Saturday, February 20, 2016

Meg Wolitzer, "The Uncoupling"

There was no way to know, thought Dory. You bumped stupidly ahead through life, and you couldn't know if starring in a play, or sleeping with someone, or marrying someone, or picking a particular college, was going to lead to happiness or sorrow. How could you know?

Thursday, February 11, 2016

From a new piece

My job as a mother is simple: I’m raising my son to best prepare him to leave me. That is neither hyperbole nor future-tripping. It is simple pragmatism.

On nature’s dictate, we separate from our parents even before the moment of our first breath. It was an occasion I’d imagined many times while pregnant, shedding tears in the shower as I shaved my legs. Come on, Allison, my obstetrician said in her New York accent during this fantasy. One more push. Then my child would emerge with the requisite tears and joy, my husband cutting the cord with ceremony if a slight amount of squeamishness.

It didn’t exactly work that way. 

Edgy bitch

Part of what I plan to read tomorrow night at Lip Service West:

No, my heart didn’t break then and still hasn’t. It maybe just chipped a little, the kind of splinter that flows into the bloodstream to cause covert damage along its path. My mother warned me about splinters, but I never listened. Remove it, she’d say while wielding a sterilized sewing needle above my skin, or deal with infection. 

Earl’s splinter is that of memory. Memory, which fills in that which we don’t currently see. Memory, which takes the exact shape of our desire, the chronology that charts our purpose.

Curious? Come check it out, motherfucker!

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Feb. 12: Lip Service West

It's always a pleasure to read for Joe Clifford's Lip Service West, which takes place Feb. 12 at Pegasus Bookstore in downtown Berkeley. I'm writing a new piece, briefly excerpted here:

I wasn’t even experienced enough to be a Girl Scout. I was a Brownie with a driver’s license. 
An entirely other life, but in reality how much? The Beatles once sang: The further one travels/the less one knows. Old Ringo and friends were onto something.

Are you thinking that you don't know what the fuck I'm talking about here? Join the club, chump. I'm less than 500 words in and I'm thinking this is going to be some good shit ... if I can figure out exactly what I want to say. Show up and enjoy the free hot dogs!