Ah, June. You were supposed to be flowers and early summer breezes but instead you were thunderstorms and thunderstorms and thunderstorms. Now, I like a good thunderstorm and I don’t mind rain but it would be great if the deluges could be spread out over the summer, ya know? Two tornado warnings in 36 hours with debris falling from the sky plus hurricane season is enough to make one move into the pantry under the stairs until October.

Oy vey.

But rainy days are good for reading and watching TV between dodging tornadoes. So I did.

TV

Margaret (2011 movie) on HBOMAX, starring Anna Paquin, Kieran Culkin, Matt Damon, Mark Ruffalo - Having never heard of this movie, I stumbled on it by chance when it appeared as a “you might like” on my Prime account. I didn’t watch it there because it had a rent option only. Luckily, I found it on HBO/MAX. (I refuse to pay for a film when I already pay for the service, so there!) Anna Paquin gives a stellar performance in this film - I was very impressed. She plays a high schooler in NYC who is unintentionally a party to and witness to a horrible bus accident. (Warning: the accident scene is very disturbing.) The film unfolds as she tries to come to grips with her unresolved trauma and we see how it leads her into obsessive and dangerous behavior going forward. It’s not an easy film to watch but it’s worth it, it’s so well done and the acting is stellar, as I said. She should have won the Oscar or at least been nominated. Watch the trailer (including part of the accident scene) on IMBD.

Roadrunner (2021 documentary) on HBOMAX - I’m late to the Anthony Bourdain party in watching this documentary which is surprising because I was - am - a Bourdain fan. No one will ever do travel and food TV like he did because it was about much more than travel, much more than food. The docu is a pretty deep dive into Bourdain’s life from his days as chef for Brasserie Les Halles through the iterations of his travel shows to his death by suicide in Italy in June of 2018. Many of the facts we already know but hearing from his closest friends and coworkers revealed new levels of him as a man. Clearly, he was beloved by them while being something of an enigma and their reminiscences made me a bit tearful a couple of times. It reinforces the old saying that appearances can be deceiving. RIP.

“I’m not a newsman, I’m not a journalist. I’m not an advocate. I’m not looking to inspire. I don’t have a political agenda. If anything, I like to go to a place thinking one thing and be completely wrong about all of it.”

BOOKS

The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout - I’m a huge fan of Strout’s books and have read them all. She has a super power of inhabiting human frailties, struggles, dreams, and regrets in her characters that makes her books completely immersive. One thing I particularly like is the reoccurrence of characters across her books and how she delves into the psyche of one after the other. In this new book, she introduces a new character, Artie, and the influential people in his life. I won’t give away the story but I will say I believe it’s the darkest of everything she’s written in its themes of depression, hopelessness, and struggle. It’s probably my least favorite of her books but, even so, I still do recommend it for fans of her work. Just be prepared for a lot of suicidal ideation and depression.

The Island of Ghost Ships by Jamy Bond is currently in pre-order at Finishing Line Press. I recently interviewed Jamy for my column at Reckon Review. Link. I recommend this book for lovers of micro memoir - it’s excellent!

LITMAGS

Bone Memory by Sabrina Hicks in Identity Theory - She transforms the pain in her hands into a beautiful lyric soliloquy and yet you feel her pain. So well done!

I have always done the planting, my fingers digging in the dirt, prying loose the roots of colorful annuals, splaying them into new beds; I have held my three children, heaving their weight from one hip to the other, still feeling the imbalance in my sciatica…

The Museum of What was Left Behind by Julia Strayer in Bending Genres blew me away with her skillful portrayal of leaving and being left. This story is pretty much a master class on craft. Love it!

My mother often leaves me waiting at school, after swim practice, dance recitals, sleepovers, ice rink, movie theater. She leaves me behind so often I expect to find myself at the museum. I confirm it when I catch my reflection in a mirror hung low to the ground capturing an empty room. I have to bend down to see myself, but I’m definitely there.

When You’re the Roller Derby Girls by Candace Hartsuyker in Gooseberry Pie - I remember when The Big Easy Roller Derby started back up in 2006 after Katrina and I used to follow it since friends of friends skated. I love this little micro not only for the story and the excellent writing, but also because I don’t recall ever having read a story about the derby. So fun!

Hair in braids and pigtails and cinnamon roll buns, mascara smudged like war paint. The rink and its echoing chants and hoots and hollers.

In That Little House on Maple Street with the Curtains Always Drawn by Lisa Thornton in Milk Candy Review is a nuanced and poignant story of a son and a dad and their reversal of roles.

Young Henry finds Columbo on the channel that plays vintage faves. Old Henry doesn’t smile when the detective turns around and says, “Just one more thing.” Not like he used to. Not on the outside, anyway.

Rebirth by Tracie Adams in Bright Flash Literary Review - I’ve been interested in eating disorder stories and memoir since I worked in a clinic that treated eating disorders back in the 80s. I learned so much. Tracie writes with honesty, insight, and love.

While you dance and skip, I will cut calories, jog around a track, count the pulses of my racing heart—each beat a measure of what it is losing, the muscle thinning, starving for what it is denied. You will watch as I shrink my flesh and frame, carving myself smaller and smaller as you grow.

Cadillacs on the Moon by Travis Flatt in SmokeLong Quarterly - A perfect example of how a good title will reel in readers. Even better is when the story is about astronauts. Love me some astronauts and stories that tell what happens to those left behind.

Do you miss me, Katie, up there in orbit? I picture you floating in your rocket ship, a Russian novel leashed to your wrist. Or, maybe enjoying some celestial Earthrise we civilians could only begin to imagine, your arms hooked in Lieutenant What’s-His-Name’s as you spin in some zero G waltz.

I Really Do Heart Radio by Alyson Mosquera Dutemple in her Substack Swellspoken - I was delighted to read that, like me, Alyson still likes and listens to radio. I don’t even mind the commercials like I did back in the day. There’s something about knowing a whole cluster of people are listening to the exact same music at the exact same time that makes me feel like there’s still a community of people who like something, who agree and, if they don’t, it’s okay! Because it’s music. Streaming is intentional while radio is fortuitous.

Because in many ways, the turn of a radio knob is like a roll of the dice. And depending on how those dice fall, you might find yourself in one of the few places where you still get to actively engage with the unpremeditated in the day to day, in a place with the immediacy of another person’s comments and asides and sputters and dead air.

And a blast from the past……because some stories will grow more amazing every time you read them. 👇👇👇

Spores by Michelle Ross & Kim Magowan in Barren Magazine, Issue 10 - I was a contributing editor and reader at Barren when this piece hit the queue. As someone who has never set foot in a gym and has no desire to join that culture, the snarkiness in this piece made me laugh. It still does.

I wiped off the seat, said, “Thanks,” and handed it back to her. In that mutual exchange—“Gross,” “Gross,” “Thanks,” which Sheila responded to not vocally but with a commiserating nod—I felt a meeting of the minds, a mutual disdain for these lithe, sweaty bimbos with their dyed eyelashes. With their yoga pants that are weirdly expensive in the way fancy jeans are expensive because they flatter their asses. Fuck them all, was what our eyes communicated to each other, before Sheila slung her ratty towel over her shoulder and I mounted the now non-gleaming bike.

Also, I have a new flash fiction in the incredible Roi Fainéant. Many thanks to Tiffany M. Storrs and her beautiful team for accepting and supporting “Don’t Care Guilty” with all its local references. Thanks in advance if you pop over to read and be sure to stay for more!

MUSIC

So after linking to Alyson’s post about radio, I want to share Radio Garden with all y’all who don’t know about it. You can listen to radio stations from all over the world in your browser or download the app. It’s fun to hear music from other countries and cultures as well as from other areas of our own country. Enjoy!

The night we understood set off

inside us an emergency, we walked

in water groggily zigzagging between

reason and confusion. Impossible

things were happening, all of them

ghastly and horrifying.

To witness was power,

to believe was a crime.

Source material from pages 23-24 of Two Women Walk into a Bar by Cheryl Strayed.

*

A Bittersweet Pilgrimage

I waited in a COVID-enforced patience as the buffer wheel on my screen whirled. Slow internet connection has become one of many new normals thrust upon us living in lockdown while we wait for the virus to disappear and a vaccine to be rolled out. My browser was opened to Marco Polo, an app introduced to my extended family by a cousin in New Mexico to keep in touch with relatives in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas. We are all pretty far-flung and, with busy lives, have rarely kept in touch. Now all of us, from our 20’s to 80’s, are getting reacquainted.

