tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-93534882026-04-07T16:19:21.419-04:00The life of a parent, and pervert, in New York City.Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.comBlogger1205125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-25067962878805417522018-07-18T13:05:00.000-04:002019-04-17T15:56:19.657-04:00

Leah was my secret. I didn’t talk about her, or blog about her, or invite her to meet my friends at my orgies. We saw each other regularly, and I liked that it was just between us. We drank bourbon, we talked about smart things, we had brilliant sex. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged a word from me about any of it. She seemed just as content with our discretion. In public, my bite marks were

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-29042932346990186902018-06-26T13:54:00.000-04:002019-04-17T14:28:22.196-04:00

My parents once attended a business function featuring a surprise guest entertainer. As the event progressed, the lights dimmed. An announcer intoned a lengthy build-up over drum rolls before concluding: “Ladies and gentlemen, the hardest working man in show business . . . James Brown!” A spotlight revealed the dancing entrance of the Godfather of Soul. The astonished crowd stood and

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-76776762671218024432018-05-07T20:51:00.003-04:002018-05-07T20:51:55.731-04:00

Here’s a dream from last night:  My wife Kate and I are at a comedy show at a small bar venue. We’re seated separately. She’s opposite the stage. I’m under a platform tech nest. I wave at her and she smiles back. I indicate that I’ve brought a French press of coffee if she’d care for some. She takes a cup and returns to her seat. I continue to watch the show, though my view is obscured

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-57124402576117002018-04-27T19:51:00.004-04:002018-05-07T20:52:26.656-04:00

Don't Andy Warhol look natural? New York, New York. April 26, 2018.

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-77557596277830260502018-04-17T19:54:00.000-04:002018-04-25T19:55:06.404-04:00

Here’s a dream from last night: I’m a child in a gang of feral children. We’re running around inside an old Art Deco department store after hours. There’s a show going on in an attached theater; I think that’s where the adults are situated. With them preoccupied, we have the run of the place, but only so long as they aren’t aware.  I find a Christmas display area where many children

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-88450239265553874412018-04-14T13:05:00.000-04:002018-04-18T13:09:57.849-04:00

Visiting the home of Emily Dickinson. Amherst, Massachusetts. April 14, 2018. At the conclusion of an hour-long tour, the guide asked if anyone had any last questions.  A young woman asked, "Wasn't Emily Dickinson a lesbian?" The tour went well over time. 

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-11879191185303620432018-04-07T19:11:00.000-04:002018-04-10T19:11:37.364-04:00

Under Mapplethorpe's eyes. Gladstone Gallery, New York, New York.  April 7, 2018.

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-42329928603304972102018-04-03T18:12:00.000-04:002018-04-03T18:15:00.626-04:00

Shirley Jackson is best known for writing “The Lottery,” a short story published in The New Yorker in 1948. It would become one of the century's best-known short stories, while its author otherwise slipped into relative literary obscurity. Ruth Franklin’s A Rather Haunted Life is a salutary corrective to her legacy, returning her to the canon of critically and commercially successful

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-52094345181973362052018-03-26T14:47:00.000-04:002018-03-29T14:47:56.051-04:00

Here’s a dream from last night.  A disused porch is reduced to a passage from the kitchen at the rear of the house to the yard; we rarely play there any more. There’s not much of the house that I’ve ever known, just the kitchen, though I know it well. My brother G is excited for a party at the house tonight. The party is soon and I’m anxious. I can see that no preparations have been

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-17741586137186512352018-03-24T19:07:00.000-04:002018-04-10T19:12:00.688-04:00

March For Our Lives, New York, New York. Outside the Dakota,  where John Lennon was gunned down. March 24, 2018. 

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-88511287682159168702018-03-16T17:14:00.000-04:002018-03-20T17:16:18.143-04:00

Here’s a dream from last night. I’ve acquired an antique glass terrarium of sorts, octagonal with multi-faceted panes, about the size of a large platter. At some point it was fitted as a diorama, with dinosaurs fixed in one corner and, opposite, suspended from the top, two figures and a small dog. I understand the narrative to be that the dinosaurs were going to attack but these godlike

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-48117001119146775122018-02-22T13:01:00.002-05:002018-02-27T17:20:21.939-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. I’m attending a reception for a graduate seminar on Roman Polanski. I’m with Polish cinema students in a casual backyard setting, setting up a long table and chairs as more attendees arrive. I’m nude. I don’t belong to the group and didn’t attend the seminar, but I’m allowed here. I have a leather-bound legal pad, a pen and my phone, which are nearly identical

