Home, solitude, happiness

By Melinda Gallo When I first arrived in Florence for a three-month stay, my meaning of home shifted. One day I was walking around the city to get myself situated and ducked inside the Orsanmichele church. Initially, I didn’t know it was a church because of its rectangular shape and rather inconspicuous entrance. I made my way to the front …

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The Old Boots

The thing about mess is that it derails the already derailed mind. Mess gets everywhere, copulates with space and expands like a Bavarian’s stomach. Tidiness is concision, the opposite but mess, it has wings made of shit, and it has grand aspirations, to run like riverluts into every nook and cranny, leaving you ravaged. My place was an armpit because …

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Writing in the cemetery

Sitting in an old cemetery writing… A few days ago I received a beautiful present: the keys to an old cemetery to come and write in silence. After only two hours here, my fingers are flying madly on the keyboard and already finished a week’s worth of work. But there is more to it. The silence. There is a special …

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Just a writer in a square…

I woke up this morning with a buzzing in my ears. It was constant, like a baby’s cry that won’t quiet down until you are ready to commit to his needs and understand his plead. So here I am, a few hours later, sitting in a square on a sidewalk, writing. The buzzing stopped. The square is pleased. My fingers start dancing …

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The Ladder

By Mundy Walsh I was in Ireland last month helping my parents fix the flat roof of their shed. It was a cloudy day and I could see a field of corn behind the tall Beech hedge which separates us from our nearest neighbors—and their clothes line of souvenir tea-towels. We had to lift a section of the roof and repair some of …

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Love, Creativity, Human

By Marisa Garreffa Many years ago, a friend sat me down. “Marisa, if you woke up tomorrow and couldn’t make theatre anymore, do you realise that people would still love you?” No. I did not know that, or believe it. How could I? Theatre was the only thing I loved about myself. Every other part I struggled with – the …

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Doors that open, doors that close

By Lori Hetherington I’ve never been much of a movie buff. Don’t get me wrong: I like movies but I can never remember the title or the plot, not to mention the names of the actors. However, there is a film I saw on television once in the late 1990s that I have never forgotten. In that film, the protagonist, named …

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Playwright, compassion, the world

Com-Solum By Amy Sarno A 36 year old African-American woman with braids. She sits in an office chair, tipping backwards. She’s chewing gum. In the background, there’s the sound of women’s voices. It sounds as though a woman with a strong Spanish accent is speaking very quickly sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes it might be a made-up combination …

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I refuse to belong and yet…

I refuse to belong. I refuse to belong in a world that doesn’t want to belong. I refuse to accept and advocate for any group no matter how good their intentions are. I refuse to separate human beings based on colour, religion, culture, or sexual preferences. I refuse to be a part of any of this and yet I keep …

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The Human Behind The Artist… final touches

Last week I turned on the recorder one last time for The Human Behind The Artist  project. All throughout the interview I was overwhelmed by mixed feelings and as I turned the recorder off I knew that the project is complete, that this was the final interview; I could almost hear a whisper telling me that it felt ready to be released into …

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