Risa mickenberg biography books

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Please remember it can take some time for your bank or credit card company to process and post the refund too. Login 0. GST included. Shipping calculated at checkout. Very Good. The internets and social media was swirling with politics and acrimony and I thought this book was the perfect opportunity to do something else. So every day I posted one page of Taxi Driver Wisdom.

It created some interesting dialogue and comments. I typed the text exactly as it appeared. I think this preservation of voice is part of the charm of this book. Each page of wisdom is paired with a black and white photo sometimes related to the wisdom, and sometimes related to taxi cabs and their movements in a big city. I am glad I got this book and shared it with all.

For me, the best wisdoms from this book: "Vietnam War is finished but Sixth Avenue construction is never finished. That is why you wrong your hands. Some really good quotes in here, some not so good, some were made extremely clever by the subtitle heading -- doesn't take long to get through, but I'm not sure I'm much wiser from reading the book.

I feel like I'd get wiser by riding in a cab with one of these guys and just talking. Decent coffee table book. Author 6 books followers. A couple funny quotes. Mostly made my laugh because it brought my own memories of NYC cab drivers. Wouldn't go out of my way to find it - but it's like a coffee table book, you'll flip through it in a few minutes.

Cute despite the odd padded cover. Is it supposed to be like a taxi seat? Author 16 books 34 followers. The wisdom of Taxi drivers. No sure why. What's next? The Wisdom of Bartenders. Taxi drivers have some of the most interesting pearls of wisdom. I had to blog this book. Joseph F. Some wise, some maybe not so wise, sayings collected from cabbies.

I like the visceral, off-the-cuff feel of many of them. Some nice photographs to go with them. Very New York! Lifetimes of experience that you absorb in 10 minutes. Seems kinda wrong, but it's beautiful. It's true. John Acuna. Philosophy, through lens of NYC taxi drivers. Join the discussion. Can't find what you're looking for? Help center. The atomic weight of anything, the awesomeness of our insignificance.

That I knew none of that didn't seem to matter to him in the salad days, back in Providence, in the beginning. Back at our rental home, I put away the groceries. My contributions to our marriage: my folded garbage bags, our vacuumed carpet, cleanliness of our sheets, the cleanliness of our temporary housing house, they're my in-his-face sacrifice.

He can't eat and sleep without feeling it: the blatant, wasted human potential of me. My husband's on a quest for extraterrestrial knowledge and I'm on a quest for attention. Both make you feel small, but his insignificance seems to suit him. He's never been happier. More radiant. More distant. I hate it. Sometimes I Google map other places at night- view the Street View of places we could have lived instead if he hadn't "lucked out" by being here: Berkeley.

Even New Haven. By day, I paint screen grabs from my laptop while he sleeps. Gouaches on paper of my computer desktops: cluttered and text-heavy with too many open windows of ugly web pages and photo landscapes of other places and cheap, colorful icons against a NASA screen saver. The sunsets here are spectacular in terms of their disappointment: he wakes up and gets in the shower to get ready for work and his mind is already elsewhere.

The local Socorro weekly rag tries to paint the town as having a "thriving art and music scene. Before we moved here, I thought I might partake, but early on, I found myself grossed out by the long-haired jam sessions and gallery openings with their inevitable sagebrush landscapes. I long for the civilized world of the artificial. I've developed a bitter taste for Milky Ways.

At night, while the real thing emits radio waves for his viewing pleasure, I bite my fun-sized version of it, hard from the freezer, and never enough. He either doesn't notice I'm getting fat or he doesn't say. Measurements are his thing, so he ought to know, if he were paying attention. Maybe I'm testing him. Maybe marriage is just a test.

Nearby, the government tests explosives. They blow up vans for first responders. They make pipe bombs and explode fertilizer. We are a hundred miles from where they did the Trinity test. People celebrate chemicals in their town names here. Visit scenic Vanadium, New Mexico. Pack a lunch and explore what's left of Old Chloride. Watch missile trails in the sky.

