CURRENT ISSUE: Summer 2016
I have a terrifying recurring dream in which Donald Trump is my father.
“Isn’t this fun?” he yells from the driver’s seat of his Hummer as we barrel down Highway 1 from San Francisco to his pink, rococo mansion in Half Moon Bay. “Not really,” I invariably scream back. The setting sun burns my eyes, there are dreadlocked, Caucasian hikers who jeer up at the ostentatious car as we zip by, and I’m sick and tired of Trump-Dad’s manic desire to show me “just how fantastic of a time”we can have together. Usually by this point in the dream we’ve already been to his empty music studio (“You love to sing, right?), gone to the dealership and purchased the Yellow 2005 H2 (“You won’t believe how well these babies take tight turns once you get down around Montara”), and gobbled down a priceless lunch at Quince (“Have more of the tartar, kid”). It’s nighttime when we pull into his horseshoe-shaped driveway, past the groomed Clydesdales, and towards the bright red, stucco mammoth of a home. Trump fumbles with his huge set of keys and, with a spastic wave of his arms, flings open the mahogany door, adorned with its hundreds of carved, tiny-penised cherubim.
The meetings with the man on the toilet will end Thursday
It is the right of the student to leave his shoes
outside the bathroom for the man himself squats barefoot.
In the mornings the man finishes another book, orders his milk,
and when the milkman comes to fetch his tip,
As Good As Real
Lintong is about twenty miles from Xi’an and my father lives six miles outside the town. Out here in the country the farmers wear no watches. Seeing them estimate the hour with their noses in the air, you might think time were a scent spread across the day.
FROM THE BLOG
and is there treasure? – a poem for Bill Watterson
Hey Bill, How’s it going? I have come to find you in this place because This place is Alive. Somewhere. In watercolour. Rough and tumble slopes and Lemonade stands where I am not so tired as this Yet. Not yet. Bill, Will you call? We’d all like to see you very much. All drive down with a cake and Party hats and say what is Drifting. How’s Suzy? Did she and he ever? That might have been nice. I’m going crazy Bill, Between these walls. And I hear the scuttle Of lives lived in the floorboards. Taptap. Beat. Stop. Rest. Taptap. Taptap. Rustling the dust. And the roar is deafening. The roar is deafening. Don’t worry Bill, I don’t Blame you. Life gets to be a bit Much. Sometimes. In watercolour. I’ll be better soon.
FROM THE BLOG
Dispatch from the Archives: Metaphors of a Cultural Radical
Richard Rosen’s “Metaphors of a Cultural Radical,” from the December 1969 issue of the Harvard Advocate, seethes with a brand of rage that feels both relevant and naïve, alternately violently precise and hopelessly scattered. Rosen, a twenty year-old sophomore, was terrified by the institutional violence he witnessed first-hand in the preceding two years, both in his native Chicago at the 1968 Democratic National Convention and at Harvard during the spring 1969 student strike. Rosen, who worked with Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell during his time as an undergraduate, has gone on to write a number of humor books, histories, and sports articles. In reading his revolutionary words—he curses corporate culture and aesthetics, sees President Pusey’s face superimposed on that of every chauvinistic cop-pig, and dreams of a world in which cultural appreciation, rather than the profit motive, might finally win out.