*

A finger gently traced the lines as Aunt Linda read my palm in a voice soft as swan’s down. Her words glided through the air rippling from the past to the present and future. Our past together had been interrupted in my childhood but we kept in touch intermittently after my high school graduation when she sent me a volume of Edna St. Vincent Millay poems. Although we had a limited relationship I felt intuitively drawn to her free and expansive spirit and loved hearing her soft voice, so intimate, so attentive. She had a unique way of giving advice without sounding judgey or lecturing. On this visit in the early 90’s, she shared her experience with herbs and aromatherapy which sparked a life-long interest in me. This was before the internet and long before aromatherapy became trendy. She was a modern day medicine woman who created and made potions, unguents, and aromatic elixirs using essential oils and botanicals with names like bergamot, neroli, and myrrh. We had a wonderful visit together. We perused The Pharmacy Museum on Royal Street marveling at strange diagnostic instruments and glassware containing questionable contents. We explored a dimly lit, slightly scary herbal pharmacopoeia on Magazine Street, before it was gentrified, where I was sure we’d come to no good. Incense permeated the store, candles flickered shadows on the walls even on that bright winter’s day. There were even more bottles full of questionable contents than at the museum and Aunt Linda knew the names and properties of many.

*

In August of 2020, I learned my aunt had ovarian cancer. I knew she’d been sick. That she had a rare autoimmune disease that was ravaging her beautiful skin and terrorizing her internally, but the realization that a possible result of her disease had actually come to pass was a blow. She chose to go into Hospice, avoiding the chemicals and prodding of treatment. She said she was ready. Her daughter moved her into her house in a room filled with her things: pictures, memories, and her four beloved dogs.

Days passed like children skipping down the sidewalk – within sight, then gone.

I texted her photos of my summer garden and my dogs with short messages and sometimes, on a good day, she’d reply. I shared poetry by my favorite contemporary poet, Dorianne Laux, that made her smile, according to her daughter who joined the family Marco Polo to keep us updated on her mother’s progress. I wanted to return the poetry favor she’d given me all those years ago.

At first Aunt Linda resisted showing herself on video and would pass messages through Melinda. Finally she would allow Melinda to show her when she felt up to it and would say a few words in her soft swan’s down voice that had become softer, like the memory of a feather floating in the twilight. She looked ethereal with her beautiful long silver hair spread like a halo on her pillow, all covered in soft white sheets. Looking at her was an ache, a beautiful and longing ache.

Who wouldn’t love this old-tooth moon,

this toilet-paper moon? This feral, flea-bitten moon

is that dog’s moon, too. Certain-of-nothing moon, bone

he can’t wait to sink his teeth into. Radio moon,

the white dial turned to static. Panic moon,

pulling clouds like blankets over its baby face.

Moon a portrait hung from a nail

in the starred hallway of the past.

Full moon that won’t last.

There were other poignant moments with her via text and Marco Polo but I keep them to myself, living in my heart and my mind’s eye next to meaningful conversations through the years. She passed away in November. As COVID-19 still ravages around us and gets all the attention, it’s noteworthy to realize people still die of a myriad of other causes and families are forced to mourn in an abstract way, unable to go through the traditional rituals of saying good-bye. While writing this I’ve scrolled back through Marco Polo revisiting videos of Aunt Linda, a bittersweet pilgrimage. I suppose we’ll have to create new mourning rituals during these strange days but humans are creative. We’ll find our way.

It’s been a rainy, rainy month in New Orleans, which is normal for May. Several of the grand floods since I’ve lived here were in May. My first experience with flood waters was when I walked in almost knee-high water, struggling to hold on to an umbrella in the crazy wind, from my workplace to our apartment which, thankfully, was only two blocks. All I could think of were rats and snakes and who-knows-what else in the swirling gray water. Fortunately, the water didn’t top the threshold to our apartment but it was close. I’d never had such an experience before but certainly have had more since, including one time when my car actually began floating as I tried to drive home in a thunderstorm. This is a little poem I wrote about that experience that was published in the now defunct On the Veranda lit mag in 2017:

When Water Rises

Afternoon errands.

Rain,

falling elephants and lions, thumping

and roaring.

Me, a little mosquito

in a car on Tchoupitoulas Street.

It’s beginning to flood, my foot

on the brakes falling straight to the floorboard

as water rises, the car floating slowly

amidst a cache of litter, planks,

a garbage can, and a blue tricycle.

Out of control, I let the waffling

steering wheel go, lean back with a Hail Mary

on my lips and think about wading

to the nearest bar for a screw-it-all beverage.

Here are some things I read, watched, and listened to while the torrents fell.

Music

I enjoyed reading this article (unlocked) about Bob Dylan who turned 85 on May 24. He appears to be true to himself and his values but doesn’t proselytize to his fans. I like that.

Many people know the story of Mr. Dylan’s transition to electric rock from the fine 2024 film, “A Complete Unknown.” That movie subtly alludes to another reason Mr. Dylan wanted to break away. Pete Seeger and other folk luminaries were dedicated to the Communist Popular Front philosophy. They hoped to see their young protégé carry an anticapitalist message to the youthful masses. Mr. Dylan’s political convictions—against war and for civil rights—were genuine. But he refused to be anyone’s mouthpiece. His scathing 1983 pro-Israel song, “Neighborhood Bully,” remains one of the few overtly political songs in his later catalog.

I recently discovered Subway Takes on YouTube and this one, “There’s no such thing as a favorite Beatle”, with Ethan Hawke had me laughing. Although I get his argument that there’s no such thing, I’m solid that George always was my favorite. Although I think Ringo is killing it in his later years and good for him! You’ll get a kick out of this short take. LINK

Marfa

I also recently discovered this duo and damn they do make some great music! Their harmonies are gorgeous and their style is compared to the Laurel Canyon Sound meshed with Texas Country. I shared this video with a musician friend who said, “Isn’t it nice to hear real music from real people?” I like this song very much and the video feels very 1980s retro to me. Don’t you think Daisy looks very 80s? Or is that the fashion now? Hmmmm. Follow them on Instagram where they regularly post bits of their songs.

TV

The Delinquent Season (2018 movie) on Prime, starring Cillian Murphy. Two couples with small children, their angst, and what happens when it’s acted upon. Lots of emotional struggling in this film that held my interest to the end. It always amazes me how people can ignore their own culpability in a bad situation and put all the blame on others.

The Count of Monte Cristo (2026 series) on PBS. The classic Alexandre Dumas novel of revenge brought to tv. I thoroughly enjoyed the story, the visuals, and the excellent acting. If you like historical or period fiction, you’ll enjoy this series.

Books

The Bewitching by Silvia Moreno-Garcia is a book that AI recommended when I searched “books similar to The Secret History by Donna Tartt” recently. I haven’t read Silvia’s Mexican Gothic but I’ve certainly heard about it. So The Bewitching is similar to Secret History in that one of the settings is a small New England university in the 1990s and the 1930s but there’s also a rural Mexico setting in the 1900s. The three settings and characters create interwoven threads of witchcraft, folklore, and supernatural occurrences. It’s an engrossing read that I thoroughly enjoyed, even late at night when I got a shiver down my spine while reading. (Shades of hiding under the bed covers as a kid!) No spoilers or long descriptions here - just read it if you like gothic, horror, or “dark academia”, a new-to-me term. So good!

Skylark by Paula McLain - This book encompasses two timelines: 1660s Alouette is the daughter of a master fabric dyer but whose own ambitions, as a woman of the times, brings down hell on her and 1930s Kristoff who is a doctor caught in the Nazi occupation of Paris where he endeavors to help his Jewish friends. The two stories alternate and with the end of each chapter, I groaned because I didn’t want to leave that story…..until I began the next thrilling chapter in the other story. This book is so damn good and especially now with the alarming antisemitism growing in our country and others. The Nazi thread is a strong reminder of the targeting, hate, and extermination that the Jewish people have endured. Alouette’s thread is a strong reminder of the inequality and misogyny women have endured. Read this book!!

Litmags

Self-Portrait with Death by Scott Garson in Matchbook is one of those rare stories that leaves you speechless. Truly, there are no words, only the feels. It’s exquisitely told.

When a car takes the corner and doesn’t pass, lights coming up right behind me, I don’t turn. I don’t pause or deliberate. I run. I drop the wagon handle and make for the nearest back yard.

Two years later, another kid with a Sunday route will disappear. In our city, we’ll learn this kid’s name. If I don’t have the thought, It could have been me, that’s because I have never not had it.

To the Food Truck Cook on the Upper West Side by Ronit Plank in Tiny Beautiful Things by River Teeth Journal is gloriously beautiful and made me wish I was there.

Carts of bagels, carts of hot dogs, carts of coffee. And blessed late-night chicken and rice, sausage and onions filling the air around us, beckoning my son hours after we ate.

Endurance Sport by JR Walsh in 50-Word Stories was selected for Story of the Week and well deserved. It’s 50 words! Click over and read this little gem!

Little Sting by Cate McGowan in Gulf Stream Magazine will tickle your imagination with wild imagery and wow you with the resourcefulness of characters caught in an apocalyptic situation while mall shopping. I’m hard-pressed to read an apocalypse driven story or book that passes my (probably too) critical eye but this one does, brilliantly. It also has a touch of humor that’s skillfully inserted at just the right times.

