tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62887422012-02-16T02:27:01.473-08:00Things I couldn't make up, and wouldn't, if I could have. (Others, I'm just happy to report.) You can email me at Minokemeg@aol.comGailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.comBlogger181100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-3231189868850958742010-10-18T06:29:00.000-07:002010-10-18T06:32:52.771-07:00

If I were a fashion designer, the clothes would be all about what's on the inside. Beautiful silk linings. Colorful finishes on the seams. Wild patterns on the inside of the collar, the placket. Brocade interiors showing when you rolled up the shirt or trouser cuffs.Then the ads could all be about getting undressed. Unbuttoning, wriggling out of the pants. The ads would be as much fun as the

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-11463212600652471142009-03-16T12:55:00.001-07:002009-03-17T08:08:02.262-07:00

THE TELEMARKETER'S POINT OF VIEWI like it best when we work at the two phones in the lunch alcove, just Hank and me. It's crowded, rubbing up against the fax machine, the copier and the lunch table. But there's a huge window with this dramatic western panorama. We see thunderstorms; we see sunsets. We might be lowly phoners, but we've got a better view than most CEO's.Our office faces the Cook

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-9412412124103211702008-12-04T18:49:00.000-08:002008-12-04T19:16:10.002-08:00

MEMORY ALMOST FULLI've always been a terrible judge of character. I can't even remember the first time I may have spoken to Barack Obama. Yet today I was flipping through the bulky old Rolodex I saved from my last job (before I had a blackberry) and I came across his name. It was printed in my hand (mostly caps) and in the blue ink that I prefer. I had his phone number, and his fax. His name was

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-65658438858083522082008-05-14T12:01:00.001-07:002008-05-14T14:35:15.282-07:00

First thing today, a bird fell out of the sky at my feet. I was walking north on Dearborn Street and a pretty feathered olive green thing dropped to the sidewalk in front of me, its white legs askew. It was not as dramatic as having a cougar cross my path, as one crossed my assistant’s a few weeks back, but birds don’t fall before me every day, either.I stared at it a moment—baffled at what to

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-22841162723428203742008-05-06T14:46:00.000-07:002008-05-12T11:33:03.779-07:00

This week, Susan Henderson asks LITPARK devotees about what's in their drawers or pockets. In my pocket was an email, with the address of the Israeli consulate, and this is why:If you’ve ever been to Israel, one of the first things you saw when you landed was a larger-than-life bronze bust of David Ben-Gurion sculpted by my Aunt. Dorothy Wolf. It greeted me when I visited at 17. My son and his

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-55981733980780328412007-11-27T10:24:00.000-08:002007-11-27T10:57:57.174-08:00

There aren’t so many ways to die before time would take you. There are accidents, diseases, natural disasters and violence.But there are too many variants of each. A friend’s sister who lost her footing on a mountain-top in Mexico. Cancer in its endless incarnations. Hurricanes in the south and tsunamis in the south Pacific.As for violence, our species wastes too much creativity on ways to kill.

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-24406418768561417822007-08-17T07:26:00.001-07:002007-08-17T08:25:19.409-07:00

LIAM RECTORRest in PeaceBEST FRIENDLiam RectorYou sailed downFrom ProvincetownAnd I was to meet youIn Key West. I’d neverSailed. I dressedIn my best and flewDown from Manhattan,Where I had been feelingPunishing failureAnd reading Hart Crane.I brought a robeI intended to wearWhen I jumped offOur boat mid-sea. I neverTold you that,Old friend, and IApologize now.What if I had left you mid-oceanTo

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-31345356572212193302007-07-18T10:43:00.000-07:002007-08-14T07:37:43.467-07:00

GEOMETRYI am at the vertex. The endpoint. That is, the intersection of the angle.Or perhaps I should call it the startpoint, since the two "rays" emanating in splayed directions are of my flesh. My son and daughter both left Evanston yesterday, to different compass points, both literal and figurative.One traveled east, one northwest, so the hypotenuse of this triangle (were it not obtuse) would

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-50477327724040211402007-07-17T14:25:00.000-07:002007-07-17T14:49:36.178-07:00

INTERSECTING NAMES, PARALLEL LIVES,(or a shout-out to my gails...)Dear Gail and Gail and Gail, etc:Like you, my name is Gail Siegel.I happen to be a writer, and every once in a while I google my name to make sure that a story has been published, or to see who is linking to my work. Inevitably, I run across one or another of you other Gail Siegels out there. I get your emails, inviting me to a

