I got naked with a bunch of old men and tried to figure out how to wash my booty without insulting anyone, and that pretty much sums up my trip to Japan.
Everything that happened in those two weeks happened in the public bath. The furtive glances, the failed attempts to blend in, the unfamiliarity and the discovery and the bafflement and even the necessity of it all. I was in Japan for Calvin’s wedding, and I was in the Kyoto bathhouse because after three days of sweating in ninety percent humidity, lugging a thirty-five pound backpack through streets and temples and shrines, and sleeping in parks and train stations, I smelled worse than nattō.… ...continue reading
Bruce Bauman, an instructor in the CalArts MFA Writing Program, released his second novel, Broken Sleep, last year on Other Press. Chronicling both the individual struggles and tense interrelationships between several family members (via several shifting perspectives), it’s a humorous yet heartfelt saga that touches on several themes, including the search for identity, the uncertainties of religious devotion, and the quest to fulfill one’s purpose in life. In this first episode of Cover to Cover with . . . , Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum speaks with Bauman about the book, as well as the processes of writing and teaching, what it’s like having a visual artist as a spouse, the importance of music, and the 2016 election, among other things.
– Bruce Bauman… ...continue reading
The first few seconds were always the best. Before consciousness fully returned and he remembered where he was. The Caged Man couldn’t say how many times he’d awoken to see the cold black bars, water bottle and bucket. It had to be over five hundred. When he’d first arrived, he had kept a careful count. Then one morning he realised that he’d forgotten the number. It was probably better that way. Time was relative and it was heavy enough without needing to remind himself of how long he’d already been there. Sometimes it got to him, the boredom. On those days he would bang his head against the bars and scream at the dim room beyond until he felt faint and collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.… ...continue reading
I’ll come right to the point, since we have so little precious time left: I hate you with a passion. I want you dead. I can hardly forgive myself for coming here after all these years. But you’re the only remaining connection to my dead son, so here I am. On your doorstep. In the flesh. Pleased to make your acquaintance.
Flesh. Sins of the flesh. Thoughts of men coupling. I can hardly get myself around the mechanics of it.
My skin revolts. My gorge rises. My eyes go blind. This is not the purpose of a man’s body. This is not the reason I sired a son. I brought him on earth to cure cancer, to make me proud, to sire my grandsons, and because I didn’t know anything better to do and I wanted to sleep with his mother. … ...continue reading
Lin heard it takes two minutes and she counts the time in imperfections.
A chip in the paint above her single long dorm-issued bed. A tear in the cardboard cover of her college-lined notebook. A pinprick of a pimple on the inside of her pale upper thigh. The knowledge that she still hasn’t read the first three parts of Oedipus at Colonus, a discussion of which will be held in her Classics class three hours from now. Three hours. 180 minutes. 10800 seconds. 90 sets of two minutes. A lifetime of time.… ...continue reading
The woman is dying. The doctor
periodically steps from a corner
with morphine. He regrets
the absence of nurses, other treatment,
more interesting cases,
and perhaps mortality itself;
his regret presents as annoyance.
The man in a wheelchair
wants to protect the woman,
in the moments she opens her eyes,
from the room and its many sad or scary
faces. And so he
sits close to her and holds her hand and keeps
his gaze on her, though he isn’t
(as the doctor has established) a close relative.
Light comes from a range
of throwaway lamps. At least there are no buzzing,
sepulchral fluorescents. At least there’s power.
After trying all vacant chairs,
a boy sits on a stool… ...continue reading
One of the top reasons I’ve heard for why people don’t read is because they don’t have enough time; they work full-time, have a family, and/or their schedules are otherwise filled up with extracurricular activities. In an effort to guide those who have a desire to read but not the time, I’ve compiled the following list of my top eight books under 200 pages. Feel free to let me know how many you’ve read, or if you have any other suggestions!
Animal Farm
by George Orwell
This was a book I didn’t appreciate until I was older. I remember reading it in high school and thinking, What does this book about talking animals have anything to do with the government? When I read it again at age 30, I had a completely different take-away.… ...continue reading