“Do you recognize this man?” One of the officers held out a picture of Jack. His toothy smile was unmistakable, although I noticed, even in the low-quality mug shot, an unfamiliar wildfire in his eyes. I nodded.
It is that stillness I search for in the transcendental north. The quiet amidst the buzz of living that I haven’t discovered in the nooks and crannies of my own hum of days.
A friend confessed that she could easily pour all her money into eating at GR restaurants. Another, smiling wryly, said quickly: “I couldn’t. I’m not sure I have the wardrobe for it.”
I don’t drink coffee, I’ve taken ibuprofen exactly six times, and I believe that a healthy dose of germs is good for your immune system.
Mumbling “what have I done” to myself in my closet-sized Queens apartment with my suitcase only half-unpacked on the floor is not exactly my proudest life moment.
Growing up, I occasionally went with my dad to both the hospital and the mission. I saw the way in which he interacted with the patients of the hospital and the clients of the mission.
Never mind the over-caffeinated flight attendants, the screaming babies, the person in front of me reclining their chair into my lap—it’s really the air that gets me.
I have an operating theory that boredom proceeds greatness almost as often as the phrase “hold my beer.” I think in a culture of convenience we never challenge ourselves to wait.
If you’ve got $157 to blow in a movie theater this month and a rom-com that passes the Bechdel Test is something that catches your fancy, I’d suggest Trainwreck.
