grief
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Bough Down by Karen Green
Kyle Boelte reviews Karen Green’s BOUGH DOWN today in The Rumpus Book Review.
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The Lonely Voice #25: Winter in September, On Breece D’J Pancake
Stories fail if you only read them once. You’ve got to meet a story again and again, in different moods, at different eras of your life.
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The Rumpus Interview with Justin St. Germain
When Justin was twenty, his mother was murdered by her fifth husband in their trailer, off the grid from Tombstone, Arizona. He spent the next decade trying not to be defined by his mother’s death, before deciding to face his…
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Grief Magic
“I’m like an alcoholic who doesn’t drink anything but worst case scenarios…” In the aftermath of trauma, Emily Rapp struggles to give up being “on call” for grief.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Rage
“The heart is a fist, and he taught me to make mine hard.” Laura Bogart makes her Rumpus debut, exploring the link between rage, power and grief.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: In Sickness and in Health
Years after losing her entire family, the author takes a romantic vacation in paradise and instead must confront the physical manifestations of her grief.
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Hold On to What You’ve Got
It feels like we created each other from scratch, scribbling in the details and watching ourselves take shape.
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Improvising a Bone Graft
Very gradually, this frantic activity ceased to be simply an expression of emotional distress—what the grief experts call “searching behaviour”—and started evolving into a digital, extended elegiac project.
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The Rumpus Interview with Elizabeth Scarboro and Lidia Yuknavitch
Both Yuknavitch and Scarboro, whose books echo each other in interesting ways, were willing to talk with me about this question of what to do with memoir, and much more.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Getting Made (in honor of Ronan Louis and Emily Rapp)
The Rumpus joins yoga teacher Jennifer Pastiloff in remembering Emily Rapp’s son, Ronan Louis, whose brief, remarkable life ended in the early morning hours on February 15.
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Dirty or Clean?
I felt like an arrow of sheer desire, flying through the air in a small town and emblazoned with this unfortunate tag line: “Newly single mother of a dying baby.”
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Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying
No one comes in to check on me, no one asks if I’m okay after I finally emerge, embarrassed, my eyes completely red. They all love me, but not enough to forgive what I’m about to do.