One member asked an interesting question of the group. “What do you think of when you think of something good?”
One member asked an interesting question of the group. “What do you think of when you think of something good?”
Quickly, I open a file and pin some words to the page, plucking them out of the silence and getting them down, getting them down. I’m pausing to flesh out my embryonic thoughts when the noise begins and footsteps clatter up the stairs.
My daughter said that once at the top, they had asked some fellow climbers about me. They were told, “Well, there’s an old man sitting on a rock, talking to everybody.”
It was a Monday, at the vet’s for the second time this month. No crying in the car, she just fell asleep.
She started experimenting with cocaine at 16 having read and watched “Less Than Zero.” It was chic. Cool. Exciting. Dangerous.
When I was six years old I made a promise with my grandpa. “I want to live to be one hundred, so you have to live to be one hundred and fifty.”
“Tighten your seat belts!” The operator gives me a once-over, bares a devilish smile, and sets the ride in motion. Wood rubs on wood as the roller coaster rumbles up to heaven. Grinds to a halt. Hovers mid-air.
I approach an employee. “I lost my gloves.” She looks into my eyes, must see a strange importance.
The freewheel snicks as I coast towards the apartments. It’s overcast and the asphalt is perfect. I lean left and right, then stand up, legs pumping, rocking the bike.
The A-Go-Go, a huge air hangar in the Dennis woods, has a dance Saturday and unbelievably, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs are playing. My parents checked out the grounds once and saw a pair of underpants. Crime site.
My daughter’s visit softened sterile surfaces of my home with a trail of mugs, plates, and debris, comforting signs of her presence. Our sympathetic bond assuaged my longing for connection, accumulated over months of pandemic isolation.
There was this thing where all the animals in the world were gathered up to see who could climb a tree the fastest. Every animal was there.
Downtown in summer just before punk exploded, we walked 7th Avenue around Christopher Street past the leather bars. He was so tall, he took two steps for my every one.
I inhaled the rich scent and lifted the mug to my lips. With every sip I felt the day brighten a little more.
Blood and impulse rush to the brain like voltage across copper. My unproven hands instinctively tighten, forging formidable weapons of gratuitous, youthful combat.
Her eyes, heavy with fatigue, tell her it’s time for bed, but Inspiration becomes her caffeine, her alarm clock telling her it’s time to write.
Nothing can equal the mellow and melodious jolt of accomplishment which springs forth from five minutes of sitting under the sun of an early spring afternoon and smoking a cigar which one has grown from seed.
As we learned from the movie, the concept is simple: Do something nice for someone, and have them do something nice for someone else.
Right after we swapped gifts, she asked ever so quietly what date it was and my father replied it was Christmas. I would've liked to tell her that it was her birthday, that we were celebrating her.
At five to four, Husband says, “Come outside. I fixed your snowshoes. I want you to try them.” I reply, “But I can’t, you know I have this other commitment.”