We waited until around three most mornings to sneak into the food court and raid the back rooms: frozen pretzels from Auntie Anne’s, dented cans from Sbarro, rice-and-sauce packets from the teriyaki place, warm bottles from vending lockups that somebody pried open. For a while, the family restroom still gave us water if we held the handle just right. After that, we filled buckets from a maintenance sink in the service hall.

Grounded by Jo Saleska in The Citron Review is an alt rendering of Adam and Eve in The Garden with a woman-centric twist. It’s just great!

Adam cannot help but laugh. He laughs and laughs. He laughs until his ribs ache. He has never in his whole existence heard anything so funny. You cannot have the moon! Do you know nothing of this place, woman? Eve does not laugh. Adam can feel her body turn stony beside his.

Death Seat by Sheree Shatsky in her Substack, Shared Madness, is a down-home gem that had me smiling and nodding to the very last word. Sheree is an online writer-friend who became one after I discovered her excellent stories in my litmag reading. I think readers who like southern grit lit will enjoy this story and others that Sheree shares in her Substack.

The actress is one of Juanita’s favorite film stars—second only to Ann Margaret—and she has been caught up in the particulars of Jayne’s death, fixated on the pure circumstance that placed her in the front seat of the ’66 Buick Electra. Since the accident hit the news, Juanita has spent hours speculating that Jayne’s decision to sit between the driver and her fellow passenger rendered the actress somehow out of control of her own fate.

And a blast from the past……because some stories will grow more amazing every time you read them. 👇👇👇

Sunday Morning Girl by Gabriela Gonzales in Lost Balloon, January 2020, has a lyrical rhythm and flow that pulls you along on a smooth yet exciting ride in love’s unpredictable waters. This is one of my all-time favorites.

a Sunday morning girl watches you while you speak, memorizes the shapes your mouth makes, smiles she smiles she smiles at the way you move. a Sunday morning girl is learning to love you and learning that you are human and understanding and not understanding them at the same time. mouth on the rim of your old mug, sipping black tea, no honey, tastes sweet.

I’ve been on a long wait list at my local library for Elizabeth Strout’s The Things We Never Say. I was notified they just got 16 additional copies and one is mine! And I’ve been watching The Other Bennett Sister on Britbox that continues into June. So good! And I will definitely be listening to more from Marfa.

Wonder what else I’ll be reading, watching, and listening to in June.

So this little story is based on her and conversations we had together. It’s pretty accurate except for the garden reference. I don’t think she had a garden. But she might have. I hope, wherever she is, her spiritual garden is flourishing.

Water, Altars, and Other Worries was first published in Gone Lawn, Issue 35 in 2019.

The golden Buddha gleamed under the bruised fluorescent light, dangled from her neck in a dance of duty. Caught the eye of every aged Catholic whose wrist she held in her delicate fingers. Between exam rooms she worried about missing medical files, about her aging parents, about her husband trawling in The Gulf. She silently counted the days until he returned.

Every day, the Pakistani doctor burst in the back door, flinging papers, yelling for his Cappuccino, she in blue scrubs scurrying behind, worry lines coursing rivulets in her face. Silently she ticked off the exam room supplies he needed in her head —

sterile gloves
sharps container
Otoscope with cover
extra stethoscope
antibacterial soap
swabs

—to be certain she’d replenished them all. Each entry into a room garnered another quick, stomach-flipping scan.

Every night she drove back to the village on the east side of New Orleans in wilted exhaustion, where she lived in a trailer surrounded by kohlrabi and bitter melon vines. She fingered the growing vegetables in the moonlight, counted the fruiting bellies, the scent of seawater wafted on the humid air.

She doesn’t remember riding the rolling sea away from her childhood home clutched in the human cradle of her parent’s arms, crowded bodies clinging to each other, vomiting over the side. She doesn’t remember the faces of the ones who didn’t finish the long trip to America, but a collective chorus of hope and despair permeates her pores, lives in her marrow.

She has an altar in her living room where she burns incense and prays for her ancestors, her family, and for the ones whose silent screams haunt the hungry maw of the sea.

She worries she’ll never be good enough to justify being one who made it.

*

LA VIETNAMITA, the sculpture in the photo (taken by me), is by Enrique Alférez, and can be found in the Enrique Alférez Sculpture Garden in New Orleans Botanical Gardens, my favorite place in the city. Here is the story of the sculpture. We are blessed to have so many Alférez sculptures in New Orleans and I highly recommend that you see them when you visit.

Offset Melodies

Each morning stretches hot and indifferent. The girl works in the vegetable garden among the runner bean plants, twining the pliant tendrils around bean poles. The newly born plants that emerged from dry brown seeds are flexible and soft in her hands. The heart-shaped leaves hum as she works, hum heart-shaped songs or songs that shape hearts. All the girl knows about hearts is that hers is still and dry as a stone vessel waiting to be filled.

*

Once, the girl’s heart was alive with curiosity, flowers, and freedom, embraced by never-ending story-time, twilight sing-a-longs, and hands that always gave. It becomes harder to remember the soaring joy of her once-filled heart, to believe it will ever be filled again.

*

Each morning blooms of bejeweled red ruffles wave at the girl-in-waiting, at her poor dry heart-in-waiting. The flowers whisper words that mingle with the humming heart-shaped leaves, whisper waiting is good practice for fulfilling. The girl rubs her thumbs over the sun soaked leaves, feels hundreds of vibrating hearts humming together. Deeper still, she feels a mother-thrumming from the furrowed earth that birthed the bean plants, that birthed every plant since the Big Bang.

*

Mothers are made, not born. They are a want-to-be, not a given.

*

Each morning she watches as the bean pods flourish, she rub rub rubs them between her fingers and thumb, feels their growing fullness, tends the twining vines. How they whisper and hum in her hands...

You’re the only one our hearts beat for

*

Flutter……. goes her heart.

One morning I awoke from a dream with the words “offset melodies” in my head. I didn’t remember the dream so I have no idea how those words were connected to it. But I knew, somehow, the words needed a story. The story began as a traditional narrative but it didn’t want to be traditional no matter how I tried to make it conform. Once I let the heart go where it wanted, the words flowed. Offset Melodies is nonfiction at its core but told “slant” as Emily Dickinson suggests in Poem 1263. I don’t think I’ve written anything like it before or since and I may never again.

Offset Melodies, the story, was published in Louisiana Literature in 2022 and is included in my debut chapbook of the same title. Many thanks to Editor Jack Bedell for accepting and supporting this piece and to ELJ Editions for accepting and supporting my chapbook.

Offset Melodies is included in a volume of five chapbooks titled Grieving Hope and can be found in paper back and ebook at ELJ Editions and the other usual places online.

After I thought I was finished with this post, I read this craft essay by Paul Crenshaw and said hell yeah to this:

…the writing part is for you, and you alone. That’s the thing you do in the darkness. That’s the thing no one else gets to be part of. That’s just you and your thoughts and dreams and hopes and ideas, alone, in the dark or wherever.

Validation from a real writer.

I’ve spoken of my dog, Buddy, here before so I’ll share that he passed away this month. His last few weeks required increasing care and emotional bandwidth making it a challenge to focus on anything else. We adopted him back in 2008 as a young adult so he was 18 or 19 years old and his little body finally gave out. He was always a feisty, independent dog, though, and gave everything he had to life until the very end. He gave us many years of entertainment and love and it is so weird to be without him now.

So litmag reads are all I have to share this month mainly because I could only focus in shorts bursts but, man, are they all dynamite. Thank you to the writers and the litmags that published them for entertaining me during a hard time.

Hurricane Season by Cynthia Gilmore in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature - Having lived through I don’t even know how many hurricanes, this little flash memoir struck a chord in me. But it’s really more about moving through life’s ever-changing situations and trying to find your place. Well written and resonate.

Catastrophic weather events have a way of putting life in perspective. While filling
buckets at the creek for flushing the toilet and removing layers of toxic sludge from walkways, it occurred to me that surviving disasters both personal and global are not what I imagine for my tombstone theme.

My New Doctor Asks Me If I’ve Ever Used Tobacco Products By Barlow Adams in Whale Road Review - Barlow writes with vulnerability and honesty. His voice is so unique that if I read a story blind, I’d know if it was his.

I’d have to tell the doctor we hit it off, that she had a boyfriend but he was a dick and her friends hated him. They asked me, What the hell is wrong with men? and I said, We’re terrible. Waste of your time. You should probably all become lesbians. She was the only one of the three who didn’t eventually take my advice.

Midriff Baring Blouse by Meghan Proulx in Pithead Chapel - This short story is so juicy! I couldn’t read it fast enough and then….I read it again. It tics every reader box: great characters, engrossing storyline, vivid visuals, lush language, intimate detail. It should win a thing.