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-18440990981071575342018-02-20T16:49:00.000-05:002018-02-20T16:49:31.716-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. I’m aware that I need to have a dream. I think I can fake it with materials I have in my car, including a brochure for a nudist camp. I can use it to create a fictional person. I’ll say I had a dream about him, but he refused to do anything. He’ll be this inactive person, doing nothing. I imagine he’ll have dark curly hair and be about forty years old. But

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-78629278506292079642018-02-11T18:19:00.000-05:002018-02-13T18:20:04.190-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. There are two islands at the intersection of the East and Harlem rivers. One is small with a pleasant house and a few acres. The other is larger, with a small community. I recognize the area as a map, from above, before disembarking on the second island. There is a buzz of activity as locals visit shops. Commerce is based on a kind of merit system in which

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-88368690099511387112018-02-06T15:33:00.000-05:002018-02-07T15:46:31.908-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. I share a dorm room with three other guys, one of whom is my brother. It’s a small, narrow room with bunk beds, cluttered with stuff and trash. I think of cleaning the room, but in fact, I’m comfortable. It feels easy to live in a squalor we all appreciate. One of my roommates has tied an older man against a wall. The man is stripped to his underwear and

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-38412641688731249302018-01-30T15:37:00.000-05:002018-02-07T15:38:58.872-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. I’m in a warren of bookcases, piles of books, audio equipment, records, tapes, etc., in a private archive of words and sounds. I’m busy tidying things. It’s all very orderly, if eccentrically so. A young woman is looking through records disinterestedly. I pull our a heavy plastic record, shaped like a soft-edged triangle, and place it on a turntable. I’m not

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-52958281229420406232018-01-05T17:21:00.000-05:002018-01-05T17:34:59.521-05:00

As you may know, I’m seeing a therapist. By which I mean, I live with one.  (This joke never gets old, if you ask me. Don’t ask her.) She recently recommended that I read The Body Keeps theScore: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D. The book is satisfying for its historic breadth. Trauma was a subject of interest after World War I, with the

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-29523853568684162742017-12-30T15:44:00.000-05:002018-02-07T15:49:05.307-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. Charlie and I temporarily live in a small apartment on the third floor, just above the tree line, with windows on three walls. We look over an open patio/hallway on the second level below, lined with bookcases and desks, exposed to the elements. It’s unclear to me if this is a private office or a public area, as it opens onto the street. Charlie is away for

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-53973740966966416332017-12-26T15:51:00.000-05:002018-02-07T15:52:02.311-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. My brother and I share a small cabin on our family’s compound. We each have a twin bed. I keep my nightstand in front of the cabin, near a picnic table. I’m preparing for school, which is nearly over. I collect odds and ends from the top of my nightstand, all junk left there by others. This is a regular morning task and inconvenience. I return to dressing,

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-48627950348679240252017-12-25T13:24:00.000-05:002017-12-28T13:25:26.713-05:00

Merry Christmas! New York, New York. December 24, 2017. 

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-63017366035961355842017-12-24T13:15:00.000-05:002017-12-24T15:24:15.487-05:00

This story was originally posted on December twenty-eight, two-thousand four. It is also told on Kevin Allison’s Risk! Leaving Marla at the subway, I walked quickly through a drizzle to pick up the kids. I arrived about ten minutes behind schedule. The kids were excited to see me. Lucy was there too, for an after school meeting. When she saw me, she rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. She took

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-45451137559272160222017-12-20T11:58:00.000-05:002017-12-24T15:25:15.818-05:00

In spring twenty-sixteen, I ended my relationship with a young storyteller, Luna C., after one-and-a-half years. I felt the break up was necessary to sustain stability in my life. I wanted to focus on my relationship with my primary partner as we moved beyond our first several years to a place of planning for our shared future. My girlfriend helped me to understand that I could better enjoy

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-32584527205236581562017-12-12T17:11:00.000-05:002017-12-12T17:11:38.049-05:00

New York, New York. December 12, 2017.

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-295180256662106102017-12-12T16:07:00.000-05:002018-02-07T16:08:50.604-05:00

Here’s a dream from last night. I’m with a group shopping for Christmas gifts. I’m on a budget. I want to get gifts for my kids and I can’t afford gifts for everyone who will be gathered together. I’m inspired to buy an automotive care set for Rosa Parks. She probably doesn’t have a car and I’m sure she’s dead, but it seems appropriate, if only as a memorial. It comes with a loudspeaker, so

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9353488.post-40730295959322426222017-12-11T15:25:00.001-05:002017-12-11T15:28:48.666-05:00

Fort Tryon Park, New York, New York. December 9, 2017.

Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01133275691982057440noreply@blogger.com0