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Mythic Mentors

Lying in bed this morning I asked Jake, “Do you know anyone you’d call Mythic? I mean someone your own age.” “What do you mean by ‘mythic’?” he asked, putting on his belt. “Well, like Mr. Elms.” Mr. Elms was Jake’s grade 6 teacher who figures dramatically in Jake’s internal lore. “Steve Jobs.”. “No, I mean someone you actually know.” I’d just emerged from a satisfying dream that I was at the Minde’s house. As a teenager I spent a good deal of time at my boyfriend’s place. The Mindes were a remarkable family. Klaus was an exuberant psychiatrist with wiry body and wiry hair and a face that was heavily imprinted with his smile lines. Nicholas’s mother Nina was a psychologist. She spoke quietly

Damn the Torpedoes

A year and a half ago a friend says to me, “You know I think you’d really like Guanajuato.”. We were at a concert and I wrote the name of the city in the back of one of my many journals, alongside some recommended book titles and TED talks. By February I had followed his advice and was sitting on a rooftop terrace in Guanajuato, cultivating an absurd fantasy about living there with my family… as if life as an artist/writer couple weren’t enough hurdles. Wandering the maze of streets, I walk up to a middle aged gringo who is sipping a fruit smoothie with his twelve year old son. I risk bothering him and pull up a chair and ask him a million questions about his year of living in Guanajuato (GT

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