Soft, thumping mallets are now sledgehammers, trying to whack their way out of the cheap particleboard of your head. Some unseen battle rages on in your floaty, pickled brain, and another is duking it out in your gut.
I am certain that my photo will end up on the front page of the New York Daily News … with the tabloid headline, Sixth Grader, Slain. And underneath, a smaller headline, Body Found in Dryer.
I was looking to get lost in a new and different land, abandoning my own country’s chaos, and Redmond was a poet out to record the roadside scenes of American sorrow in the Seventies.
Why are they whispering? Wait, why is he looking at me? They’re both looking at me. I didn’t do anything. I totally didn’t do anything. Stop looking at me.
I was a mishmash of two worlds, a social experiment in a locale where “different” did not come up very often. My dark hair stood out in a sea of blonde.
Last time, I wrote an essay about endings—and for this issue I decided to write about beginnings. Topsy-turvy thinking, or all part of my careful plan? Let’s go with the topsy-turvy thinking. But I have a great excuse for going in reverse order: once again, I’ve been given food for thought by some excellent writers.
Imagine growing up and knowing there’s something wrong with you. You feel different; you are different. You’re fine physically, but socially you’re an outsider, alone and sad. Then imagine the relief decades later when a name is given to how you feel, and do, and act.
One of my favorite bits of advice for writers is to “write the book you’d like to read”. In that case, I’ll write wonder chambers, cabinets of curiosities. I like books that question the placement of dividing lines, books that throw me unexpected curves.
There are many types of travel, but this wanderlust-filled issue will feature those that have one thing in common about getting from point A to point B.
I crossed streets to find a grocery store, all the while imagining myself slipping in front of an oncoming truck. I wiped snow out of my eyes with tears, thinking at least that way my mother would never have to know about the forty days.
