A collection of baby names is like a taxonomy of hope, a kind of catechism for future lives scattered over the horizon.
Memoir
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Fascinated by Lou Reed's New York, I moved to St. Mark's Place two decades too late, and the sickness I got there followed me for years.
For a decade, the BDSM site Kink.com has filmed scenes for its more than 50,000 members in a hundred-year-old armory in downtown San Francisco. This year, the final erotic frames were shot on the premises.
A traumatic fifteen-hour spinal operation saved my life but stole most of my mobility and, thus, my dance career. It took fifteen years to begin to correct the story.
After I was run over by a car, getting mad helped me find my way back to myself.
Why did I go to work for the TSA? To try to connect with my father? To soothe various concerns as a new father myself? Was I researching a book? Having a midlife crisis? All of the above?
My father defaulted on his dreams, abandoned his daughter, and resigned himself to living on a futon in his parents' living room. Then he bought a two-foot-tall stuffed rabbit.
The fact that I’ve always had an exact replica of my father, with a startlingly similar voice, mannerisms and, well, face, never really struck me as exceptional until he passed away.
The larger deception is that birth is only about life. In reality, the only certain thing about life is death and every birth contains that prospect.
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