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-22106896148826494462007-04-10T06:56:00.000-07:002007-04-17T12:48:44.099-07:00

ON THE LAST DAY OF CREATION AT THE BLUE MOUNTAIN CENTER“Which of these characters is you?” That’s what a critic or a reader—anyone who is likely not a writer him or herself—might ask the author of a piece of fiction. On occasion, one character is the writer’s voice. But my guess is that most fiction writers who are not writing veiled autobiography would answer like me: they all are.I think about

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1150083591405232072006-06-11T20:21:00.000-07:002007-04-17T13:28:15.906-07:00

HOOKEDIt’s Sunday at the grocery store, and I’m dancing the usual jig at the checkout, stepping up to the shortest or quickest line. The religious Jews are out in force, having postponed marketing until after their Sabbath. There are eight lines open, and a wait at each. I shuffle from one ‘any size order, any payment’ queue to another, gauging the size of the purchase, and the cashier’s

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1149022732330253392006-05-30T13:58:00.000-07:002007-04-20T15:55:54.412-07:00

GRIEVINGKathy has told me this story before. This time, we are in a car, driving into Charleston, South Carolina. The five old college roommates, leaving Kiawah Island at the end of a long weekend. Squeezing every last minute of intimacy out of the trip.She leans forward from the back seat so Julie, who is driving, can hear. Julie is no stranger to tragedy, awaiting her pre-teen daughter’s heart

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1148263880715288392006-05-21T19:09:00.000-07:002006-05-21T19:11:20.726-07:00

WITHOUT EVAJust weeks ago, Eva died. I always liked her, but didn’t know her well. I learned the personal details of her life incidentally and accidentally, at neighborhood gatherings.Four years back, when her Dalmatian Prince was still alive, she threw a birthday party in her yard for the deaf old dog, complete with paper hats and cake. She invited both people and pets, but I didn’t dare bring

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1135869490226494162005-12-29T07:17:00.000-08:002006-05-03T09:31:58.170-07:00

MARSHALL FIELD'S OTHER WINDOWSMarshall Field’s, the Chicago department store about to lose its name to Macy’s, has long been known for its windows. Each year, the ground floor display windows fill with elaborate winter scenes: leaping nutcrackers, Santas and elves, princes, skaters and ballroom dancers. They glitter, shine and mesmerize shoppers on pilgrimages from Decatur to Indianapolis.This is

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1132505576347026322005-11-20T08:52:00.000-08:002006-01-14T04:51:50.656-08:00

STANLEY ELKIN'S MAGICMom and Dad and Dianne Schramm are in a car with Stanley Elkin around 71st Street on the south side of Chicago. It's a busy area back in the 1940’s. While someone is in a store, Stanley decides to try to hypnotize Dianne. He moves his finger back and forth, and she follows it with her eyes. She goes under. It's the first time he's successful with hypnosis.Okay, he says. Now I

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1100884147698083462004-11-19T09:07:00.000-08:002004-11-19T09:09:07.700-08:00

THE MEETING The department secretary chews on her cheek. The warehouse manager leans into her elbow on the table, chin resting in hand, and digs her nails into her face. The deputy clerk squeezes his mouth with his fingers, smoothes down the hair on the back of his hand. The purchasing director is biting her lip, touching her painted face with enameled fingertips, picking stray polish off

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1089384352904882932004-07-09T07:37:00.000-07:002004-07-09T07:45:52.906-07:00

DREAD Dread. It's become ubiquitous. Although tomorrow is my birthday, it's not dread of getting older. Rather, dread of pain, of loss, of suffering, of random attack, of war. Dread is overriding, the modern American posture. An attitude. Dread takes off, takes over, pursues from behind. Dread stalks, like the mugger waiting in the shadows, the terrorist on the train platform with a bomb in

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6288742.post-1089084705953996062004-07-05T20:26:00.000-07:002007-02-24T06:00:04.573-08:00

THE RICK MOODY ARGUMENT It's the fourth of July and I'm driving Harvey's car to the movie theater to pick up Meredith and her friends Rachel and Hannah. Meredith's idea is to do a little driving before the fireworks. She's got her permit; she's fifteen. I can be a nice mom, so I tell her yes. Then, while I'm cruising south on Dodge, I hear the word boys drift out of the radio and my internal

Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16437142157050435950noreply@blogger.com0