| 4 notes

In every family, traditional portraits are hung up or carried around: cousins arrayed before a monument, parents holding their grandchildren, long-gone ancestors smiling from a black and white beyond. Though we cherish their aura, the faces and places remain static.

By contrast, Rachel Barrett composes images that could be candid or staged, but we often cannot guess which. Her portraits are sometimes not even of people. In projects as seemingly clinical as her NYC Newsstand Project, born of a desire to document the soon-to-be homogenized newsstands sprinkled across Manhattan, we find a loving portrait of an icon glowing in its snowflake-like singularity. In Bowery and Pell SW Corner, 2011, we see a shed with the battered face of a retired fighter, all swollen angles and bent supports. The sweet rust-red lacquer of Chrystie & Grand Streets, NW Corner, 2009 reaches out lovingly to grasp its green awninged neighbor in friendship. Even the shabbier newsstands stand proudly, as though their position and usefulness in this city affords them strength. […]

Click here to see more of Rachel Barrett’s “sweet and scarred” portraits of place.

   

Tags: #photography #portrait #New York City #newsstand #Manhattan #Rachel Barrett


 

'Friends' Central Perk Coffee Shop To Open in Manhattan

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flavorpill:

The pop-up coffee place will open September 17 at 199 Lafayette Street so twentysomethings can hang out and discuss their love lives ad nauseam before heading home to an oversized Manhattan apartment that they definitely can’t afford. 

This is very exciting for some of us at TC! What other fictional places from pop culture would you like to see made real?

   

Tags: #Friends #television #repost #New York City #Manhattan


 

I’m carting a 55-inch flat-screen
to the car when I’m surprised
by sounds I haven’t heard
for some time and can’t believe
I’m hearing here—the nasally peent, peent
of a woodcock broadcasting its call
from the fields beside this new Wal-Mart.
[…]

Read more as Robert Kording observes “a bird doing what a bird does / with spring inside him” in an unlikely location.
 | 3 notes

I’m carting a 55-inch flat-screen

to the car when I’m surprised

by sounds I haven’t heard

for some time and can’t believe

I’m hearing here—the nasally peent, peent

of a woodcock broadcasting its call

from the fields beside this new Wal-Mart.

[…]

Read more as Robert Kording observes “a bird doing what a bird does / with spring inside him” in an unlikely location.

   

Tags: #poetry #woodcock #birdwatching #birds #poem #Robert Kording


 

A vinyl sombrero. A needlepoint rendition of Gainsborough’s Blue Boy.  A macramé lawn chair.  If you go to the thrift store with a specific item in mind, you probably won’t find it.  You’ll find something else.  I forage for the else.
My relationship with the thrift store started a few months after my life-partner died and I dropped off the first bag of clothes he wouldn’t be wearing any more.  Before that, in the early weeks of mourning, I couldn’t let anything go.  Taking bookmarks out of his books, or emptying his pockets of keys or chapstick, could capsize me.  I had no sense of what to hold and what to disown, what was essential and what was peripheral.  Everything seemed important, even clothes that Rajiv hated or never wore.  Everything he’d touched bore meaning. […]

Read more of “Things Left,” Deborah Thompson’s essay on grief and thrift stores.
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A vinyl sombrero. A needlepoint rendition of Gainsborough’s Blue Boy.  A macramé lawn chair.  If you go to the thrift store with a specific item in mind, you probably won’t find it.  You’ll find something else.  I forage for the else.

My relationship with the thrift store started a few months after my life-partner died and I dropped off the first bag of clothes he wouldn’t be wearing any more.  Before that, in the early weeks of mourning, I couldn’t let anything go.  Taking bookmarks out of his books, or emptying his pockets of keys or chapstick, could capsize me.  I had no sense of what to hold and what to disown, what was essential and what was peripheral.  Everything seemed important, even clothes that Rajiv hated or never wore.  Everything he’d touched bore meaning. […]

Read more of “Things Left,” Deborah Thompson’s essay on grief and thrift stores.

   

Tags: #thrifting #thrift stores #grief #thrift shop #Deborah Thompson


 

1. goose girl
I’m chatting away merrily to his backAbout how my grandmother worked hereAs a nursemaid. Little changesOn an island. Look, a goose girlIn a floppy bonnet, charges honking.
I follow him just as I followIn her footsteps, leaving behindA fist raised like a gust of windFor the generous wingspan of an eagle,Stillness moving, gliding silence.

Read more of “Monhegan” by Peggy O’Brien.
 | 2 notes

1. goose girl

I’m chatting away merrily to his back
About how my grandmother worked here
As a nursemaid. Little changes
On an island. Look, a goose girl
In a floppy bonnet, charges honking.

I follow him just as I follow
In her footsteps, leaving behind
A fist raised like a gust of wind
For the generous wingspan of an eagle,
Stillness moving, gliding silence.

Read more of “Monhegan” by Peggy O’Brien.