The mom-shaped thing morphed back into the swaying, peaceful woman. I watched her. She emanated so much well-being, and I had the impression that if I made the right choices for the next twenty years of my life and restricted enough calories, I could be just like her. But the truth was I wanted to be like my mom, who was loud, overwhelming, judgemental, ate too much cheese, and was my favorite person.

Current Affairs by Anyu Ching in Bending Genres - If the quote below doesn’t get you to click over, nothing will. This flash is fire.

I am getting to the age where it is no longer sexy to hate other women. Or have daddy issues. Or wear black mini skirts. Or go to bars on Thursdays. Or skip breakfast. Or have a crush on my gynecologist. Or be seduced by a man with a ponytail playing the guitar.

Home Sweet by Jessica Slee in Cold Caller Magazine - I really enjoyed reading this down on their luck family crime story. Since I watch a lot of crime tv, I can often predict the storyline and outcome in crime short stories. Not so here.

The kids go inside first, scraping their shoes on the mat like they do at home. “I want to help with the tea,” Bethy proclaims, following the woman into the kitchen, and Joe closes the door, locking it behind them. He wants to say something, but he’s not sure what, or to whom. The wheels are set in motion, the others performing their parts perfectly…

And a blast from the past……because some stories will grow more amazing every time you read them. 👇👇👇

Girl in Pieces by Cathy Ulrich in the now defunct Former Cactus (2017) - Cathy’s flash fiction is always fresh and exciting. I’ve been reading her work probably longer than any other flash writer.

We hear her when she comes back. She is the clatter of metal on linoleum, the creaking of machinery. She is cold and stiff and perfect. There could be parts of her that aren’t robot that we can’t see: her heart, her lungs, a kidney, a toe.

In case you’re not aware, Jen Rouse and I are republishing some exceptional creative nonfiction, essays, memoirs in SugarSugarSalt Magazine. April was our first month of publishing on Substack. I hope you’ll visit to read work by some of the best essayists and memoirists in the literary world. Subscriptions are free.

I didn’t listen to much music this month because a lack of noise was what I needed most. Late in the month (after Buddy) I watched a few things on YouTube and landed on this video quite by accident. (To be clear: I do not watch Stern.)

“You Can Make It If You Try” felt like a message and I absorbed it into every cell in my body. It completely shifted my mood for the rest of the day. Listening to the lyrics of “Everyday People” had me wishing it could be blasted from the rooftops everywhere. These people are wizards playing funky-cool magic and they cover Sly and The Family Stone brilliantly. Please listen and enjoy.

So now here we are, recently turned 69 and 71, totally able and competent to take on building a privacy fence. Of course, he is doing the building, I’m doing the gophering and handing-to, and together we are traveling numerous journeys toting fence boards from front driveway to backyard. (“Tote” being an old time word I particularly like.) We have both bent, squatted, held, pushed, pulled, and performed all manner of other physical acrobatics in the building of this fence, so far. Just like we did in 1996 when we were 39 and 41.

All the pushing and pulling and bending and measuring reminds me of how we have done these exact same things during our long marriage. Every new board secured to the framework is a metaphor for another year secured to ours. Like our fence building, we didn’t give up when things got difficult or we got tired. When a thing looked impossible, we recalibrated and found a work-around. And, most importantly, we worked together as partners. Nobody ever said it would be easy but sometimes, it was. Is. It often is, relatively speaking, and that is what you hold onto during the hard times.

The physical labor is demanding but not as difficult as I thought it might be. We aren’t rushing the work, taking breaks when we feel like it. We’re taking a break this weekend. At the end of the first day, the sense of accomplishment was satisfying and it felt good to work on a big project together even though, yes, we did do some bickering. We’re not perfect. (No, really!)

Spending a lot of time outside is giving me clarity of mind. I’ve been thinking about the hours I spend inside online in a virtual world and I’m questioning why. Why am I spending time in a world that’s unreal, that has nothing to do with my actual life and contributes little to my well-being. At the end of a few hours spent reading online, I often feel disgruntled and not-in-a-good-way weary. When a thing isn’t serving you, recalibrate.

Fifty years is a long time and yet it’s passed in a blink. I would say our twenties were the most care-free and easy times of our lives until now. Except for our jobs - which we both enjoyed at the time - it was the time of least responsibility. Our parents were youngish and healthy, we didn’t have nor want children, we were living in a new and exciting city with a nice circle of friends. Between then and now a lot of demanding and challenging life happened that made us appreciate the easier times. We know how good we have it because we’ve been through fire. Together.

We were very young when we married in 1976, the year of America’s bicentennial. (No, it wasn’t a themed ceremony like so many that year!) This year is America’s 250th birthday and our 50th wedding anniversary on May 22. A milestone, they say. I say our many miles together are stars, not stones. I say I can’t wait for the next 50.

March is usually my favorite month. In New Orleans it means Spring, the weather is often coolish and the humidity is low. Flowers bloom and green things of all sorts pop up in the garden. This March was typical and I’ve enjoyed some gorgeous days…..in spite of other challenges not related to weather. In that respect, March has been a lion all month long. I’m ready to turn the corner in hopes of finding a lamb.

Here’s my March Listopia.

Movies & TV

Love Story on FX (series) - I’m sure lots of people watched this series about John F. Kennedy, Jr and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. It brought back lots of images and memories of the 90s and had me nostalgic for a less chaotic era even though there were tragedies then too, of course. I found the series interesting, taken with a grain of salt, and I actually teared up a few times. The actor playing John looked uncannily like him and the soundtrack was cool. All in all, I enjoyed it.

Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale on Prime (Movie) - If you are a DA fan, like me, you’ll enjoy this supposedly last movie of the franchise. The Dowager’s acerbic wit was greatly missed, may she rest in peace. Spoiler: The best thing was that Lady Mary divorced Henry Talbot (yay!) and Edith steered her rocky return to a society that snubbed her as a divorcee.

The Madison on Paramount Plus (series) - This is the best series of Taylor Sheridan’s repertoire which is filled with great TV. Michelle Pfiffer is golden in this Montana/NYC set story, she absolutely owns it! All of the actors are fantastic and very real and it is great to see Matthew Fox again after so many years (still lookin’ good!) Kurt Russell is sweet yet strong, love his character. The writing and acting will give your emotions a workout amid the absolutely incomparable, stunning Montana landscape and I stayed up late, late binge watching. If you haven’t watched, do a Google and read a few reviews- I haven’t read a bad or lukewarm one yet. I didn’t want it to end and can’t wait for season 2. I seriously hope it’s set in Montana. Highly recommend this series!

Books

The Irish Goodbye by Beth Ann Fennelly - a collection of micro memoirs that range from funny to tragic and everything in between. Pieces range from several pages to a few words which keeps you turning the page to see what’s next. The book is damn dazzling. You feel like you’re talking with a brilliantly engaging friend when you read Beth Ann’s work.

Litmags

What Writers Owe the People Who Show Up For Them By Rebecca Morrison in Brevity Blog (short essay) - From the reaction I’ve seen on social media since this was published, Rebecca tapped into a watershed of feelings on this subject. I had a definite hell,yeah! moment when I read it. She talks about an incident with a certain well-known writer at a reading when she was starting out. I won’t give the story away - you should read it. She also talks about the value of readers, how “the most unkind thing a writer can do is dismiss the people who show up for them.” Way before I was a writer - way, way before - I was a reader. I will always stand up for readers first and I love that Rebecca wrote this essay that very much needed to be written.

We talk a lot in craft classes and groups about voice, revision, platform. We talk less about how we treat readers, attendees, and early-career writers who look to us with hope and admiration—perhaps because it feels too much like tempting fate, like daring to hope for that place might make it less likely to happen.

Writing Stories in Different Containers by Grant Faulkner in his Substack, Intimations: A Writers Discourse (craft essay) - This craft essay is filled with concrete advice and suggestions for flash fiction (and nonfiction) writers. It is simply an excellent discussion of different writing “containers” with great examples. Writers, do not miss it.

I like to call myself a ragpicker, in life and as a storyteller. To be a junk collector is by definition a practice of looking at the world differently: finding purpose in other people’s castoffs, beauty in other people’s trash.

Flash fiction is similarly experimental because brevity changes the contours of a conventional story. The form allows for the rags and detritus of the everyday to become gems and jewels.

Slides by Megan Peck Shub in New World Writing Quarterly - I don’t know if this is fiction or memoir but it is utterly fascinating. It explores family stories, what is real and what is perception, and what is found during a purge of possessions after a death.

What was I expecting to find in those slides? I suppose, as always, they would reveal some great insight into the subject’s identity. This is the splendor of archives: people obfuscate but, in the compendium of physical records we can attempt to piece together something like the truth, which is itself always a negotiation. To recognize truth you have to recognize the lies.

The Final Trolley by Brandon McNeice in Bending Genres - Is it a dream? Is it an hallucination? I don’t know but it’s a very cool story!

