The first time I kissed a girl, it all happened—the way defining events sometimes do—at four in the morning. We were in a student room the size of a large packing crate facing on to what might have been Oxford’s most modern and least lovely quadrangle.
When I was a baby, my thighs were so chubby that one of my aunts used to eat them like drumsticks. It’s a story I heard often when I was growing up, usually told with the requisite giggles from my mother and a pinch on my legs from whomever else was within reach.
I am the person who steams and huffs and rolls her eyes when you stand at the deli counter ordering half pound quantities of three different deli meats. I am the person who barrels through the bank door without turning around to say “thank you” while you hold the door open.
Words have substance, texture, definition. The word “word” is given distinction by Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary – yes, the bulky print version – as being both a noun in the form of something that is said, as in “I just can’t think of the word right now,” and a verb meaning expressing something, as in “Benjamin, we have to word the declaration just right.”
Earthquakes and hurricanes made for a memorable August, at least for East Coasters. The end of August means the beginning of a new school year for some, and, for many, one last summer vacation. Perhaps you are even reading this email from the beach.
Bigger hippocampus. Better memories. That’s how I imagine it would work inside the human brain. The same could be said for the growth of Hippocampus Magazine. We’re pleased to welcome a talented new group to our existing team of dedicated readers, writers and editors.
Youn may shape breasts (and other body parts) by day, but here, he sculpts a beauty of a memoir. I spoke with Tony in mid-July and, in our almost hour-long phone conversation, we talked about his book, his family, his media experience and the challenges he faces as the author of “a doctor” book—and whether or not I should consider liposuction for my problem area.
I can’t stop looking at you. You look like you do on the cross; but there’s no cross. It’s just you. You’re floating, arms spread out, reaching for the walls. There are holes in your hands but you’re smiling.
“Matthew Sweeney,” Father Bill calls from the front of the church, where he sits beneath your statue.
We always played before dinner, around 5 p.m. when it was not so hot and the black asphalt had cooled from the summer sun. Our feet could tolerate it and we went barefoot, calloused and dirty. We have the same feet, thick skinned under the heel and ball, similarity under the toes.
…We have dubbed him “radio dictator” for his insistence on having the radio permanently tuned to the local Oldies station. Yet, the music, which should provide a bouncy soundtrack for our family vacation, pushes me into treacherous territory—the gap between what I once thought my romantic life would be and what it has become.
