On the street, we walk, the survivors. Along side us are the workers of the fish market, in boots, jeans, t-shirts, aprons. I ask where the ferry is.
“Back in hell. Just turn around, and hang a left in the middle of hell.”
Since that spill, I’ve borne a grudge against the sinister presence that created “right” ways. That enforced its rules whimsically, letting me do it my way much of the time. Tricking me other times. Sometimes even punishing me with a broken glass or painful scrape.
“There’s been an attack at the 36th street stop.”
“Where Max waits for Andoni.”
26 books in 10 months. Not shabby.
That stuff, well, once you stop learning about those things, you’re dead—even if your body is still walking about, going through the motions of life. That’s existing, simply not being buried yet.
Scars makes sense for the body—stop bleeding, prevent an infection, protect the break—quickly—to keep us alive and then repair the harm as fast as possible. Gotta keep going after all. But, some scars heal up better than others.
Daemons were not part of Philip Pullman’s original idea for the Golden Compass. And understanding this may have saved the novel I’m working on.
Scary as hell living in Brooklyn, the deadliest place on earth for Covid-19. For a few grim weeks.
The armed troops and the ID cards are gone now, but low-flying planes are still unnerving.
Resilience after 9-11—it’s about what happens in the mind as much as on the ground.