Following the death of a second husband: “The moment you write, you don't kill yourself." Hélène Cixous French literary critic and feminist writer, Hélène Cixous, says that literature is nothing if it is not violent. By vigorously deconstructing and dismantling loyalty to this idea and that idea, we can learn to see truth buried within... Continue Reading →
2002. I stood waiting in line at a bagel shop in Rhode Island. My kids were about 3 and 5 years old. The person who was preparing food behind the counter kept touching her nose, scrunching her hair and rubbing her eyes. She was not wearing gloves. Freaked out about germs, I couldn't bring myself... Continue Reading →
I take note of what lives here: evergreen, burdock, grass, ramp, fox, fisher, mink, raspberry, woodchuck, black bear, maple tree, coyote, butterfly, bat, rabbit, deer, birch, chipmunk, red squirrel, grey squirrel, mouse, bobcat, dog, goldfinch, bluebird, robin, hawk, owl, jay, hummingbird, bee. My husband has lived on this land for twenty years. I've lived here... Continue Reading →
I work very hard at collapsing delusions when I write. This isn't easy. The French philosopher, Catherine Malabou, talks about how a "cut in one's biography" forces a person to alter his/her perceptions of self. I've written a lot about this in literary terms, but on a personal level, to face these cuts and alterations... Continue Reading →
For Jay RossierApril 7, 1961-May 6, 2012 I’ve been trying to develop my personal sense of sovereignty during this shelter-in-place time as structures fall and people suffer. While addressing my own accountability each day, I’m also trying to keep a sense of humor (strictly for sanity’s sake). Brad and I have started transforming our space... Continue Reading →
The sun doesn't rise up in the morning and set in the evening here. It moves sideways across the sky, hovering close to the horizon throughout the day. It keeps you teetering between wakefulness and sleep. Dreamtime. It's how I feel in my body these days, half-awake, half-asleep, hovering like the sun, moving sideways instead... Continue Reading →
I was invited to be a writer-in-residence at NES in Skagaströnd, Iceland for the month. So right now I'm living at the base of the mountain, Spákonufell. It's stunning. How I got here: I took an overnight flight from Boston, landed in Reykjavík at 6AM and stayed put for two nights, acclimating to (and reveling... Continue Reading →
I've been at my friend's this summer in Providence, working on a research grant. Working, working, working--and then this....... Yesterday morning, my friend, A., had a little stack of NY Times on the kitchen table with a pink heart made of construction paper she'd cut out and put on top. Coffee was brewing and lemon... Continue Reading →
I see a mom with an infant strapped to her front and a toddler in her cart at Whole Foods. She's talking to the toddler about what she'll make for dinner and explaining the importance of eating organic. I smile. That was me 20 years ago. I was a mother with an infant and a... Continue Reading →
"Out of a deep cut, opened in a biography, a new being comes into the world," writes French philosopher, Catherine Malabou, in the book I am currently devouring, The Ontology of the Accident: An Essay on Destructive Plasticity. When my world crumbled six years ago, I began rebuilding almost immediately. I thought it was a... Continue Reading →
Kelley McKenna 