The French philosopher, Michel de Montaigne, writing in “Of Friendship,” imagines friendship as a bond so complete it resists explanation. It is difficult to read that text now without noticing how much it assumes proximity, continuity, and a shared life that does not fracture across distance.
I left Congo. But Congo did not leave me entirely. I came to the United States not long after. There were moments when the fear came back. But I had learned something in Congo about fear. Get closer. Look at it. It is never quite what it appears to be from a distance.
This was not how I understood myself. I grew up playing everything: basketball, volleyball, soccer, but mostly swimming, where competition felt clean and measurable. You either touched the wall first or you did not.
I have begun what the Swedes call death cleaning. Well in advance, one hopes. But we have a big old house chock full of stuff, and I feel the need to lighten; besides, it is fun now, and will be less so if I wait until death is closer at…
“Ach! Don’t do that!” The dog dropped his paw, dismayed by my sharp tone. For years he has swiped my arm to get my attention, wangle a treat, stop me from overwork. Now—seemingly overnight, right after my sixty-fifth birthday—my skin has thinned to tissue paper, and his toenails cause blotches…
Anybody who knew Ray knew that Ray liked to do most of the talking. I could never get very far into any of these stories before the conversation turned to something that Ray was more interested in than his influence on me (which, indeed, there was no reason why he should care about this stuff nearly as much as I do). Ray may not have been the best listener, but he always had a lot to say, and what he said made an enormously positive difference in St. Louis.
A brush-up on the toy company’s history points to one simple corporate marketing decision on which this strange trend in crime rests: the death of child’s play, and the rise of adult hobby obsession.
Poetry is a different embodiment in words of the experience of being human. AI does not (yet) understand the mysteries, perspectives, uncertainties, and feelings—the experience itself—of inhabiting a body in the physical world.
He had integrity, always. He could be sly and mischievous, and he had a sizable ego, and he could drive you crazy, coming round on deadline day to rehearse his topic for Donnybrook at length. But he came round to all of us because he wanted all angles, all opinions. By the time he wrote or spoke on air, he sounded sure and strong, because he had researched and read and listened all week.
“Honey, you look sick without it,” my mom informed teenage me. Gentle and loving, she was hardly ever that harsh. But she was caught in the cult of femininity, and she wanted to make damned sure her daughter understood the need for artifice. I would like to say I ignored…