In quantum field theory, in my imperfect understanding of it, gleaned from YouTube, a physicist can make an atom vibrate on one level, like a violin string, as well as a neutrino on another level, and so forth and so on. But apparently, Higgs Boson, a subatomic particle with no mass whatsoever, moves everywhere, on all levels; fluid, like a body of water, like a river, appearing and disappearing. This is why it’s called the God particle. It’s omniscient and omnipresent. It doesn’t move through time, it is time itself.
You might want to make sure you’re sitting down while reading her.
As Project Editor for Angel’s Flight * literary, I co-produced, with Michele Raphael (Founder), the first AFLW East Coast Salon at…
The body is composed of carbon molecules. The heart pumps blood to the brain and keeps us breathing. And we are alive. We are at home. Until the body says, I’m done. Until the body says, Get out, goodbye, it’s over. And we are cast out; the heart stops, the blood pools. Before we are born, inside the womb, the body gathers itself together and moves from a state of chaos to a state of atomic perfection. The exact opposite is true when we die. The body disintegrates, feeds upon itself. But where do we go? This is the central mystery of life. The body, without us, is inanimate. Silent, still. It collapses, like trees that have fallen in the forest. They are just as quiet.
Lillian founded the “BEDLAM: New Work by Women Writers” reading series in New York.
But in a parallel universe, at your memorial breakfast, we all cavort on Stevie’s front lawn– overlooking the lake. Brother Johnny brings out the speakers and sets them in the driveway; Exile on Main Street, full blast. Stevie sets up a card table with a fifth of Smirnoff, and we pass a joint back and forth. Some of the cousins are dancing.
Listing in the Directory of Writers
I have big plans to wash clothes and bedding, and mop the hardwood floors. Instead I roll a joint on the desk in the large empty living room. It’s the only piece of furniture in this room; not counting the kitchen chair where I’ve propped a large framed photo of the Rolling Stones at Altamont–a gift from my late brother. The very same picture that fell off the wall the first day here, and completely shattered a glass topped coffee table. I didn’t have a broom, never mind a dust pan. It happened at five in the morning, still dark out. My first thought; I’m taking this fucking picture and throwing it in the river. Because once I started to let go of things, it was hard to stop.
Each person will keep a guided public journal of at least 500 words for 30 days. The class will be structured like a MOOC, so people can drop in any time, day or night. Each day I will post a theme– a quote, an image, or just notes, and 500 words. Participants are also welcome to choose the day’s theme by pitching the idea to the group. The journal grows organically as a conversation and a shared document of our days together fighting a pandemic. This space is inclusive, all are welcome. You may use a pseudonym.
I don’t need a doctor. I need a shaman, or a physicist – somebody who can talk to me about zero gravity, the golden ratio, someone who will trace the Fibonacci curve along my spine and down the length of my limbs.
Credo: An Anthology of Manifestos and Sourcebook for Creative Writing
Angel’s Flight * literary west is based out of Los Angeles– a lit mag that features some of the best writers on the west coast. We’re proud to present some of the best writers on the East Coast on May 30th at KGB The Red Room, NYC
The border is a ghost town. On the one hand, it is an intimate portrait of the unfriendly, almost menacing topography of this region, and on the other, a charged political statement. The end of the wall is a bisected overpass of a highway that begins and ends in mid-air. In contrast, the beginning of the border resembles the badlands, an almost primeval landscape. It eventually evolves into civilization, the floating highway— yet both look dangerous.