Risa mickenberg biography books

Predator drones fly overhead at night, looking for border jumpers and drug smugglers, not finding enough to justify the cost but, in Congress, they're so popular, local Republicans say you could elect a drone president. I sometimes watch my husband when he sleeps during the day. His back: that expanse that I love and hate, simultaneously.

Shades down, sheets kicked off, his body sometimes twitching like a dog's, dreaming of chasing black holes and white dwarves, I imagine, and I feel him pulling away from me and I think about how it's all a mystery. I am not a down-to-earth person, but he makes me one. He doesn't mean to, I know. It's a big world but it's a bigger solar system, a bigger galaxy, a bigger universe.

And it's lonely as shit when you think about it; when you're in a space where that's all you have time to do. I've read that Einstein had theories first and proved them later. Loneliness either makes you intuitive or superstitious. I hate that I read my husband's horoscopes. I hate that he probably doesn't even know my sign. Pre-Copernicus, astronomy, and astrology were the same thing.

Then astronomy was proven measurable, and astrology became just an unproven belief: that the stars have some effect on mundane matters of the heart. Even if astrology can't prove it, I'm here to tell you that they do. I find myself believing in signs. Spouses of astronomers are no fun at parties. We're all bright; you'd think we'd connect, but we never do.

While they discuss the "previously unimaginable smallness" of the planets orbiting Formalhaut, we eat hummus and talk about television. Other peoples' kids tug at other peoples' sleeves, wanting to go home. I tug at his. I am a distraction to the ecstasy of understanding. I cook meat and watch him bang out the door and I am left with the Tonight Show.

It sucks to try to make a life in the outposts of great observatories, in the middle of nowhere, among nuclear testing sites and mineral mines and the darkness of army bases. Sometimes, when he comes home, he tries to tell me what he's seen. He's ecstatic. I can't possibly react the way I should. I know how impossible it must be to come home, after what he's sees every night, to little old me.

At least he tries. There are these once-in-a-lifetime occurrences; that's part of what he's looking for. I respect the hell, and the heaven, or the heavens, out of it. However you'd say it. I respect his powers of observation. So when he comes home this time, and I wake at the sound of the screened door, and, for the first time in a long time, he pulls me off the sofa and down onto the carpet that I keep meaning to steam clean and he shows me he still has imagination and longing and that I'm somehow involved, I understand that I matter.

We try to connect, not just collide. We keep our eyes open. I feel him trying to take me somewhere, trying to meet me somewhere beyond space and time, where only we could go, where no one else and nothing else could interfere. Where we were part of everything and all that jazz. He still had it in him to try to take me there, god bless him.

I try to put my petty, domestic resentments on the back burner, but sex is still the place for us where I am unable to make myself less than understood. It's clear: there is something bigger out there for him. Something that doesn't try to bring him down and spend time wishing he would think about things as mundane as sour sponges in the sink, or us, or T.

Like the planets orbiting his precious Formalhaut, I was smaller than I could have previously imagined. I was ashamed and properly insignificant. I don't know why I wanted to be the brightest star in someone's sky. He came outside me. He knew I wanted him to. We were never going to reproduce. It was never his thing. In the daylight of the bathroom, under the powerless shower, I knew it was over.

I knew, and I knew he knew, and it was fine, and I knew that he knew that too. On earth, there's no lonelier life than to be an astronomer's wife. That much wasn't beyond his comprehension. A boy with purple lips stared. He was wearing a fake coonskin cap and eating a popsicle. She followed them. It bowed and rattled. The boy looked over the fence.

The boy picked up a stick. She nodded. She agreed. Sadness settled in her like cement. She sucked the popsicle. The boy sat and put a handful of spaghetti in his mouth. The aunt poured herself a cup of wine. She could still taste the popsicle. The kids went into the house. He nodded. The children laughed. Death Wish II. But I did just what the rest of them did.