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It is 1 in the morning in California, where I live now, 4 a.m. in North Carolina where Grandfather sits in the kitchen. Through the screen door, past a curtainless window, I watch him before entering.
By Kathy RileyFebruary 1990What are you going to do? I mean really: what are you going to do? Do you actually believe anything is going to stop the drift toward disaster? The drift of an entire planet? Do you actually believe we’re going to be saved? Everything is heading straight to hell, the whole thing is falling apart, the whole world is going insane. Do you really believe all this can be halted or reversed? It’s too late, it’s all over. Just dig it.
By Martin GlassFebruary 1990Basically I’m a very simple guy. I either sleep or burst into flames. That is all. If the truth be told, I have no preference between the two. I was made manifest here for rather nefarious ends in 1945.
By Michael Ortiz HillFebruary 1990“The Ed Sullivan Show,” 50,000 tons of dynamite, the word hope
By Our ReadersFebruary 1990What magnificent creatures they are, these friends who populate the complex ecology of the life I share with Julia. Refreshed by their presence, confirmed by their affection, we rejoice in the sight and the sound of them.
By Robert EbischJanuary 1990Rose wore a hat with a feather, and gloves. Oh, she looked smart. Esther was proud to be with her. Rose said she’d called for a taxi, and they were to go downstairs to wait. Out they marched.
By Myra EppingJanuary 1990Anna Karenina, the Peace Corps, long-distance rates
By Our ReadersJanuary 1990On the best of days, it’s a little like falling in love; like opening a stuck window inside yourself; like taking a drug — one that’s perfectly legal, dispensed by your own apothecary, your strange and marvelous brain.
By Sy SafranskyDecember 1989Peter sprawls across the floor of my living room, which is also my kitchen and dining room, and talks to me about my life. He smells like alcohol swallowed too fast. The cat is under the coffee table, eyeing him with distaste.
By A. Manette AnsayDecember 1989Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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