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The Sun Magazine

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Shadow Dancing

Healing has an infinite variety of forms. The only way to evaluate any single method is as a positive catalyst of change. Scientists “objectively” measure healing; empiricists “can tell” if it works. But the person being healed either feels better or doesn’t. The quintessence of healing is being well.

Chapel Hill Journal

Yes it really is a battle We struggle so to trade between us energies of love I had wanted to reach out and caress your heart but with hands of stone I couldn’t do it feeling weighted down And everywhere over the globe what war and pain cries skyward fly It is not we are not willing rather so weak and dumb Had we joined forces today had we joined palm to palm strength of equality justice and mercy had we transcended our own gross qualms I spent 15 minutes today choosing what pants to put on Who was waiting for me?

Chapel Hill Journal

A dark, heavy-blue February day pulled from me a sigh of quietened relief. So much artificial gyration had had its warrant sent out. Knowing itself to be a dead man, tracked straight to certainty, the ice block of conceit dropped itself dead in its tracks. What a beautiful sight! The love beast sang its own death song from out an already anguished mouth. And yes, the penetrating tone of the morbid howl was the one that burst an airtight catacomb. Now that the catacomb be banished such that no magic-claiming map may direct one thither . . .

Dear Food

Under various sedimentary names this restaurant, located on the fringe of Eastgate off 15-501, has been popular since it first opened in 1964. Actually Mr. Mariakakis had run the Marathon in the forties and early fifties, so the production itself is a Chapel Hill folkway. It has always been a favorite eating place, not only for the excellent Greek and Italian food, but also for the dramatic value of the clientele in terms of modern theater. It is this reviewer’s educated guess that the Kwikee, as it is known among the illumanati, has the most variegated caste since independence, liberation and fraternity.

From The Honey Pot

An introductory note: I’m not a gourmet, a nutritionist, or a professional cook — just someone who’s tried to prepare food and feed people with love for about ten years. So don’t take my advice for more than homey suggestions or my recipes for Julia Child creations. I’m also a vegetarian (more about that in future columns) and a Capricorn (for those who are interested) and a well-loved wife and mother. This column is not meant to substitute for books such as Diet for a Small Planet or The Joy of Cooking, but I hope it will flavor your day with a fresh view on what we eat and what we become because of what we eat. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

Tabula Rasa

I entered John Umstead Hospital (Butner), on, or around the 13th of March, 1975.

Goodbye, Patriarchy!

It’s like the French Revolution. One by one, prominent men are wheeled out to the guillotine and dispatched. Of course, the present-day “deaths” are metaphorical. Garrison Keillor is still alive, just out of sight. But “Garrison Keillor,” the charming, folksy, self-deprecating Midwestern humorist, is dead.

Hospital Runs

On my very first hospital run I picked up this long-faced, country white guy who’d survived seven surgeries in the last five years. He looked to be late eighties, all but dead, but friendly in a half-deaf way.