Jun 17, 2021 | Tries
“The Russian likes to remember, he does not like to live.” Chekhov
Living is fraught with uncertainty. Living is fraught with peril. Living is nothing if not a stew of ambiguities. Living demands effort. Living is work. Living is always poised near the cliff of annihilation even on a sunny spring afternoon of a near ideal temperature. Living is fleeting, always charged with the dynamic bodily necessities of tomorrow and the day after. Living involves real other people who are endlessly disappointed and disappointing and who are never quite what they seem, so we are always shaking our heads over what poor judges of character we have been
I think that I may be more Russian than I have ever realized.
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Jun 13, 2021 | Haiku
A baby rabbit
flushed from the liriope,
still, stares, slips back in
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Jun 12, 2021 | General Fiction
I do not remember my childhood with fondness. Of course, it was not all of a piece. Some pieces were better than the rest and better in different ways. There were moments of delight, moments of sensory discovery, moments of absorbing mystery even before I discovered books. I was immersed in it. In a non-trivial way, too, I have remained immersed in it throughout the course of my life It is a puzzle to me why I do not remember my childhood with fondness. My first thought is that there was so much fear. Unspoken fear was part of the atmosphere. I inhaled it without knowing its name, let alone what it was or why it was. I do not know if the unspoken becomes unspeakable or if the unspeakable permeates as the unspoken. But these are presences. I was permeated by the unspoken fearfulness and so became afraid myself. I was born very shortly after the end of the Second World War into a Jewish family. I was a new hope and a new hazard, What language does fear speak? How does it communicate? How does it infect? Fear speaks in the eyes. It speaks through the eyes. It speaks in a whole range of gazes, some that look penetratingly, some that look away so as not to see what is there to be seen. It speaks in the throat, in the music that the voice composes. It speaks in the jaw, in the neck, in the set of the shoulders, down the arms into the hands and their postures, imploring and deploring. It sneaks... read more