The Story of a Superlova
i. Step into the moonlight, beacon boys, the hour has come for us to write. Leave those starless shadows at once; come feel my pulse; the corners are no longer yours – dance, and look into my eyes. Take some time, come sit by me. Let us tease infinity: if we can dance the night […]
Ersatzwörter
Berlin, November Today the U-Bahn wasn’t running so I took the Ersatzverkehr, and it made me think of you back home, two summers ago, when we were friends again, and sitting in a square of June sunlight on the floor of David’s room. What I can’t say with words I try to say [&hell
Meditations on Morisot
To my mother, who taught me the language of painting. Berthe Morisot (1841-1895): Impressionist painter, woman, mother. While her counterparts, the Impressionists, became known for their radical paintings of landscapes and Parisian nightlife, art history portrayed Morisot as a mother. Over the years
Casual Tea, Seattle Man
Casual Tea Last night I dreamed I was running across the craters of the Western Front. The enemy had retreated, and the doctor told me that a Body had died. “All are buried or home for tea, but a doctor works in between. The war is won, and I am done. And so It […]
The Age-Old Enigma
Staring at my reflection, I wonder at which point wrinkles began to ambush my smile lines and frame my fatigued eyes. As I paint Maybelline’s ‘Instant Age Rewind’ over my dark under-eyes, it dawns on me that my intense concentration frown increasingly renders me a Hagrid lookalike. My phone li
Sally Rooney’s Musical Marginalia
Spotify is a virtual shelf-space upon which to stack year upon year of old playlists – to offer, in my case, an audible narrative to my late teens and early twenties. In the corner of Spotify occupied by the bibliophiles, I would scour for content, seeking new additions to my somewhat pretentious
Review: Guys and Dolls
Guys and Dolls is the bread and butter of feel-good musicals: everything falls apart, then everything comes back together, with a few songs and dances thrown in for good measure. Along the way, jazz hands make several appearances, and it ends with not one but two weddings – aren’t we spoilt? Yes
Late August
Let me try again. It is cold. It is August. It is the last day for swimming so you run your hands up against me in the surf, and I laugh through a mouthful of salt, the stretch of your shoulders shining, wet with sunlight, aching my eyelids shut. The generous spill of […]
Manifesto Town
Believe me: when I scoop water into my palms, I see her face trembling at the surface. Dream your last dream, blow out the lamp, and believe me. In the cradling light her eyes reproach me and seem to say: I am being written against my will, you trickster. She whispers her name in my […]