GLIMPSE INTO THE REAL LIFE: True Stories that Beat Fiction and Musings that Beat Poetry
An Academic Political Quarrel and its Aftermath
by Raphael Galb
November 20, 2012
Approximately six years ago, I began what ultimately became a full-fledged Internet campaign drawing attention to what I continue to regard as a social and intellectual injustice: namely, the cooperation of science museums with various members of the academic community in systematically attempting to marginalize one of the two salient theories regarding the origins of the Dead Sea Scrolls...Read All
From the ARCHIVE
By NPR Commentator Andrei Codrescu
Published: Winter, 2010
1. THE ECONOMY: We used to make things we didn't understand (Marx) and consumed by people who didn't understand, and now....Read All  
By Craig Rosen
Published: Winter, 2010
We share the same thought and sit quietly listening to her breathe. An evening breeze enters through the window and touches our skin. Cars hum distant and low like the ocean. Her loose shirt opens to my glance. His body’s on the bed, legs bent firmly together. For a second she gazes at him. Her blue eyes swim slowly across the room, searching for lost words. There are none. The breeze moves only the hairs on my arm. I look up at the ceiling and the golden glow of the light massages my eyes. I hear her say something about the bathroom, in a whisper. Her small, light shape lifts from the chair.  Soft legs brush against my knees. She leaves the room and my head clears. He doesn’t change from his position when I speak. “You think she’s thinking about it, too?”

“Of course. She has to be.”

"Why can’t we talk about it, y’know, just say-”

 “I know, man, but we can’t.” I watch her come in and sit down again. Her legs cross and bare feet wiggle slightly. I wonder about the other dorm rooms, are they as small as this? In the Village, we all live in tight spaces, crammed together inside and out. My voice is like a whisper, too. “What’s it like growing up in a small town?”

 “Sort of sheltered,” she says, hesitating to lick her think lips.

 How so?” The question comes from the pillow. I turn at the sound of her swallowing. She lifts one leg and wedges it under her other one. Little breasts move beneath her shirt. She sighs. From the corner of my eye I see him stretching, turning to lie on his back. I want her to say something. She swallows. “You get curious about a lot of things.” The hallway outside of the door is completely still. Her words hang in the air around us. He switches positions on the bed and rests his head on his hands. Dark eyes stare directly into her young face. She looks at the rug, aware of our silence. The breeze is slight, like words spoken in whispers. We have finished talking for the night. She knows that. He is lying quietly but won’t sleep until he’s alone. Our thoughts are already dreams.

Published: Fall, 2009
Very difficult week. A number of things weighing on me. Have not been sleeping well. Yesterday, I literally could not think straight. I know I am an intelligent man. But yesterday, I honestly could not process relatively simple thoughts. It was very disconcerting.
I got home from work a few minutes ago. Took the subway home. N/R train from 47th to Union Square. Exited the car onto the platform at 14th street. On the subway platform was a very old beat up piano. A man about my age sitting at the keys.
The piano was very beat up. The top was completely stripped off so you could see all the hammers and steel strings.
He started playing CLOCKS by Cold Play. I had not noticed a young woman standing at his side holding a violin.
She had been obscured by one of the iron support beams. She started playing along. I just stood there.
The stresses of the workweek, and my life, which are considerable, melted away. I felt calm for the first time all week.
Alive. Life is full of stresses, complexities, disappointments. And when we least expect it, joy.