We passed my middle school. The new mural wore bright feathers; underneath, the bricks I’d leaned against at noon were the same dull red. A child version of me stood there: too-long arms, rabbit-nervous. As we slid by, I raised my hand. He didn’t wave back. He pocketed something and went inside.

Old World, New World by LUISA A. IGLORIA in Via Negativa (poetry) - A poignant reminder that war and the thirst for power exist in a long timeline through the ages.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

So much 

has changed. Or so much has merely changed
hands. Yet power stays put. Spoils of many 

conquests, we've been trying to survive in
the margins

Teddy Bear Pancake by Chris Scott in Weird Lit Magazine and Best Small Fictions 2025 (flash fiction) - This story blew me away and I can’t say enough about the imagination and creativity in this piece. Yes, it is weird but it still manages to be a storyteller’s story in the traditional sense. It’s one of the Spotlighted Stories that guest judge Robert Shapard chose for a special mention in Best Small Fictions 2025.

On the TV: A live shot of Times Square where a massive crowd is watching footage of the hospital room on giant screens. Then we’re popping around the world to similar scenes in Tokyo, Jakarta, Rome, Cairo, Rio. A global celebration. A little grotesque, he thinks, but Simon Rollins signed up for this. Wanted this, in fact.

Recently I was part of the Flash Frontier Roundtable, “Excavating, Exploring & Ending: A Best Small Fictions Conversation“, where I virtually met Chris and other BSF authors Meg Pokrass, Tina Zhu, Scott Garson, and guest judge Robert Shapard. The Roundtable was moderated by Michelle Elvy, founding editor of Flash Frontier and someone who generously encouraged me in my early writing days. This panel discussion, and others centered around creativity and the craft of writing, can be found at Flash Frontier. Good stuff there! Information about Best Small Fictions 2025 can be found here.

Music

This video testing Cillian Murphy’s music chops is cool, funny, and interesting to watch. I’m thinking my music-loving readers will enjoy it….looking at you, Chris N. and Shome! Cillian is a phenomenal actor and man, imo. His commentary here proves he’s a real music listener, not a poser. And he was in a band back in the day! I was pleased to see quite a number of 70s/80s selections/musicians in this test - best music ever!

Here’s a roundup of my latest publications, if you care to read. Many thanks to these hard-working editors for choosing my work!

Hush in Gooseberry Pie Lit Magazine, Jeff Harvey, Editor-in-Chief

Slipping into a Sunset in Gooseberry Pie Lit Magazine

Storm Warnings & Shapeshifting in Emerge Literary Journal, Diane Gottlieb, Editor

Liminal Highway in The Ekphrastic Review (you’ll have to scroll down), Kate Copeland, Editor

Below is a screen print of my microfiction, Carrizozo ‘84, in Paragraph Planet, Richard Hearn, Editor-in-Chief (There’s no direct link & the archives are challenging to navigate, imo.)

Thanks for reading!

It’s World Poetry Day so instead of talking about my favorite famous poets (Lucille Clifton, Mary Oliver, Jericho Brown, Dorianne Laux, Jane Hirschfield - is there anything that hasn’t been said?) I thought I’d share this epistolary poem written for me, something I never dreamed would happen. I’ve known poet Robert Okaji for many years, after we virtually “met” on his poetry blog and mine around about 2010 or so. Robert writes the kind of lyrical, meditative poetry that I could only dream of writing.

Thank you, Bob, for your years of friendship! Here’s to many more.🥂

Letter to Hamrick from the Century of the Invalidated

Dear Charlotte: The sun here winces daily, stumbles
across morning before smudging gray like an old slate
scarred with decades of chalk dust and erased messages.
I’m hunting work, and there are days when it feels
as if past experiences have been rubbed out, or maybe
I can’t make myself slog through the powdery white
crusted blend of ennui and discounting youth. Those years
spent chiseling out budgets and manipulating spreadsheets
have wrought zilch. Even the service seeking writing
tutors shot down my application. Seems SAT scores
from the 70s can’t be validated, and how else might they
measure one’s qualifications. But somehow I still exhale air
cleaner and more carefree than any I’ve taken in since
the century rolled over. Funny how that is. The more shade
they throw my way, the stronger I feel. Seated at wobbly
tables by restrooms in near-empty restaurants. Chipped at,
ignored, reviled. Questions answered with curled lip and
haughty tone. Laughing, I relish it all. L* the kitten
just launched herself at the table, scattering across the fake
wood floor mail and bits of poetry which might be
hammered into a collage of shady loan offers, crappy
lines and massage therapy ads, if my talents leaned
in that direction. But scooping out the litter box seems
my crowning achievement lately. I wonder how a creature
so pure and new to the world produces something so
vile, without intent? I have other questions, too, but will
leave them for a subsequent whine-fest, which I’ll scribble
in smoke or invisible ink on another long-shadowed
day. Until then I’ll dream of southern winds and coffee
and beignets under bright skies in a life I should have
lived. If only. Your virtual and faithful friend, B*.

*

“Letter to Hamrick from the Century of the Invalidated” was first published in the inaugural issue of Book of Matches, 2021.

Robert Okaji holds a BA in history, served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, toiled as a university administrator, and no longer owns a bookstore. His honors include fourteen Pushcart Prize nominations, the inaugural Shō Poetry Prize, the Slipstream Press Annual Chapbook Prize, the riverSedge Poetry Prize, the Etchings Press Poetry Chapbook Prize, and the 1968 Bar-K Ranch Goat-Catching Championship. Two years ago he was diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer, which he finds terribly annoying. But thanks to the wonders of modern science, he still lives in exotic Indianapolis with his wife—poet Stephanie L. Harper—stepson, cat and dog. He is the author of Our Loveliest Bruises (3: A Taos Press), multiple chapbooks, including Buddha’s Not Talking and Scarecrow Sees, and his poems may be found in Louisiana Literature, Threepenny Review, Only Poems, Wildness, Panoply, Vox Populi, Evergreen Review, Boston Review, The Big Windows Review, Shō Poetry Journal, Indianapolis Review, and other venues, including his blog, O at the Edges.

Excavating

Night after night

She wrote

Chronicles of preservation

Letters of keeping

Pieces Pain Intention

The whole of the heart

The vessel

Roots and Rituals

when you say,
Give me silence,
purify my sour heart -

I prepare yellow gills of liminal poison,
brush damp earth from caps
scented of hoar and musk,
slice then grind under mortar and pestle
emetic fungi, season with butter and salt.

Amnesia wavers on the skin of your lips,

on the edge of abyss I wipe your drowning

sweat, wrap your chilling bones

as we hold the relinquished close

between us.

