The Bull Calf
Nature is cruel yet tender
Stagnant cow patties and stale urine are the alternatives to honoring a mother’s decision
Life and death in the scent of spoiled milk
There’s a film of dried milk crusted across the backs of my hands, down my forearms and the tops of my thighs, sun dried and getting sweeter as it sits. It’s similar to the way grass smells when it’s been drawn out by the hot summer sun, but richer. “Let Him Fly” by Patty Griffin is moving through my earphones with such resonance, but our sweet bull calf didn’t make it. I feel defeated, sitting here wafting in the familiar scent of bottled milk and powdered electrolytes, which I spent my morning feeding him in desperation. The smell now reminds me of death, of loss.
At lunch, my partner Grant and I sit quietly. The weight of what we’d just witnessed is heavy in our bodies. Feet up on the picnic table, we’re tired, spent. This work is hard. In all my emotions, I also sense peace. I share this, as we look out over the pasture just beyond our stoop, where the grass is growing drier with each passing …
Belle & Sebastian’s Boaty Weekender
Shoegazer Titanic sets sail to Sardinia
Twee Scots hold out promise for late bloomers
People are interesting, even if they need to be glued back together
There’s a woman in Sweden I think about sometimes. We’ve never met, but I’ve seen enough of her to know how brave she is. Her star turn happens halfway through Ten Meter Tower, a short documentary that features one or two people at a time standing on a diving-board platform that’s ten meters high, or almost 33 feet, trying to talk themselves, or one another, into jumping off. She’s blonde, fit, and the eldest of the bunch by far. Like many others that day who were part of the Gothenburg swimming-hall experiment — “a portrait of humans in doubt,” according to the directors — she’s up there alone, surrounded by a handful of cameras and microphones capturing the slightest of reactions and reflexes. Bent over, hands clasped over knees, she does some breathwork before stepping forward, all the way to the edge, meaning she’ll now receive the roughly $30 participation prize no matter what follows. Then she …
Friday Night Smackdown in Puerto Rico
Hyped-up Ricans Pop for Bad Bunny
Real life is fake, wrestling is real
‘Wooo! Wooo! Wooo!’
I’m a middle-aged man on a plane heading to San Juan, Puerto Rico to watch professional wrestling. Many failures have led me to my aisle seat across from the toilet. I failed as a baseball player after a decent run. I was what they call a 5 o’clock hitter, which means that I looked great during batting practice before the game; at 7, when the lights came on and the crowd streamed in, I struggled. After the bat let me down, I decided to pick up the pen. A guy whose first language was Spanish and who’d spent most of his life hanging out with jock savages wanted to be the next Philip Roth. A total fool, I was. I am. A foolish failure who persevered a bit, wrote some decent stories, and got into the top creative writing program in the country, except the novel didn’t sell. I’d struck out yet again.
Why am I writing in the third person? It must be something failures do. Which is how I decided to become a …
