We’re here. 2015 has arrived with no form or voice, yet reveals itself through sleet, mirrored balls descending, kissing strangers, bloody marys, soggy brain cells, votive sunrise miniature sparks beneath rheumy eyes, limpid whispers of promise, howls, clanking pots and pans, debt, bleak threads of pale memory, starry heights written with swaggered plans on notepads, napkins, useless regret, that thing we say every year about it’s here? What the hell. How? My checks are going to be messed up. Why do I still write checks? Happy New Year! “The active life has always struck me as the least comfortable of suicides.”
Fernando Pessoa
“The snake-filled curls of the sun shake over the sky a golden venom no centuries of night can suck out.”
Janet Frame
“I’m tempted to say that Thursday evening was peculiar, perhaps macabre, but the fact is, I have no bill-filling adjectives for Thursday evening.”
J.D. Salinger
“Unclench the cramp in Dudley’s hand, poor woman.”
Djuna Barnes
Three featured writers in this column. Three beauties. Three exceptional writers.
Enjoy the brilliant work of Kate Braverman, Mary Miller, and Faye Rapoport DesPres. And find out more in the interviews. What a gift to spend time with each of them!
“Prom night on a porch swing facing mountains so dead the rocks wouldn’t kiss.”
Kate Braverman
“At this point, things have become so muddled that everything feels like an inversion. I say one thing, sure I believe it, and he says the opposite and it sounds right, too, more right than the thing of which I was certain.”
Mary Miller
“It has been a long, drawn-out thief of a winter, and today it steals my moment with the cows.”
Faye Rapoport DesPres