So, I was sitting in my car this morning because I needed to move it for the street sweeper, and my phone rang with a number that I didn’t recognize. I think I’m like most people and I don’t answer calls to numbers I don’t know. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message and I’ll call them back. But this morning, the number kept calling me, and didn’t leave a message. I mean, I’m pretty sure it was a spam/bot call and no big deal, yet there is still part of me that gets a little rush of anxiety when a call keeps calling. Like, if they keep calling it must be important. It has to be important if they called three times. This must be the most important call, because they called three times from Miami! But didn’t leave a message. That’s why I don’t answer.
I stayed up and watched the Cowboys play the Eagles. Actually, I watched until the weather delay, and at that point I called it. I was hoping that the Cowboys would win, but I wasn’t totally surprised that they lost. At the breakfast table this morning, the kid had questions about who won the game, which I found rather surprising. Normally, she doesn’t care about the Cowboys or football in general, but she was rather curious about the game, and if I watched it all. Then she wanted to know if I thought the Cowboys would win the Super Bowl, which I told her no, and that the team would be lucky to be above .500 this year. Then she wanted to know if I as going to watch all of their games, which I am. She was confused by this, and wanted to know why I was going to watch them if I thought they were going to lose. Because that’s want a fan of a team does; you suffer along with the team, and hope for next year. I really hoped that there was some important life lesson there that I was passing along, about loyalty, and commitment. But what I she made me feel was that I was about to waste a lot of time over the next couple of Sundays.
Boy, it is not a joke. The day after Labor Day, New York City fills back up with people. Twenty years I have been here, and I keep thinking that this maxim isn’t true. And every year I am amazed how on Labor Day, no one is around, and then the next day, people are everywhere. I really should know better.
Today at school, the kid could wear a sports team jersey if she so desired. Being that she is in middle school, and the school has sports teams, sports are now a bigger part of her academic experience. Funny thing is that the kid doesn’t own any team jerseys. She asked me if I had a jersey that she could borrow for today, and sadly, I also don’t own any team jerseys. What I do own happens to be a Dallas Cowboys (Let me get to that in a bit), and a Tottenham Hotspur t-shirts. I was hesistant to give her the Cowboy shirt because clearly, the Cowboys aren’t a well respected team here in New York City. So that left the Tottenham shirt, which I offered to her. She declined the shirt, stating that the people who know who Tottenham is will only end up making fun of her, and it wasn’t worth it to her. I tried to explain that Frank is taking the team in a new direction, but the kid wouldn’t hear it.
(Best if you read this part in a very thick Texas accent, which I have after drink several Shiner Bocks and getting all rilled up.) I jus’ wanna say this to Mr. Jerry Jones, which is that I think he is bein’ a damn fool when it comes to Micah Parsons. Now, Mr. Parsons is a franchise super star caliber player, a type of player who can change the momentum of a game, and if the Dallas Cowboys have any intention of reclaimin’ a Super Bow’ – they need Mr Parsons. To that end, Mr. Jones should’a paid Mr. Parsons what he wanted. Now, this whole idea that Mr. Jones is puttin’ out there that, this is all part of some “master plan to win a championship” is what is known in the civilized world as a damn lie! Y’ain’t foolin’ anyone Jerry! You gone and screwed up the team again! What is this, like our 30th rebuilding year?!?! Could you possibly get the cart outta the way of the horse for a change so we might have a chance of just winning the Division? Good lord man! You takin’ years off my life…
I’m pulling out my sweaters and sweatshirts. Might have to wash my flannel shirts this week. I know it’s 78 degrees today, I don’t care. I want Autumn
(The short story “Project” by Rachel Cusk appeared in the September 1st & 8th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)
Photo illustration by Stephen Doyle
I am a big fan of Rachel Cusk; have been for some time now. There are a great number of reasons why I enjoy her work, and when I read anything by her, such as “Project” in this week’s New Yorker, my fandom evolves into admiration, and even a little jealously. I am not jealous of her talent as a writer, envious might be the better word for that, but when I read her work, I wish I was the type of writer that had time. Cusk’s fictional version of herself, though narrator might be a fairer description, possess the greatest gift of all; time. Time to observe and contemplate.
In “Project,” the narrator contemplates how who we are gets created. This contemplation leads to a path that bends and turns and takes us to people in the narrator’s life. First we meet M, a movie star and model. The narrator is thinking of writing M’s autobiography, which M’s response is to “…just make it up.” In this first section of the story, the narrator intertwines her interactions with M, while also speaking of a book she is reading by a woman who details the horrid abuse she suffered at the hands of her stepfather. It is a strange comparison, if not a juxtaposition. In Cusk’s assured hands, we see how these woman took their situations, fought back and went forth to create better versions of themselves, yet both spoke of a moment where their childhoods were lost… But even as I try to describe this, I am not doing this story justice. The story moves on the narrator’s partner, and his bout with an aliment and the need to a brief stay in a hospital. Then there are questions of the time we have and how we share it. Why we live the way we live and where we live…. See, not doing this justice.
