Here I am, taking comfort in the sunroom and emailing off another cartoon to my sister. I have two sisters and have always been especially close to sister number two, Patti. It could be said that we are close because we are nearer in age, but really, we are close because we are pretty much on the same wavelength. We enjoy a lot of the same things including guffawing over clever memes. We like to laugh.
“So, are you Russian?” The short answer has always been, yes. The long answer is, “Well, I am a Jew, from a Russian speaking city in Ukraine on the border with Russia, but really from the former Soviet Union.”
I recently recalled a moment in my personal analysis in which I discovered that an issue I had brought up many months prior was gone.
Thinking much about death these days? I mean your very own death, the one Sigmund Freud maintains we can’t really think about.
Many years ago, I volunteered for a suicide hotline. Although we were trained to take suicidal calls, callers in our four-hour shifts were not always at immediate risk of suicide.
It was early April, and the country was in lockdown but my 13-year-old son, who described himself as my “emotional support human,” and I were driving across an empty landscape to Charleston from Baltimore. My Father was dying.
I had awakened weary from a night of dreaming about Kimmy. In one she was running through a field, frantically searching.
This past fall, feeling overwhelmed by the increasing expressions of racist hatred in the United States and abroad, I read Neranda Keval’s book, “Racist States of Mind: Understanding the Perversion of Curiosity and Concern.”
Friends and I went to see the documentary, “When the Garden was Eden.” I was captivated by this Knicks “dream team” of black and white players uniting Manhattan during a time of racial conflict.
At first glance, endings are quite different in literature and treatment. In literature we assume that the writer has a story arc in mind that organizes the writing.