An archive of all of the personal essays we’ve published at Hippocampus Magazine over the years.
I awoke to the tilting sensation you get when somebody sits on your bed. I rolled over and blinked until my vision worked through the darkness to my father, who sat there in his blue work shirt and jeans, grinning the soft grin he saved for his daughters.
Jacob had a brown mop of hair and a round figure. I figured him to be ten years old. He had that ten-year-old smell, like cheese crackers mixed with unbridled curiosity. And then something amazing happened. Jacob read my mind.
My hands grip the steering wheel at 10 and 2, my eyes focus on the road, but my mind reels back through the years to seventh grade when holding hands was a big deal.
Instead of funding my 401K, I invest in concert tickets…. I know it seems absurd to spend money to find a way to escape from it. But I’m doing it anyway.
From the moment the baby was born, music took a backseat to nursing pads, sleep training and nasal aspirators.
I love Steven Tyler. He sucks the marrow out of my bones. I liquefy, burn. I would crawl 10 miles over broken glass to lie naked in his shadow.
…it’s possible to like both the Beatles and the Stones, you know.
Last night I met up with an old song. It had been years, but we recognized each other on sight.
Good punk rock should pummel you like a panic attack – forcing your glands to scream adrenaline, bringing a sour sweat and a manic itch to the skin.
He was a record rep for the area promoting new releases to local music shops, handing out review copies to the press, and coordinating with venues before, during, and after shows. We became friends when I was a review junkie…
