Monday, June 30, 2014


Each day is a shirt. The shirt is stuck as I try to take it off. It's that comical suffocating stage where I can't see and my arms are in the air, helpless. Every single day.

Night is a pair of pants. Too tight, but practical. Appropriate for work, uncomfortable. Not necessarily my dream, but I am too tired to make any changes. At least they have pockets. This is my night.

And in between, the hours that might not exist, are shoes. They protect and comfort me while I prepare for the drowning disappointments. Their soles sink into the earth that raised me. And I rise each morning with my arms up, open.

Thursday, June 26, 2014


It's within the gray that we come alive. The black suffocates. You can get lost in the blizzard of white, not to mention the suffering that comes with frostbite. But gray. Gray cradles. Gray encourages. Gray came with no instructions, only a gentle push. Stop and rest here. Nothing will be clear -- it's all rain clouds. But it's the tension that counts. At least you are not drowning in puddles.

And the sun checks up on you occasionally. It makes sure you still try. It makes sure to keep you dry and supplied with some vitamin D. Stay free, it whispers. You aren't tethered to my beams, it whispers. And just like that a wisp of a cloud silences the sun. But you understand. You heard. You move on.

There are still pockets of water. There are still traps under fallen leaves, leaving you to guess where to step next. Step anyway. Stay steady on the legs you've created for yourself. Camp under the stars if you have to, but awake in time for the sunrise. It has secrets to tell and it needs your eyes to listen. Listen. Let the gray grow over your toes while you stretch your muscles awake.

Thursday, June 19, 2014


From time to time I check in with the lines on my face. I make sure they are still there when I fear that I've disappeared. I'm still here, for now. I'm still waking up and diving into the absurdity of life, for now. I'm learning to swim without any kind of flotation device. I'm walking on thin ice with boots that weigh more than the world. I'll figure it out once it all cracks.

And the cracks on my hands just mean that I live in a desert, right? It means that my climate fights with the layer that protects what's inside. The outer versus the inner. The uncovered versus the covered. Both wear me out. Both wear my bones.

The time comes when I will walk these lines on my face to the crooked home that is my heart. I won't stop for a roadside attraction. I won't stop to stomp around an old ghost town. I will continue to check my soles for rocks. I will continue the trek to an end, to an oasis.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

me(g) 1

Most of my dreams are about closed amusement parks and red public bathrooms.

Avocados are my favorite food.
I also really like sandwiches.

When I was 11, I believed I was haunted by a child ghost named Andrew.
I still kind of believe it.

Occasionally I pray. I don't know yet how to end my prayers. Amen? See you (much) later?

I have a weakness for Puerto Ricans.
I have a weakness for maple vanilla ice cream.
My strength is in my thighs and spine.

I want every woman in the world to read The Beauty Myth.
I want every woman in the world to scream "fuck it" at the top of their lungs.
I want every woman in the world to start riots, not diets.
And yes, I did accidentally spell "diets" "diots."

My waistline is expanding and my butt's getting bigger and it is freaking me out.
But my brain is also working better and I'm not constantly moody and I'm not always dizzy and I think my life is worth more than a size.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014


He talked about being high up in the sky, metal and heaven colliding. Construction at such heights would cause anyone to take up smoking, he said. And so he did. He smoked at least a pack a day for ten years. 3,650 days. But were some of those years leap years? I don't know my own calendar. I can only offer estimates.

We define our lives by our injuries. We desecrate what we don't understand. We climb for the view but forget to take it in. We forget the exhale.

I forget what the joke was, but it had to do with a dressing room, one bathing suit, and two Dada artists. It was one of those jokes that never really required a laugh, just an "a-ha!" Our entire history together was one a-ha after another. We created scenarios in order to live. We created tragedies in order to feel.

Your bones are roads leading to the river of your veins. Let me lie down, one more time, and see if I float.

It didn't end well. It didn't end poorly, either. In fact, it didn't quite end at all. It was left suspended, abandoned. You drove me home one night when I refused to open my eyes. You left me blind and comfortable and with enough cash in my purse to buy groceries the next day. I had to choose between a pint of milk and a pack of cigarettes, but I wasn't a smoker. I never needed to be. Besides, I had black coffee waiting at home.

I never learned the key to your spine. There are signs I will never know, hidden mines belonging to someone else. You go ahead and live your life up there, I'll continue to find my roots down here.

Friday, June 13, 2014


When you are young, you believe everything is biodegradable. Let that experience, that mistake, that heartbreak go out the window. No need to give it a second thought, let alone a second chance. It won't have a life of its own, you think. But it does. The people you try to forget, the places you abandon, the projects you leave unfinished go on to live a life without you. They don't break down, even though you do. They don't return to the ground, they just return to your door and ask where you've been, what you've been up to, what or whom else you've replaced. There is a place for these stubborn plastics of your past; it's right here in your present.

And so you begin to have a conversation. You begin to have the conversation if you're smart, that is. Because it is so easy to ignore their calls, make excuses, change the subject, shut the door. It is too easy to slip silently into a past that's pure fiction. But these tales, like the nails of the dead, keep growing. They will outgrow the box you've placed them in, under your bed. They will wake you up when they've had enough of being hidden. They will demand you answer their questions. Sometimes you have to swallow the answers before you can open your mouth.

The words may be like glue, getting stuck to your tongue, but keep talking. Keep talking and don't forget to ask your own questions. Own your questions. Own your questions so that you can begin to own your past. What was once an intruder, a mold out of control, a zombie with intentions, becomes a friend. Better yet, a teacher. It becomes a vital bridge to the person you never outgrow. You are still that person and you deserve to be heard.

So listen. Speak, be heard, and then listen. You may be growing older, but your heart can be reborn. There may be rain, but it's only here to nurture your roots. Let it happen.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014


Memory is a distant cousin. Memory is a neglected friend. Memory is someone we haven't seen in ages, turning up unannounced looking older, kinder, wearing stranger clothes than the last time you met. Why the funny hat, Memory? Can't you see that we aren't here to impress? But I do like your dress. I like the way it drapes over your thighs, reminding me that we were once warriors when we walked. Should we take a walk now? I feel there's so much we need to say, even if we refuse to use words.

But Memory won't walk with you. It has other plans, appointments to keep, people to continue to see. You were just on the way to their next place. You were a quick hello, a box to check off. Hello. Check. "Checking in with you to make sure you still get hung up on me from time to time."

And you do. You, fortunately, forget most of the time. But then there are the late nights after your regrettable solo dinners in front of a screen that acts as an anesthesia when you close off and come in close to create no space between you and the past. You wade around and then dive into what would have been better off drained. There is no way to remain afloat in the remote spaces of your mind. You sink, but your drowning is dressed up in silk. Everything is smooth, everything is safe, everything is in the shadow of the future made present.

Oxygen isn't even a consideration. Oxygen is just as distant as Memory. Who needs breath when you have a rose lens?

Wednesday, June 4, 2014


My mind is a taxi in traffic not driven by me. In fact, I'm not even in the taxi. I'm walking.

My heart is foreign currency currently burning a hole in my pocket. Too bad I can't spend it on mending what has been broken for so long. I blow it on whistles and bows instead.

My hands don't know what they are quite yet. Give them time. They're still young. Their life line creeps up onto the arm.

My feet are slices of watermelon, seed-free. They slip and slide with juices and sugar and stay fresh when wrapped up inside. But let the boys eat them on the stoop. It's summer, we're hot.

And I have blisters on my feet. And my hands ache from holding the weight of the world. And I don't know where my heart leads me, but I hope it hails me a taxi cab soon. I've got places to see and people to be.