Demos tells me a small group of Syrians reached the hotel before we did and had him call the police. They are on the way, he says. The refugees insist on being taken in hand by the authorities. They want the document that allows them to stay in Europe and travel on. The Syrians are authentic political refugees; no European country may refuse them entry.

Read More>>

The TPR Stream
Tuesday Throwback: Kafka Writes Milena By The Editors

The letter comes way back from 1921. For all his problems with nerves and anxieties, Kafka, like many writers before and after, was a great lover of the opposite sex. This manifested itself in fevered letters, shot off in the dead of night.
But When She Was Bad . . . By Lucy Gregg Muir

How do you know when to draw the line between normal teenage-girl bitchiness and fear for your life? How do you know when to cross that line and dial 911?

Writing Advice No One Needs Again, Ever By Sean Hammer

As part of my suddenly ongoing series of ruminations on writing, I bring you six pieces of writing advice that have long past worn out their individual welcomes (if they were ever welcome at all). Why six? Because that’s exactly the number of bad/common pieces of writing advice I could think of.
Starry Summer Nights By Simi Kamboj

When I was a girl of about five, summer nights meant sleeping outdoors under the starry sky. My parents and I slept on charpoy beds in the middle of a sprawling courtyard outside our squat brick house in an East-Indian small town. Early in the evening, we laid out thin cotton mattresses and pale white sheets over the beds in the hope that a summer breeze would cool them by night, when we hoisted soft cotton mosquito nets on bamboo poles over them.
Musings of an Emerging Writer By Rudy Ravindra

Your writing is chaotic, not edgy, and the ending is very mushy. Remember, you are not writing for a Bollywood movie. I think you should take creative writing classes.
How Not to Wear a Warbonnet: An Open Letter to Fashionable Hipsters By Scott Bear Don't Walk

My name is Outstanding Warbonnet. My tribe, the Apsáalooke, gave this name to me. We are one of 566 tribes in the United States today. To many of these tribes the warbonnet, or headdress, has always been sacred.
To Die For: Nationalism in Historic Context By Adam Blanden

What unites the civil war in Ukraine and the bombardment of Gaza by Israel? The answer: Deeply contested notions of national consciousness that the “international community” continues to assert are outdated, even as it insists on a logic of national partition. Nationalist ideology in historical perspective.
Tuesday Throwback: Seamus Heaney on Making Sense of Life By The Editors

It's been nearly a year since we lost Seamus Heaney. Take a look back with our own remembrance on the man. Who knows? You just might make some sense out of life. 
Cleveland By Alex M. Pruteanu

In January 1980, we were stuck in the cracks between the politics of three countries, waiting for paperwork to clear us from the East into the West and then across the ocean to Cleveland, Ohio to start a new, better life. 

The Persistence of Memory By Stephanie Wright

I’ve always had a fondness for art and artists of all varieties, particularly the masters of paint. In melancholy phases, I tend toward the impressionists, but Picasso and Dali speak to me as well. I bought my first Picasso, a limited edition reprint of Cowboy, before leaving for college, and my dorm rooms were decorated with his Bouquet and Colombe avec Fleurs. Later, I added my first Dali, the infamous The Persistence of Memory. In one of my many moves, I lost the precious Picasso. Not surprising really. Nor is it startling I should find myself drawn to Picasso’s cubist style or Dali’s surrealism. Shifts in the perception of reality are preferable to staring boldly in the face what one wishes to avoid. Even the impressionists with their muted, dreamlike renderings provide relief from that.
Scammed By Garnett Kilberg Cohen

Greed and dishonesty and guilt. The scam artist usually relies on his victims possessing one or more of these human foibles.
Northwoods Nap By Cris Mazza

Four in the afternoon is the hottest time of day, even in a place where one can escape the worst of the Midwest’s summer heat and humidity. In winter, four in the afternoon is dark. In June, it won’t be truly dark—dark enough to see the billions of stars and streaking comets freckling the sky—until ten. I cannot start evening fishing until seven, and even that is prompted from impatience, not twilight. I’ll be in bright sunshine for an hour. The four o’clock nap helps to defer me. Suspends me between whatever chores I’ve given myself to accomplish after the morning fish and before the evening fish.
The Day the Tanks Rolled In By The Editors

It was August 21, 1968. The place was Prague. It was the day the tanks rolled in.
Ten Ways Your Novel Will Kill You By Scott Archer Jones

Fall approaches. The novel scurries into corners, a rat-like beastie, and you attempt to slip the leash back on. You know this book will kill you in these next months, where the light fades and days shorten into stunted, despairing winter.
Holy Shit! Dick Cheney Was Actually Once Right about Iraq By The Editors

It turns out that Darth Vader (R-Empire) once foresaw doom on and around the orbit of the forest moon Endor. Of course, we all know the bloated albino corpse that inhabited that obsidian shell was none other than humanity's own Dick Cheney. It turns out that ol' Dick remained fated to relapse into the very same mistake that doomed him in a galaxy far, far away. If only Dick would've listened to himself back in 1994 where he calmly explains why invading Iraq would lead to endless cycle of ungovernable sectarian division. Well done, Dick. 
People Along the Path By Jeff Suwak

I didn’t know much of anything about the Appalachian Trail when I decided to hike it. This was the late ’90s and I was vagabonding around the United States, so information wasn’t nearly as accessible as it is today. Someone had mentioned the Trail, it sounded like what I was looking for, so I did it. At twenty years old, my primary aim in life was to experience the sort of transcendent experiences that Jack Kerouac, Walt Whitman, and Thomas Wolfe wrote about. I was a writer, and I wanted to be a Writer, and the first step, far as I could see it, was to see things worth writing about, whatever the hell that meant. I wanted starry mountaintops, unnamed lakes, and green eyed vagabond girls. I wanted wildness and freedom and spiritual air. So it was that I hitched a ride with a trucker and headed to Amicalola Falls, Georgia to begin my journey. I never did find any of the things I was looking for.
TPR Is Lit
See more of TPR Is Lit above.
The Stream goes down below.