I can sit here and say that creating with consistency is simply too slow. That the process — my process is too slow. That this is a meandering when perhaps it should be more straightforward. I write and sit and write and still even when something finally is molded beneath my fingers to my satisfaction it is not enough.
Perhaps it can never be enough, for when the moment you go to share your art, there is a best and a worse, measured by someone else’s metrics but weighed against your own.
It seems it might be easier to collapse into a tightly wound ball, place myself firmly inside a wooden box and let the fear of being judged poorly prevent me from ever creating anything at all. …
Yes, there is a difference.
I like to think of exercise as a very small box the fitness and wellness industry convince us we need to cram ourselves into. On paper exercise is an activity requiring physical effort, carried out to sustain or improve health and fitness but in practice exercise might as well be defined as a rigid set of activities, carried out in a specific way to achieve an arbitrary, yet pervasive idea of health and fitness. …
My stomach is my mother’s stomach. It carries with it the weight of genes and generations. Consisting of bathing suits that must be worn to cover the belly button, and spontaneous diets to eliminate lactose. My stomach is my mother’s stomach inherited from her mother, passed around the dinner table, whispered while getting dressed, told as a casual remark of worry:
“I am getting fat.” My grandmother would say over a phone call.
“I am getting fat.” My mother would say after indulging in imported cheeses.
“Fat. I am getting fat.” I say, staring at my belly in the mirror. …
I saw a bird once. It hopped across my path, in between a parked car and the sidewalk and as I came closer it did not fly away in the way you might expect, but stayed there right in front of me a tangible thing I could hold on to as if nestled in the center of my empty hands, pulling me from my thoughts, to my body, to the space we shared just for a moment.
And then it was gone.
Everything moved out of focus and I was left with my fingers clenched into fists gripping onto the idea of what I had just experienced. …
I grip my hands tightly onto the table, scoot out my chair and refuse to leave my seat. I wait until I decide it feels right, then my body becomes like fire and I thrust myself into unpacking the boxes in the next room, searching for that one small kitchen appliance, I could do without and I will do without tomorrow. Moving between these two extremes, moments pass like the haphazard landscape out the passenger window. I am along for the ride, driven by a fear that fluctuates between flight and freeze, fight and flee searching for freedom.
This accounts for almost every missed coffee date. This accounts for why am I even planning coffee dates, when I can pick up the phone and call. This accounts for why the plan to call becomes just another post it note I ignore, but also why in one sweeping moment of guilt, my schedule is suddenly full. I cancel plans. You cancel plans. We cancel plans, thinking there will be tomorrow. …
Christ dying on the cross said in the gospel of Luke, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Sitting here, after the aftermath of yet another inability to handle my emotions like an adult. I wonder how forgiveness works, when I do know what I am doing.
My entire life my dad has told me I am like my mother. My entire life my mother has resented me for being like my father. No where, to this day, can my parents find me. Me as in the child that was stuck in the center of constant emotional and psychological abuse. Me at the center of a household that was incessant in it’s quickness to erupt into flames. …
“This is nothing you haven’t seen before,” she said, bending down to fill her cupped hands with water. “Look, even the ocean is full of new beginnings.” She opens her palms — empty. “Of course,” you think as you pull up your skirt and wade deeper into the bay. “How is it possible you had never noticed.” The wind picks up tossing your hair in front of your face. It whispers the truth. She stands steady watching you. “What are you going to do, swim or float?” “Neither,” you reply.
Slowly you turn towards the shore and start to run. Letting go of your skirt, it clings to your thighs — a deterrant. The wind, now at your back, pushes you onward towards the shore. “Wait!,” she calls, “Where are you going?” You stop and look back, “In a different direction entirely.” Continuing towards the shore, you hear the sound of the waves gently rolling home. You count them 1,2,3, infinite, perpetually new. …
I cannot vomit up myself
If I could I bet I would have done it
Long ago when it was a whole box of Oreos
I was expunging.
Where did I learn love involved but was not limited to
Stuffing myself whole
Tight lipped and loathing
As if to say I have nothing left to give you but myself;
As if to say my self is not to be desired without you.
Isn’t it selfless
To take everything laid out and devour it in gluttonous grief
Saving you the pain of my less pleasing attributes.
The 6’oclock news makes for conversation
Threatening what is left of my teeth.
With biles slow erosion.
I cannot vomit up myself
In an effort to cleanse what was too much
But never for me.
Those were never my fingers down my throat
They were just words echoing in my head
Refusing to surrender
What has always been mine
In a self deprication so great
A toilet bowl
Imagining your face. …
It was my grandfather’s funeral. My family was seated in a small room off to the left of where Mass is held. A viewing room for few people.
My grandfather, Pop-pop, had loved to talk. While he had made many aquaintences in his life, it seemed that as his mind started to decay, he had not made many friends.
My grandmother, Mom-mom, ever the faithful wife and companion, was always the side kick. She fulfilled the duties of a woman and played a great game of follow the leader which meant she had few friends too.
“I was there when he passed. I made it to the hospital a few hours before” My grandmother explained to my cousin as we sat and waited for the few mourners to wander into the room and pay their respects. …