CURRENT ISSUE: Fall 2016
A squat yellow bungalow trimmed neatly in white, with twin wooden planters that had never been filled by anything but tidy beds of gravel—this was the church where Rick and I first met as kids. Inside, a wide-open room, empty until we set up ten rows of metal folding chairs before each service, empty after we stacked the chairs in two teetering columns off to the side. Near the windows, the table set with plates of cookies and lemonade for after the service.
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.