Perhaps, finally, it is spring.
Some of the little birds outside have been doing these half-chirps
thinking that it would be okay for them to open their mouths
only to have the true wind, the east coast wind
shoving that sound right back in their throat.
I wonder, if at night, the shoved in wind,
does that keep them up as well?
They might not think that hard about it
being that they are birds.
Hanging on Jungle gym bars in what, before today, was known as Palmetto playground in Brooklyn Heights, fans of Adam Yauch (MCA) gathered for the renaming of a park that the young Beastie Boy learned to play basketball in.
As cars, trucks and motorcycles revved by to get on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, Yauch was honored by Borough president Marty Markowitz, Francis Yauch (Adam’s mother) and Adam Horovitz (Ad- Rock).
Francis Yauch stepped to the podium and got a standing ova
“I feel that with my decision to devote myself to the novel I took on one of the responsibilities inherited by those who practice the craft in the U.S.: that of describing for all that fragment of the huge diverse American experience which I know best, and which offers me the possibility of contributing not only to the growth of the literature but to the shaping of the culture as I should like it to be. The American novel is in this sense a conquest of the frontier; as it describes our experi
There are places that capture a voice. They allow for the brief moments in the world – free of movement and distractions. Free of wild-eyed algorithms determining fate. They are simply, a door to open up and allow the characters that are hanging around in your brain a chance to come out.
For me, the silence of writing is maddening. I can’t keep it all down for very long. I’d much rather be in a noisy place with the madness of the world happening around me than alone in a room wit
Dear Golden Gate Bridge Toll Booth Workers,
Today I opened the New York Times and read that the people were being taken out of your soul. Computers were replacing those who stood in your tool booths collecting bills and giving smiles.
I remember all of you with great love – when I used to visit my father up in San Francisco and the people in the booths welcomed us into the city when we drove over from Sausalito.
Your hearts beat inside the wonder that wa
On rainy days like this, I always think of Sausalito – of times with my father when the area around his apartment complex flooded and the sounds of the rain hitting the mud below got louder and louder the more the water piled up. We couldn’t go anywhere and that was just fine – I enjoyed those moments I spent with him. There were these huge glass windows that looked out over the bay where the houseboats would sway back and forth. We’d cook something and eat on these plates – I remem
How will I tell this new story? The papers are stacked up and the photos, most of them, all have dates. The numbers match. The timelines of history can do the rest. I’ve been talking to relatives and people who have had contact in some way (and I believe that studying is a way) with my grandfather. His story is different, and in many ways, not so different from those who went through the same thing when leaving Europe. When being made to leave Europe. However you want to look at it.
Today was a great thrill. I found my Freshman High School English Teacher, Mr. Batcho. This was the man who made me love literature. He was the one who, when we were 15, had us read The Stranger. That was the first day of the first class in High School. Next was The Collector. Next was A Single Pebble. He never let us write a thing in class or at home.
We had to be there early each morning and write whatever we had in these little blue books. I don’t remember much else of high school
I’ve had similar experiences prepping for a book. Characters start to appear after I write them, but this time it’s something quite extraordinary. My past, and when I saw my past, I mean the people who have lived before me and carried my genetic code, my ancestors, are working with me. They are walking next to me and tapping me on the shoulder – asking that their memories become unearthed so that I may hear them. I’m humbled – now knowing that this next book is going to be an experience