Detox

I need to detox. Pull the plug out of the wall. Turn off MSNBC. Put the New York Times away unread. Step off the treadmill of the Daily Trump Show. (Has anyone ever taken up so much oxygen with so little to show?)

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The Dystopian Oligarchy

There are also, of course, the many daily reminders that we live, increasingly in a Dystopian Oligarchy. Haven’t most people, at some point, worked in an organization—corporate or volunteer or otherwise? There are lessons to be learned from that work.

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Begging

Begging

Jim was one of my best friends; I met him when he was begging. He had cerebral palsy, and when he sat in his chair, hands askew off clenched arms, head sometimes lolling back, legs dangling, he might have–until you caught the gleam in his eyes–seemed completely inert.

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Harold Pinter, A Dissertation

Harold Pinter, A Dissertation

Back in the Sixties (yes, I was there), I had a dissertation to write to satisfy the requirements for my master’s degree in theatre from the Catholic University of America. Through a process of elimination (Eugene O’Neil’s scenic designer Robert Edmond Jones had been taken) I wound up writing about the then-burgeoning British playwright Harold Pinter.

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The Old Normal

Now is the time…

Sitting idle and feeling the simmering anger bubble and rage beneath the surface isn’t really doing it for me right now. On the street I’m working too hard to keep down my screams at the wrong-way bicyclists, the taxis hogging the pedestrian crossings, the double baby buggies taking up too…much…space. I feel myself turning into That Guy.

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Under Assault

I’m not a woman. But I’m still feeling as though I'm under assault. I didn’t realize that’s what it was until Ana Marie Cox on Lawrence O’Donnell’s show on MSNBC spoke of Trump’s assault of women and continued, almost off-handedly, that we’re all feeling assaulted. Because we’re powerless to stop it.

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On "Indignation"

I just began reading Phillip Roth’s Indignation, prompted by the film’s release reminding me that this novel was one I’d missed. I go way back as a Roth reader (college, Goodbye, Columbus—the short stories—then the excitement of his first novel, Letting Go), dropped out mid-way, picked him up again about five years ago. But had missed this one. And The Humbling. I double-ordered.

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Where I Write

Yes, of course, "the writing space"—used to be the Writers Room, now it’s Paragraph on West 14th Street.  My friend Jack, commenting on my first blog, asked why I didn’t find a more congenial place to write, as it seemed like a long bunch of work to get here.  It’s tough, yes. But for me, the quiet sound of other writers’ brains engaged, the quiet tap of computer keys, the occasional muffled cough, all are eager fuel to my fire.

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