I may not be a genius every day...

...but today I have a short story up on Everyday Genius. This month is edited by Penina Roth of the great Franklin Park Reading Series. The story, "The New Game," is about being a teacher. Opening paragraph: 

The children erect a gallows out of desks, cardboard, and ribbon. A child is hung, and then buried in the locker room under a pile of backpacks. The child is made to remain there, held down by two of the larger boys if necessary, for at least thirty seconds.

Check it out. 

“Art — Son — Trash.”

My parents recently moved and in the process I'm pretty sure threw away all my childhood art. Well, except for--possibly--this one pretty cool picture of some kind of armored buffalo. And I'm not even sure I made it!

To express my feelings, here is a piece from George Meyer's old Army Man magazine:


GONE, ALL GONE 

Do you still have the adorable crayon drawings you made in kindergarten? I don’t. Not a one. Which means that at one point, many years ago, the following thoughts must’ve gone through my mother’s mind: “Hmm, what’s this? Oh, I see. It’s that irreplaceable drawing by my firstborn son … the one he proudly brought home from school. I’ll just put this in the garbage.” Then, as time went by: “Oh, another one of my child’s drawings. What is it that I do with these again? Oh, yes — I throw them in the trash. That’s right.” Eventually, her brain probably got it down to “Art — Son — Trash.” And on the days when my mom was sick, and didn’t get around to throwing my artwork away, my dad would do it. 

I’m not bitter. I know they had good reasons for discarding virtually everything I ever drew, wrote, collected or pasted together during my one and only childhood. I love my parents. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.

Moby Dick Marathon

The first ever Moby Dick reading marathon is wrapping up today. I read yesterday (the end of Chapter 50 and most of Chapter 51, The Spirit-Spout) at Housing Works. Someone told me my reading voice had "dulcet tones." I also ate some pretty great chowder. Good times!

A passage from The Spirit-Spout:

Close to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither before us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens. And every morning, perched on our stays, rows of these birds were seen; and spite of our hootings, for a long time obstinately clung to the hemp, as though they deemed our ship some drifting, uninhabited craft; a thing appointed to desolation, and therefore fit roosting-place for their homeless selves. And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred. 

fleeting tweeting fame

This is silly, but in the wake of the 2012 election, I had a half-thought out tweet about Nate Silver and Biggie Smalls that went "viral" and was reposted by CNN, Washington Post, and other places. I guess that deserves to be posted here since... it is probably the most widely read thing I'll ever publish! How does one work that into a C.V.?

final elimae

elimae, one of the best journals out there, is sadly closing its doors. The final November/December 2012 issue is up. You should take it in one last time.

I was fortunate enough to be published several times in elimae over the years, both fiction (here) and poetry (here, here, here, and here).

They will be missed.