Writing everything about everything.

The Best of The Week




Crazy people invite me to lunch.

They forget their sentences mid-word. They tear at their unsliced personal pizzas holding knives and forks, unsure how to assert those unfamiliar implements against usually fingered food, imaging the wedges that might have been, then making eye contact again, picking up a thread of conversation from the ether and continuing utterly unaware of their non-sequitur. Subjects shift between all the topics your grandmother advised you against. Politics. Religion. Sex. Then back to money. Always money.

I know how to react to the crazy people and their pizza. Though, there are reactive impulses that are hard to resist. Like - the urge to help them with their food the way I would have with one of my toddler children. These are business men. Entrepreneurs. Angels. These are men in expensive Italian St Croix golf shirts and one never knows how they would react to my stuffing a paper napkin down their collars…

To be in the wrong place, of course, there has to be a right place. And maybe there is, and maybe there is not. For a pregnancy, sure, there is a right place, an only place, a special place where that single idea can take root and grow from idea to fetus and fetus to person. For a mother-to-be, the right place might be in her own city, her own country, on her own continent, but it also might not. For a child coming into the world it might be a hospital where…

I did not want to write about the anniversary of attacks. Not because they aren't important, but because I feel I didn't have much to add. But this morning, on Instagram, I saw someone post a "Never Forget" message. That person was in their teens, and would not have been able to remember the attacks.

Strangely enough, "Never Forget" has begin to cloud the original memory of the attacks. All memories are subtly altered: sometimes I remember listening to a song at a…