Why I Left Los Angeles For This
“But … why?” she asks me in equal parts disgust and curiosity. Her words linger between us, like a sour stench waiting to dissipate up into the air and away from where we stand, locked in unlikely confrontation.
“But … why?” she asks me in equal parts disgust and curiosity. Her words linger between us, like a sour stench waiting to dissipate up into the air and away from where we stand, locked in unlikely confrontation.
When it came time for me to play football in eighth grade, I didn’t have any idea what position to play. I grew up dreaming of diamonds, not gridirons.
“I Used to Live Here” is a collaborative essay and set of images about cities and how they can and cannot be archived or preserved by Mexican artist and writer Veronica Gerber Bicceci and American writer Kathleen Rooney.
What images first come to mind when you hear the word “Appalachia”? No, really. The first image? One of the things I like to do in a group setting, particularly with students, is run through this exercise. I explain that there is no right or wrong answer.
My mother gave me a harmonica for my thirteenth birthday. The first song I learned was “Old Black Joe.” I played a lot of ditties like that – easy major key tunes – throughout junior high and high school.
Not far from the ersatz splendor of downtown Cleveland with its god-sized chandelier and soulless schmaltz, a man is keeping the past alive.
Piles. Piles of limestone, piles of gravel, piles of broken glass. Items haphazardly piled as if to signal that no one cares what happens here.
Every city is a text. You can read the city. My favorite way to read Chicago is like a book of poetry. Not necessarily straight through but jumping around, page to page, focusing hard on one thing, then flipping past others ...
Most people don’t like bugs. They are so disconcertingly unlike us – we can’t find ourselves in all those legs, wings and alien faces. Also, our sense of scale prevents us from seeing the vibrant and complex world of insects.
On a cold, clear Sunday in late March, I buttoned my wool coat. "This kind of thing terrifies me,” I turned to tell my spouse. “But I am doing it anyway." Then I went out my door and walked toward the houses of five neighboring families.
In early April of this year, I began reading John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, an account of his 1960 road trip from Long Island across and up the country to the West coast, and down through the deep south and back home again.
Jane Scott, the Cleveland music writer beloved by the rock stars she covered, was honored this week at a fundraiser for the documentary about her life and career and the iconic red glasses.