by Katharine Kaufman | May 21, 2019 | today
Sometimes I am sitting in a chair with my mouth open, and someone I barely know is yanking at my tooth. Sometimes I move freely about the kitchen, watching almond milk move in small heaps and bubbles. I cut lilacs from the neighbor’s yard. I tell a small group...
by Katharine Kaufman | Apr 25, 2019 | today
When I was in high school, I went to an outdoor concert in Concord, Mass that lasted all night. It’s so crowded I can’t get in to the porta-potties so I pee under a pine tree about a foot from someone’s blanket. The scene is all free feeling, music, boys. I wander...
by Katharine Kaufman | Apr 10, 2019 | today
The Yoga Workshop is closing. Thirty years old. Elizabeth invites a bunch of us to practice one last sun-salutation, Surya Namaskar. I keep thinking about it, but don’t write back. Cindy writes: “I wouldn’t know what to do.” I spent all the 1990’s there, well into...
by Katharine Kaufman | Apr 10, 2019 | today
Some people move money around. Others launder their money. I move laundry around. I hang my wet clothes on the line remember them a little later and its already snowing a few inches. I go out, shake them off, bring clothes in, open closet doors an inch, toss a sheet...
by Katharine Kaufman | Feb 17, 2019 | today
Today the frost clings on all the branches equally like how fire clings to a log. ~ I sit here in the studio. I miss Gay, my dear friend. She’s in Berkley still, and we’ve been out of touch. We met at University of Colorado as choreography students. Our lockers were...
