We are fortunate to have a brace, OK, some short of a brace, a group, half dozen almost, of fine small stories by Frances Lefkowitz, plus a conversation between Frances and our own Meg Pokrass. Apprehend me with mouse to see it now.
I hate the blogging and anything remotely bloggish and all of the crap networking–interesting, yes, for about two weeks after you’ve seen all the available photos of your now shockingly corpulent high school acquaintances. I’d like to see BLIP forcefully position itself as a place that doesn’t ask to be “liked” or “friended” or “tweeted” but read and engaged. A place where work, in a now radical
Kristin vacuums our apartment for the sixth time today. She takes her sweet time inscribing elaborate hieroglyphics in the wheat-colored wall to wall. A word here, a phrase there. She is writing, she tells me curtly, the story of our marriage.
They slept in single beds. My sister and I would sneak upstairs to lie on them when Granny was in the kitchen. We’d divide by gender. Laura would take Granny’s and I would take Granddad’s.