Read the stories by Terence Clarke, all of which take place in New York City and will be part of a collection titled Autumn in New York, which is in progress. "I didn't realize how much I loved New York until I began writing about the place," Clarke says. "I was the oddity there when I lived there, a Californian making his way in Manhattan, and I wanted to tell people what that was like. As a character says in one of the stories, 'The only thing that's the same in New York City is the color of the money. Otherwise, Pal, it's a foreign country.’”
I arrived at the Grand Canyon yesterday afternoon. Alone. Just me and my car and my guitar and computer and paint and canvases and Oscar and Kea my stuffed creatures. And here's the thing. As I pulled up to the entrance and the Ranger leaned in toward the car to ask for my permit, I choked up, unable to say a word. Finally, I said, I'm your artist in residence. Only I said it real quiet because it seemed like something I ought to whisper—I'm your artist in residence, you have invited me here to write. I have left my family behind and traveled 1400 miles and now I am here. I am finally here.
I splurged one year and called the heating/cooling place in the spring to hook up my swamp cooler.
As a moderate do-it-yourselfer raised by extreme do-it-yourselfers, there’s usually nothing I can’t do as long as I have access to the internet and enough time (measured in days and weeks, mind you), but—since I hadn’t disconnected the water line or covered it up the previous fall—I figured the swamper was going to be quite a mess. Plus, I hadn’t quite forgotten the spectacular situation from the summer before, when I had burned myself shuffling on my bum across the roof, only to realize—once I had gotten to the swamper—that in order to get back to the ladder, I would also be burning myself on the way back. Once on the ground again, I ran into the house—dripping with the swamp cooler water I’d splashed myself with to ease the journey back—and sat for as long as I could on a Ziploc bag full of ice.
So I decided to let the experts take care of it.
The guy they sent was a wisp of a man—short, thin, and quite old—and getting out his ladder things looked really unfair, as in “Of all the darned careers he could have picked, why this one?”
This work is intended to celebrate our dependence on and support for each other, give thanks to our teachers, guides and mentors while reminding us to “look back and give back” to help forge successes from generation to generation.
In Israela, the lives of three women are interwoven with the story of their country. Ratiba, an Israeli journalist, turns her back on her heritage to marry an Israeli Arab. Her sister Orit, an actor, lives alone and longs for her lost sister. Elisheva is a nurse who dedicates her life to the wounded and the dying. As their lives unfold, the three women face choices they would never have envisioned.
Israela is a story of a life-loving people torn apart by the Middle East conflict. It is about Arabs who save Jews from disaster and Jews who heal Arabs, a story of a family fragmented and desperately searching for the right path.
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