All in Non-Fiction
Pop culture permeates every facet of my being. I speak in Simpsons references, I study Frank Henenlotter films to create trivia questions, even my WIP, a novel about a woman who makes poor dating choices, is rife with sections about movies. Pop culture is important to me, and it's clearly important to everyone else too.
Bell's journey serves as a reminder that behind the public personas and controversies lie individuals with their own stories of pain, resilience, and growth. It calls us to cultivate a culture of compassion and understanding, acknowledging that healing and redemption are complex processes that require patience and support.
Three months after my 19th birthday, I was sent home from my freshman year of college for 2 weeks for some kind of virus going around. I spent those two weeks in blissful ignorance with my friends, waiting on an email with a return date from our colleges that would never come.
In Chicago again, but years after, from the airport with my bags all packed, clutching a small quilted pillow and a backpack, my passport and a ticket for Rome in my hand. Blow a kiss. Wave wildly. Say farewell. My grandmother with her butterscotch breath. With her Filipino kisses: her nose pressed to my cheek, one long sniff.
It's the portrayals of thinkers and writers like O’Brien, Nadine Gordimer, James Wood, and Edward Said, that further explain the purpose behind such a book, more so than Professor Boyers’ reflections on the title figures. Much of this memoir is set at various dinners, conferences, and symposiums where arguments are volleyed and feelings are hurt. The atmosphere is taut with argument.
On three, the boy next to us threw a Frisbee that wasn’t there. A second later, we let loose the real thing. Time slowed as we waited for a reaction. The man in charge of our European well-being cursed into the evening. Contact!
During our time dating, Matt told me he had an ex-lover named Geoff. For whatever reasons and coincidences, more than a couple of my boyfriends over the years have had exes named Geoff. I apologize for this stupid and ridiculous response, but I developed a negative, visceral reaction when I hear that name mentioned by someone I’m seeing, no matter how it’s spelled.
Here’s our small, intimate January issue, which we felt was a great way to ease into 2024.
She played the video and I spent the remainder of my time burning a hole into the screen with my eyes. I watched the instructor move the yarn one way, then another and focused on all the moving parts. I swore those written instructions were in Latin or something, I thought. This is much easier.
I hope the holidays are peaceful and filled with love.
The only thing I knew about MS-related blindness was a condition called Optic Neuritis—a painful condition that hurt like a migraine, or worse. Now, in the waiting room, blind as a bat, I couldn’t recall being in any pain the night before when the issue started. New panic set in—was the issue my retina? Could it be falling off without me even feeling it? I’d been so used to blaming things on my MS, any alternatives fell by the wayside. I hoped for the best.
One evening, she went to Grandpa’s restaurant, walked to the back, and beckoned for him to follow. There, she looked him straight in the eyes, said she was done waiting, and if he didn’t marry her within the next month, she would leave him.
I've softened my stance on Thanksgiving over the years, though. For one thing, I'm happy(ish) now.
He pours me a white. Usually a buttery Chardonnay. He doesn’t pour enough. Nothing is enough. I take a small sip. I mistakenly swallow way too soon without tasting it and await the blood alcohol brain depressive effect to cool my mood. Not quick enough.
Not a trace of shame in her voice. It was as if she were sharing an unexpected revelation with this fresh-faced kid, a former coworker, still stocking shelves at Frys. Like she’d been to the mountain, at the foot of the guru, and had returned with a higher wisdom.
The problem with working on a home while living in it is that you are forever doomed to be making room, clearing away the debris of one to make room for the other, constantly compromising. Because neither is ever in its fullness, both remain in a protracted, seemingly infinite process of getting in each other’s way.
Conversations were always funny with you, neither of us speaking each other’s language all too well but still capturing each other's hearts. I couldn’t catch my breath when I asked you, What’s your least favorite fruit? and with fists balled, you said, I hate Olive Garden!
We walk into the venue and it is literally empty. The three of us are the only ones in the crowd. Maeve stalls, tuning way longer than she needs, before yelling into the mic: “Everyone at the bar come on in, it’d really mean a lot. We’re the last of the night and we’re gonna play hard.” She starts with a fury.
Things are so terrible in the world right now, and we only have each other. It's not the worst thing, a community. Sometimes it's the greatest thing, actually.
As Judge McDonough waltzes down the hallway towards his chambers, with three defense attorneys in tow, suddenly Johnny Lagatutta races past me and the other attorneys—including the defense attorney whose client had just been locked up, and jumps atop Judge McDonough’s back. Lagatutta wraps an arm around the judge’s neck and secures his choke hold with the other hand. McDonough swings his arms, trying to reach back to free Lagatutta’s grip, to no avail.
