Nonfiction
Welcome to Namibia! The battered wooden sign stood at the edge of a highway that was strewn with piles of twisted, smoking metal.
For Descartes, the pineal gland is a magical place where our souls and personality and identity shimmer in a night sky.
For a moment my sister seemed to hesitate, standing in the ghostly light of the moon, as though she were considering going back.
When they suggested one more blood test, since “maybe you’re lucky and you just have AIDS,” I knew that the absolute worst thing was for real,
by Charles Barber.
“A thousand men each year sit in the black chair next to my desk. I am a mental health worker at the Bellevue Men’s Shelter.”
“If I can’t help your mother,” Appleman said to me, “then I’ll help you build some armor against her rages.”
I labored to decipher the pidgin English until I at last understood that the King of Nepal wanted me, Dr. Itzhak Kronzon of the Bronx Municipal Hospital, to come to his royal court.
I am back with the ‘who’ of me, the self I left behind through the seasons of my years. The ultimate prize is this reconciliation with the original, unvarnished self.
There is only illness, and there is no way to make that sexy. After several years as a medical device wearer, I know.