Dirt Don’t Hurt

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God made dirt, so dirt don’t hurt. That was the philosophy in my neighborhood. Pick that Dorito up, dust it right off, and start all over again. Candy was trickier. You needed water; a fountain or a hose, and if … Continue reading

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Mona Lisa

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“Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you… Is it only ’cause you’re lonely they have blamed you? For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile?” I got paid more than I expected. How often can an artist say that? … Continue reading

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Mrs. Rigsby

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In 4th grade, I got put in the dumb class. I guess I had it coming. I’d been a bad kid the year before. Stealing chalk from the teacher’s desk. Pushing another kid into the water fountain, and busting her … Continue reading

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The Holy Hour or Why I Hate Lewis Rukeyser

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I am riding on the L train, in winter, at night, with my sisters. A drunk man leans in too closely, sways unreliably, and slurs, “What’s your name?” My eldest sister answers, “Mary”. We always answer, “Mary”. None of us … Continue reading

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Who You Gonna Call?

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I miss Oprah. I know she’s still alive, but I miss her, like so many things, the way it used to be. Take my son, for example. When he was 3 years old, he wouldn’t give me a moments peace. … Continue reading

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Soul Food

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I turn the corner, and see the bright lights of a sign like the marquee of The Apollo Theater. “Sylvia’s”, it glows. Sylvia’s is not an entertainment venue. I know that. Every New Yorker knows that. Sylvia’s is a soul … Continue reading

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MetFridays: Clara

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Last night at the Met, I met Clara. MetFridays, they call it, “where old farts go to pick up chicks”, I add. Whatever. I’m a winner. I can tell my therapist, next Tuesday that I did that thing I talked … Continue reading

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The Prayer Plant

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I’m awoke from sleep by a knock at the front door. It’s the painters. I’m expecting them. I jump up from the futon, scramble for a bra, and open the door in my PJ’s and Ifro (Irish Afro). The painter … Continue reading

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The Beachcomber

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It’s the day before Thanksgiving. 76 degrees and sunny. I’m in St. Petersburg, Florida. Who knew? I love St. Pete. It’s like Portland, Oregon was in the 80’s. More hippie, than hipster. Super low key. Plus, St Pete is sunny … Continue reading

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The Art of Being Human

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The first thing you do is take your shoes off. Everybody knows that. I was at a Buddhist meditation center in New York City, attending my first session of The Courageous Journey, a PTSD support group. I had been swept … Continue reading

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