The not-so-pleasant scents of Pleasant Ave S:
My neighbor’s litterbox
My neighbor’s cigarettes
My neighbor’s weed
Scorched couch fabric from radiator
Drain-o
Burnt rice or burnt grilled cheese or burnt black bean tacos
Greasy cheese slice from Uptown pizza after giving up on making dinner
Rotten bananas (I swear I was going to make banana bread…)
Gas from the stove (I don’t feel loopy at all…)
Pomegranate incense to cover it all up (or try)
Posted in Minneapolis, musings, nonfiction
that time in the late afternoon
when the sun hangs low
below the clouds,
shining light
on the moon
on the other side of the sky
and the symmetry
(the imbalance)
teases you
that time between seasons
when leaves crunch under the snow
some still cling to tree branches
whipped
back and forth
in the wind
desperately holding on
to yesterday
that time between dreams
when you wake up
cold and dark
you’ve forgotten where you are
or—
how you got there
you don’t know if you’re still dreaming
or—
if you’ve been awake this whole time
and you’ve finally realized
you’re scared
(shivering and sweating)
until
you let go.
Posted in Creative Writing, poetry
Last night he stayed up until 3 in the morning helping me write a scholarship essay. This morning he slept through his alarm and was late for class. He skipped breakfast and hurried to throw on his glasses, jeans, and a polo with stripes. He wears the watch I gave him for our anniversary. He wears a sweatshirt to hide his weight. He has a habit of flattening his shirt by rubbing the palm of his hand down his chest. He has a habit of itching his beard when he’s concentrating on homework. Sometimes he pulls the collar of his shirt over his nose, and it rests there, the fabric whispering as he exhales. When he engages in conversation, his coffee bean eyes widen and his mouth opens in a smile that never needed braces. If he doesn’t know what people are talking about, he watches the conversation. He looks back and forth like a student driver checking the intersection at a stop sign. He’s a spectator; he’s a child. He smiles and waits to catch up and agree with what’s being said. He makes promises, but he struggles to follow through, like a puppy learning how to play fetch, forgetting to bring the ball back in his haste to please. He buys me flowers whenever my last bouquet dies. He gives me massages if I complain about a headache. He asks how my day went; he calls me every night before bed. He could talk for hours—not just to me—to anyone, about anything. His mom is his best friend, and he calls her every day.
Posted in nonfiction, Creative Writing
Tagged love, essay, nonfiction, personal, assignment, creative nonfiction, experiment, no adjectives, no adverbs
I’m half-sitting, half-lying in bed, wearing a bathrobe and men’s eyeglasses, trying to write about why I write, eating cold leftovers from Galactic Pizza, picking the onions off, because my sister forgot I hate onions on pizza. I don’t hate onions on other things. It’s a pizza thing. She must not remember her twelfth birthday (I was eight) at Rocky’s Pizza House when I took a bite of the adult pizza—probably Supreme or Veggie Lover’s or Hand-Tossed Nastiness—instead of the kid-friendly Cheese-Only Extra Cheese Stuffed Crust Cheese Pizza, and I gagged from Onion Shock (it’s a real thing) and vomited on the table in front of all my sister’s friends. I write because I remember. I have an uncannily good memory, which makes me a semi-decent, semi-enjoyable, at-the-very-least-boringly-factual storyteller, though right now I can’t quite remember if “boringly” is a word. I tell stories because I like to have an affect on other people. I like to make people laugh, and I write so they can relate to my sadness, or my embarrassment for that matter. I write because I like to share, and sometimes I over-share and write about wearing a bathrobe and puking on a plate of pizza, and even I’m trying not to think about it because there is still essence of onion on my pizza.
Posted in nonfiction, Creative Writing
Tagged nonfiction, personal, assignment, creative nonfiction, memory
Ivory Tower 2012: A fresh start
The first post I wrote for the Ivory Tower staff blog.
What goes around comes around: Clichés are everywhere
The very cliché essay I wrote about finding clichés in essays, for Ivory Tower Art and Literary Magazine.
