Only a couple of hours late, six sentences for Sunday, June 22:
We ride in a van with its windows blacked out. Every judder over every pothole is magnified. Time seems to stretch out, though the journey is not far. Nobody quite looks anybody in the eye. We are not competitors, quite, but neither are we friends.
There are twelve of us this year.
I’m a bit late in announcing this, but The Golden Key recently released its fourth issue, and it’s full of amazing writing about hungry things! Go check it out!
Six sentences for Sunday, June 8:
I spend my first night back in a motel just off the highway, the room is crisp with recycled air. I shove the nylon coverlet onto the floor and watch TV with the volume on mute until I can sleep. It takes a long time. My body’s still vibrating from the road—eight hours with hardly any stops. This is why people get married, to have someone to spell them on long drives, to have another body in the bed. It must be almost morning by the time I finally drop off.
The New Yorker recently featured some of Lynda Barry’s from her show ‘Everything: Part One’, up now at the Adam Baumgold Gallery. Love love love.
Today I read:
– Jen Bervin, Excerpt from The Desert
I really enjoyed Nets, Bervin’s erasure poems of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and I would love to get my hands on her other works. Experimental writing and handicrafts, how could I not love it?
Six sentences for Sunday, May 11:
You mailed me letters every week and I spent hours decoding them, the only part of you I had. Uryyb, Juvfxrl, they all began. I traced my fingertips along the curves of your words while my other hand sketched out the translation, A for N, B for O. Your pencil dug deep grooves into the paper, an indelible mark.
Your letters were full of the kinds of adventures I imagined Nancy Drew might have had at camp, up until some valuable heirloom went missing—hiking, canoeing, making out with boys in the woods after curfew. You told me, using ROT13, about Evan, the boy from New York who’d unhooked your bra behind the boathouse and put his brusque hands on your breasts.
I will basically have shared this entire story in six sentence portions before too long. Guess I’d better write something else.
Six sentences for Sunday, May 4:
I’d seen all sorts of things in my time: cities that burned for months on end, women levitating above the ground, a man shot six times who got up and walked across a frozen lake, only to fall through the ice and drown. There was a woman, once, who would pass her hand over your eyes and tell you when you were going to die. Even those who were dead didn’t necessarily stay that way. Men declared dead, from time to time, would wake with a gasp, with a flickering of their eyelids, and the doctors would simply shrug and move on, their interest extinguished once the patient was out of danger. Anything is possible, that is what the war taught me–the greatest cruelty, the worst fear, also sometimes the most perfect happiness and relief. Something gets shaken loose, who knows what.