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Albino (part one)

I began writing Albino two million years ago. I had an editor then, who lived a few blocks away. We would meet for breakfast on Avenue A, quietly forking into home fries as we discussed the structure of the story - the economy of objects. A dollar bill was not just a dollar bill in this story, it was connected to thought and action, to music and transformation. This was the story that told me there was a whole book to dig into, mining for diamonds in the backwaters of America, turning over the ugliest rocks to better understand relationships between fathers and sons.

Last week, I stumbled across a call for submissions - not for a journal, but for a podcast where the work of new writers was read aloud. I thought back to a reading I had done of just the first few pages of Albino - a messy hero's journey,  a young man and a guitar, a man with loss and regret, a man that still had something to lose. That reading went well, enough that I felt a strange elation stepping off the stage i…

every pair of shoes has a story to tell

There are Soviet-Era mailboxes on the first floor of our building. A key to any of the slots will work in the next, so there is no actual privacy. Nothing tends to be in the boxes but penny saver fliers, and the occasional water bill. They stand with slack open mouths staring back at anyone waiting for the elevator to rumble open. On top of these mailboxes, you can often find a dusty book or a broken toy. The mailboxes enjoy a second life as an unofficial lost and found, and a donation shelf. Last week I saw a pair of black stilettos there. Today, a pair of white nurse shoes. Some time ago there was a cane, leaning against the wall. It is unavoidable, the game of wondering who left them and what adventures they had. There is little else to do as you wait for the elevator to arrive. 

Every pair of shoes has a story to tell. 




On my very first trip alone in Manhattan, I was on a mission to buy a 16mm film splicer for editing class. I had been in the city countless times, but always with someone else. I managed it alone, walking down Broadway all of the way to Rafik's just below Union Square. On the way back to Grand Central, I had the idea to find some cheap lunch. Somehow I passed 42nd street and kept going north, and on 47th in the middle of the diamond district I spied a little sign hanging above a doorway. "Wise men fish here" it said, in hand letters. I walked inside, to find magnificent piles of obscure books. Here was Kawabata, and Lorca, Kerouac and Micheline. I came across a slim, weathered collection of short stories by Anaïs Nin titled Under a Glass Bell. It was mine for a few dollars. I wandered out into the glaring sun of 47th street and shuffled East somehow, and had sushi for the first time.

It was only on the train back to school that I cracked the book open, fingering the yellowed pages, breathing in that scent of dead things and the soy sauce on my fingertips. Inside the back cover, there was a tiny ink stamp. "From the library of Anaïs Nin" it read. It had been her very own copy, resting on a shelf in her apartment  - maybe the one in the West Village.

I made a point of returning to the Gotham Book Mart every time I was back in the city, spending more and more time in-between the stacks. The greats had wandered the same carpeting - Joyce, Salinger, Mailer, Miller, even Jackie O.. Some even slept here I was told. I had crushes on some of the girls that worked the counter, trying to make small talk when I traded a slip of paper with a number on it for my bag as I left each time. I imagined some day that one of my books would languish on the shelves there, my name all in caps, the title something rare and sublime.

The store closed some time ago, but I still have my copy of Under a Glass Bell. I lost so many things along the way, but this little book survived it all. Now that I publish books, I decided to make them all the exact same dimensions as this one, an odd and secret tribute to that perfect afternoon.



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