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The Sun Magazine

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

A Book Of Games

A Course In Spiritual Play

If you believe you are alone and very small, the only place to get what you lack is from what is not you. And if what is not you refuses to cooperate, as it always does to some extent, then you find yourself at war. That is why no external struggle ever succeeds. The premise that you are separate has not been questioned. Stillness automatically questions and rejects that premise.

City/Country Miners: Some Northern California Veins

This one is different. My children are gone for the week. We are alone and in love. We scrub each other’s backs and feed each other strawberries and lie on the floor and drink wine. Gratified desire, satiety, the works. We walk out to a cafe-bar to pity the loveless world. We are so knowing and so self-satisfied, everyone is drawn to us. We are holy and they want to touch us. We don’t speak often, only to confirm each other. The shared laugh of seeing through everyone we meet; to understand is to forgive . . . we forgive everyone. And when we are alone again the gong sounds like it does in the beginning of a J. Arthur Rank film and we are drowned in each other and if it weren’t real it would make a swell movie. It’s never been anything like this except once when I took acid but the man I was with then was far away. This time he’s more me than I am and we have been here together many lifetimes before and we are drinking each other alive. This is the moment to die. Nothing can get better. Nothing does.


The Funeral

Andrew was crouching by the window, painting scarlet and navy blue lines on the box. He took care to make the lines straight and even. Nana would want it this way; she used to like things to have shape and ceremony. It was bad enough that he couldn’t keep Pigeon breathing for more than a few hours after Nana had gone; now, at least, he would do the proper thing.

Man Of Silver, Man Of Gold

The library was five long blocks away. In that East coast city, hated with multiplying resolve over years of my life, street blocks were tons of poured flat concrete, expressionless gray and black tar from lamppost to lamppost. Some blocks were more dangerous for people to walk than others, but no street was free of ethnic dangers. It was a city without human or natural landscape, other than locked apartment hells surrounded by larger hells.

Black Reaper

Buck didn’t know how old he was, that’s for sure. We guessed it to be somewhere between seventy and ninety. His head was bald, and shiny. His face was thin, and I was never sure how he could shave it with all the lines and droops and excess skin it contained.

*NOTE: Original copies of this issue are no longer available. Unbound, laser-printed copies will be provided for print orders.

Readers Write

The Music In My Life

I fell into music at age fifteen with a guitar bought at the green-stamp redemption store. I wrote painfully overstated songs of teenage love on it —

Personal Stories By Our Readers ▸


There’s nothing wrong with the world. What’s wrong is our way of looking at it.

Henry Miller,
Big Sur, and the Oranges of
Hieronymus Bosch

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