"If you’ve got a nice bunch of mess halls and horse stables with lots of nice, juicy fleas, why not fucking make use of them, right?"
“So I lined up, and when I got to the little table, I told them that I wasn't going to go.” He chuckles, shrugs, smiles his little smile. “I told them …
In the tan armchair beneath the bright front window, I ask: “And then?” “And then?” “And then?”
"Much of my childhood was spent interpreting the art on the walls of our home. So to look at it now with him, to ask him what they mean to him, is mean…
"Don’t we chafe against the smooth stucco, the clean roofs, the vibrant bushes, the deep, belly-breathing safety this place provides for us, the quiet,…
"Half the week he was away, and busy: a thick-armed immigrant with a product to sell. The other half, he was home, and he was present."
"It wasn’t a sense of duty. It was a gravitational pull — there was no other place I could have been; anywhere else would have felt like dislocation."
"I watch my father, in the wide, cushioned armchair, next to the mobile computer station. As it is happening, I’m already thinking: this is it — this i…
"I remember it, that egg, with the vividness of today’s breakfast. The guilt, the frustration, the release. The cold texture of bland egg white in my m…
"For most of my life, it's all I knew of that time, the last chapter of my father’s boyhood."
"Was it from that point that I began to hold the idea of 'being an artist' above all other pursuits and passions?"
"I lifted off with the incredibly odd thought that by the time I landed my father could be all better or dead."