Selected Works

A notebook should always be kept in arms length, just in case the lighting is right, and the air smells like rain, and a cat sits on your lap. For writing out a setting of analog bliss does not deserve to be interrupted by the harsh rays of blue light. My chapstick grows legs and walks away from me, catapulting my desire to consume, tying me deeper into a twisted war of dollars and cracked lips, and I am not on the winning side. But where is one meant to buy Burts bees if not at the target next to your office? I don’t carry pens anymore because it is not often I use my hands to write. Instead, my bag is stuffed full of Tupperware I tote back and forth from full to empty. I take care to always leave with the same ones I came with. I take care to return them to my roommate before using them again the next day. My pens lie in a drawer and do not travel anymore. My critical thinking is wrapped up tightly, stuck in the nooks and cracks of memories of indesign and laundry. I place headphones tightly over my ears. The louder the podcast, the less a spare thought will bleed out of my ear dripping onto my cheek and into my line of sight. These spare thoughts, you see, cause this odd reaction in the corner of my eye. A bit of water will fall and dampen the fur of the little world on my lap. A cup of water should always be kept in arms length, to rehydrate the body. Do not drink it to quickly as each sip will bring you closer to the moment you must stand and go on about your day. I have but one rule in my life; I may not stand up until the cat does.

I don’t think we talk about the hangover enough. Once the applause has gone quiet, the actors have gone home, and the stage has gone dark; when I turn the corner and accept my fate as another anonymous.

I don’t think we talk about the hangover enough; When a shared experience becomes an individual memory. And I find myself alone again.

I don’t think we talk about the hangover enough. We don’t talk about the exhaustion, or the nausea, or the loss. We don’t talk about how quiet the world becomes, as each line, note, breath bounces around in my skull searching for escape. And I’ve never heard the city so quiet.

I don’t think we talk about the hangover enough. How my mind grows restless and my hands idle. Already searching high and low for what's next. A hair of the dog to pull me through.

I’d like to talk about the hangover.

A cat chases a mouse like I chase my dreams. I get close enough to bat it around a bit, but always too scared to go in for the kill. Too scared the fun is only associated with the chase. It takes patience in the hunt. The reward can never be as sweet as the wait.

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There’s a moth on my shirt, sand in my eyes, and my body feels rickety today. With groggy vision, I peer through the mirror, and I am met with a familiar face. I haven’t seen her in a year. You see, I am different here.

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In the mail this morning, he received an envelope with one well worn index card with the word “chance” written across it in thick black sharpie. At dusk, he marked it ‘return to sender’ and walked back down the long drive way to his mailbox, leaving the flag lifted as he turned back. Tomorrow morning, he will find it still waiting for him, but he will not take it. He will raise the flag once again. It will take him years to realize that the envelope was meant for him.