Essay by Patricia Dubrava
She looked dismayed. Maybe she’d never seen such a reaction to one of her cures.
She looked dismayed. Maybe she’d never seen such a reaction to one of her cures.
Every time you move, you hear doors snapping shut in your brain.
The land seemed tortured, as if the vegetation had been slashed and burned.
On November 20, 2011, I became the first person in my family to walk Brzeziny’s slanting, potholed streets in nearly seventy years.
The sky was aster blue, and the burnt, bare trees looked like punji sticks shooting up from the crest of the ridge.
In Singapore, sweating has become a lifestyle option.
My photographs just occasionally turned around and bit me on the bum.
Time was a blur to me then, and Paris, in all its postcard perfection, was a watery smear of cafes, croissants, and cabs.
For over a decade, I have sought Cuba, and, finally, I’m about to land in Havana.
Buildings and other objects carry the words and thoughts of those who made them and those who lived in, used, or otherwise interacted with them.