The butterflies hang still like discarded paper bags. But then the wind shifts. The bags open and out pop a thousand orange wings. They are out of reach. When you get home, back where tule fog lingers, where the only ocean is the tousle of dried corn, you want to recreate that moment. You drape scarves from your rooftop. Wait for the perfect unfurling. You look up for hours. Your neck is sore. Your scarves are thick with fog. And then: a single butterfly, orange and translucent, perches on your windowsill. No pops, no pizzazz; wings brush glass. You unfurl.
writer. editor. doodler. er.
Writings in the Raw
Julia Halprin Jackson
writer. editor. doodler. er.
I write.
I doodle.
I'm at work on my first book, a collection of linked short stories that follows a community of expatriates living on the southern coast of Spain.
I care about stuff. Like curing type 1 diabetes. And marriage equality. And rights for immigrants. And public radio. And espanol. And Frank O'Hara and Jennifer Egan and Federico Garcia Lorca and Tony Kushner. You know, cool stuff.
I make postcards that are also stories.
Sometimes I read stories and poems out loud.
Sometimes I go to conferences.
You can find my short stories, essays, poems and flash fictio in a variety of places in print and online. If you Google really hard, you might find the two short radio pieces I produced on a badass NPR affiliate in San Francisco.
This is where you can go to find out who I am.