stories

for the information age

 

 

These bite-sized stories chronicle my efforts, both pitiful and successful,

to navigate the rapidly-changing world.

 

My hope is that they help you do the same.

christmas motive - cross section of red

I have always been a slow reader. But lately, my pace seems to have slowed even more. One good book can take months to finish. Maybe my brain is in decline. Or maybe the internet murdered my attention span. Either way, I’ve all but given up reading novels—they are simply too long.


It turns out very good writers—Joyce, Morrison, Wharton, even old Tolstoy, the maker of the longest book I ever read—all wrote novellas. In little time, I make excellent progress. In a flash, I am sated. I am slow, but still hunger for story—for reminders that beauty can exist in even the tiniest of passages.









Updated: Nov 14


I push the weights up and down on the wobbly workout bench. I notice my body in the mirror—still able, but altered somehow. I look away and try to concentrate on the motions. I press the weights up and down with added vigor, aiming for the old familiar vitality, the thing that used to thrust me into life.


But the mirror has confused me. There is a revision at work and I no longer recognize myself. What strikes me is that it's not just my body that has changed; even my old thoughts no longer fit. That’s what it is—I’ve changed my mind about everything.

Updated: Nov 14


When women are together for any period of time, eventually, we talk about our bodies.


We talk about our skin, our knees, our hairso much about our hairhow we tame it, cut it, un-grey it. We talk about our breasts, our thighs, our stomachs. Vitamin D levels, libidos, hours of sleep. We discuss what we feed our bodiesour leafy green intake, wine consumption, how many ounces of water we drink. ­


We fret a good deal about bathing suitshow humiliating they are, but necessary, if swimming in public is in order. We discuss fabrics that might hold us in, push us up, veil or celebrate the intricacies of our bodies. We talk about our daughters’ bodieshow much like our own they are. For better or worse, we say.


We are baffled by our bodies. We wonder how to tend to them, be in them, transcend them, day after day. Our bodies run like clockwork, yet routinely shock us. They have been sick and healed, ugly or beautiful, rested and exhausted beyond measure. Our bodies devastate us, but also perform miracles so uncanny, so outlandish and delightful, we can only shake our heads in awe.