I drive out Old Frankfort Pike past the ditch by the creek where you pulled off on New Year’s Day to pick from the mud that Jack Russell with swollen nipples and bring her back to the farm.
Sommy notices his legs first, hairy and stumpy, the part not covered by his tan-colored shorts. He’s standing by the airport’s exit, watching a woman on tiptoes, a piece of cardboard held above her head. His name is Bayo, Sommy’s new...
What do we do with the undertow of grief that remains when someone we love, or something we need, is gone? We’re taught to celebrate milestones, our achievements and additions, but are never taught how to grieve. It seems like an important...
After a wretched, wakeful night, my hot head buzzing with annoyance, I sat squirming in my study waiting for Ollie to arrive. At nine he put his head in, smiling with his usual greeting, “How are we doing, Andy?”
I gazed down at my boss’s lifeless body and was gripped by a queasy feeling. Was it horror? Remorse? Arousal? No. It was something much worse: inadequacy.
Deep inside our eyes, next to the dark velvet lake of the aqua vitreous, are cones and rods. The rods allow us to see in the gloaming, but only in grayscale. The cones are responsible for color, but they need light to work.
Every piece in its frame, behind glass, is really two works. There’s the rayograph, its vaporous, everyday shapes drifting across the once light-sensitive paper. And over it, caught in the glass, a spontaneous portrait of the viewer...
