(X)

I’m sad today, and aching.  I’m awake and without sedative; I can’t seem to overcome myself. Like all people, I’m obscenely good at some things and obscenely bad at others, this is to be expected; but what is not to be expected is the strange way that I tip the scales towards the importance of…

(IX)

I grew up in a small town. The town itself seemed large to me at the time. To go from my best friend’s house to mine elicited ennui. What a long drive. Or so it seemed. Now, when I go back, it feels the perfect size. It’s small, easily traversable. It has just the right…

(VIII)

I’m frozen and yet I can’t slow down. The inverse of Dylan’s “I know it looks like I’m moving, but I’m standing still”. Movement can be invisible. It can be destructive without making a noise. I am fixated on my own inability to slow life down, for others to be aware that I am not…

(VI)

And now I will explain to you how I destroy myself, and in so doing, destroy love. I start at my age, down to the day, and then run through the catalogue of successful people in my brain and stop, but do not linger, on their monumental accomplishment and then I do the math and…

(V)

Walking home from the coffee shop, I had crossed the street to go back to the used bookstore to see if they had any Karen Russell. I had just read her short story in this week’s New Yorker and was blown away. As I walked, I listened to the same song from the O Brother…

(IV)

Most nights, while completing my daily routine, a book or two on a shelf catches my eye and I grab it, hustling up the stairs to bed. I turn on my AC and fan. I love the white noise, one air blown at the other. I am in the middle. Half of my bed is…

(III)

If you live in a city long enough, you will inevitably come across numerous places where you were once certain: that you were happy; that your life was over; that your softness cannot be touched; that her hand will not leave yours. When crossing paths with your former self, you relive all of this, briefly,…

(II)

My studio apartment had old, dirty carpet along with roaches, a leaning bookshelf and a broken toilet. The heat rarely worked and the windows were not sealed. My bed, up against the window sill, creaked as she stood up. Not wearing a shirt, her bottom was covered by my sweatpants. They fit tight, revealing her…

​(I)

Here’s an experiment: stand on a train platform in Chicago, look up at the cloudy sky and listen to Robert Johnson. Just loud enough. Rhythm with the wind. Reach up and straighten your hair. As the train lumbers toward you, stare at it and through it, and while it passes you, listen for it in…