Sy Safransky

American Cheese

American cheese on white bread. Dry and joyless. Wholly unsatisfying yet, as a bus station refreshment, wholly appropriate. The bread is without flavor or soul, edible foam rubber, hardly the staff of life. The cheese is mostly chemical. But we are far from the farm.

The Traveler Returns: Home, More Or Less, At Last

Going home, as if home were still a possibility, or, like those other shadowy and relative values of our age — love, honesty, rationality ­ — nothing more than a momentary echo of something past, and nearly forgotten, a smudge on the map, a torn page from the history book, when families stayed put, when the heart was forever, when politicians were statesmen, when faith was an arbiter at the edge of learning rather than a substitute for reason.

Spring

Down Home: Which Way Heaven?

Nothing But The Best

Sy’s New York Diary

Everyone in high, high heels, reaching for heaven, an eyebrow raised above the clouds, trying to see.

here

nothing special

Untitled

Astrological notation

Astrological notation, rows of numbers, and the arcane symbolism of the Tarot filled the page.

older