Mom always told me my blackberry pie tasted like hers. We’d both be bent at the waist, shoulders hunched, sturdily pushing rolling pins through flour-coated dough in the tiny kitchen. Heat would pool at the back of my neck and… Continue Reading
All I can remember is pitch blackness accompanied by an odd warmth. It felt close, unbearably so. The same warmth always comes. It comes but never goes. It lingers and becomes sickly sweet. Next comes the light — a bright,… Continue Reading
Getwright and I were in the DFAC one day — this was before deployment, pre-mob maybe. He looked over and said to me, And every year when the goslings hatch dad lets the hounds after them. Separate mother goose from… Continue Reading
The first time I threw a shoe at my shrink was right after he claimed I was “prone to fits of irrational behavior.” That was his opinion after a year of therapy. Considering his fee, I expected more than what… Continue Reading
Therapist: What do you see, Mr Brown? Take your time. Patient: Ireland. A lake or a sea and a sandy beach. Undulating green hills as seen in Irish tourist brochures. As seen in Ireland in fact. I need the countryside,… Continue Reading
Beth fingered the fresh bruises that ringed her neck. The pain, which responded to each prod, was soothing in its reliability. “What was different about yesterday, Beth?” asked the doctor sitting in the vinyl-covered visitor’s chair that faced her bed.… Continue Reading
Andy Warhol was my psychotherapist back in the 70’s. I would go to him once a week with my problems: talk to him about my latest arrest, my latest relationship break-up, or divorce — whatever had occurred that week. But… Continue Reading