The Graveyard

Sometimes, I imagine what it must be like to be buried underground. When I miss my cousin terribly, I think about rolling back the grave grass like a carpet.  Like a blanket, or a sheet.  I could unbury him, and watch the ground unfurl. When I was little, I was captured by the story of …

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worth: a memory

I used to twist my words until they told stories I had never heard before. Too forgiving, other people used to say. A woman— Maintaining imagery, An object to be viewed. I know how to blame myself And how to polish the same wineglass till it sparkles— Till it shatters in the hand. I remember …

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Ritual

My cousin told me once that when she was trying to quit smoking, she buried her tobacco.  She walked all along down the beach until she found a place within the sand and she buried it.  If I remember right, she rolled one last cigarette before she nested the loose shreds of leaves into the …

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Bad Hairdo at a Funeral

Nothing is too ugly for this world.  I think, rather, it is us pretending not to see. My father tells me a story, about my grandfather’s funeral, and how an uncle approached him and asked if he had seen the casket yet. I am two, maybe three, on some stranger’s lap probably beside my brother, …

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A Note on Misplaced Worry

Watch this Video I said that when I revamped the blog, it was going to be different than it was before.  A bit more real—more rugged and more raw.  Exploratory.  Experimental. I think, if anything, it’s proven mostly to be confusing to the people who are close to me. Our society is a social media …

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A Haunted House and Dying

Today, I placed my forehead on the keyboard and typed the letter j a hundred times.  With my nose.  The tip of it.  Something soothing in the motion.  I never loved the letter j and yet here I am, a stream of jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjs across the page. I was supposed to water my grandmother’s roses today, …

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