I shouldn’t have worn these heels. My legs tremble as I climb the steps of the bus. I flex my calves tight. Faded blue seats have been torn open and reveal yellow foam beneath. A comfort to my aching feet. A homeless man sits on my left, drinking vodka from a 20 oz bottle of Sprite. The smell burns the inside of my nose like an unexpected nosebleed, when you swear you weren’t picking it or anything. Across the aisle sits James. His hands are folded and his eyes are out the darkened window. Next to him is a woman in red. Her red lips scold the crying baby on her lap. Shut the fuck up, will you? Two men behind me argue in Spanish. I lean back to listen, but I haven’t retained much since high school. Tráfico… tarde… We are late too. The bus jolts to a stop. Vodka spills on my dark green dress. I shouldn’t have worn this dress. That stain will be on the silk forever. Let’s go. James stands, and I groan. I follow him off the bus. He hurries. Streetlights reflect in the rain puddles. I dance around them to stay dry. Headlights and neon signs brighten the city. I shove my hands in my coat pockets. I shouldn’t have left my gloves. At the next corner, “don’t walk” begins to flash. I pause, grateful for the break. James continues. We can make it! I struggle to keep up. His brisk stride has a few inches on mine. I love watching him walk. His confidence. The back of my right heel slips out of my shoe. My right foot is slightly smaller than my left. I collapse on the ground, legs outright in front of me, toes pointed up. I sit in the middle of the intersection, soaked. Are you okay? James helps me to my feet. I try to laugh. He laughs. He holds my hand when we cross the next street. Yes, I’m fine.
Posted in Creative Writing, fiction, flash fiction
Tagged fiction, flash fiction, unrequited love
that time before work
when it’s too soon to leave
but too late to do anything else
so you just
pass the time
idly
waiting
that time between seasons
when leaves crunch under the snow
some still cling to tree branches
whipped
back and forth
in the wind
desperately holding on
to yesterday
that time between dreams
when you wake up
cold and dark
you’ve forgotten where you are
or
how you got there
you don’t know if you’re still dreaming
or
if you’ve been awake this whole time
and you’ve finally realized
you’re scared
shivering and sweating
until
you let go.
I hadn’t been home in sixteen years.
The orange shag carpet consumed all smells that ever entered the living room, and its history hung like a cloud above my head. I didn’t dare step into my parents’ old bedroom, but my own looked almost exactly the way I left it. Boxes of old monster trucks and legos filled up my closet. Sixteen-year-old magazines balanced on my desk next to a pile of my favorite books. Mark Twain and John Steinbeck maddened me, because I hadn’t ever finished writing a novel. A postcard my grandma sent from Colorado hung tacked to the wall, reminding me of a place I wanted to escape to, a place I still hadn’t visited. I pondered a few stains on my floor, but I could only recall the dark orange vomit near my bed from the first time my brother and I drank. Wood paneling separated my brother’s bedroom from mine on a shared wall. When he died I had a desperate urge to tear down the wall and keep him closer to me, and it appeared as though the hole had finally been covered.
I hadn’t been home since the funeral.
The faded yellow walls in the kitchen caved in on me as I thought about bacon for breakfast and early morning fights. When I stepped onto the blue tiled floor, ghostly sounds of shouts and falling pans echoed around me. I stumbled on the chipped tiles and backed into the hallway, hardly noticing dusty family photos hanging like raindrops on a windowpane. I stepped into my brother’s bedroom and slammed the door.
He hadn’t been home in sixteen years, either.
I sat on his bed, which sagged beneath me as I sighed. I thought I could feel him beside me, but I must have imagined it. I only wished he were there, helping me pack important odds and ends before cleaning up and selling the house. He would know what our parents wanted to keep. I thought about throwing out everything and burning the house down. I didn’t want to sit among the memories of my childhood. I hated being the only one left in our family. I hadn’t done anything for our name except never speak of it, and I was so alone.
Looking out the window at our backyard, I thought of that tree my brother and I climbed when we wanted to escape from the storm. Uncut grass gave me chills; I realized my mother was gone. Tending to the garden was her only passion. I wanted to cry, and I screwed up my face, glancing at my reflection hanging on the paneling to make sure I did it right. When did I get so old? My graying beard was something I couldn’t have grown sixteen years ago. Rubbing my palm on the prickly chin, I cursed my parents for the genetics they passed before I remembered that I was supposed to be crying.
I hadn’t cried in sixteen years.
Posted in Creative Writing, fiction, flash fiction
Tagged death, family, narrative, repetition
Kevin and I walk to work together, from his apartment to Walter Library.
Yesterday, we stopped to pet a yellow lab puppy on a walk with his owner.
Today, we’re holding hands. I let go and straighten my fingers, pressing my palm against his hand. He opens his palm, gives me a few quick pats, like a high five, then rests his hand against mine.
If we were penguins, this is how we’d hold hands, he says.
Then we waddle down the hallway, flopping our wings, keeping our palms pressed together.
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