Posts Tagged: anxiety
All of us, at some point over the last six months, have wished in one way or another that we could be anesthetized. That we could chemically numb the parts of our brains that flare out with anxiety every time our phones (those luminous portals of dread) vibrate with a news alert....more
Tei Shi is Valerie Teicher—born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, raised between Bogota, Colombia, and Vancouver, Canada, she now lives in New York after graduating from Boston’s Berklee College of Music. Her new album, Crawl Space, out now from Downtown Records, is her coming-of-age diary transposed into music....more
Men will not protect you anymore. At Jezebel, Madeleine Davies advises that “now is a time for fury and force.”
Mark Binelli looks into life on the border town of Nogales for Guernica.
Here at The Rumpus, Matthew Clair writes about how we must do more than simply gaze upon suffering; actions speak louder than images....more
I’d stand in my doorway and watch lightning break in the thunderheads at the base of the mountain: threads of electricity flashing through the sky in the distance—instantaneous and then gone. Can I get an Instagram of this? I would wonder.
Some books take such a mammoth effort to produce that it’s hard to want to be critical of them. Rolling Blackouts is one of those books. The nearly 300 pages of delicately crafted, watercolored panels make evident that Sarah Glidden is a workhorse of a talent....more
What would you give to be happy, fun, anxiety-free? Would you give your soul? This is the question Deirdre Coyle asks in her story “Fun Person,” up at Hobart this week. The story opens with the narrator vomiting on the sidewalk outside of a bar, but not for the obvious reasons one might vomit in such a location....more
At Catapult, Rachel Vorona Cote takes readers down a path of struggle that far too many writers walk, but aren’t always able to talk about or understand. In “Black Books and Letting the Ink Dry,” Vorona Cote looks at the “paradox of the blank book”:
The paradox of the blank book is this: It invites our most intimate scribbles while its creamy, pristine pages cast doubt upon the merit of our words.