   

Tags: #poetry #peggy o'brien #Monhegan #Monhegan Island #Maine


 

1.
We worry about the gifts. Unable to sleep, we think to ourselves how best to please her, what gift will be most memorable, anxiously turning over the pages of catalogues or searching the Internet—each of us in our own room, dark except for a ghostly light shed by the computer screen. Next morning 
we hurry to her house with some token or other purchased earlier, hoping to be among the first to knock at the door and, having been let inside the house by her son, to press into the old woman’s hands a porcelain thimble, a tortoise-shell comb, a bottle of the chocolate liqueur she favors—asking only that we 
be remembered by her. Not everyone visits her in the morning; some believe that to be among the last of the day’s visitors will leave a more durable impression. Few have nerve enough to forgo a visit even for a single day, especially now that she is failing, the consequences of which have been widely and fervently discussed. I side with those convinced of the worst-case scenario, but I am a habitual pessimist: one of the “doom and gloom camp,” says David, who has known me since childhood. His outlook may be sunnier than mine, but he never misses a visit to the old woman, and his gifts are generous.

Read on for more of Norman Lock’s “Forgetfulness.” 
 | 3 notes

1.

We worry about the gifts. Unable to sleep, we think to ourselves how best to please her, what gift will be most memorable, anxiously turning over the pages of catalogues or searching the Internet—each of us in our own room, dark except for a ghostly light shed by the computer screen. Next morning 
we hurry to her house with some token or other purchased earlier, hoping to be among the first to knock at the door and, having been let inside the house by her son, to press into the old woman’s hands a porcelain thimble, a tortoise-shell comb, a bottle of the chocolate liqueur she favors—asking only that we 
be remembered by her. Not everyone visits her in the morning; some believe that to be among the last of the day’s visitors will leave a more durable impression. Few have nerve enough to forgo a visit even for a single day, especially now that she is failing, the consequences of which have been widely and fervently discussed. I side with those convinced of the worst-case scenario, but I am a habitual pessimist: one of the “doom and gloom camp,” says David, who has known me since childhood. His outlook may be sunnier than mine, but he never misses a visit to the old woman, and his gifts are generous.

Read on for more of Norman Lock’s “Forgetfulness.” 

   

Tags: #Norman Lock #fiction #short fiction #forgetfulness #David Moore


 
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thecommonmag:

Kate McLean uses “sensory ethnography” to create purely visual sensory maps that match the odors and their movement to the urban geography. Learn more here.

   


 

The jagged, red confetti
Of glass from my father’s head
After he’d crashed the Rambler
Station wagon coming back
Drunk one night from a party,
My brother and I screaming
As the tree fast-forwarded
Into the crazy TV
Of the windshield while he
Dove over us at impact,
Patted like a rain shower
Starting up, drop by drop by
Drop on the grim tabletop
Of the Samaritan’s house,
Bloodied gauze, and the sirens
Winding intently toward us
Like a vine of pungent sound,
[…]

Read more of Daniel Tobin’s poem “Rambler.”
 | 1 note

The jagged, red confetti

Of glass from my father’s head

After he’d crashed the Rambler

Station wagon coming back

Drunk one night from a party,

My brother and I screaming

As the tree fast-forwarded

Into the crazy TV

Of the windshield while he

Dove over us at impact,

Patted like a rain shower

Starting up, drop by drop by

Drop on the grim tabletop

Of the Samaritan’s house,

Bloodied gauze, and the sirens

Winding intently toward us

Like a vine of pungent sound,

[…]

Read more of Daniel Tobin’s poem “Rambler.”

   

Tags: #poetry #Rambler #poem #Daniel Tobin #car accident


 

The first pest to make itself known in the orchard was the stinkbug, malevolent and focused. It worked at the sap in the fruit, sucking the water from the flesh, leaving behind gnarls and distortions—catfacing, Mona heard it called, though the injured peaches she plucked from her 
trees’ branches looked nothing like a cat’s face, but more a woman’s, withered by sun.
“I’m going to try traps,” Mona told Vert. He was visiting again.
“They won’t work,” he said. Traps never worked. He’d seen his old boss go that route against his advice, and the results had been poor.
But Mona hung the sticky boxes in the cradles and forks of the trees’ branches, anyway. She followed elaborate, poorly written directions for homemade ground traps that she set in the open rows, ugly yellow pyramids topped with plastic jars, baited with scent.

Read more of “Maygold” by Virginia Reeves.
 | 0 notes

The first pest to make itself known in the orchard was the stinkbug, malevolent and focused. It worked at the sap in the fruit, sucking the water from the flesh, leaving behind gnarls and distortions—catfacing, Mona heard it called, though the injured peaches she plucked from her 
trees’ branches looked nothing like a cat’s face, but more a woman’s, withered by sun.

“I’m going to try traps,” Mona told Vert. He was visiting again.

“They won’t work,” he said. Traps never worked. He’d seen his old boss go that route against his advice, and the results had been poor.

But Mona hung the sticky boxes in the cradles and forks of the trees’ branches, anyway. She followed elaborate, poorly written directions for homemade ground traps that she set in the open rows, ugly yellow pyramids topped with plastic jars, baited with scent.

Read more of “Maygold” by Virginia Reeves.

   

Tags: #Virginia Reeves #ficiton #short fiction #gardening #pest control