The arena's full. Fireworks ejaculate off baskets as the players emerge one by one, unsnapping pants at the knees. We pay these men to play. We hope these games have meaning. When they score, we shout. When they foul, we squirm. When their opponents huddle, sweat beading their brows, we beat our chests, yell Give up--go home. If only we could sweat out our problems on some grand stage. If only we could slam dunk our tiny victories, paid bills and good health. If only our labor strikes were half as fruitful. When we win, they’ll buy our words.
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.