Wednesday, September 24, 2008


An old woman, muttering to herself, shuffling hurriedly across the square, her thin hair dyed an unlikely and optimistic copper, teased to recall the effortless bouffants of earlier years; aggressive lipstick ardently applied, thickly, in the region where her once plump lips beckoned, the area now an overspread thin line. Her shoes designed for orthopedic comfort following a lifetime in heels, but scuffed; her dress a proclamation in florals. As she passes by the bench, shuffling and pushing her wire shopping cart, sounds of remembered conversations slip through her lips, sent by the breeze to the ears of the rain hovering above.

From the opposite corner, the swish of rubber on cement, the click click click of exquisitely tuned gears, a chirping ding of a naive bell, zooming into the park a slightly battered Peugeot, rust spots belying the hours with a tuning fork spent adjusting the spokes. The rider forsakes a helmet, forsakes spandex, forsakes any conveniences of the modern era, cycling clockwise around the fountain, twice, calculating the direction of the wind, the angle of the sun, the probability of a rainstorm, the likelihood of an inadvertent wrong turn.

The annoying aspect of making artist's books is that after all the effort of designing and producing the textblock, it is more than a bit of a bother to care about designing the binding, the box, the publicity, et cetera.

September skies

Wednesday, September 10, 2008


So she returned the bag to the floor, and thought. Retraced the morning drive in (alone in the car) and the morning at work (unmolested in her office) and the lunchtime meeting across town; and of course if someone wanted to slip something into her bag, it would have been perfectly easy, but why leave a phone number, and not lift a thing?

Had someone next to her in line inadvertently stuffed it into the wrong satchel, in a moment of distractedness, caused perhaps by the teasing of the unknown Jessica? Was it a subtle way of forcing her hand, making her call what would be a private detective, who would reveal that she was actually adopted, or that her late husband had kept a secret second family in a crowded apartment in Queens, or that someone had found her microchipped dog down by the wharves? None of these stories was probable, although each might technically have been possible.



endless autumn mornings punctuated by the fog of things to come

Sunday, September 7, 2008

publicity at all costs

A Gallery of Readers presents

Michael S. Dow & Stephanie Gibbs

recent writings : of monsters and men

Smith College | Neilson Library Browsing Room
Sunday, September 7, 2008 | 4 p.m.

It’s a Sunday afternoon.
Summer has concluded and autumn commenced.

For the price of a short walk, bicycle ride, drive, or chartered airplane, you receive delicious food, encouraging drink, fabulous entertainment, and incomparable company.

How can you resist?
Why should you resist?

1. Of Men
2. Of Monsters

the rain it raineth every day

Thursday, September 4, 2008

on the hoof

Unfortunately, he knew this mistake might be. And the life or death might be his own. Born a screw-up, raised a screw-up, marriage a screw-up, and a screwed-up inglorious death to top it all off. Well, hell, it hadn't meant that much to him anyway, but he worried about his wife, about how she would manage the bills, if the police would look a bit too closely into things, or if they would just shrug, and tally up another death of a lout to random street violence.
Of course, it wasn't random, wouldn't be random, he wasn't dead yet, but christ almighty he wished he had learned to pay attention, and not have his attention swayed by the blonde in five inch heels and not much else across the street, and that terrible embarrassing sweaty-palmed heart-shuddering fear that caused him to jump and stare at each distant automobile sound, and the heart attack that nearly followed that annoying as fleas on a stray bitch that was a bit too eager to make new friends, and, yes, he had screwed up. Again. And this wasn't some god forsaken domestic chore that he had neglected, this was going to explode in his face.

Slumberland / Paul Beatty [exquisite]

suddenly September