A lovely short story.
Craigslist: that scourge of the newspaper industry, that den of lust, that middleman responsible for an untold number of bedbug crises.
Or, Craigslist: the Internet’s simplest and most ingenious disruptor, a digital equivalent of the neighborhood telephone pole papered from sidewalk to eye line with “HELP WANTED” and “GARAGE SALE: TODAY!” fliers.
How about, Craigslist: accidental publisher of short fiction?
On Tuesday evening, “Missed Connection” appeared as a personal listing on Brooklyn’s corner of the website. It begins like most of these confessions do:
I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.
I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. Continue reading “”
I would kiss her on the lips and she would perk up and say ?Ah, a real kiss?. Chotomami (little aunt) had always been special. Luise Morawetz-Rafique (1.1.1929 – 9.7.2013) was the only white person in our family, and we were naturally curious. My mama (mother?s brother) had many foreign friends, and I would occasionally be taken to the Dhaka Club, an old colonial club that I now avoid on principle. As a child, going to the swimming pool, having marshmallows and seeing naked white men changing in front of us, were all things that led to endless conversations amongst the rest of the kids. Chotomama and mami had two daughters Laila and Laeka and a son Akbar. We were all close in age, but Akbar and I, boys, mischievous and with boundless energy, were the closest of pals. We were also constantly fighting. The two girls were the heartthrobs of all the older boys, and I by being a close cousin and thus a stepping stone, got special treatment from the boys. They were fun days.
Continue reading “Chotomami: The last kiss”
Watch this short video till the end. It’s quite special.
Marina Abramovic and Ulay lived an intense love story for five years in the 70s, performing art out of the van they lived in. When they felt the relationship had run its course, they decided to walk the Great Wall of China, each from one end, meeting for one last big hug in the middle and never seeing each other again. at her 2010 MoMa retrospective Marina performed ‘The Artist Is Present’ as part of the show, a minute of silence with each stranger who sat in front of her. Ulay arrived without her knowing it and this is what happened.
Um minuto de sil?ncio
“Nos anos 70, Marina Abramovic viveu uma intensa hist?ria de amor com Ulay. Durante 5 anos viveram num furg?o realizando todo tipo de performances. Quando sentiram que a rela??o j? n?o valia aos dois, decidiram percorrer a Grande Muralha da China; cada um come?ou a caminhar de um lado, para se encontrarem no meio, dar um ?ltimo grande abra?o um no outro, e nunca mais se ver.
23 anos depois, em 2010, quando Marina j? era uma artista consagrada, o MoMa de Nova Iorque dedicou uma retrospectiva a sua obra. Nessa retrospectiva, Marina compartilhava um minuto de sil?ncio com cada estranho que sentasse a sua frente. Ulay chegou sem que ela soubesse e… Foi assim.”
Because she does not entirely trust the scruffy young charmer, Ruth brings along her friend Gerta Pohorylle, a petite redhead with a winning smile and a confident manner. So begins the most iconic relationship in the history of photography, and an intertwined and complex story of radical politics, bohemianism and bravery that, in the intervening years, has taken on the shadings of a modern myth. Continue reading “Robert Capa and Gerda Taro: love in a time of war”
Our first date was the last day of his life
When we met online, it was as if we’d known each other forever. Then came the tragedy I’ll never forget
A photo of Yves.
I woke up when Yves thrust himself off the mattress. “My head is killing me,” he said. “I’m going to take some more Tylenol.”
I heard him open the cabinet door, turn on the water as if pouring himself a drink. Then a loud bang startled me from bed.
Yves slumped on the floor, his back against the wall, his side against the bathtub. Tylenol was scattered on the tiles.
“Help me stand up,” he said. But when I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him toward me, we both fell forward, my back hitting the vanity as I struggled to cushion him from the fall. His eyes fluttered. He was clearly in pain.
“I think we should call a doctor,” I said.
“No, no,” he said. “I just need to get back to bed. Give me a minute.” Then he closed his eyes.
“Yves,” I said. No response.
I sat beside him, stroking his back, letting him know that he was not alone, while we waited for the ambulance. I had only met Yves in person that day. But it felt like we had known each other for a lifetime.
I’m not sure what made me get in touch with Yves when I saw him on Salon personals. How can we untangle the mysterious calculus that is attraction? I liked how he playfully listed the languages he spoke as “French, English, and Body Language.” I liked the description of the woman he was seeking: “sensualist a must. a self-confident goddess too. a mermaid is also welcomed.”
I’m sure other women looked at his profile and thought “nope.” But I read it and saw a kindred spirit. He lived in Montreal, and I could tell from the way he wrote that he was Quebecois. I liked the idea of the two of us communicating in two languages. “This online dating thing is well ? difficult,” he e-mailed me early on. “And I’m a bit ‘clutsty’ at it.”
It was the “clutsty” that clenched my heart.
Continue reading “Our first date was the last day of his life”