MICHELLE CURRY WRIGHT

Category: Do For Love

  • Sign of the Dove

    Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, February 7, 2016 It’s the early 80s and it’s New York City, still a gritty place with large pockets of swank. I’m a single girl, a young woman who doesn’t hang out in bars much. I have very little money because I work in publishing, an industry notorious, especially back then, for a…

  • EXPLETIVE, yeah!

    Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, January 17, 2016 We’re at a dance party. The DJ is talented, the people have come — even on a school night — and the birthday girl is happy. At 65 years old, she has a certain amount of defiance stored up, especially when you factor in a family escape from East Germany…

  • Acts of rebellion

    Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, October 4, 2015 I am standing on floor 26 of 666 Fifth Avenue circa 1982 in a corner office that belongs to my boss, a middle-aged woman who has pulled herself up from the secretarial pool to VP status in one of the largest publishing houses in Manhattan. She is out to lunch…

  • Here’s what you do

    Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, September 6, 2015 Starting with my father, I have always had people around me who knew exactly what to do in any given situation. Without a split second’s worth of hesitation, he would go about fixing or fabricating or directing anything. These processes for him were self-evident and without alternative. If you…

  • Advanced problem solving

    Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, May 3, 2015 On a recent drive home from Carbondale, I find myself thinking about Mr. Feeny, the principal of John Muir Elementary School in 1969. He is standing on the lunchroom stage before a group of us, 10 or so sixth-graders chosen to participate in a problem-solving class billed as “Advanced…

  • Rosebud

    Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, February 15, 2015 Dear Saint Valentine, You’ve got to be taking a nap at this point, or its celestial equivalent. Evanescing briefly into a light-infused fog or racing around the firmament on fleet wings of lace. Tripping, tumbleweed-like, through fields of gold. Maybe it’s a purple velvet pillow you rest your halo’ed…