when I say,

death wafts in this house,
I do not like the way it dwells -

I scrub clean the iron pot,

the cerulean bowl,

our fingerprints melting with soap -

snap shut the book, snuff the candles,

stave off the grave once more.

~~~
This poem was inspired by the 2017 film Phantom Thread, written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson and starring Daniel Day-Lewis. If you’ve never seen Phantom Thread, it’s a dark and twisted story of a haute couture dressmaker played by Day-Lewis whose structured life is upended by a chance meeting with a waitress played by Vicky Krieps. Her ability to perfectly remember and serve his large and detailed breakfast order intrigues him and is the spark that begins her role as muse, model, and lover. Their relationship gradually turns to the dark side with scenes of fevered outbursts and mutually toxic behavior that flirts with death:

“I want you flat on your back. Helpless, tender, open, with only me to help.”

If this is a love story, it’s one of masochistic obsession that will keep you mesmerized, if you’re in the right mood for it, as it does have long stretches of silence and drawn-out scenes. There are no nude or explicit scenes because none are needed. There’s also lots of gorgeous 1950s fashion and interiors. A good movie to watch on a chilly, stormy day or on a too hot, blindingly sunny summer day. Milder days are for outside living; nature’s breath on your skin and dark thoughts behind cobwebs in your mind.

Poem first published in the now defunct Mohave Heart Review in 2019 and reprinted in Bulb Culture Collective in 2023.

I recently discovered Kelly Thompson’s Substack and, coincidentally, she posted a Note shortly after linking to her 2024 questionnaire in Oldster Magazine. It really got me thinking. I love that older women voices have emerged and keep emerging on Substack. I think it’s great to have this and other venues where we can gather and talk or read about issues that affect us and things that interest us. Our mothers and grandmothers didn’t have that at their fingertips. Boomer and **Gen Jones women worked to change that paradigm but the internet has provided a wider and more diversified platform for women to connect. I don’t think later generations realize how commonly women’s voices - especially older women - were stifled or ignored or laughed at in our culture. For instance, as a teen and young woman, I was often teased as a “dumb blonde” when I spoke up. By men, of course. But I had a healthy self-esteem so it didn’t really bother me. They were the dumb ones, in my mind. I know other women were not as unaffected.

I think back on my Grandmothers and my mom and realize what great role models they were despite cultural limitations. It’s a shame it took my own aging to recognize this.

My paternal step-grandmother never, as far as I know, worked outside her home but her home was neat as a pin and her cooking legendary. She raised four kind, responsible, respectful children with a strict but loving hand. She was loved and respected by her kids, grandkids, and everyone who knew her. I don’t remember ever hearing her raise her voice or say anything unkind about anyone. Once, when I was about 10, I said an unkind thing to my sister and she gave me a look that made me ashamed of myself - as I should have been - and sad that I disappointed her. I learned a lesson without her saying one word about the incident.

I didn’t really know my maternal grandmother well because she lived in another state. We didn’t often as a family travel there or they to us because, back then, travel was expensive and took time away from work. Granny was the quintessential “granny” that you think of - chubby, soft, sweet, caring. It’s my impression that her house was always filled with family and friends. She always sent me underwear for Christmas, truly a grandmotherly thing from another time! We wrote each other for a good many years and I still have the last letter she wrote, while she was living with advancing Alzheimer’s. It’s a heartbreaker.

I didn’t think my mom was so great when I was growing up - I think our relationship was superficial then and much of that I realize now was my fault. But part of it is because we were separated for a few years when I was a small child and I didn’t remember her when we were reunited. My mother was 16 when she had me, so she was young when I was a teenager, and I resented that she wasn’t like the mothers of my friends. She always worked outside the home, unlike other mothers then, she was a little flamboyant and spoke her mind. My friends thought she was cool but I didn’t want a cool mom, I wanted a traditional mom. My mother had no artifice, she was herself in every situation and I think that’s what drew people to her. I didn’t recognize that as a tween and teen. I didn’t give her the grace she deserved, probably because I was trying to figure out where I fit in.

After I moved away from my hometown and years passed, my attitude changed as I matured and we became closer. She came to New Orleans to visit often and we would “rat the streets.” (a New Orleans slang you don’t hear anymore) I came to love going back home to visit where she spoiled me, not letting me do anything to help around the house. We both loved to go “junking” in second hand stores and antique shops. I miss those forays. My mom had great style, was never frumpy or outdated. She loved to read, make jewelry, watch crime & police TV shows (I get it from her!) and was interested in the world around her and in every person she met.

She was fun and funny. She didn’t care about appearing foolish which is why little kids, especially her grandchildren, loved her. She would play and dance and act up like them and with them. Her grandkids were lucky to have her.

When I think of her now, I see her strength and resilience over the turbulent and traumatic events in her life - much of the details I don’t know and never will. But I know the gist of it and it makes me proud that she overcame those obstacles and became the inspiring mother and grandmother we knew. She wasn’t perfect but she was a mom I came to appreciate.

I’m grateful to have a place where we can share our thoughts, network, and show support. Where I can write a semi-cringey post like this and feel ok about sharing it. I’m not formally educated in the craft of writing but I know there are readers and other writers out there like me who are ok with that and I appreciate you.

Some of you know that Jen Rouse and I have a little literary magazine that publishes previously published creative nonfiction, memoir, and essays. For me, nothing is more interesting than the stories of everyday people living in and navigating our world. We can learn so much from each other. I hope you’ll visit our Substack, SugarSugarSalt.

