Author: T

The House of the Spirits

But Blanca was used to living by herself When all was said and done, she had found peace in her household chores, her ceramics studio, and her creches of made-up animals in which the only figures that corresponded to the laws of reality were the Holy Family lost in a crowd of monsters. The only man in her life was Pedro Tercero, for she was born to have one love. The strength of this immutable desire saved her from the mediocrity and sadness of her fate. She was faithful to him even in those moments when he lost himself...

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Bright Lights, Big City

The train shudders and pitches toward Fourteenth Street, stopping twice for breathers in the tunnel. You are reading about Liz Taylor’s new boyfriend when a sooty hand taps your shoulder. You do not have to look up to know you are facing a casualty, one of the city’s MIAs. You are more than willing to lay some silver on the physically handicapped, but folks with the long-distance eyes give you the heebie-jeebies. The second time he taps your shoulder you look up. His clothes and hair are fairly neat, as if he had only recently let go of social...

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Best Albums List of 2017

Well, it’s about that time (or quite a bit overdue) for a round-up of some of the best albums of 2017. Despite the predictions that all the heinous events of 2016 (deaths of many iconic people, and the death of hope as Trump was elected) might cause an upswelling of creativity, it actually didn’t seem that way. If anything 2017 was a quieter year for stunning music releases, not a bad year by any stretch, but not as stunning as the best of 2016. The good stuff as far as I’m concerned is getting a playlist of music that...

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Pastoralia

This morning is the morning I empty our Human Refuse bags and the trash bags and the bag from the bottom of the sleek metal hole where Janet puts her used feminine items. For this I get an extra sixty a month. Plus it’s always nice to get out of the cave. I knock on the door of her Separate Area. “Who is it?” she asks, playing dumb. She knows very well who it is. I stick in my arm and wave around a trash bag. “Go for it,” she says. She’s in there washing her armpits with a...

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Eileen

My mother never packed lunches for me to take to school when I was growing up. I’d sit and stare down at my knees while the other children ate their sandwiches, my stomach empty and rumbling. As soon as I’d get home in the afternoon, I filled my belly with bread and butter, all that I could find to eat in my mother’s messy kitchen. When I was a child, Dunlop dinners around the kitchen table were hardly nourishing. Mealtimes were brief and uncomfortable. My parents only ever fought in front of Joanie and me, as though they’d needed...

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