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City Lifeexpand_moreI wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London.
The wild-eyed horse was more a figure of nightmare than dream.
By the end of my trip to St. Thomas, I had discovered a reason to live.
It never occurred to me that I was being sold too, standing inside my box. Basil was annoyed. All that training he’d given me going to waste on art? I’ve been selling cigarettes, I said, as if it were a credential.
The sex in these fantasies was always a product of love.
Sarah let herself be guided by her desire, inescapable and true.
Beggars know to emerge when you’ve more than enough to give.
Bill Evans’s quiet solo was walking out on unbelievably thin ice.
Rumi advised me to keep my spirit up in the branches of a tree.
I was a darling without even trying, kerchief and dungarees.
Maybe all of it was possible. Maybe it all could work out.
We left our lives behind us as fast as the Beemer’s zero to sixty.
No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.
I grip the handlebar and pin my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable crash.
From the roof, my husband observed daily a man and a woman having sex.
It was a Tuesday, so they made love. She thought it was a fair compromise.
I’m still in love with this filthy city, but now I know Berlin's love isn’t free.
Sue Williams tells a pitch-perfect story outloud, about devotion.
We shall still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead.
You don’t feel anything when they cut you, not at first, just the blood.
“I can’t hold it any longer. I have to pee,” I finally confessed to Viola.
We looked at each other beneath a London sky, on a Zeppelin night.
In search of the life we all agree is so desirable—art, romance, freedom!
Joanna Walsh
Joanna Walsh
I have not won yet, but I behave, I feel and think like a rich man.
“Some men’re like that. They have to see what they’re missing.”
It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.
My mother’s city and I were both named after an assassinated king.
