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Several of my favorite things about my mom:

1. She encourages me to eat monster cookies for breakfast, because they have oatmeal in them.

B. She appreciates my hair after it hasn’t been washed for several days.

iii. She tells me not to sell myself short. (Sometimes I forget I stand just as much of a chance as anyone else.)

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Fifteen dollar Malbec, you lean over the patio to release two minutes of toothpaste from a morning. Thunder cat like an evergreen, quiet in the missionary trees and sleeping until tomorrow. I pour a bowl of cereal, she pours a pint, you pour your body into a lazy bed. Crescent door creaks spark a path in the leaves—forget clean. Survival, it’s a corn tortilla with beans, a wading downstream, and all the best case scenarios I’m forgetting.

Words that Stuck

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A LONG WHILE BACK, I collected Beanie Babies. I had one in particular that was my favorite, a pink octopus called Inky (whom I still own and cherish). As Beanie Babies grew in popularity, I recall flipping through a guidebook to determine Inky’s value.

It turns out Inky was one of the first Beanie Babies made, and that he was worth a good penny (which in the Beanie Baby collector’s world was anywhere from $100-$200 for a little plush animal). My Inky, however, was worth nothing to a collector—I’d ripped his tag off from the onset of our relationship. Tags were important.
I will never forget this, because when my older sister found out, she said something to me that I have never, ever, ever forgotten.
“Everything has a purpose.” I was crushed; I’d never thought of anything like that before.
I walked away and pondered it for a long time. This was more than 10 years ago and I will never forget that feeling. It went beyond the realms of the value of Beanie Babies (if, in fact, they ever had a monetary value) but to other things, too. Why had I chosen to get rid of a part of the toy, the tag? Because I didn’t need it. I didn’t need it to bestow affection upon my beloved Inky.
Strangely enough, I find correlation between this story and other things in life. Discovering that everything has a purpose—and there is purpose for everything. I believe I’ve met certain acquaintances for the sole purpose of them leading me to my best friends. I’ve taken particular opportunities, ones that don’t necessarily mean anything, to later realize they’ve lead me to Europe, Colorado, Washington, D.C. Purpose for every car I’ve crashed, or every minute I’ve been late. Purpose for what I have and have not done—a great plan, leading to something grand.
Ripping Inky’s tag off was only the beginning.

Send. End.

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I PROMISED MYSELF I’D STOP THINKING about it, so instead I gave memory to thing I’d never much noticed: Intersecting lines, crumpled paper, smooth chords. An aroma that wandered over from the next table, two curls in my face, a saturated photograph. Persnickety, New York, or wherever that station was where we got on the train to the city. Rye bread. Poughkeepsie, that’s it. Sitting in an ’88 Chevy Suburban on a hot day…

There’s nothing in the mailbox. I used to read a book about figure skating, I could be in Vancouver. I have no recollection of being anything less than five. The best times are the silent ones.
The only time I ever wore lipstick, it ended up on my teeth. I’ve been longing for bigger hair. I’ve never smoked a cigarette, not a single inhale to my name. Every time a car gets too close, I exhale again and again. I’m scared of traffic and of the buzz. I feel tied up in petty obsessions: making my bed, straightening the closet, the loose thread on my shirt, buying groceries. Mother taught me everything about modesty, and how to arrange the stuffed animals on my bed in perfect succession. They’re all important.
Aching, I looked on as she raised a sheet into the air, watching it float down on to the living room floor. I looked on as the bridge raised, the ship went under, the bridge lowered. I looked on as he stood in front of the microphone and feverishly strummed through red and dark. I looked on to the cul de sac below, the door across, the car next to. Volume. I looked on to my grandma, who looked to my aunt, who looked at ease. I looked on from my bed, some couch, a passenger seat. I looked out.
Jkl Mno, the /\ OK \/ is not CLR.
Things to consider: Getting lost, taking the train, reconsidering.
PWR. END.

Nosebleeds

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LAST WEEK-ISH I LAID MY HEAD DOWN TO REST in a quiet, dark, and dry room. Seconds after I reached out to extinguish my bedside lamp, I felt a drip, another drip, and finally, three streams roll down my face and on to my pillow.
My bleeding nose isn’t anything unusual; in fact, nosebleeds are commonplace in my world. During the winter months I experience nearly one a day, no matter how often I moisturize. I’ve accepted this flaw as adjacent to people that have asthma or allergies. I get nosebleeds.
This particular nosebleed was, however inconvenient, just beautiful. I ran to the bathroom to clean up the mess, looked in the mirror and saw delicacy. The lines of blood had made perfect curves strolling down my cheeks, along my chin and to my neckline in arbitrary beauty. It was a graceful accident.
That night after cleaning myself up, I went to rest my head once more. Another night in a dry room, shifting side to side, holding back the outpouring as it dried in place. It’s the time between awake and sleep that’s hardest—holding still, wanting to go on with your usual ways, but feeling the slow trickle roll toward the edge…
…right before the drip.


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THIS IS WHAT I’M KEEPING IN MIND as I move forth with my next sculpture project. I have high hopes and am really looking forward to experimenting with new materials + concept.