This story falls into my favorite Cusk style of writing – It just flows. Maybe this type of writing is like stream-of-consciousness-lite. These thoughts and ideas have depth and weight to them, but they don’t get tangled up in minutia and tangents. All of these disparate ideas roll across the page, with observations of the life the narrator lives, but also how some of these truth and universal; Or at least there is a hope that they are. This is a story seems to be celebrating the existential gift of being able to create our self, and chose how to live out that creation. And to do all of this, to have a life that can be observed, we need time for reflection.
And through all of it, the ins and outs of this story, Cusk has a wonderful melancholic final paragraph. Not so much an observation, or a contemplation, but a memory of raising her children; when trust was tangible and innocent. That taking the time, to remember and re-experience, is a continuous step in the project of self creation.
I had a humanities teacher in high school who explained existentialism to my class this way; “We are all free to make choices in our life. Nothing is determined. You can choose to be whoever you want. Being able to choose doesn’t always mean you will be happier.” At least that’s the notes I took in my first journal way back in 1995. I went back to this journal after I finished reading Miriam Toews’ story “Something Has Come to Light,” because not only did the story make me think about choices I’ve made, but also about living with those choices.
To sum this story up, perhaps a bit too simply: A grandmother has written a note/story for her grandchildren about a moment in her life where she should have said yes, but said no to the neighbor boy, Roland. Some years later the boy moves away, but dies, and his parents bury an urn that contain his ashes on their property. Sometime even later, after the parents on the neighboring property pass away and their land is to be sold, the grandmother sneaks onto the property at night, digs up the urn, and reburies it on her property. Every day, the grandmother has passed by the buried urn, and tells Roland she should have said yes. The letter/story ends with the grandmother asking the grandchild to dig up the urn and return it to Roland’s surviving sister, or if that’s too much to ask, leave him, and continue to tell him that grandma made a mistake and should have said yes.
I loved this story. And I loved how this story snuck up on me, how it placed itself in my head, and kept poking at me, telling me to enjoy it more. The language here is simple and to the point, which is what you would expect from a woman that has lived a simple but contented life. The way it was written reminded me of how the Midwestern women in my family spoke – there was a plainness to it, but that didn’t mean that the words didn’t have nuance and revelatory meaning to them. The grandmother is a woman who doesn’t complain, but also is tough and doesn’t put up with much either, yet will never be rude about it.
The story really is about Roland, and the affect he had on her life. Though the two of them weren’t close, according to the grandmother, you can tell that she had a deep appreciation for him. Roland was different from the other people in town. His great sin appears to be that he sat on the front row at concerts, had a gift for the piano as demonstrated with a concert he put on in town and which the grandmother saved a poster from. Then one day Roland rode up to the grandmother and asked if she wanted a ride, which she answered no. A decision she would regret as Roland moved away to England. The town never forgave him for leaving, and I sense that the grandmother never spoke up or out in Roland’s defense, but she lived with that regret. A regret that would possess her to the point that not only did she need to apologize to Roland for the rest of her life, but also to possess Roland for the remainder of her life.
What I find captivating about this story is that it isn’t necessarily a romantic bond between the grandmother and Roland. Though I think there is a tinge about, like a frosting, but it’s not the driving motivation. What I believe the story is telling me is that the grandmother is mourning the exact moment where her life could have gone in a different direction. That she could have been, or done, something different. But, and this is most important, she does not regret her life. I say this because the start of the story, the grandmother explains that she keeps all the pictures of her grandchildren in a photo album next to her bed; how she looks at them, most nights. This is the act of a woman appreciating the life she lived, and what her and her husband created in this world.
What I find Miriam Toews is asking me with “Something Has Come to Light” is can it be possible to love the life you led, but also mourn the moment when it could have gone in a different direction? Can you love a person who could have been your agent of change, while also not wanting to change? Can a paradox like this exist in a contented person?
Perhaps. Perhaps the grandmother never wanted to let go of that chance encounter, to say she was sorry to the one person who wasn’t like anyone else she ever knew. Ultimately, the grandmother made her choice, and she learned to live with it, and with regret at the same time.
I was hungry all day yesterday. And I mean all day; morning to night, and then again this morning when I woke up. I remember that back in my twenties this would happen to me often enough to name this affliction – A Ravenous Day. On these days, no matter how much I ate, or how often I ate, I would never feel full or satiated. Yesterday was A Ravenous Day, and I did my best to handle this situation in the healthiest way possible, but fruits and veg wouldn’t cut it. I tried salty, but that wouldn’t end it. I tried sweet, but that seemed to make everything worse. I even tried cold pizza at 2am. Nothing worked. I stayed hydrated, and out of the heat, as if that had something do with it. I am bottomless pit.
I really love cooking for my family. Even with the kid at camp, and it’s just me and the wife, I want to cook for her. I tried Thai fried rice and spring rolls the other night. I had never done it before, and I thought I should try. The rice turned out well, but my ability at rolling rolls was very much lacking. More practice is needed. It was fun for me to try something new, and in a sense, fail at it. I like the idea that the kid is going to come home from camp, and I will have this new meal for her, and it will be something that she will like. But that feeling, of knowing that I am going to make a food that she likes, that we haven’t made at home before, gives me a feeling of providing for, and taking care of her.
I refuse to be an angry old dude. Anger will not be my driving emotion. I will not be bitter about how my life has gone. I will be a happy silly old man. I’ve met a few in my life, and I aim to be like them.
