Ephemera

I press play. Hands screak over guitar strings, quiet and tuneless, like a sonic mistake. Mildly overdriven guitars crunch suspended chords and stop almost as soon as they’ve begun . . .

Wednesday morning I walk into Beyond the Box, a little bodega/cafe in downtown Dallas, on Pacific Ave, and announce that I’M HERE FOR THE KOMBUCHA . . .

It’s a Gass

The poet Meleager (not to be confused with the mythological character Meleager) was born in ca. 140 BCE in what is now Umm Qays,…

On Saturday, July 17th, 1948, Simone de Beauvoir wrote to Nelson Algren, “It is hard to get up in the morning . . .”

It’s the summer before my senior year of college, and I’ve moved to an off-campus house of friends of friends, people I don’t know well. . .

And here I thought blow smoke up your ass was a figurative fig leaf, slang to suss, an edifying idiom not for everyone in…

What is spectacular to me? The concluding page of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. It announces the end of this great project and in a way…