~~~

I wrote this before I became aware of this article about Sari Botton in the NY Times. Sari is a trail blazer and you should be reading her.

~~~

**Regarding Generation Jones, from the linked article (with which I heartily agree): Researchers and social commentators note that while the two groups share certain cultural references, Gen Jonesers faced formative experiences and economic realities that set them apart from their older Boomer counterparts.

For early Boomers, the 1960s were a defining decade—filled with civil rights movements, Woodstock, and the Vietnam War draft. Many Generation Jonesers, however, were simply too young to participate. They remember those events, but from the sidelines. Instead of the hippie era, they came of age in the 1970s, when idealism gave way to realism, and when gas shortages, inflation, and Watergate reshaped trust in institutions.

Interestingly, some older Boomers even deny that Generation Jones exists—calling it “made up.” But that reaction might just prove the point. As many Jonesers see it, Boomers often resist nuances outside their own frame of reference, while Generation Jones embodies a more skeptical, adaptable spirit shaped by growing up in the aftermath of the Boomer revolution rather than during it.

In short, Generation Jones may have inherited the Boomer label, but not the Boomer worldview. They were raised on the promise of change yet matured into an era of uncertainty—one that required practicality, resilience, and a touch of independence that still defines them today.

Books

The Lying Life of Adults by Elena Ferrante - This is the sixth book I’ve read by Italian author Elena Ferrante. I guess you could say I like her writing! She’s best known for her four book series, The Neopolitan Novels, all of which I devoured as they were published in 2011 - 2015. If you’re unfamiliar with the books, here is an interesting write-up in Ploughshares. Since then, I read The Days of Abandonment, The Lost Daughter, and now this one, all written prior to The Neopolitan Novels. Out of all six books, My Brilliant Friend is still my favorite. (Not so much the HBO series adaptation, though.) I did enjoy Lying although it dragged a bit for me about 3/4 through. I like reading interiority but it can be strung out a little too long sometimes, as I think happens here. Instead of writing more details about the book myself, I recommend you read this review here on Substack by Books on Gif. Her take is almost exactly my take. Plus, this is a really good book Substack. If you like Ferrante, you’ll like this book

While googling for reviews of this book I discovered it’s also a series on Netflix, an Italian production, which I have started watching. It’s interesting to see how the story and characters stay true or veer from the book. So far, I’m enjoying it - maybe even more so than the book, which is unusual for me.

Interviews

Emma Phuong Tu, founder of Gulf Coast Vietnamese Narratives and recent recipient of the 2026 Reflecting Mississippi Award from the Mississippi Humanities Council in Rooted Magazine. - The gulf coast of Mississippi and New Orleans both have large Vietnamese communities that really are basically ignored by Hollywood and the literary world. I was excited to read about Emma and her determination to change the narrative on our regions.

Beth Ann Fennelly talks about her new book, The Irish Goodbye, in Salvation South Magazine. I received a copy literally yesterday and am currently reading it. I’ve been enjoying Beth Ann’s book tour via online interviews in which she is her very delightful self.

Litmags & Substacks

Inheritance by DeMarcus Burke in Rattle - I’m starting with this poem which I believe is the most powerful and heartbreakingly honest I have ever read. Do read the poet’s statement at the end.

These women—

backbones bent like coat hangers,

wallets like open wounds—

love hard.

They love past logic, past insult,

past the point of breaking.

They call it family.

They call it God’s test.

They call it nothing at all

and bear it like skin.

On (Not) Reading Toni Morrison by Tommy Swerdlow (essay) in his Substack, Feel the Rhythm - Loved this read about the writer’s interaction with Toni Morrison’s son back in the day!

Ford was a private kid, but not shy. More just doing his own thing and not going out of his way to mix in with all these liberal Jewish hippy types. He was medium height but lean, tea and milk colored with a sculpted afro and that moustache scruff that you can only have at seventeen. There was something coiled and tightly wound about him and he wore double knit pants, something no white boy with sense would even try to pull off.

Big Sis by Michael A. Gonzales in Oldster Magazine - This essay is a brilliant unicorn on the subject of women friends written by a man. Yes, friends not lovers or mothers. I enjoyed the hell out of reading this essay. (I found the above Substack, Feel the Rhythm, through a Note by Michael.)

Having never been “a boy’s boy” who liked being out in the streets playing stickball or skelley, or throwing soda bottles at water rats on Riverside Drive like my brother, I always preferred the company of girls (and later women). They never teased me for being chubby, would rather talk than fight, and weren’t trying to watch baseball, Westerns, or war movies on television. Being around girls was comforting, but of course hanging with them led to more than a few people believed that something was “wrong” with me, or that I was a “sissy.”

Contemporary History by Emma Bolden (poetry) in Up the Staircase, accompanied by artwork by Josephine Florens - this poem made me think, Whoa! - like lightning!

My Sicilian grandfather offered to send him
a black handprint and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t
consider it. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t sometimes think

revenge is a synonym for relief.

things we miss by Paul Booth (memoir) in Sneaker Wave Magazine - The sad and sweet story of a married couple whose marriage is falling apart. A trip to Japan reminds him of what he loves about her and yet clarifies for them both that this is the end. Really enjoyed the introspection along with wonderful descriptions of Japanese culture and landscapes.

With the familiar schedules of life stripped away—up at six am, dog walks twice a day—we could fall back on being strangers in a strange land, forgetting—or ignoring—all that awaited us at home. Japan presented pretense: every experience heightened.

The Deli Boys by Sabrina Hicks (microfiction) in BULL - I’ve enjoyed Sabrina’s writing for quite a few years and this micro is lushly filled with imagery and intention. Well done!

…spoke of a town that never existed, seeded in the deli where they could gather over the meat slicer, feel the heft and weight of a shoulder of beef, run it through the slicer for a thinness, a starvation…

It occurred to me while putting together this list-share to shout-out the brilliant stories we’ve published in Reckon Review in February. I’m honored to be a staff member at Reckon along with these wonderful readers and writers.

Reckon Review in February:

BOLINAS | Fiction by Wilson Koewing - Wilson is one of my favorite writers because his work centers on the everyday lives of everyday people who are often caught in challenging circumstances. He has a way of deep diving into the emotional landscape and doesn’t shy away from words or phrasing that can be uncomfortable. Reading should challenge us, right? This story is a good example.

Price’s daughter wanted to stay, but his beers were gone, and her shoulders and cheeks showed signs of pinking. He packed up their things and chased her toward the beach access. Weighed down, he labored to keep up.

As their distance widened, the sound of her giggles trailed off until they were no longer discernible against the ocean breeze.

SEASONS | Nonfiction by Laurel Hightower - An open and vulnerable Craft essay about this author’s writing practice during lockdown, illness, mothering, and the breakdown of her marriage.

When lockdown hit and the daycares closed in March of that year, I managed to sprain my ankle horrifically. It swelled to the size of a cantaloupe, and I couldn’t put weight on it for weeks. I was supposed to care for a two-year-old and work a full-time paralegal job from home, all while unable to walk. Those days are hazy, a fog of frantic working and caring for my son in the midst of a global pandemic, while being the only one in my household who ventured into public places like grocery stores.

PITCH CHRONICLES | Fiction by David Agyei-Yeboah - This short flash is culturally interesting inside its every day setting with an unexpected gut-punch you won’t see coming. Really good work, here.

She prided herself on being a fierce feminist that would train her daughter to surpass her. Once she had a daughter. She had been dating this bigshot from Tema Oil Refinery and said although they’d decided on family planning when they got married so they could enjoy, without interruption, sweet, sticky sex; their daughter would be the icing on the cake, the crème of the crop. She’d be twice the woman Afi aspired to be.

MOTHERING, 21ST CENTURY EDITION | Creative Nonfiction by Alina Zollfrank - Alina’s lyric essay about mothering and special needs touched me deeply.

Because lullabies I dug out from under long-ago memories in my mother tongue; Because movement, melodies, blood merged; Because rushing, rushing, rushing as my shaking hands held a baby who couldn’t comprehend why we couldn’t comprehend what she needed.

TV

A Most Wanted Man (2014) on Kanopy (also an available on other streaming services.) Starring Phillip Seymour Hoffmann in his last performance before his death, this film is based on a novel by John le Carré. IMO, Hoffmann was one of the most versatile actors ever, completely inhabiting the characters he portrayed, and is brilliant here as a German intelligence agent spying on the Muslim community. I’ll not give up the plot but I think fans of espionage films and le Carré readers will be into this one big time. I thoroughly enjoyed it and was completely blindsided by the ending, the mark of a well-written story.

Doctor Zhivago (1965) on Turner Classics - Although I’d seen parts of this film many times, I’d never watched it end to end until now. What an epic! Why don’t they make films like this anymore? The storyline is engrossing, the acting is magnificent, and the cinematography is stunning. Watching Omar Sharif again made me remember the adolescent crush I had on him. It’s a great love story but also a story of the rise of the Soviet Union and the intense suffering it brought on the unsuspecting Russian people. It’s a stark reminder of the flaws of blind political idealism. I think it’s a film everyone should watch - but settle in because it’s a very long movie

The White Lotus, season 3 (2025) on HBO Max -Many fans of this series will have already watched it last year but I don’t often watch a series when it first comes out. The White Lotus franchise is a snarky/fun dive into rich elites vacationing in The White Lotus resorts chain and their dysfunctional, dark secrets and behaviors. Every season has been delicious and builds somewhat on characters from the previous season. It feels really close to the bone in its depiction of rich, entitled people although I don’t run in those circles so what do I know? I do know this: it’s dark and funny and suspenseful and I get a big kick out of watching it.

Music & Podcasts

Writing Closer to the Bone with Bee Wilson on Let’s Talk Memoir Podcast - I really enjoyed this interview with Bee about cooking as salve and the emotional life of kitchen objects, among other convo threads including growing comfortable with the idea of writing about ourselves. I was inspired to add her book, The Heart-Shaped Tin, to my TBR. It’s a really interesting interview.

Wuthering Heights by Charlie xtx (soundtrack) - I’ve read a few reviews of the new film iteration of Wuthering Heights - so many differing opinions! One mentioned the soundtrack which made me curious, so I listened on Spotify. The songs are dark and moody which I suppose pair well with the film. I like dark and moody music but it has its place and sometimes, for me, that place can turn into a pit. I think the album is fine but it’s not one I’ll listen to often, if ever again. I am curious about the film but I’ll wait until it comes to streaming to watch it.

Finally, a little late Valentine’s gift/song for you. I love, love, love this song, the words, the melody, the vibe, all in Tracy’s incredibly beautiful voice. Enjoy. 💛

I hope you enjoy reading/watching/listening to these shares as much as I did. Here’s looking forward to an equally interesting March! 💛

Today I have a little microfiction, “Carrizozo ‘84,” up in Paragraph Planet. I enjoy PP because they post a Microfiction of exactly 75 words every day (since 2008!) and it’s cool to see the variety of stories in miniature form.

Recently, JMWW EiC Olga Katsovskiy spoke with Editor Diane Gottlieb about our collection, Grieving Hope, which was published last fall. Diane gave a wonderful, extensive interview in which she talked about putting the book together and had glowing words for every one of us five authors. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate her! (Also, she recently accepted a micro-memoir of mine for Emerge Literary Journal!) Olga asked great questions and I appreciate her as well. Here is a link to the interview. A quote:

Imagery in flash feels urgent because there just isn’t the space to write about everything – an image places the reader in the scene instantly. Each of these five writers use imagery in a singular way, and readers can identify the authors’ voices through their imagery. Let’s say all the stories were mixed up, right? You could tell whose writing is which. — Diane Gottlieb

Tia if you click over and read!

I hope everyone has a peaceful and fun weekend. Here’s a little jump-start for ya!

Purple Green and Gold

they joined the rabble rousers
in a street dance of abandon
on a night made of fantasy
purple, green, gold
jesters and skeletons and
a dominatrix with a whip
fleur de lis and masked revelers
drunken wet kisses, starbursts

of hair in disarray, eyes glazed,
dancing on tabletops
in a room of pulsing light
and gyrating bodies
validating their
wild and secret natures
for one night, in one place
forever in suspension

A version of this poem was published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, 2010.

Here’s a little Carnival for you - my favorite song of the season, “Hey Pocky Way” by The Neville Brothers. Happy Mardi Gras! ⚜️

Lonely Magnificent

Cold food:
Salmon, partridge, pheasant
almost anything in aspic

Hot Food:
Guards of honor (rack of lamb)
always lobster
Crocembuche

Before I read books I read menus
Order and eat, nothing else

Perfection might buy love
Champagne and smoked salmon
Dried hibiscus blossoms
enhance the moment


Eye for the crown but
the gullotine’s in sight,
giver and taker away
Learn to be silent,
craft an exit strategy

Joyous creature,
all artists are lonely

~~~
Found poem source: “Jeremiah Tower: The Last Magnificent” on Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown, an homage to America’s first celebrity chef. (2017) The poem was created from quotes in the documentary. It’s a fascinating story incorporating American food history and the life of this chef whom I’d never heard of. I think anyone would enjoy watching it, even non-foodies. The trailer below links to the documentary on YouTube. I was a Bourdain fan who watched every episode of every series he produced.

This poem was published in Isacoustic in 2018. Isacoustic, edited by Barton Smock, stopped accepting submissions in 2023, unfortunately. It’s part of a collection of my poetry inspired by films and TV which will probably never make it to print because I’m a lazy submitter. And that’s ok.

Now I’m thinking seafood gumbo for supper.

For this one, I downloaded The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner via Project Gutenberg, looked for a page with little dialog, and went to work. This took about 15 minutes to puzzle out.

Face Down

Shadow curtains

the mausoleum of human

battle.

Victory is propped,

a clock oblivious.

Broken,

Diminishing,

Long and lonely.

Face down in the back

of regret,

crucified by time.

