The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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I didn’t stop to take the snapshot and now I can’t: the gas station’s mansard roof has been peeled off as part of a renovation and gone are the letters, painted over
It’s 1982. She’s a junior in college, an English major, spending the spring academic quarter studying art and literature in England. The cuisine is awful: gloppy meat pies, mushy peas, Marmite, treacly-sweet
Honestly, there was nothing to see — just two women, mother-daughter-friends on a mid-summer day, tangled hands on summerhouse cushions, pinked apple blossoms drifting — I must have been dreaming of the sweet
Cleave With a mother so sweet and easy to please, I had little opportunity to exercise obnoxious contrariness. She would usually say “dikkatli ol” and then let me go my American way.
Scratches in the celluloid / show a frame-rate / his mind shown / in the quick tilt of his head / as he observes a painting / the black-and-white print of his
where you’re –so– worn out ⠀⠀⠀you won’t mind ⠀⠀⠀being wiped out; ⠀⠀⠀hell, you’ll even thank the tsunami for ⠀⠀⠀flicking you off ⠀⠀⠀the face of this ⠀⠀⠀flaming planet far far away ⠀⠀⠀from that
Flow for Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi On learning of your passingI’m shot back in timeto the discovery of your booksand concepts, to teachingmyself how to enter that alteredstate of concentrationwhere creativityspills into spontaneityand
I knew it was time to leave Florida when the sinkhole ate Buddy. I was sitting in a kiddie pool with the hose running, throwing a mangled tennis ball for him to
I know girls sometimes do witchcraft. I’m at a pizza parlor two blocks down from my job. This is where I meet Margaret. I’m on my lunch break from driving warehouse forklifts.
Less the candle-flame and more the light the flame emits across the coffered ceiling. I concede, we may never arrive where we think we are headed. And the storm thrashing, ravaging the