“No, it wouldn’t make much of a difference.” Gray wooly couch. Hilda’s rug she brought from home. Her giant slippers that looked like upside down bowls. Time was a construct. Cuts were a construct. Takes were just paint, and we…

(Note: I'm using this morning writing to work on various characters for my novel in progress.) Rain pattered on the roof of the Prius. One of those cold spring rains that still have the bite of winter in them. I…

Literal skins barely seem substantial enough to hold anything. But what's inside metaphorical skin? History, culture, background, memory, interpretation and misinterpretation. A couple weeks ago, my niece and her longtime boyfriend got married. Like any wedding, this one had its…

Because I can't talk of my heavy feelings from attending the hearing last week where the man who hit and killed my father was led from courtroom to jail, I want to tell you about the mom standing at the…

The danger. The danger of falling, of injury, of being in pain. Especially when you're old. The danger of walking the city streets with its uneven sidewalks. On Friday, walking by myself, I tripped on an uneven sidewalk and fell.…

Lydia Boorstein Marshall Gold crossed her severely varicose veined legs and bemoaned their paleness, especially in contrast to the vivid white and lime green striped mini-dress she was wearing. The one accommodation she had made to turning 70 was to…

I can feel the white pleather chair stick to the back of my thighs as I write. Somehow, even as the temperature drops and the hair on my legs begins to rise, the back of my thighs still sticks to…

We are in bed, exposed to the musty air in this cheap hotel room because we can’t bear the sting of the stiff, overbleached sheets. He’s propped up against the flimsy headboard. Something about his position defines every one of…

There was a song once – maybe the 1940’s?—whose lyrics were “I’ve got you under my skin.” When I was a small child in the 40’s, my dad’s brother owned a sort of diner that had a jukebox. My dad,…

All the heat in Los Angeles was sinking into the ground, and the air was turning cruel, cold. No matter how hot the first week of November feels, from the loss of light and not of leaves, that’s how you…