Down the Bayou

When a certain scent wafts on the wind, it brings back long summer days when we all sat outside together on break, smoking and talking, laughing at your stories. You were always the funny one quick with a joke and a smile, the glint of devilment in your fathomless eyes. You beguiled us all with your charming Cajun ways, talking about growing up down the bayou, hunting alligator and hiding from the rougarou. Said your papa and parrain played music til the wee hours on Saturday nights in Thibodaux and your mama prayed for their souls at Sunday Mass. You told how you and your cousin was riding bikes in the cane fields one day when you claimed you saw a Big Foot and how y’all rode hard and scared, looked back once and he was still there, you laughed about how older boys chased you and hit you with brooms at Courir de Mardi Gras but admitted it wasn’t so funny back then. You never did like New Orleans, said you only came here to work and you’d never leave the bayou. As far as I know, you never did. Now, these years later, we have all scattered from our ribbon cane murmurs and confidences, our shared laughter; but it all rises up in our memories at odd times and reminds us of how close we all once were.

~~~

John Fogarty rerecorded his hits from his time in Creedence Clearwater Revival last fall in a new album called Legacy: The Creedence Clearwater Revival Years (John's Version). “Born on the Bayou” was my favorite song back in the day and I distinctly remember a 12 year old me and my bestie dancing to CCR in her living room during a sleepover. When I first listened to the track below I was amazed that his voice, at 80 years old, sounds exactly as it did back then. Click the video and take a ride down the bayou.

I’ve been following the Walk for Peace on Facebook all month, '“the 120-day, 2,300-mile journey by Buddhist monks — with loyal dog, Aloka — walking from Fort Worth, Texas, to Washington, D.C. to raise awareness of peace, loving kindness, and compassion across America and the world.” I discovered it when they entered Mississippi because I follow friends and other accounts in Mississippi. This has been a true peaceful protest, so to speak, that hasn’t been politically manipulated nor has it put a single person in harm’s way. The walk is ongoing at the time of this writing and has touched the hearts and minds of millions, positively spreading their message of peace. It’s gratifying to see the welcome embrace the monks get in each state and town they walk through.

Every new year I adopt a word and a quote, write them in my journal, and remind myself throughout the year why I chose them

Word: Rediscover - I want to rediscover activities, etc that I enjoyed in the past as my younger self and miss. Stuff that enriched my daily life and I hope will again.

Quote: “Notice what you notice / Catch yourself thinking.” —- Allen Ginsberg

Here are some things I noticed in January.

Books

Bread of Angels by Patti Smith - It took me several weeks to read this book, not because it was uninteresting but because life, life, life kept getting in the way! Fortunately for me, memoirs are generally easy to resume after a pause, unlike novels where characters and plot lines have to be remembered, especially in crime fiction or in Wolf Hall which I’m currently slow reading. The book includes anecdotes from Patti’s childhood then segues into her adult life as an artist, wife, and mother. I enjoyed the entire book but the last chapter, with its highly lyrical prose and metaphysical musing, was a special delight to read. I highlighted almost the entire chapter.

Lost on Purpose by Karen Head - This book of poetry by a new-to-me poet was a gift. The gift-giver knows my taste! The poems inside are lyrical, intimate, and fierce. I recommend it. Here is a rough snap of “Mapplethorpe: Early Polaroids” which snuggles up nicely with Patti’s recollections of Robert Mappelthorpe in Bread of Angels and Just Kids and the evocative film Mappelthorpe (2018) that I watched last fall on Prime Video.

Litmags

Twelve Red Grapes by Jamie Etheridge in Short Reads (CNF) - My mind keeps going back to this piece, partly because Jamie and I are friends but also because she shares a part of her and her daughters’ grief journey with love and a vulnerable yet strong spirit. I love everything she writes, just everything.

There are a million ways to give up, but we choose magic over grief and despair, and tonight we’ve decided to eat twelve grapes for twelve months. Twelve wishes for twelve ways to learn to live without him.

The Old West End by Sean Thomas Dougherty in Brevity (CNF) - This piece is super cool with its piece within a piece. Intrigued? Read it to find the hidden piece. This story is chock-full of details from his life as a kid with parents who both worked in a time when wives didn’t work outside the house. Such was my experience so I could relate to that aspect of his story. It’s lyrical and interesting - everything I want in micro-memoir.

We weren’t poor. None of us said the word poor. But think free lunch. Think government cheese, think a few white kids in class like “salt sprinkled in a lot of pepper,” Ms. Robinson joked. Ms. Robinson, who taught second grade at Fulton school and lived on the corner of Melrose. Hand-me-downs. We were hand-me-down kids, passed from uncles, aunts, and neighbors as our parents worked.

The balance beam in purgatory is only 4 inches wide by Amy Barnes in Frazzled Lit (flash fiction) - Amy is a pro at writing surrealism in flash and she always has a message so it’s not just surrealism for art’s sake. I love that about her work. I also love how she weaves so many pop culture references in her stories so smoothly. How does she remember them all?! It’s part of her ✨magic✨!

My feet are suddenly bigger, swollen like Oldsmobile Cutlasses at the end of pipe cleaner Olive Oyl legs. I’m not looking for balance anymore; I’m trying to not crack the entire beam in half or fall three feet to the faded floor mats, incurring the wrath of my East German coach. He’s glowering at me to get done, but he keeps leaving and going to the soda machine and getting angry when he finds only soda, but not vodka.

Des Moines by Keith Pilapil Lesmeister in Doric Literary (Short Story) - This story was the literal journey of a guy traveling with an unconventional character. The MC is traveling to a dreaded family reunion in another state when he hooks up with a woman aiming to spread her mother’s ashes….somewhere. We are the backseat audience to what transpires. I loved this story.

She’d had a friend who once hitchhiked across the country. That friend made daily decisions by consulting the I Ching. “My mother’s ashes are my I Ching,” she told me. She was wearing nothing but an oversized red University of New Mexico Lobos t-shirt. She took the lid off the Styrofoam cup. She blew onto the top of her coffee before sipping, then added, “While you were buying breakfast, I consulted and was instructed to go. With you.”

from The Sea Box by Eileen Frankel Tomarchio in Gone Lawn (microfiction) - Wow, so much said and unsaid in this micro and that skill is what makes micro stories so intriguing and impactful. All written in a scant 200ish words. Powerful!

Grace managed to keep Thomas’s field jacket hidden in a closet nether region, but Ellen eventually found it and wears it still like a bathrobe, its hem stringy from her nervous-tic fingering, its green dye mottled from so many wash cycles.

TV

Landman Season 2 on Paramount Plus — Apparently, there’s some kind of controversy about this series. I’ve seen snippets online from a few magazine articles but I wasn’t curioius enough to read everything. I have watched and enjoyed both seasons of Landman. At first, I was horrified by Ali Larter’s character, Angela Norris. I felt she was a caricature and her scenes were like fingernails on a chalkboard for me. Similarly, Michelle Randolph, who plays her daughter Ainsley, seemed kind of pathetic. All the other women characters were fine and ALL the men characters were fine. (Why is there never a ditzy man character?) But, with season two we were shown a bit more depth to these characters which has me thinking: I’ve known women like these two and, sometimes they really are shallow but sometimes it’s a shield, a mask. It’s a reminder we shouldn’t judge others, that we don’t know what a person has experienced in their life that created that shield, that mask. I think we’ll find out more about Angela and Ainsley in season 3.

Anyway, I have to be really honest here and say I like seeing an alternative depiction of American culture that is based in a reality that doesn’t get exposure (iykyk) - something that is very rare. It didn’t used to be so rare and it feels to some of us like TV and movie production got stuck on one ideological viewpoint which has contributed to a viewership withdrawal from commercial cinema and network tv. When you diss or lecture a large part of your viewership, they stop viewing. But, I’ll watch anything, anything with Billy Bob Thornton, a pragmatic cultural rebel who has managed to put out stellar work in spite of Hollywood.

Selling Manhattan Season 2 on Netflix - (The only reality series I watch) From the first episode in season one to the last in season two, I’ve thought: Do people really live and act like this? I have watched both seasons because:

1. It’s interesting to see inside posh NYC apartments. I enjoy the artistry of interior design despite my own penchant for simplicity.

2. It’s like a car wreck where you can’t look away re: behavior of allegedly adult people.

3. The business negotiations are fascinating.

4. The clothes. The women wear beautiful, priced-beyond-the-reach-of-average-people clothes. Again, I enjoy the artistry despite my personal preference for simplicity.

5. Most of all I admire what Ryan Serhant has built and accomplished through hard work, perseverance, ingenuity, and talent. He is why I keep watching.

John le Carré’s The Night Manager Season 2 on Amazon Prime - I was excited when I heard this series was returning after a 10 year absence. It did not disappoint. If you haven’t seen it, start with season one, if you have seen it what did you think? It’s dark, twisted, sophisticated, full of action & intrigue, and then there’s Tom Hiddleston. It’s best not to compare other intelligence/spy series with this one - it’s the cream of the crop. I literally clapped at the ending. Can.Not.Wait. for season three. Highly recommend. (The above-linked article includes an interesting comparison between The Night Manager and Apple TV’s Slow Horses, another spy thriller I recommend .)

Music

I haven’t listened to any new music this month. My vintage 2006 Bose radio (vintage?!) is set on a local easy listening station (elevator music) because it soothes the old dog at night when the house quietens and his anxiety escalates. However, I’m sharing this Prince video I previously shared in Notes because it inspired me during the bleak week we collectively experienced. “You don’t have to be cool to rule my world.”

Turn it up!