It is a vanity project and a writing closet, a treasure chest for news, views and reviews.
More prosaically, it provides a store house for my writing. Some of it is quirky – poems, sayings and asides. There are movie and book reviews, profiles and other articles from my past and present sojourn as a journalist. Plus my new book — The Dream Machine: A Novel of Future Past!
A thrilling, highly imaginative and tautly written journey back in time to find “the tool to unrule” a post-American fascism.
“Brilliant,” says National Book Award winner and MacArthur Genius Fellow Charles Johnson of “The Dream Machine: A Novel of Future Past.”
“A great tale, brilliantly told,” says violist and international recording artist Roger Chase. “There are surprises on every page, and the end, which comes only too soon, is a coda of marvelous drama, invention and imagination.”
Tamale and tamale and tamale
Creep through my innards like plaster dust
Greasy fajitas and quesadillas
To the last rutted inch of my shrieking guts;
It surges forward – where? – unto eternity I swear.
Thus forsweareth I from ever eating
More chips and salsa
Mole enchilada
I keep repeating:
It is a menu I know so well – Taqueria Diarrhea
Daisy was the grandmother of my African American mentee. Aside from 11 children of her own, she raised him – plus his two sisters and three cousins – for ten years, from the time he was 9. She was fiercely protective of their safety and devoted to their well-being. She was a lovely person and a beautiful human being. She said:
When I was young I’d say I’ll have time to do this or do that. I’ll have plenty of time. But you don’t have plenty of time. When you’re old you can’t do it anymore. Now I tell my grandkids, there’s no tomorrow. Get your education and enjoy life. Because life is short.”
Daisy: I was born October 30, 1934, in Memphis, Tennessee. Daisy Bryant was my maiden name. I was the oldest of nine children. I came here [to Evanston, Illinois] to live with my father and my aunt when I was 13. I’ve been here ever since. I’m 77 now.
Me: Why did you move?
Bennie knocked on Pattie’s door.
No answer.
“Hey, Pattie, you there?”
No answer.
“Come on, I know you’re in there. Your mom said so.”
Silence. He knocked again, louder, three bangs, a little brave and brazen, he knew, but he was a boy on a mission. The door rattled on its hinges.
“Pattie! Talk to me!”
“Yeah, what?”
“I want in. Can I come in? I’ve got the study notes,” he said, patting two folded-up pages stuck in his pocket.
No answer.
“Pattie come on. You know I’ll be nice.”
Bach and Beethoven are twin towering peaks, and which is the taller depends, on any given day, only on how our emotional clouds are blowing.
By Lonia Kirshenbaum Mosak
As told to Lester Jacobson
This book is dedicated to my family, who have made this long journey worthwhile, so they should know what it was like.
It’s impossible to explain, and impossible to describe, what happened there. There’s not enough ink and paper in this world to describe it. It was hell on earth.”
Introduction
My name is Lonia Kirshenbaum Mosak. I was born in 1922 in the small eastern Polish town of Nowy Dwor. A year later, my family moved to Ciechanow, a medieval Polish city 65 kilometers north.
“It’s impossible to explain, and impossible to describe, what happened there. There’s not enough ink and paper in this world to describe it. It was hell on earth.”
NorthShore Weekend, Sept. 12, 2014 How hard can it be to build a violin? After all, it’s just a wooden box with some strings attached.
How odd that we apprehend the universe through a neuron-filled cabbage atop a five-foot stalk of cartilage.
Time travel is always intriguing, but it doesn’t teach us much about ourselves. We’d learn a great deal more if we could propel a few cave people to the present.
Lerner Newspapers, 1976 This was the second of a three-part article profiling instrument makers in the Chicago area. The other two were violin maker Franz Kinberg and