling absolute joy - a person in an ecstatic state - is difficult to live with. That states of heightened euphoria can be alienating for the person who lives with you or who spends a great deal of time with you

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Friday
Jul112008

Memento Maurice | by Mark Polizzotti

Although I spent relatively little time in the company of the French novelist Maurice Roche (1925-1997) – an aggregate of months over a period of a dozen years or so – our friendship was among the most decisive in my life. This memoir was written in part for a festschrift in his honor shortly before his death, then added to sometime after it as further bits and pieces of our past intersections resurfaced. One cannot encapsulate an important relationship in a few scattered fragments, nor perhaps even convey it. In place of that, I remember.

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Tuesday
May202008

a word | all that is tacit (spring, 2008)

Function: verb Inflected Form(s): un·der·stood /-'stud/; -stand·ing Etymology: Middle English, from Old English understandan, from under + standan to stand transitive verb 1 a : to grasp the meaning of <understand Russian> b : to grasp the reasonableness of understand><I thought we understood each other: i was certain we understood...>

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