The photos are, frankly, grotesque. There’s an uncanny valley quality to them: You can tell that this man, based on the lighting and costuming, is performing. And from how thin and dark his eyes are, he must be Asian. But the skin of his eyelids is stiff and artificial. Even if you didn’t know that ...
Here’s the thing: I left home to become a writer and now all I want to write about is home.
Being an English and Literary Arts concentrator makes up about 40 percent of my personality. But as soon as classes start, I suddenly forget how to read. Very rarely do I find the time or motivation to pick up a book for leisure.
In one of my earliest memories I’m sitting on the lid of the toilet, wearing pajamas, a trash can between my feet. My mother is holding scissors as if she has just discovered what they are. She is a woman of many talents, but cutting hair is not one of them. Still, I let her try. Over and over, I ...
In the months before I first left for college, I started recording my friends. Not video, just their voices: the stories we exchanged in the car on the way to the movie theater, the way we said goodbye to each other after a day at the beach, the jokes we told at sleepovers—which we only found funny ...
Here the stars are bright and begging, like pennies at the bottom of a well. Here the trees are green, even in the heart of winter, for here the winter does not exist. Here I feel hidden, tucked away into a pocket of the night. We are so far from the city, from the lights, from the highway. It is the ...
Have you ever wondered: Would the neural connections in my prefrontal cortex have survived the 20th century completely intact? Would Freud have diagnosed me with hysteria? Is that a woman I see in the wallpaper?
I’ve seen the clip a few times now. Anya Taylor-Joy is on a press tour, promoting her movie The Menu in a BBC interview. “I have a thing about feminine rage,” she says. She kicks the air playfully as she speaks. “This is no disrespect for any writer. I get a lot of men doing really terrible ...
Your first therapist is for a speech delay. She feeds you sentences and you regurgitate them back to her. She makes you drop pennies into a mason jar. She teaches you animal sounds, fills the house with oink and moo. After a few months, she leaves, and your voice stays.
Solutions by The State News
