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Novels by Mary Marcus
New on the Blog
Elegy On An Old Mac
I bought a new computer today; the day 45 announced he wasn’t going to sign the Paris accord. I don’t think I would have purchased it today, had I known beforehand about this stunningly vicious announcement—though why should I or anybody else be surprised? My husband wrote the White House in upper case: a la 45: BIG MISTAKE. YOU WERE WRONG. And signed his name. Used to be when you wrote the White House, the WH wrote back. So far, no note from them. Again am I surprised? No. My old Mac was eleven years old. It, my dog and I weighed 135.5 pounds. My new Mac, that I hope to keep just as long, weighs quite a bit less. The three of us weigh in at 129.5. I’m often crossing the country with Henry, the computer and his food, the later two in a backpack, so the new sleek seemingly weightless Mac will be a big improvement. My shoulders are already heaving a sigh of relief. I wrote several books on my old computer, thousands of emails, participated in many Skype sessions, shopped for all sorts of things on line, did yoga, learned how to cut and paste, in short all the vitals of my little life happened on it. In fact, I started this very blog on my old computer. Why is so much of my life contained within this sleek silvery box? Similarly why is so much of my life contained within the less sleek oblong that is my phone? I got along very well in life, I think before either one of them were in...Little Dog Lost
Henry got away from me today at a local nursery. One minute I was holding his leash, the next, he had slipped out of my hand and was zipping gleefully through the trees in the back lot, a little speck of white among the evergreens. I knew from past experience the last thing you want to do when something like that happens is start chasing. Henry knows the protocol at the beach. He runs off, he chases birds, but at the beach he comes back. At the beach there aren’t trucks and cars going in and out. At the beach there’s usually a pack of dogs he’s running with. Here at this strange nursery where none of us had ever been, he was in all new territory. Even though my husband is the only one who can make Henry come when called, I knew it was fruitless when he started shouting, “Hen-ry! Get over here, right now!” “Henry! Hen-ree….” It was a dank cold day, and a drizzle was coming down. The huge evergreens were rich and fragrant, and Henry was getting lost among them, peeing on one, sniffing another. I stood on the edge of this seeming primordial forest. Each tree must be worth tens of thousands. I saw white, I saw his little brown head. Then I didn’t see him at all. “Here Henry!” I called out as nonchalantly– as sweetly– as possible. I squatted down to ground level. Pretty soon, my little dog appeared in front of the trees and inched closer. I continued to squat, blessing my yoga practice, holding out my arms. From behind...Phantom Mother-In-Law
An olfactory hallucination (phantosmia) makes you detect smells that aren’t really present in your environment. The odors detected in phantosmia vary from person to person and may be foul or pleasant. They can occur in one or both nostrils. The phantom smell may seem to always be present or it may come and go. Phantosmia may occur after a head injury or upper respiratory infection. It can also be caused by temporal lobe seizures, inflamed sinuses, brain tumors and Parkinson’s disease. My mother in law whom my son named Nia is haunting our house in Springs, the shabby arty part of East Hampton. I can smell her. A good many of the Abstract Expressionists came to Springs: Pollock, deKooning, , to name two. They all hung out, my husband remembers being taken to de Kooning’s studio when he was little. The paintings didn’t really interest him—he had enough of that boring shit at home—he liked the painter’s restaurant stove where the he cooked himself lunch every day. We wouldn’t of course have this house but for her and the fact that she bought land in Springs when it was cheap and gave my husband land to build a house. And the handy, crafts manly person that he is, built himself a house. They had their house. He had his house. The thick oak tree woods make the places invisible to each other in the summer. The first time I came here, and he and I were eating lunch outside, I saw this pixie person walking across the woods with a basket. “Whose that?” I asked. My husband looked...
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