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On 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 1989We sat in the sun, me naked and soaking it up, Lorenne in long sleeves and with a straw hat keeping all ultra-violet rays from her sensitive face. She pointed at my bushy crotch and said, “You lose all the hair down there, you know. You look like a little girl again.”
By Gina CovinaAugust 1989A few old men were sitting in front of the store, watching a car come through the heat waves. The buzzards rose up from a dead dog to let it pass.
By Jim SandefurJuly 1989Zen is a religion for adults, although even adults have a hard time getting the hang of it. Children don’t need to understand it because they live it. That’s a paradox — a Zen paradox.
By Tom HansenNovember 1988The phone wakes me during the night. I rush to answer it because I have just been dreaming of Dad and imagine the call might be about him. It’s a wrong number, but I’m not annoyed. Catching a dream of Dad is like catching a rare, prize fish. The unconscious has goofed and let me see something it usually hides.
By Julia McCahillJuly 1988We all die, and most of us grow old, and for a certain inevitable number of us age brings its sisters: dependence, frailty, and a gut-wrenching perishability. Age is the last place and time most of us will inhabit, and the fact that age seems so foreign to most of us, as though cleft from the known world, is one of life’s sly tricks.
By Sallie TisdaleSeptember 1987July 1987Enlightenment is a record which we time-minded make with the intellect, because the intellect likes to divide, and cuts time into years and days and hours, and constructs history, whereas time itself underlying history knows no such human artificial cuttings.
D.T. Suzuki
A self-imposed Cultural Revolution, a grandmother to people of all ages, a to-do list
By Our ReadersJuly 1987Orson has stopped asking me to marry him, but every once in a while he says something to let me know that the offer still stands.
By Sylvia Choate WhitmanMay 1987Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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