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Death
Wind
That damned wind! It did whatever it liked. It caressed your hair, your legs, your shoulders, your breasts. I hated it, Kristin! I wanted to kill it.
August 1989Sheltr For Sad Ould Men
The old man had walked a long way, from afar, and he was not well. He wiped his forehead and raised his head. Around him were sand, thistles, and strangely — where did it come from? — a house.
August 1989Blue Shoes
We sat in the sun, me naked and soaking it up, Lorenne in long sleeves and with a straw hat keeping all ultra-violet rays from her sensitive face. She pointed at my bushy crotch and said, “You lose all the hair down there, you know. You look like a little girl again.”
August 1989Living With The Dying
An Interview With Frank Ostaseski
We try to curtail “helper’s disease” as best we can. It seems to be rampant in our society: there’s a problem out there, I must do something about it, I have to go help. We’re not necessarily motivated by the best intentions. Sometimes we act out of our fear or guilt instead of a real desire to serve.
August 1989Love Stories
A waterfall of words, an undergraduate literary magazine, untranslatable Olde English phrases
August 1989Man Made
Take note, Father, for I have sinned, for relentlessly thinking of his warm body while hers lies cold. For looking beyond this day and this tree-lined cemetery and expecting nothing. For feeling just the aching cold and ill-fitting shoes. For wanting to see his face and know the truth.
May 1989Sunbeams
April 1989For religion, the idea of God is at the beginning; for science, the idea of God is at the end. Only those who think by halves become atheists; those who go deep with their thoughts and see the marvelous relationships among universal laws recognize a creative power.
Celebrating The Charnel Ground
Notes On Death And Meditation
In Tibetan Buddhist liturgy, a reminder of death is chanted before each session of religious practice: “The whole world and its inhabitants are impermanent; in particular, the life of beings is like a bubble; death comes without warning; this body will be a corpse.”
March 1989Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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