Why Do We Become Our Parents?

When I was growing up with 1970s parents, I noted two things about my father: 1. He commandeered the telephone late into the night, shouting about his plant's wood supply; and 2. He spent every other second in his recliner. A recliner spewed from his butt. A permanent appendage. His lost tail. I vowed I would NEVER be like him. Here's how that turned out.............

Gang Banged by Sound

Gang Banged by Sound

Sound. As I type to the hum of traffic, the cross-hatch of MTM's pen, the pulse of keys, I sob and wish sound weren't a thing. I know people who are virtually deaf. I don't wish for that fate or mean to diminish their disability. But I am waterboarded by the sound of my own voice. People want to hear me read my memoir. Or they *think* they do. They don't know a theater critic once eviscerated my speaking voice in a review. "Etched in acid," he crowed.


The Incredible Faintness of Being

The Architect preferred white plates. No rims. Slick buggers, soapy and wet. A slice plowed her middle finger when she dropped one. An ironic flip-off. She saw blood and bone. Her meat and marrow.