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Sy Safransky's Notebook

March 2003

Middle age has been awkward, like adolescence, something to get through. Like a teenager walking out the door for the first time with his father’s car keys, I’m learning what it’s like to be old.

By Sy Safransky March 2003
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories


I am a bath mystic. You can also be one. Read this and decide if bath mysticism intrigues you.

By Sparrow August 2002
Sy Safransky's Notebook

April 2002

I’m a year older than President Bush. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t seem like much of a father figure to me. Or maybe he’s as much of a father figure as this foolish nation deserves. Nearly everyone is behind him now.

By Sy Safransky April 2002
Readers Write


A brilliant, shimmering, whirling ring of light; time with loved ones; soft words of encouragement

By Our Readers March 2002
Sy Safransky's Notebook

March 2002

Is it possible to live each day knowing that everything will go wrong — that everything is falling apart right now — yet remembering, too, that this in no way denies the living truth, the love at the heart of existence?

By Sy Safransky March 2002
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Blind Angels

Pittsburgh, at the end of another terribly hot day in an unending string of terribly hot days, is a forge, the air like damp, tepid gauze. The people on the streets look stretched, desperate, short-tempered. My poetry reading, part of the eighteen-day Bloomfield Sacred Arts Festival, is being held in the Bloomfield Art Works, a small, un-air-conditioned gallery on Liberty Avenue. Its walls are covered with “sacred” art, mostly paintings, photographs, and drawings of angels. The subjects possess that characteristic ethereal androgyny, that feathery beauty that has become cliché. They are intriguing, but, in the main, I’m tired of angels.

By Joseph Bathanti December 2001
Readers Write


Serial killer Richard Speck, a free spot-weld, an Oreo cookie

By Our Readers December 2001